A/N: Well, long time no write. Snapshots is going to be a place where I will ruthlessly slaughter all those fang bearing, glassy eyed, twelve foot, salivating pink bunnies ya'll know as muses. Sorry if this story (if it can be considered that, more of a drabble, I think) doesn't make sense, I'm half asleep. Review, and I'll give you two cookies (don't see a lot of authors flaunting around two cookies, do ya?)
Disclaimer: Sadly, I'm not smart enough to think up the HP universe on my own. I just happen to borrow the characters from time to time.
Claimer: A black and white cat. Who happens to be overweight…and plays fetch.
Summary: Pictures, like memories, eventually fade.
[it smells like you]
It was too big, that much was obvious. Its frayed hem fell a few inches above Hermione's knees and required constant snipping of stray thread. Its sleeves stopped right at her elbows, so that they peeked out in all their knobby and ashy glory--she swore lotion made her sneeze, Harry never did get it.
He remembers the night he gave it to her. It was the end of their sixth year and Hermione was helping him pack. He was going to throw it away. He'd even set it in the 'trash' pile (along with candy wrappers and old potion assignments he'd prefer to forget about). Harry had noticed how she'd been looking at it out of the corner of his eyes, thin fingers tracing the fading Cannon's logo.
"Do you think," She had timidly begun to ask. Harry had raised an eyebrow, but nodded nonetheless.
He doesn't know why he's thinking about it now, in the midnight hour of Grimmauld Place. Maybe it's the knowledge that she's wearing it at this very moment, one floor down. Funny how a flight of stairs suddenly seems a thousand miles down.
The door creaks open an inch, enough for one large cinnamon eye to peek through. Harry motions her over. The shirt, a hideously bright orange, dances its way towards him. The bed sinks under Hermione's weight as she crawls up beside him. She's half asleep when he asks the question that been on his mind since term ended.
"Why?"
He sees her smile, eyes still closed.
"It smells like you."
He leans in close, nose brushing the shirts worn fabric and inhales. He thinks it smells like her.