Voice of the Heart

Voice of the Heart Disclaimer: Because I own everything having to do with Harry Potter, I live in a castle around Aberdeen, Scotland and have more money than I know what to do with. And Sirius’s name was cleared in the 4^th book and he and Harry now live happily in a house outside of London where Remus visits them often. And Harry and Hermione have been dating since their fifth year and they’ll get married once they are done with Hogwarts… Must you rub in the fact that I don’t own anything HP-related, I don’t live in a castle and I don’t have money? Author’s Notes: The title is from a line by the Duc de la Rochefoucald about the ‘voice of the heart which speaks the truth’. Inspired, in part, by Libbie’s brilliant “Time for Goodbye” on the hp_hg ficathon, so this is for her. *glomps* And for my dear Gil, aka Romulus Lupin, for his heart-warming reviews. Happy birthday, again, Gil! Enjoy and please review!

Part 1: Overheard

No good ever comes of eavesdropping.

He’d always heard that; he knew he should have left, gone back upstairs to the 7^th year boys room as soon as he realized that the Common Room wasn’t empty. But somehow he couldn’t make himself move.

He hadn’t been able to sleep, hardly a new problem for him, so he’d decided to read one of the new DADA books, this one on defensive spells, that Hermione had somehow found for him in the Library today. (He didn’t know where Hermione found all these books, considering he never seemed to find them when he looked, but then Hermione knew the library better than anyone, including Madam Pince probably, so he didn’t really think about it.) He’d then realized that he’d left the book in the Common Room when he left it and so he’d grabbed his Invisibility Cloak (out of habit now- for the past year whenever he walked around even just inside the Castle alone, he brought his cloak along, just in case since nowadays, even Hogwarts didn’t feel completely safe) and left.

He’d heard voices when he was a few steps away and identified them as Hermione’s and Ginny’s and paused, fully intending to just take off the Cloak, get his book and then leave them, when Hermione’s last words sank into his brain.

“Clark Randall asked me to go to Hogsmeade with him.” Hermione’s voice broke the little silence that had fallen as she and Ginny both studied in silence.

Clark Randall… He was one of the names on everyone’s lips this year, a 7^th year like them, a Ravenclaw, and he was reputedly very smart as well as being a good Quidditch player (Harry could vouch for that as he was one of the Chasers on the Ravenclaw team). He was also handsome, with thick brown hair and blue eyes that seemed, in Harry’s opinion, to reduce every female in sight to giggles and blushes and fluttering eye-lashes. Every female except for Hermione that is. But Hermione was different.

“And?” Ginny finally prompted when Hermione didn’t say anything after that.

“I said no,” Hermione said quietly.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. She’d said no. She wasn’t going to go out with Clark Randall. She’d said no… He didn’t know exactly why that fact suddenly seemed so important, why he was so relieved. It wasn’t as if he had any say in whom Hermione went out with or whether she dated at all… He was her best friend so of course he cared; he didn’t want Hermione to be hurt. That was all it was.

He didn’t stop to think why his instinctive, knee-jerk reaction had been so negative- his sudden conviction that Clark Randall wasn’t good enough for Hermione, that Clark Randall would hurt her. Even though up until a second ago, if asked, he’d probably have had no opinion or a mildly favorable one about him.

But Hermione had said no…

Ginny gaped at Hermione as if Hermione had just calmly announced her marriage to Snape or something. Finally she just gasped, “Why?” with a tone and expression that strongly suggested that Ginny thought Hermione was completely insane.

Hermione was silent for a minute, studying her quill as if it was suddenly the most fascinating thing, and then she looked up at Ginny. “I think you know why, Ginny,” she said quietly.

Harry forcibly bit his lip to keep from saying, But I don’t know why and I want to know. Why did you say no?

Ginny only nodded, suddenly understanding. “It’s Harry, isn’t it.” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement.

Now Harry knew he really should not be standing here on the stairs under his Invisibility Cloak listening in on a private conversation. But he could no more have moved now and not heard how he was somehow connected to Hermione’s rejection of Clark Randall than he could have Apparated out of Hogwarts. And now he just wanted, no, needed, to hear what he had to do with Hermione’s decision.

Ginny spoke again. “You’re worried about him.” Again, it was a statement of fact. What Ginny didn’t say but what she thought was, you’re too worried about Harry to think of dating a guy right now. Hermione’s worrying over Harry was hardly a secret; everyone knew that the only reason Hermione wasn’t Head Girl was because she’d turned the offer down, citing her need to focus all her energy and attention on Harry and his final fight against Voldemort that everyone knew would happen soon, in a matter of months; they just didn’t know how or when it would happen. (Everyone had thought it odd that Hermione had paled a little when she read the Hogwarts letter when it arrived at Grimmauld Place that summer; they all expected, as confidently as they could, that she would be Head Girl and so had been expecting happiness, had even been looking forward to congratulating her on it, a bright spot in the tense summer. She’d just put the letter away, saying nothing, until Ron had finally asked what everyone was wondering, “Aren’t you Head Girl, Hermione?” She had glanced at Harry first before looking at Ron, simply saying, “Yes.” She’d continued on cutting off the congratulations with a quiet “I’m not going to take it.” Ron had gaped at her as if she’d suddenly announced she was dropping out of school or had grown another head and Hermione hadn’t bothered to explain then, had only repeated, “I‘m not going to take it and I’m going to write Professor McGonagall and tell her now” before leaving the room, leaving a bewildered silence behind. Harry had heard her reasons from Hermione herself, later that evening, and hadn’t known what to say, how to thank her, for her sacrifice. He’d finally just said, “Hermione, I- uh- I don’t…- thank you.” Not the most eloquent thank you in the world but Hermione had understood as she always did and had just reached over and squeezed his hand as if to say that she wouldn’t let him down. Not that he’d been worried about that.)

He was still confused over how Hermione’s worry over him could have influenced her rejection of Clark Randall when Hermione sighed a little and looked up at Ginny. “Yes, it’s Harry but it’s not just because I’m worried about him.” She paused, looking away, seeming to gather her courage. “I- I’m in love with Harry.” Hermione’s voice was quiet but to Harry, it seemed as if she’d screamed it. She might as well have, for the effect it had on him. He could hear the sentence echoing in his mind. I’m in love with Harry. I’m in love with Harry. I’m in love with Harry…

Hermione was in love with him? Harry had the distinct feeling that his jaw would have fallen to the floor if it hadn’t been attached. Hermione- Hermione was in love with him. Hermione was in love with him. Hermione was in love with him.

He shook his head a little to clear it and finally recovered enough presence of mind to turn and go back up the stairs to the 7^th year boys room where he headed straight for the window seat, dropping his cloak onto his trunk as he passed by.

They said eavesdroppers never heard any good; he couldn’t say, didn’t know, whether Hermione in love with him was a good. His thoughts were spinning as if they were in a whirlpool of sorts. Hermione, his best friend, was in love with him. All he knew was that this was a surprise, a shock, had completely thrown him off-balance as if someone had yanked a rug from under him. He’d never thought- never imagined… all that Hermione had done for him, the way she cared about him… he’d always thought it was just because of their friendship. And while he thanked the fates that he had friends as loyal as she was, as Ron was, friends who would, and had, risked their lives to protect him, he’d never thought it was anything more than friendship that motivated Hermione, anymore than he would have imagined that anything more than friendship motivated Ron. He had a sudden memory of being in the Shrieking Shack, facing Sirius… This was the man who had killed his parents. And for the first time, he wanted to hurt, to kill… He started forward, without his wand, not even knowing what he planned to do or how he planned to do it but just knowing he had to do something to avenge his parents… And then two hands grabbed him and pulled him back, Hermione on one side, just whispering, “No, Harry!” in a way that even penetrated his rage-fogged mind with the depth of the raw fear in it, fear for him… Ron on the other, as Ron pulled himself upright even on his broken leg, saying defiantly, even while his skin was white from strain, “If you want to kill Harry, you’ll have to kill us too!” Us… Ron had been able to say that, knew that Hermione would protect him with her life even then… He remembered being in the Department of Mysteries, of Hermione facing the Death Eaters, despite the fear and apprehension he could see in the back of her eyes. He had known Hermione’s loyalty; she’d proven it and her friendship over and over in the past 6 years but… it was more than friendship that Hermione felt for him apparently, more than just friendship that kept her beside him, helping him…

Why would Hermione be in love with him?

But more importantly, how did he feel about her? Did he love her too? He knew he cared about her as his best friend; still remembered the way his heart had seemed to stop when he had thought Hermione had been killed in the Department of Mysteries. He still could feel the coldness in his chest, as if an icy hand was squeezing his insides, at the thought of Hermione lying on the floor, so still and so pale… Nothing could happen to Hermione. He needed her.

But did he, maybe, just maybe, love her, in more than just the she’s-my-best-friend way? Harry sighed, grimacing as he stared out into the darkness. He didn’t know.

He’d never really thought of Hermione in that way. Granted, after the fiasco that had been his relationship with Cho in 5^th year and with everything that had happened after that, he hadn’t spared a thought for any girl in that way. He’d been more concerned with keeping himself alive, with trying to figure out how he, alone as he somehow knew he would be, would defeat Voldemort, the most powerful Dark wizard of the century. He was just Harry; he wasn’t Dumbledore or even Professor Lupin; he didn’t know all the DADA spells or potions, or a lot of hexes or anything. Hermione knew more about DADA than he did, was better at hexes or jinxes. He thought of the jinx she’d placed on the DA parchment, Marietta Edgecombe’s face, and smiled a little at the memory. Clever Hermione…

He had another memory, this one much older… A hug, the first gesture of affection anyone had ever shown him in his memory… Me! Books! And cleverness! There are more important things—friendship and bravery and— oh Harry, be careful! It was like Hermione to disclaim the credit like that, as if she was nothing more than books and cleverness… she was just as loyal a friend and just as brave; the Sorting Hat had been right to put her in Gryffindor and not Ravenclaw…

All of this just brought him back to the original object of all these musings: Hermione. He cared about her, certainly. She was, along with Ron, the person he cared about the most. He needed her; she was his best friend and the one person who’d always been there for him, always supported him… But did that mean he loved her, in that way? In that way that he knew he’d never loved anyone?

Finally giving up the attempt to figure out his muddled thoughts, he crawled into bed and closed his eyes, trying to will himself to sleep. Instead he could see Hermione, frowning over something she was reading, chewing her quill, raising her hand in class, smiling at something he or Ron had said, laughing… He could still hear her voice in his head- I’m in love with Harry… In love with Harry…

He opened his eyes, squinting at the clock by the bed to see that it was past 3 in the morning. His head fell back on the pillow as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop thinking about Hermione, trying to stop thinking, period.

His last remembered thought before he finally fell asleep was that he was really going to hate waking up in the morning…

~*~

Eavesdropping, Harry decided, was definitely a bad thing. And knowing someone loved you was a bloody curse. At least it certainly was in this case.

He just could not for the life of him act normally around Hermione today. He knew he was acting strangely, partly because he felt awkward when he was with her, but because both Hermione and Ron had asked him several times today whether anything was wrong. He’d lied each time, saying it was nothing, but really, what was he supposed to say? That he was so uncomfortable around Hermione because he had found out by accident that she was in love with him and he didn’t know how he felt about that? Harry snorted at that idea. Yes, that would go over really well, he thought sarcastically.

And yet the ironic thing about all this was that his first thought and instinct was to turn to Hermione. She was the person he automatically wanted to confide in whenever he felt the need to talk about something that was bothering him. And for this kind of personal thing, he wanted Hermione’s insight and opinions… If he weren’t so thrown off-balance by this whole situation, he would have laughed hysterically at the irony of it all.

Merlin, but he hated how awkward he felt around Hermione. Awkward and aware of her in a way he’d never been before. Not that he’d ever forgotten about her or anything but now he seemed to have developed a sixth sense that told him where she was, what she was doing… He was aware of every time she smiled, or frowned, or looked at him… He couldn’t understand how blind he must have been not to notice before the way Hermione’s eyes lit up when she saw him, the way she always smiled when she said hello to him. She always looked so glad to see him… And it felt good to know that someone, that Hermione, sincerely liked to have him around, especially because he knew that Hermione’s feelings had nothing, or very little, to do with his status as the Boy Who Lived, expected savior of the Wizarding world. She cared about him for himself; he knew that as surely as he knew that she knew him better than anyone else.

Everything she did seemed like another clue he should have noticed, evidence of her feelings. Even the fact that Hermione usually chose to sit next to him rather than next to Ron while eating, something he’d never thought of any significance before, had suddenly became immensely important.

At lunch that day, Hermione reached over for the pitcher of pumpkin juice, her shoulder and arm pressing against his as she did so. He flinched almost imperceptibly at the warmth radiating from that spot. How, how, how had he never noticed this before?

He had trouble concentrating in class because Hermione was always near and she was a distraction like no other. She accidentally dropped her quill in Transfiguration and when she bent over to pick it up, her hair, still bushy although it had gotten a little tamer over the years, rested on his knee for a moment. He stared at her hair and for the first time ever, he wondered what it would feel like to touch her hair. Was it as soft and smooth as it looked?

He asked her a question about their Charms homework, smiling inwardly at the confidence of her answer and the fact that she didn’t need to look anything up to answer him but could just tell him. He grinned at her, “Thanks, Hermione. What would I do without you?”

She blushed almost imperceptibly, his heightened awareness of her the only thing that allowed him to notice it when he would have been oblivious to it only the day before. “Anytime, Harry.” She gave him a quick smile, that he returned…

But for a brief moment, his gaze lowered from her eyes to her lips, and for the first time, he wondered what it would be like to kiss her…

He had never been so glad in his life for the day to end and it getting late enough that he could say he was tired and going to bed without causing any undue excitement. In all honesty, he supposed he really was tired; after all he hadn’t slept much the night before. He felt more exhausted from the tension of constantly watching Hermione, of not knowing how to act around her anymore. And wished, sincerely, he thought, that he’d never overheard Hermione’s confession of her feelings for him.

What was the matter with Harry?

Hermione frowned as Harry left the Common Room saying he was tired and going to go to bed. He’d been acting strangely all day; uncomfortable, jittery… She supposed it hadn’t helped that he had apparently had trouble sleeping again; he hadn’t said so but she had seen the look in his eyes, the shadows under them, too often not to recognize them now. He was preoccupied with something, too. But it wasn’t something about Voldemort, she could tell, because the look in his eyes wasn’t the dark, brooding resignation that was always present when he was worried about Voldemort; it was something different. But what? She and Ron had both asked him several times during the day whether anything was wrong; he’d answered it was nothing every time. Although, admittedly, that didn’t mean too much, given that this was Harry, who had a habit of keeping things that were bothering him to himself. His confidences were rare and only after something happened to break through the wall he tended to build around himself. A wall he only ever let down in front of her and Ron, she knew.

She glanced at Ron who was also staring after Harry, the slightest of frowns in his eyes. “Ron, did Harry say anything about something bothering him?”

Ron looked at her, a serious expression on his face. “No.” He hesitated. “Do you think it’s about V-Vol- You-Know-Who?”

Hermione rolled her eyes slightly at Ron’s continuing inability to say Voldemort’s name as she shook her head. “No, it’s something else, I’m pretty sure. I just can’t figure out what it is. Maybe he had another nightmare...” She realized as she said it though that that explanation didn’t account for Harry’s odd behavior- he was, sadly, accustomed enough to nightmares that he was generally able to push them aside and go on with the day afterwards. “I hope he’s really alright. He didn’t seem upset though, just preoccupied and nervous, which isn’t like him really. Maybe he’s worried about taking the NEWTs with Voldemort around…”

Ron allowed himself a fleeting smile. “That would be something you would worry about, Hermione.”

Hermione didn’t respond to his teasing, only returned to her Arithmancy essay, still frowning over Harry’s odd behavior.

Ron sat back in his chair, trying to think of any other clues to what was up with Harry from his behavior, and then frowned. Harry had seemed relatively normal at Quidditch practice that day, his usual self really if a little preoccupied. It was after, when they met with Hermione in the Room of Requirement for what had become their daily routine of practicing the new spells and hexes Hermione found that Harry’s jitters seemed to return, making his dueling less than effective so that Ron had managed to disarm him fairly easily. It was Hermione, Ron thought suddenly; something about Hermione that was making Harry act this way. And he suddenly realized too that Harry had been basically watching Hermione all day, just looking away whenever Hermione looked at him.

Something about Hermione. But what?

Voice of the Heart

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Notes: Thank you to all of you who read and reviewed the first chapter. I hope you enjoy this one as much. This chapter is for all my friends on LiveJournal (who know who they are) for their encouragement. *glomps*

Part 2: You Shall Know the Truth

It was an odd moment to realize you were in love with someone. Certainly not the way he would have predicted it or planned it if he had ever thought about it before. But then he supposed the big dramatic moments of revelation only happened in movies or books, not in real life.

It was a perfectly ordinary day, a perfectly ordinary afternoon, and all Ron had done was ask Hermione, “Are you coming to the Quidditch match today?”

Perfectly ordinary question, and one that Ron tended to ask Hermione before just about every Quidditch game. Hermione’s lack of interest in Quidditch was rather famous, after all, and she had just been saying something about wanting to look up something in the library for a Transfiguration essay due the next day.

Hermione glanced first at Harry and then at Ron, looking at Ron as if he’d just asked what his own name was or some other question with an equally obvious answer. “Yes,” she answered simply, as if there should have been no question about it.

And Harry suddenly knew. He knew why he’d been so relieved to hear that Hermione had turned down Clark Randall, knew that he’d been happy to hear her say that she was in love with him, subconsciously admittedly, but happy nonetheless. He knew. He loved Hermione too.

Harry blinked as if to clear his head as he studied Hermione as if he’d never seen her before. Or, more accurately, as if he was suddenly seeing her through new eyes, which, he supposed, he was, the new eyes of the Harry who loved her and knew it… The curve of her cheek that just seemed to be asking for his hand to touch its smoothness… Her lips, pink with a hint of peach- how had he never noticed how soft and eminently kissable they were? The warmth of her brown eyes, with their flecks of gold…

He loved her for her loyalty, her friendship, her kindness, her cleverness… For the way she came to every single Quidditch match, for his sake, even though he knew perfectly well that she didn’t really enjoy the game for its own sake. He loved her for her determination to make sure he survived…

He couldn’t remember when it had begun or how; there hadn’t been any real thunderbolt from the sky. Maybe it had started from the first moment he saw her, an 11-year old girl with bushy hair looking for a toad lost by a boy she’d just met that day- only someone as selflessly and unself-consciously kind as Hermione would have gone to such trouble. Maybe it had started from the moment she had lied to the teachers to keep him and Ron from trouble, when already he knew that lying to teachers was tantamount to a crime in her eyes. Whenever it had started, every moment he had spent with her, all those times, the experiences and the adventures and the quiet minutes when no conversation had been necessary, it had grown. Until this moment, this day, when he knew.

He loved her. He watched as she waved hello to Ginny and Luna and then turned back to Ron when he asked her a question about Charms. He loved her…

Ron looked curiously at Harry, before waving his hand in front of his face, making Harry start backwards and blink. “Earth to Harry. What’s bothering you, mate?” Ron asked casually enough although he was concerned given Harry’s odd preoccupation yesterday and this morning.

Harry shook his head, managing a grin. “It’s nothing serious, honestly.” Assuming by serious, he meant Voldemort-related, which he knew that was what Ron would take it to mean, that was true, at least…

He forcibly stopped thinking of Hermione, pushing his thoughts aside, grateful that he had the Quidditch game to concentrate on instead. He would think of her later, when he was alone again and could think without distraction…

Harry escaped the Common Room and the celebration of the Gryffindor Quidditch victory early, citing being tired from not having gotten much sleep the night before, which was true, but not his real reason for leaving. He threw himself onto his bed, closing the curtains, and stared up at the Hogwarts seal that he could just barely see on the canopy above him.

He could see Hermione in his mind, whenever he closed his eyes. See her smiling, frowning in concentration and in anger at some injustice… He loved her and wondered how he’d never realized it sooner. It seemed so obvious… What other girl could understand him so well? What other person did he trust so completely? What girl could possibly even try to replace Hermione in importance in his life, when Hermione had been his best friend for so long?

It was obvious now… He loved her… but even as he thought the words for what seemed the millionth time, he knew that he couldn’t tell her. He had no right to love anyone right now… he had no right to tell her, to begin a relationship with her right now. He was a marked man, a target, and he couldn’t do that to Hermione. He couldn’t tell her he loved her and then go and fight Voldemort, not knowing if he was going to live or die. It wasn’t fair to her. He just couldn’t do it. He knew it would make it that much harder for Hermione to see him leave to fight Voldemort if she knew he loved her too. He knew how much she worried about him as it was; it was clear in her eyes when she looked at him, every time she gave him another book on DADA or told him of another spell she’d found that could help him…

It would be so much harder on her if they were dating or in a relationship. And it would be harder on him, knowing how much harder it would be for her…

Also, it would make her a target too. He knew Voldemort would leap at the idea of Hermione’s importance to him. He thought of Sirius, of what had happened to Sirius because Voldemort knew how much he cared about him… No, he couldn’t do that to Hermione, couldn’t put her in greater danger than she was already in, just from being Muggle-born and his friend to boot. If it was known that he loved her… He shuddered at the very idea; Hermione would become Voldemort’s first target.

It couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let it happen. He couldn’t tell her, or anyone, that he loved her.

He sighed involuntarily. He’d never resented his fate as much as he did at that moment. Any other boy could just tell the girl he loved that he loved her, only afraid of her feelings for him. He didn’t have that fear but he couldn’t tell his girl of his feelings. Not now, not yet. Maybe not ever…

He tried to dismiss that morbid thought but it persisted. Maybe not ever… He didn’t know if he would survive his next encounter with Voldemort. He was almost half-certain, indeed, that he wouldn’t survive. And he hadn’t minded, or at least had minded as little as possible when his own life was at stake, because he’d always thought that his purpose in life would be fulfilled if he just managed to rid the world of Voldemort forever, even if he died in the process. And after all, with his purpose, mission, destiny, whatever it was, fulfilled, what other reason was there to live?

Until now. Until Hermione. Now he knew he wanted to live. He wanted to live for her, so he could tell her he loved her, so he could kiss her the way he wanted to… He wanted to live…

And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives… He shuddered inwardly as the words that haunted him echoed through his mind again, only now with an added threat. His destiny, perhaps; his curse, definitely… And, oh, but he hated it. He hated this, knowing he’d have to keep this a secret from Hermione. He hated the thought that she’d go through the next few months in uncertainty of his own feelings for her when he knew he could bring a smile to her face (a beautiful smile, he thought) by telling her.

Again, Harry stayed awake, staring at the bed hangings for most of the night. But in the morning he was calm. He knew what he had to do, was resigned to it. And after all, he knew Voldemort would come for him soon. It wouldn’t be long now… For the first time, his apprehension about the duel between them was overshadowed by something else, something stronger: his love for Hermione and his will to tell her so…

The moment had come.

The moment she’d been dreading for 2 years now had come, the moment when Harry had to go, had to confront Voldemort. She couldn’t let him go like this, without telling him how she felt. She just couldn’t. She didn’t even stop to fear his reaction, didn’t stop to wonder if he’d reject her. All her fears and all her worry was focused on what Harry would have to face, what might happen to him, leaving no room for any concern for herself…

She grabbed his arm. “Harry, wait.”

He turned to look at her, the strained expression on his face, the grim set of his mouth softening as he did so.

“Harry, I- I…”

He cut her off before she could finish. “No! Don’t say it, Hermione, I don’t want to hear it.”

She flinched. She hadn’t thought she could feel anything else besides her consuming fear for Harry but found she could still feel hurt, could still feel heartbreak…

Harry winced at the hurt on her face, hating himself for hurting her. His tone gentled, as he added, “Not now, not here… Tell me when I come back.” And for the first time, Harry’s voice was certain, confident, when he mentioned coming back. He would come back; he had to. He had so much more to live for, to fight for, now. He would come back for her sake; he would come back so he could tell her he loved her, could hear her say that she loved him… He would come back for her…

A force that is at once more wonderful and more terrible than death… He heard Headmaster Dumbledore’s voice, explaining the power of love, the force that had saved him… And he understood. He was going to survive this because of love, his love for Hermione and her love for him. He was going to survive so he could tell her… Because he knew he couldn’t leave this world with her not knowing… He was leaving this most important task undone, strangely certain that he could not die without having told her, finally, that she was the most important person in his life, the reason he fought.

He managed a smile for her and kissed her, just a quick brush of his lips against her cheek, before meeting her eyes. “I will come back,” he said in an intense whisper, the strength of his promise in his eyes.

And then he was gone.

Oh the days and nights that followed… Hermione existed through them, in a constant cloud of dread and worry. Hogwarts basically closed down as they waited; no one even made a pretense of normality, just waited. Waited for some news, some indication that the hell Voldemort’s increasing power in the Wizarding world had created was either ended permanently or strengthened immeasurably. Waited…

She relived again and again the moment before he left, the odd certainty of his promise, amounting to a vow, that he would come back… The kiss on her cheek, an uncharacteristic gesture on his part, as Harry almost never initiated physical contact with anyone, although he had gotten much more used to it over the years. But even so, the few physical gestures of friendship between them had been of her initiative. She had always been the one to touch him, to hug him, to kiss his cheek. That one brush of his lips against her cheek was a change and she spent hours wondering what it indicated. She wanted to believe that it meant that he loved her but a part of her reasoned that in that last moment before he left, normal rules of behavior were bound to be broken without any reason other than the tension of the moment. But then she would remember the look in his eyes, the truth in them as he promised to return, return to her, and she hoped. Hoped and waited…

Voice of the Heart

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: For Anne U- and everyone else who believes that love will save Harry in the end.

Part 3: Love is Worth It

She had gone out to walk, too restless to stay inside the castle, brushing aside Ron’s offer of company. She wanted to be alone.

It had been more than 4 days since Harry had left, 4 days of- nothing. No news, nothing to indicate whether Harry was alive or- she stopped her thoughts abruptly, unable to even form the idea that Harry might not be alive… He had promised to return and she clung to that promise, irrationally she sometimes thought, but clung to it nevertheless.

Because the alternative was unthinkable.

She was on her way back inside when she saw it. A crumpled patch of black against the green of the grass.

Afterwards she could never explain how she knew what it was. She just knew.

Her heart stopped and for a moment she couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Only a moment and then she screamed, “Harry!” and ran, fear and love and hope and dread welling up within her, lending speed to her feet.

It was Harry. Harry, bruised, bloody, unconscious, his glasses broken, clutching two wands in one hand, and in the other, a scrap of cloth. She choked back the cry of horror at the sight of him, knowing panicking wasn’t going to help. She needed to stay calm; Harry needed her to be calm…

Madam Pomfrey shook her head, sighing heavily, when she saw Harry. She had forcibly ejected everyone from the Infirmary, everyone except for Hermione, Ron, and Headmistress McGonagall. And now she frowned, shaking her head again as she passed her wand over Harry’s body, to ascertain all the injuries.

“Is- is he going to be alright?” McGonagall finally asked the question Hermione and Ron hadn’t dared to ask, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant and subdued.

Madam Pomfrey sighed again, the sound sending a fresh wave of dread over Hermione and causing Ron to tighten his grip on her arm.

“It’s hard to say,” she finally answered. “His physical injuries are terrible but they can be healed, with time.” There was another pause. “But the harm to his mind…” She glanced at Hermione and Ron, an unusual look of sympathy in her eyes. “I don’t know when- or if- he’ll wake up.”

For a moment Hermione thought her knees were going to give way. When or if he’ll wake up… If… No! Her mind shrieked out a denial of Madam Pomfrey’s words. Harry couldn’t not wake up; she couldn’t lose him, not now, not like this…

Pain. So much pain. Everywhere. His entire body hurt all over. And it was so dark…

He was back at Hogwarts, walking by the side of the lake. The sun was shining and it was one of those beautiful days where the world seemed to be celebrating the spring. Nothing hurt anymore. He felt- wonderful, happy, completely carefree for the first time in his life.

And suddenly he saw them and smiled, somehow not surprised. He’d been expecting to see them, hadn’t he? His parents, hand in hand and smiling; Sirius grinning; and following behind them, Hagrid, beaming and waving one large hand. Professor Dumbledore was there too, also smiling, his blue eyes twinkling as brightly as ever behind his spectacles.

And then he was there, standing in front of them.

Lily smiled as she hugged him. “Harry, you’ve done it. Your father and I always knew you could and we’re so proud…”

James clapped a hand on his shoulder before giving his son a hug, and Harry realized he was now a little taller than his father. “That’s my boy,” he said, his grin getting wider.

Sirius put one hand on each of his shoulders saying, “Knew you could do it, Harry,” and Harry smiled, hugging his godfather for the first time. “Thanks, Sirius.”

He turned to Hagrid who patted him on the shoulder a few times, nearly knocking him down. “Alrigh’, Harry. Yeh did it, knew yeh could.”

Professor Dumbledore smiled and nodded his approval. “Yes, indeed, Harry. You found your strength within you.”

Lily spoke up. “Now it’s your time to be happy, darling. Come,” she said, holding out her hand. “It’s time for us to be a family again. You don’t have to suffer anymore.”

To be happy… not to suffer anymore, no more pain, no more worries… It sounded wonderful…

And yet he hesitated, summarizing his hesitation in one word. “Hermione.”

He tried to explain, to tell his parents that he loved her, that he couldn’t leave her like this, but the words wouldn’t come. Finally he said simply, “I- I need her.”

Lily and James glanced at each other, a tender look in their eyes before returning their attention to Harry.

Lily’s green eyes, the same eyes that he had, shone softly. “Your father once told me that same thing, that he needed me.” She paused and then began to nod, smiling still even as tears glistened in her eyes. “Yes, Harry, you’re right. Stay with your Hermione. She, and your feelings for her, are more important than anything else.”

James and Sirius both were nodding, understanding and approval in their eyes.

They all looked towards Professor Dumbledore as he stepped forward, his eyes on Harry. “To live is to feel pain, Harry. But it is also to feel joy, to know triumph and love. Here,” he gestured around him with one hand, “in this place, we know only the joys of life and none of the sorrows. You know, Harry, if you stay, you can finally be happy, carefree, a real child for the first time. What you have to decide is whether she is worth what you will suffer in your future life. Is she?”

Harry looked at his parents, his godfather, his first friend, his professor. And he didn’t hesitate. “She is.”

It was all he said, all he needed to say. He didn’t need to add what he knew and what he suspected at least Sirius and Hagrid knew: without Hermione, he could never be completely happy; he’d be missing part of himself…

Dumbledore smiled then, nodding slowly. “Love, Harry; never forget that it is the most important and the most powerful thing of all.”

“Love,” Lily affirmed, squeezing Harry’s shoulder before stepping back.

“Love,” James and Sirius repeated, James giving him a quick hug before stepping back beside Lily.

“Love,” Hagrid said, wiping his eyes and waving a hand.

“Love,” Dumbledore said firmly. “Love, Harry, and live.”

And then pain exploded through his body and he was alone again…

He couldn’t move his hand. Why couldn’t he move his hand?

Someone was holding it. Hermione.

She was talking, saying something. What was she saying? He had to force himself to concentrate, to hear what she was saying through the haze that seemed to be clouding his mind.

“You have to wake up, Harry. Please wake up. You’ve fought so much for so long, Harry, fight just once more, fight to stay here. You can’t leave. You promised you’d come back, Harry, you promised.” Her voice broke a little but she continued on, though he could hear tears in her voice. “I love you, Harry. Can you hear me? I love you and you can’t leave. I love you; I’ve always loved you…” Her voice dropped nearly to a whisper. “I’ll always love you. Please, Harry, wake up, come back to me…”

The pain receded slightly at the sound of those words it seemed he’d been waiting his whole life to hear, those three words spoken by the most important person in his life.

He had to tell her he loved her too, had to tell her that he had done everything for her…

But it hurt… He couldn’t open his eyes; it took too much effort and he was so tired… Tired of hurting, tired of trying… The darkness took him again…

It was the longest four days of Hermione’s life.

She kept vigil by Harry’s bedside, holding his hand, trying to infuse some of her own strength, her love, into him, wondering as she looked at his pale face and closed eyes if she would ever see those green eyes look at her again…

“Hermione. Hermione, wake up.”

She started awake at a touch on her shoulder, looking up to see Ron and Madam Pomfrey.

“Hermione, you should rest. You’re worrying yourself sick,” Ron said gently.

Hermione privately thought that Ron probably looked little better than she herself did. He was pale and his eyes blood-shot from lack of sleep. The main difference between them was only that he stayed up most of the night in the Gryffindor Common Room while she spent hers in the Infirmary. (She knew that Ron had spent little time in the 7^th year boy’s room in Gryffindor Tower because Ron couldn’t stand to be in that room where Harry’s trunk still was while his bed was empty and Harry himself was unconscious in the Infirmary with no one knowing if he would ever regain consciousness again.)

“No, Ron. I want to stay with him. If he wakes up, I don’t want him to be alone. You understand, don’t you, Ron? That I have to stay with him?” She looked up at him, her eyes asking for understanding.

He nodded slowly. “Yes, I understand.”

It was the first acknowledgement he had given of knowing of her feelings for Harry and she smiled, her first smile in more than a week. “Thank you.”

“But at least go to the kitchens and get some food and then go outside for some fresh air. I’ll stay with Harry for a while. You can go tell Dobby how he is,” Ron continued, smiling slightly.

“Miss Granger,” Madam Pomfrey spoke up, “Mr. Weasley is right. You should get some food and some fresh air. It’s not likely that Mr. Potter’s condition will change drastically in your absence.”

She knew they were right. She suddenly realized she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. “Okay. I’ll be back soon then.” She paused to look at Harry again. “Call me if he wakes up,” she said softly, turning to Ron.

“Of course. Now, get out of here,” he replied, his teasing smile softening the words.

She smiled back and left, heading down to the kitchens.

They’d strictly closed the Hogwarts grounds to the rest of the Wizarding world, with the exception of Remus Lupin and the Weasleys, but it didn’t keep the owls from arriving. The Daily Prophet had sent an owl nearly every half-hour asking about his condition and if Harry had awoken and when (or if) he’d give them an interview. All the replies on Harry’s condition, sent just once every evening, had been the same- that he was still unconscious and no one knew when he’d regain consciousness.

No one knew… The thought haunted her every minute of the day.

Could Harry, Harry, really not wake up, just lie there unconscious day after day, year after year, as she had heard some of the permanent patients in St. Mungo’s did? Harry who had survived so much already, who was so strong even if he didn’t realize it himself… He couldn’t…

And yet… And yet… She couldn’t deny the cold fear that he could, he might… Madam Pomfrey had looked so grave…

No. She gave herself a mental shake, refusing to let herself give in to her fears like this. Harry would wake up. He would recover. He was going to be fine.

She believed that.

She had to believe it…

Harry awoke to the same consciousness that someone, that Hermione, was holding his hand in both of hers. He waited for the burst of pain that had accompanied every conscious moment since he’d faced Voldemort—but it didn’t come. He felt stiff, heavy, somehow, but he didn’t feel pain. And it was a blessed relief.

Tentatively, he tightened his fingers around Hermione’s. He knew the moment she felt the slight pressure from her sharp intake of breath.

Another effort, another minute, and he managed to speak. “Hermione…” Ok, so not speak, exactly; her name was barely more than a whisper, just a wisp of sound escaping his mouth.

It took another inordinate effort on his part to try to open his eyes, but he managed it. His vision was blurred and he blinked, slowly, until it cleared and he saw her. Saw her and he knew he was home, he was safe…

A smile was trembling on her lips, though there were tears in her eyes. “Harry, you’re awake. Oh, I’m so glad…”

Slowly, his eyes moved over her face, unconsciously memorizing it, the dear face he knew so well, the face he’d seen in his mind the entire time he’d been away, when he’d faced Voldemort, the mental picture he’d clung to even in the midst of the Cruciatus, the reminder that he wasn’t fighting for some abstract ideal or even to save an anonymous world.... He was fighting for her- for the friendship, the loyalty, the happiness she’d brought into his life- for the love she had given him and the love she’d taught him to feel. The image of her, the knowledge that he had to survive for her sake and not just for his, the promise he’d made to return- they’d all given him strength, the last bit of strength and energy he needed to be the last one alive, when it was all over and he wished he could give up, to stop trying… In that last moment before he’d finally passed out next to his nemesis’ corpse, he could almost have sworn he heard her voice, as he had in his Quidditch matches, Come on, Harry, you can do it. And in that last moment, he’d managed a wan semblance of a smile and thought, I did it, Hermione, for you…

Just looking at her face felt like healing to him… He frowned slightly. “You look exhausted,” he managed to say, his voice husky from lack of use.

She laughed a little, wiping the tears off her face, ending with a half-sob. “Harry Potter, what kind of thing is that to say when I’ve spent the last week not knowing if I was ever going to be able to talk to you again.”

“How long…” he made the smallest of movements with his head, indicating their surroundings, the Infirmary. And as always, she understood what he meant.

“You’ve been here for five days, Harry. Today’s Saturday; it was Monday night when I found you.”

“I’m sorry…” Harry managed to say. Sorry for all the worry he’d caused her, the tears, the sleepless nights that had left shadows under her eyes…

She smiled, squeezing his hand in both of hers. “Don’t be; you have nothing to be sorry for.”

He nodded a little, exhaustion beginning to overtake him again.

Hermione made to stand up. “I’ll go get Madam Pomfrey; she’ll want to know you’re conscious.”

He gripped her hand tighter in his. “Stay with me,” he managed to say.

She sat back down again, smiling through the tears that were still in her eyes. “As long as you want me to.”

His lips twitched in an attempt at a smile as his eyes closed. “Thank you,” he mumbled.

Hermione sat with him until she knew he was asleep. He had woken up. He would wake up again. He was going to be fine. And all she could think was, thank you, although she didn’t know whom she was thanking.

~*~

The first thing Harry saw when he woke up was Hermione, dozing in a chair pulled up beside his bed.

Her hand was still holding his, just as it had been when he fell asleep.

And he suddenly realized that he felt happy, at peace. He was bed-ridden in the Infirmary where he had spent all too much time already. But Voldemort was gone for good and he was right where he belonged, with Hermione, who loved him.

He thought of his dream?, fantasy?, whatever-it-was where he had chosen Hermione over staying with his parents, with Sirius and Hagrid. Looking at her now, he knew why he hadn’t hesitated at all. Hermione was his happiness; it was as simple as that.

And watching her, he felt the words he’d never said to anyone else well up inside his chest. He wanted to say the words to her, and he did, very softly, just above a whisper, since he didn’t want to wake her. He didn’t need to be told that she hadn’t slept much at all in the past few days. It was just a wisp of sound from his lips. “I love you, Hermione.”

Hermione stirred, making small waking-up noises that brought a small smile to his lips. There was something very intimate about watching someone sleep, even if it was only a light doze in a chair, and then watching them wake up. It wasn’t something you normally saw with people you knew, even with friends, unless you shared a room. It was just one of those little things that draws people closer, and he smiled at the knowledge that this, waking up to see Hermione, watching her sleep and then watching her wake up, this was what he wanted every day for the rest of his life.

She opened her eyes and saw him and her lips curved upwards in a smile. “Harry, you’re awake,” she said softly. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. I don’t feel like I’ve been trampled by a herd of rampaging hippogriffs anymore,” he joked rather feebly.

She winced slightly and her eyes darkened at his words.

Harry hurried to change the subject, looking down instead at their still joined hands. “Thanks for staying with me.”

She gave him a small smile, one he’d never quite seen before and somehow knew she never showed to anyone else, a smile of tenderness, of caring. A smile that felt like healing, just seeing it. “Where else would I be when you’re in the Infirmary?”

The question was so simple and yet so poignant, a stark reminder of the many times in the past seven years that he’d been injured whether from Quidditch or from Voldemort and Hermione had been with him. She’d always been with him; whenever he was hurt (and even when he wasn’t), she was always there for him. What on earth had he ever done to deserve such loyalty?

He sobered. “Hermione, I- I want to tell you something.”

“What is it, Harry?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, frowned a little as if thinking of how to word his thoughts before saying simply, “I love you.”

She drew in a sharp breath, her eyes misting over. “Oh, Harry…” she breathed softly.

He continued on, the words coming quicker now that the most important thing he had to say was out of the way, and all the while his eyes held hers steadily. He had the sudden feeling that this was the most important moment of his life so far, this moment telling Hermione the truth of his feelings. Facing Voldemort had been a duty, the end to years of tension and worry and dangers. But this—this was the reason he’d done everything he had, the reason he’d lived… “I didn’t let you say it before I left. I think in some small part of me, I didn’t want to hear it until it was all over. It’s why I didn’t tell you sooner, too, even though I’ve known it for months now.” He paused, squeezing her hand tighter in his. “I knew I couldn’t die without telling you I loved you, knew that I’d come back, even from hell, to tell you.” He smiled slightly. “I promised you I’d come back and I had to keep my promise, didn’t I?”

She smiled a watery smile through the tears on her face. “Oh Harry… I love you too.”

Their eyes met and held. Then slowly, very slowly, she bent down, her eyes never leaving his, until they fluttered closed at the last moment. And their lips met for the first time.

The kiss was soft, tinged with a bit of uncertainty at this new step in their relationship, soft and sweet and perfect…

Harry thought of his parents, Sirius, Hagrid, and their offer of heaven, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’d made the right decision. This, being here with Hermione, knowing she loved him and he was finally free to love her—this was his heaven.

The End