Handholding: A History

Author’s Note: Once again, thank you to danielerin and Vicarious Leigh for betaing for me. They are the best, without a doubt.

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Handholding: A History

by cheering charm

It all started as a joke.

That doesn’t seem like a very appropriate line to start a love story, does it? Most start with passion or longing, not laughing, that is true. But to begin ours in any other way would mask a large part of a life that has been chronicled, mainly by me, in every other way. This recollection, of course, is only for you.

It began in the library. It was the first week of seventh year and we were already suffocating under a deluge of homework in preparation for our N.E.W.T.s. The table was littered with open books, inkwells and bits of parchment. I reached for a new piece of parchment; he reached for a book and our hands bumped. We may have said an offhand “sorry” to each other, but honestly, I don’t remember.

It happened again, just an hour later on the way to the Great Hall for dinner. I, of course, was loaded down with an overstuffed book bag, weaving down the corridor like a drunkard under the weight. I lifted my hand to brush my hair out of my face, the slight movement of my hand unbalancing me and tilting me towards him. My hand slammed into his and I almost fell over, pushing him into the wall.

“OW!” he cried.

“Sorry,” I whined, hiking my bag higher on my shoulder.

“Give me the bag,” he replied, walking behind me and grabbing it off my shoulder before I could protest. “This thing weighs more than you do.”

“I wish. You don’t have to carry my bag, Harry. Really.”

“It is either that or risk bodily injury walking next to you. I’ll take the bag.”

“Oops!” I said with a grin, purposely running into him again, making him stumble.

“Watch it. I’m Harry Potter, you know.”

“The Harry Potter?” I said placing my hand over my heart dramatically, batting my eyelashes. “Can I have your autograph?”

“Not today. I only give out signed pictures on Monday, Thursday and Saturday. Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Fridays I brood over being the only one who can defeat Voldemort.”

“And what about Sundays?” I asked hopefully, playing our little game.

“I rest. It’s all very exhausting.”

We laughed at each other and continued walking, Harry loaded down like a pack mule.

You may wonder at such a dramatic shift in the Harry I’ve written about up to this point and this Harry. It’s the same person and not a figment of my imagination, I assure you. What I have written about until now is the public Harry, The Boy Who Lived, and the person that he allowed the wizarding world to see. That is not the Harry that I knew. This is about the Harry I knew, and fell in love with.

He wasn’t always like this. In fact, it was the prophecy that changed him into, what I later learned, was an almost exact replica of his father: fun loving and carefree. It didn’t happen over night, to be sure. Anger at all of the injustices, imagined and real, incurred against him coursed through him for some time. Remus Lupin, the last of his parents’ friends, finally cut through Harry’s brooding anger.

It was the summer before sixth year and we were at Grimmauld Place. We had all been tiptoeing around him for weeks, giving him his space to adjust to his fate. Or were we giving ourselves time to adjust to his fate? I’m not really sure, even now. After one particularly snippy exchange between Harry and Ginny, Remus had finally had enough.

It wasn’t a pretty sight let me tell you. I was there. I’ve never seen such a row before or since. I’m not sure if it was Harry seeing a normally mild mannered man such as Remus completely lose control, or what Remus actually said that did it. Personally, I thought it was rather cruel for Remus to imply that Harry’s parents would be ashamed of the way he was reacting to the prophecy, but I can’t argue with the results.

The next morning, Harry came down for breakfast, contrite and apologetic, and took charge of his life. He became focused on two things: preparing for the fight that was inevitable and living his life to the fullest for how ever long that might be. The first order of business was for him to stop taking himself and his predicament so seriously.

I don’t think I ever thanked Remus, and I should have. I can’t imagine what my life would have been like if it hadn’t been for that row. You see, when Harry lightened up, I had no choice but to follow suit. It was either that or lose him as a friend, which was never an option. Of course, when I was alone, the bed hangings of my four-poster cutting me off from the rest of the world, I would worry and brood, as I’m sure Harry did as well. But life became so much more fun that I soon began to believe that all of us, Harry, Ron and I, were actually normal teenagers.

So the quip Harry made when I accidentally brushed his hand a third time that day while reaching for a bowl of potatoes wasn’t surprising or out of the ordinary in the least.

“Hermione, if you want to hold my hand, just ask.”

I smirked and plopped potatoes down on my plate. “Oh yes, Harry! That is exactly what I’ve been trying to do. You’ve found me out.”

“I knew it!” Harry said, grinning. He leaned over to a First Year that was sitting a few feet down from him and said in a stage whisper. “I’m Harry Potter, you know. She can’t keep her hands off me.”

The First Year’s eyes widened in what I’m sure was shock at being addressed by The Boy Who Lived. “Harry, stop it! You are scaring the First Years.”

“Sorry,” Harry whispered and continued eating.

I’ll admit though, that when he grabbed my hand later in the hall on the way back to the library, I was a bit shocked.

“I didn’t want you to have to resort to slamming me into the wall to hold my hand. I’d like to keep the one good shoulder I have left functional.”

And he held my hand the entire way to the library. I can still remember how his cool, smooth hand felt, quite simply, perfect in mine.

“Self preservation,” he said grabbing my hand yet again as we left the library later. I smiled and played along. He was obviously enjoying his little joke, and I was enjoying his hand in mine, although I didn’t admit that to myself until much later.

It became something of a habit, until he finally stopped giving excuses for his actions and just did it. We never talked about it. Our conversations didn’t change or become strained. It was just something we did, an extension of our friendship. At least that is what we told ourselves. Of course, we never held hands in public, instead releasing each other’s hands when we heard voices approaching, then reaching for the other automatically when the voices faded away behind us.

I always held his left hand in my right. We tried it the other way, but it just didn’t seem to fit. Again, we never talked about it. One day, we grabbed for the other’s hand and intertwined our fingers, something we had only recently begun doing. It just didn’t fit. He released my hand, moved to my other side and grabbed my right hand.

Perfection.

From then on, he always walked on my right.

I’ll be honest: we wasted a lot of time holding hands in the corridors. Weeks later, I was still ignoring the trembling in my stomach when he reached for my hand. The feeling of nausea I had almost constantly I wrote off to the stress of N.E.W.T.s since our handholding strolls were usually to and from the library. It wasn’t until after the Halloween feast that I realized that my case of nerves was due entirely to Harry Potter.

I had left the feast early and gone to the library, an assignment for Arithmancy that was due the next week hanging over my head. I, of course, was the only person dull enough to want to spend Halloween night in the library. Madam Pince rolled her eyes at me when I met her outside the library door as she was preparing to go to the feast. Asking me to not stay past the normal closing time and to lock the door behind me, she left, shaking her head. I guess being Head Girl had its privileges.

Feeling utterly ridiculous sitting in the large common study area of the library, I moved to a table in the back corner of the Arithmancy section and proceeded to get absolutely nothing accomplished. The stillness of the library helped my mind drift from the essay I was attempting to other more nerve-racking subjects. I was there for an hour at least, alternately staring off into space, shaking my head to clear it, and scratching Merlin- knows-what on that piece of parchment. My quill slowly stopped moving, my mind drifting off again, and I looked up to see Harry standing at the end of the row, watching me.

“What are you doing here?” he asked casually, walking forward through the dimly lit stacks.

“Arithmancy,” I said, pointing up to the sign on the end of the row, as if it should be completely obvious.

He walked up beside me and squatted down to my level. “Is it due tomorrow?”

I fidgeted with my quill, not wanting to answer but knowing I would. “Next week.”

“Next week? Hermione! If you have to do this, can’t you at least do it in the common room?”

“Are you kidding? That place is a zoo on Halloween; you know that. I wouldn’t be able to get anything done. Besides, I’m getting loads done here.”

He glanced down at my parchment before I could cover up how little I had done. “I can see that,” he said bemused.

That was the moment I realized I was here to avoid Harry. Of course, I instantly began fidgeting and straightening my supplies that surrounded me. He told me later that he saw right through me.

He placed a hand over mine and said softly, “Hermione.”

I stopped and stared at his hand, mainly so I wouldn’t have to look at him. I suddenly yearned for the commotion of the common room instead of the stillness of the library.

“You’re right. Let’s go,” I said standing up abruptly, shoving everything haphazardly into my bag, still avoiding Harry’s gaze. I felt completely ridiculous and wanted to escape to the din of hundreds of people as quickly as possible.

“Hermione,” he said again, grabbing my hand and pulling me away from the table. He gently removed the book I was holding tightly to my chest and placed it on the table. He took my other hand, which I was thankful for. The trembling that had been residing in my stomach for weeks decided at that moment to take up residence in the rest of my body. I saw his lips move, but I have no idea what he said; the roar of an ocean of blood deafened me as it thundered through my head. He dropped one of my hands, and it began to shake uncontrollably by my side as I felt his fingers brush my jaw.

Then he kissed me.

I have been thinking for months about how I was going to describe this to you without giving too much detail. I’m quite aware of the “ick” factor that children feel when it comes to their parents’ personal interactions. It will help a bit, I imagine, that by the time you read this we both will have passed away. But I want you to know that the exact moment I fell in love with your father was when he kissed me in the Arithmancy section of the library at Hogwarts. How romantic.

There is nothing in the world like a first kiss, as I’m sure you know. (I do hope that you are very old and gray and have experienced many first kisses when you finally have the occasion to open this letter.) The first kiss between Harry and me was no different. Everything about it was amplified: the softness of his lips, the feel of his hands gently cupping my face, the emotion that I could feel erupting from my body.

We made love for the first time that same night. No, not in the library, and I’m not going to give details, so put your mind at ease right now. Knowing me as I hope you do, the fact that we made love so soon may surprise you. I do hope that the revelation of this fact hasn’t diminished me, or your father, in your eyes. There are two very important things you need to understand.

First, I was deeply in love with your father. How can I say this when, according to my own account, I had just realized these particular feelings existed only moments before? I hate to pull out such an overused saying as this, but when you know, you know. Kissing your father filled a hole inside me that I didn’t know existed. This feeling of wholeness was the single greatest moment of my life. A feeling that was almost duplicated when they put you in my arms for the first time. When a love like that consumes you, nothing else matters, at that moment or evermore. You will go to any lengths to protect it and to continue feeling it.

Not only did I know that Harry was the only man I would ever love, but I also knew that he would die at the hands of Voldemort. You can’t imagine the dichotomy of feeling these two emotions almost simultaneously. Love deeper than I ever imagined possible was coursing through my body and was being chased relentlessly by sorrow and fear. How could I do this? How could I give my heart to Harry knowing without a shadow of a doubt that we were living on borrowed time?

As I watched Harry’s response to our kiss, the question became, “How can I not?” He was, quite literally, jubilant. He actually whooped! I ask you, how can another man live up to that reaction? As it turns out, he had been as unsure of his feelings for me as I was of my feelings for him, until he realized my avoidance of the common room was evasion of him. He saw that as a positive sign.

To say your father was confident is a bit of an understatement.

Everything changed after that. We found, much to our surprise, that the entire school had expected us to become a couple long before it ever occurred to us. Ron was even running a book on how long it would take. I believe that Seamus Finnegan won quite a large sum of money. He must have, seeing as he pledged to name his firstborn after either Harry or me. I hope he has a boy, I’d hate for any child to be saddled with the almost unpronounceable name of Hermione.

I was happier than I ever imagined I could be. Being in love was truly the greatest experience of my life. It was for Harry, too. We spent every possible minute together. I’m ashamed to admit that I let my schoolwork fall by the wayside. Scoring high on N.E.W.T.s suddenly seemed like a ridiculous goal when there was the possibility that the man I loved might be taken from me at any moment. My free time became about Harry and Harry alone. We talked of our past and our future, planned our wedding, decorated our first house and named our children. There was no doubt in our minds that we would be spending the rest of our lives together. I never told Harry of my fears that our time would be short.

As our time at Hogwarts wound down and chatter about Voldemort’s plans increased, I knew it was coming. My pretension to be unconcerned for Harry and our future was quite possibly the greatest feat of acting that has ever been performed. I was shriveling inside and saw no possible cure. I wanted desperately to talk to Harry about it, but I had no idea what voicing my fear that he was going to die would do to him, or to our relationship. I never thought that he wasn’t capable of defeating Voldemort. He was and still is the greatest wizard I have ever known. My fear of his death lay in my belief that somehow, some way, fate would not allow us to be this happy forever.

In an effort to appease fate, I considered picking fights with him, to tarnish what we had a bit. I, of course, couldn’t do it. Not that Harry didn’t have faults — he had plenty, but I had a difficult time finding them with the rose colored glasses I had come to view him through.

I wanted more than anything to marry Harry and even considered asking him myself. I quickly dismissed that idea as something he would see right through to my fear of losing him. If he had asked, I would have said yes and immediately pulled him up to Dumbledore’s office to perform the ceremony.

He never asked.

I know he loved me: he told me and showed me in so many different ways. But just as any proposal from me would be voicing my innermost fear, one from him would do the same. I asked him once how he was able to live knowing what was in store for him.

“I only think about right now, what I’m doing and who I’m with. To do anything less would diminish the time I have with the people I love. Voldemort may take my life, but I won’t let him take over my life any more.”

That was the closest he ever came to saying he thought he was going to die. He died two weeks later. Thank God, he took that bastard Voldemort with him.

You would think that I would have been prepared for his death, after all I had been dreading it for months. Distraught is too mild a word for what I felt. Empty, hollow, vacant, devoid of thought, emotion, life. I had nothing. My life ended when Harry died. So unresponsive was I that my family and friends sent me to St. Mungo’s. I was never left alone, one step below being put in a padded cell I believe. The healers and the people who loved me didn’t know what to do. Nothing could pull me out of the depression I was in, except one thing…you.

I found out I was pregnant three weeks after Harry died. My lack of appetite and general malaise masked the early signs of pregnancy. It wasn’t until a weekly physical evaluation by a Healer that my pregnancy was discovered.

You saved my life.

Even if I didn’t have renewed vigor for life, at least you gave me purpose and hope. I threw myself into taking care of myself, and you — Harry’s child. The news that I was pregnant was greeted with unbelievable enthusiasm by the entire wizarding world, which was still mourning Harry’s death. You, I believe, renewed the hope of the wizarding world.

My secret wish for a son was granted when I heard Ginny shriek “It’s a boy!” as soon as you were delivered. When they put you in my arms and I saw the shock of black hair sticking up wildly from your head, I wept tears of sorrow and joy for the final gift your father gave me … the ultimate gift of love.

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I’ve just re-read what I have written and it didn’t quite turn out how I hoped it would. I was trying for levity (ergo, the opening line) but have instead achieved a bittersweet symphony.

As I write this, you are traveling on the Hogwarts Express for your first year of school…your first year away from me. For this, I know you are glad. It must be difficult to be the center of someone’s world, as you have been the center of mine for the last eleven years. I have decided that when you come home for Christmas (and you had better not even think about staying at school over the holidays once during your seven years in Scotland), I will let you do what you have wanted to do for years…travel into my pensieve and relive my memories of our adventures at Hogwarts. I believe I will start it slowly, divulging each year’s adventures as you progress through each year in school. I’m not quite ready to share all of my memories with you just yet. I hope you understand that I may never be.

I have not been unhappy these last eleven years without Harry. You have been my joy, pure and simple. But I won’t lie. There is a part of me that even your love cannot fill. I had thought that maybe another man might come along and fill the hole that Harry left when he died. I know now that that is not possible.

I fear that the days now will be interminably long without you here to distract me. But I long for the sunset, when I am visited each night in my dreams by the memory of a perfect love.