One Moment

Title: One Moment

Author: purple_mud

E-mail: purplewitch10@yahoo.com or mudcandies@hotmail.com

Rating: PG

Category: H/Hr angst (I think) Harry POV

Review: Please, please do tell me what you think of this fic. It’s my first attempt at a Harry Potter fic and I would love to know what you guys think.

Disclaimers: Standard disclaimers apply.

Special thanks to Another for patiently beta-reading this and for all the encouraging words!

One Moment

Sometimes life gives you just one moment, one moment that could shatter everything that you once knew as true and constant and safe. And when that happens, you either stand in awe or it sweep you away.

He stood in awe and then he let himself be swept away.

Not surprisingly, considering the very nature of this one moment. He had not expected it all. If only he had paid closer attention to his Divination class, he would have perhaps seen this coming. If only he listened to George and Fred more closely and not dismissed their taunts and endless teasing, he might have had prepared for it. Of course, he would have had to think of a way on how exactly to prepare for this and he would have no one else to ask but her and that would just be silly.

Hermione, how could I not fall in love with you?

How indeed.

He wished there was a book about this sort of thing at the library. He would risk everything to acquire that book. He would read it as she would read Hogwarts, a History. He would read it so that he would not be able to see her, so that he could avoid her. He would read it so that he could approach her later to tell her that he had read the whole damn book, memorized it by heart and yet he still couldn't bring himself to understand how it was that he suddenly longed for her in ways that he can't even put into words.

Not that he can string up the simplest of words to form a coherent thought, not right now anyway. In a few years time, maybe he might even have something fitting - poetic even - to say about this. He predicted that he could even fill ten feet long of parchment just so that he can eloquently explain how her parted lips robbed him of speech.

But as it was, he was still clearly and very much caught up in this particular moment. No words - much less poetic - were zooming inside his head. Only garbled unfinished sentences that began as: It can't be... I can't be... It's Hermione... She's my best friend and...It just can't be...

This was his moment. Not facing Voldemort as he had once dreaded of. Not triumphantly facing and beating Malfoy at the Quidditch field. Not even trying to hex Snape as he had always dreamt of.

His moment was...her.

It's the most un-momentous sight. Really. Just her curled up at the couch by the fireplace of their common room. Sleeping so quietly. Looking like he had conjured her up from his dream. And she was someone he often dreamt about. Always there, laughing by his side or running away from whatever horror that haunted him in his sleep. His dreams of her were always friendly. And when he dreamt of other things, things that involved kissing and rolling around the grass, arms around someone's waist, it would not be her, it would always be Cho or sometimes even Fleur. But never her. Never.

Looking at her now, it just sort of hit him.

Real hard. Worse than a bludger hitting him right smack on his stomach.

When did this happen? Surely not just tonight?

For it to hurt like this, it could not just be an instant realization.

Perhaps at the back of his mind there had been hints. Perhaps, this was something his heart had been telling him. Well, if that was so, then why didn't it shouted: "Harry Potter, wake up and smell the pumpkin pies, you're in love with your best friend you hopeless daft git!" Why had it been quiet all those time?

Maybe because you refused to listen the first time I told you?

And hearing that voice inside his head was worse than a bludger. It was like a powerful vicious curse - Veritas perhaps, since it was making him face the truth - hitting him full blast.

He remembered it so well.

Fourth year. At the train station. Hermione standing in front of him, an unreadable expression on her face and then all of a sudden it was just the feel of her lips on his cheeks. It wasn't even the kiss that knocked the air out of him, it was how warm she felt and how he thought that he'd miss that warmth come summer and right there and then, with her lips still pressed on his skin, he felt this terrible ache and he knew that he missed her already. If she hadn't pulled back just as quickly as she had, he would have probably grabbed her, clutched her to him and never let her go; beg Mr. and Mrs. Granger to let him keep her so that he'd be warm forever and not be lost in the coldness of haunting memories of the many endless battles that he had faced that year.

Please let her heal me. Let her take the cold claws of fear and guilt and regret off of my heart. Let her be my home....

But he had merely watched her run away from him, looking back only to wave goodbye. He had desperately wanted to call her back but words burned his mouth and throat.

And once inside his small windowless room (Aunt Petunia had Uncle Vernon board it up with layer after layer of dark oak wood) he flopped down to his bed; touched his cheeks and told himself not to miss her too terribly. Just miss her like he'd miss Ron. She was his friend after all and to be brutally honest, perhaps he had been desperate for a change - for someone to save him from the depths of loneliness he was sure he'd be drowning in the coming lonely months. Hermione could and would rescue him. But it would be too bloody unfair for her to shoulder the responsibility of saving the Boy Who Lived, who he figured a while back was actually, The Boy Who Lived So That He Can Be Haunted Down By The Dark Lord Over and Over Again Until the Boy Who Lived Becomes The Boy Who Died.

Damn, that's a real mouthful, he had thought grimacing and that had been the abrupt end of whatever his heart was going to tell him. He had refused to listen and had been so damn stubborn about it that for two years he had been quite successful in making a career out of following Cho Chang around while he took Hermione for granted and treated her like a friend when deep inside, he kept his heart's muffled scream of protests. Dismissed it as some soundless echo that he was too afraid to listen to.

Blind for so long. Damn glasses - no help at all!

Harry sighed. Looking at it today, he felt so stupid and foolish and idiotic and did he say stupid? Because he had to repeat that word just so that he can finally be true to himself.

Story of your love life, Potter. How bloody sordid.

He had to sit down. He was afraid that his suddenly wobbly legs would fail him and he'd just miserably drop to the floor, where he can't properly see her.

Faced with the prospect of not being in a position to watch the wonder that was Hermione (well a sleeping Hermione, but she was definitely still a wonder to look at), he quickly crossed the room and sat directly in front of her. He stared. He watched. He observed. He lost himself looking at her.

She was so familiar, really. He grew up seeing her everyday. Had even woken up many times at the infirmary with the sight of her brown eyes looking down at him filled with concern. He had memorized the half-broken half-relieved smile she'd give him every time he came out of unconsciousness; he knew the sardonic smile that would tug at the corner of her lips whenever he and Ron would do something stupid. He knew that she blushed whenever people complemented her. He had in more than one occasion held her close, tried desperately to protect her from any harm. He had had arguments with her that can even compete with her arguments with Ron. He had been irritated with her as she with him. She had exasperated him many times. On many instances she had called on his fault, had admonished him. He had been locked in a closet with her, the invisibility cloak pulled tight around them. He had kissed her goodnight, on her cheek, on her forehead. It gave him a jolt but he had again dismissed it as hormones and was particularly appalled that he'd think of Hermione in another way aside from being his friend. She had tutored him in the library - just the two of them and he had enjoyed the combination of the musty scent of old books that brought his mind wandering to the past and her sweet jasmine scent that would snap him back to the present. They had danced together. He had zipped up her dress when she couldn't reach from behind her. There was a time that he had teased her about having her PMS (he can be a real prick sometimes) and pushed her to date Seamus... or even Neville! (Thank God she didn't listen to him during those times!).

There were too many memories, too many instances where she had been part of his life. He simply could not imagine breathing without her.

Such strong words, but hell, this was love he was talking about, it's supposed to be even destructive!

Love.

Great Bloody Merlin's Ghost.

Why had he missed this blatant fact? She had always, always been on his side. How could he have not seen her as he was seeing her now: her sometimes wavy, sometimes curly brown hair tangled in sleep, framing her face, making her look all the more vulnerable and precious. Her small hands pressed together underneath her cheeks, traces of the girl he and Ron had rescued from a troll years ago and beneath that almost smile on her face was the outline of a woman that she would become. Strong and sensible and compassionate. But above all that, Harry noticed how delicate she looked.

She didn't have the ethereal quality that Fleur had nor did she have the exotic beauty like that of Cho but Hermione glowed. She was beautiful in her own way, glowing with the warmth that she held inside her heart.

She was beautiful like the white snow outside, or the lightly blushed purple and orange sky during sunsets, or like the night glittered with burning silver stars. You didn't see it at the first careless glance, you need to have seen it all your life to realize it.

And she was Hermione. His Hermione.

And that last thought had been it. There was no other way for him to deny his feelings for her now.

She had always been smart and responsible and courageous and fun (when she wants to be). But he had never thought of her as soft, or delicate, or beautiful. Someone he would like to touch and touch and touch all over again.

He clenched his hands in a tight fist. I dare you Mr. Potter, a voice inside his head suddenly piped up, not a minute would pass that you won't stand up, cross that god awful distance and touch her - her face, her chin, her hair perhaps?

Harry gritted his teeth. Not likely. He answered back. I know control.

Sure you do, the annoying all-knowing voice said, sounding terribly unconvinced.

Sure I do.

And dammit, he's having a mental conversation with himself.

He shifted in his seat, lifted his legs a bit and sat squarely on his palms. There. I might look ridiculous and all but at least I won't do anything stupid! He tried to look elsewhere, because he realized he was sitting on his hands, looking like an idiot and he was still staring at her as though he'd never get enough of her.

He tried to move his head away. Come now Potter, just shift your neck muscles. And there, look, outside a snow flurry had begun - white snowflakes falling madly in every possible direction, from heaven to ground.

Harry's lips curved into a small smile. That was how he felt right now. Falling from heaven to ground at a speed even the latest Firebolt will not be able to match. Incredibly, he felt flying back up again. Reaching for the sky, stars whizzing by him. And down back to earth...

He blinked, a little surprised. No more white snow. Back to staring at her pale, pale creamy looking skin.

There were so many reasons why he should not be feeling this way. He leaned forward, and forced his hands to form a fist, clutching at the red velvet fabric of their common room couch.

Right. Let's be logical here Potter. Let's get the facts straight, shall we?

Point one and the most important point of all; Hermione is your best friend. If you say, kiss her, that would totally ruin the whole platonic friendship thing that you have going on ever since the beginning of time, way before you ever realized that she's actually a girl and not some sexless buddy that you can forever hang out with without feeling any sort of bodily reaction, much like the one you're having now. She will slap you if she finds out about this. And let's face it; you've seen her do some real serious damage on Malfoy. You would not want to be on the receiving end of that slap or punch, depending of course on the nature of your unavoidable biological reaction. And why ruin something that's already perfect?

Harry had to agree with that. It made enough sense.

Now, point two is just as important. Your other best friend might even be in love with her. And that's not all. She might even be in love with said other best friend. (At this Harry winced) But let's complicate things a bit. As you have treated her fairly well and I believe you're not so much of a hideous monstrosity, she might be in love with you.

And Harry winced again - pain and joy battling inside his chest.

But don't get your hopes up too high. I said might. That's very different from "madly unquestionably, irrevocably in love with you."

Harry rolled his eyes and decided that logic, rationality and enumerating the many points, sides, do's and dont's, pro's and con's was moot. It was all moot. In fact the mootness of it was quite overwhelming. So he mentally ordered his inner voice to shut it's trap and leave him alone.

Surprisingly it did.

Harry wasn't sure whether or not he should be thankful. He took a deep breath and felt the muscles in his throat tighten and clench that when he swallowed there was this weird ache that burned him. It hurt.

It hurt to look at her.

He wanted to turn his head away, stand up, walk towards the stairs, one step at a time, fight the urge to turn once more and look at her.

Go back to bed. Late nights make you go all delusional, he lectured himself.

And he was positively still stuck on his place.

Move feet, body, and legs, whatever, just move dammit.

Every muscle in his body disobeyed him.

Focus. Focus.

Forget about the stupid midnight snack that you wanted when you first came down just minutes ago. Forget about seeing her this way. Forget about the sudden realization that had hit you like a dozen bludger to the chest...

Harry grimaced. He could even hear it's imaginary sound as it banged against his ribcage.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

It took him a minute to realize it was his heart that was making that all that racket.

Bugger.

This was bad. Really bad.

Tonight, he felt as though he can actually be truly brave enough to even make Godric Gryffindor proud. All he had to do was wake her up, smile at her and tell her softly: Hermione, what have you done to me? I think maybe I love you. Oh sod it; I know I'm in love with you.

And after that?

A slap? Perhaps a giggle and she'd ask him if he had been forced by Dean and Seamus to drink Firewhiskey again?

A...a nod and then a kiss?

And then what? You can't just die out of happiness or embarrassment at the floor depending on her reaction. She'd expect you to explain what the hell you're talking about. And you're going to end up saying something stupid and she'd end up hating you. She'd think that all those years that you've been her friend you can't even give her an honest answer. She might think that you've used her friendship so that you can be with her and touch her (which he might be slightly guilty of). And then what?

Well, seeing that this involved him, worst case scenarios right?

Snape would find out and take 100 points off their house - each - and accuse them of being immoral children. McGonagall would give him detention for corrupting her favorite student. Professor Trelawney would predict that Hermione would leave him for Draco Malfoy. Dumbledore would announce the whole thing in front of the school; offer him a toast and a free broom closet that they can use anytime they want (highly unlikely, but that doesn't seem so bad).

Or this could trigger the grand break up of the century: a relationship between him and Hermione would have to have some very considerable repercussions on their relationship as a Trio. How would Ron react? That in itself was already very loaded, very dangerous question.

And there’s also that possibility that Voldemort would find out how important Hermione is to him and use her against him.

Harry felt his heart constrict painfully. All of his other reasons on why he should stay away from Hermione seemed so pale in comparison with this one single not-so-far-fetched possibility.

Tonight he can pretend that he and Hermione might have a chance. But tomorrow… time to face reality.

Tomorrow would be an entirely different thing. He'd have to ignore her again. Be Harry Potter, Hermione's best friend.

How would he survive that? Living in a lie. And what about the day after that and the next day? How would he ever face her now that he'd realize this one single truth that had been staring him right from underneath his nose that he had somehow failed to see.

Surely, she would notice. And then what? She’d ask him what had gotten into him and then he’d be forced to tell her the truth because there’s no way he could ever lie to Hermione. He tried to think of how she’d react.

She'd probably be kind about it. He was after all a good friend of hers, right? She'd tell him nicely, kindly, that they'd be better off as friends, like they always have been.

Except that had been a lie.

They had never been just-friends...had they? Because now, looking back he remembered so many instances when Hermione’d seemed...

No. Delusional Potter. Plain and simple. And Voldemort? Remember the guy out to kill you? What better way to break you than to break her....

Harry choked.

No. No. No.

He had already taken his parents, he will not allow Voldemort take Hermione too...! The Dark Lord would have to walk and stomp and do the ballet over his cold dead rotting body before he can even think of laying his filthy hands on Hermione.

Not Hermione.

He stopped himself, breathing hard.

Ok, Potter, before you start plotting on the many ways to hurt Voldemort (hold that thought though, we'll get back on that later), let's be realistic. Hermione! We're talking about Hermione here. If she liked you, if she felt even a bit of what you're feeling now for her, she would've told you already. It's been almost seven years. Give her a little credit!

Harry paused and considered this for a moment. That's true. Hermione was way smarter than he was, she would've figured out what her heart wanted by now. And obviously, it wasn't him.

There was a dull ache in his stomach and in his chest. Tomorrow, he'd just have to act normal. Or try to find a way to avoid her. He wondered, would she even notice if he suddenly jumped away if and when she decided to touch him? Innocent skin-to-skin contact that she had done before, that he had been ok with.

Had been being the key words here.

After this, he was sure that he'd spontaneously combust with just the slightest brush of her skin against his. Because it would be too much and too little at the same time. Because he would start wondering how it would feel if her hands lingered on his arms, or if he placed his palms on her cheeks, of if he let his lips wander over to the paleness of her neck... of her jaw line... or her very own lips.

He wanted to wake her up. Demand an explanation. Ask her if she could...if she would ever....

But he did neither. He sat there, pale and still, green eyes glittering in the dark, vaguely resembling a lonely ghost watching over his lost love...so deeply in awe and moved and swept away all at the same time.

END NOTE:

Thanks for your time and I hope you enjoyed reading this piece.