Disclaimer: See Ficlet 1.
Author's Note: These first two ficlets are angsty, especially the second one that is a dark!ficlet. Followed by fluff (so you don't all hunt me down and kill me for what I've done to Hermione in the second ficlet.)
This first one was written (obviously) before HBP came out, part of my thinking about why, in my opinion, H/G was never a viable option. A point of clarification: most of the times, the 'she' and 'her' which are in italics are referring to Hermione. Non-italicized pronouns are for Ginny, usually.
The Difference
She knows when he thinks of her.
She can always tell when he's thinking of her. She can always tell because of the way his expression changes, softens; she can't explain or describe the change but she sees it and she knows.
And that's when she gives up hope completely.
It's the difference between friendship and something more…
It's the difference between just liking someone and needing them.
It's the difference between her and Hermione.
Oh, he's always nice to her; he smiles when he says hi to her, he talks to her and she knows he would protect her if she were in danger. (And he's already saved her life.)
But it's the difference between what he would do out of basic goodness and what he would do out of feeling.
When he saved her in her 1st year, he would have saved anyone in the same situation. It's just who he is: a hero.
It's not personal.
If she were in danger, it would be personal. If anything were to happen to Hermione, he would stop at nothing, do anything, risk anything- without a second's thought- to save her. Because he cares… Because he needs her…
It would be personal.
And it's just not the same as what he'd do for her, or for anyone.
She realizes now it can never be the same.
It's too late for that.
He likes her but she's just one of his friends, just the younger sister of his best friend.
Hermione is-more than that.
It's the difference between not minding being around someone and actively seeking someone's company.
He doesn't think of her when she's not around, doesn't miss her. He would be fine to go for months without seeing her and it would never occur to him to wonder where she is or what she's doing. She's not that interesting or that important to him.
He does think of Hermione, misses Hermione. He would wonder where she is and what she's doing-whether she's thinking of him-if he doesn't see her for a long time.
He likes her. He loves Hermione (even if he doesn't know it yet).
That's the difference.
And the difference is what hurts.
He never actively does anything to hurt her; he's friendly and- and just nice. He's not mean to her, doesn't ridicule her, doesn't argue with her (but then, she thinks with another sigh, he would have to care more about her to get upset enough to really argue). He's nice.
But there's a difference, always a difference.
She had hoped if she started talking to him more, became his friend in a way she hadn't been in her first three years at Hogwarts, it might help. She had hoped if she became his friend, could spend more time with him, he might come to see that she was more than the blushing, silent nonentity she'd turned into around him. So she'd tried, swallowed her fear and tried.
And she'd become his friend, a real friend.
But it's not the same as what he has with Hermione.
All it's done is make the difference seem that much larger.
And she realizes it was too late for her. It would be too late for any girl.
Hermione is too important to him, is too much a part of him. Is too central a part of his life for anyone to intrude or replace her.
She can be his friend; she is his friend.
But Hermione will be- is- his best friend, his confidante, his support, his partner, his-everything.
And that's the difference-the difference between liking and needing, between friendship and love.
The difference between her and Hermione.
That's just the way things are, the way they will always be.
~*~*~*~*~
The Last Casualty
She was the last, most tragic casualty of the war.
Little had the Death Eaters known when they kidnapped her that they had signed their own death warrants.
His wrath was terrible, his retribution swift, merciless and absolutely inexorable. The defeat of Voldemort turned out to be- after all the worry- almost simple against the force of his fury.
And then he turned his attention to her…
She had been tortured into insensibility-and when she awoke, her mind had been unhinged, or as the Healer at St. Mungo's put it, her mind had retreated to escape the pain, retreated so deeply into her spirit that it could never be completely restored. After all that medical magic could do had been done for her physical condition, she was moved to a small cottage he bought for the purpose.
No one dared suggest after the first time they tried, that she remain at St. Mungo's, locked up for all intents and purposes, despite the repeated (and sincere) assurances that she would want for nothing, be treated with the sort of maternal care she could receive at no other hospital. The look on his face closed any further discussion for any who were not suicidal. And that was that. She was moved into his cottage, with him as her only care-taker.
And there she stayed, along with him.
It was the only thing, the last thing, recognizable in her from her earlier days. Her formidable intellect, which had made her so indispensable to the search and destruction of the remaining horcruxes, was gone now and only one thing remained, the one thing so deeply embedded in her heart and soul that it had withstood the torture: her trust in him, her love for him… Her trust and her love were intact, as deep and as strong as ever, only now childlike in its absolute dependence on him.
When she was agitated or made nervous by anything unfamiliar that struck her as being grating or at all dangerous, he was the comfort and reassurance she sought. His voice the only one which could calm her and to whom she would listen. His touch the only one she would tolerate.
He would only ever say that she'd been changed but she would always be his Hermione. He left everything, stopped everything, gave it up for her, to care for her. No one other than him was allowed to care for her, no help other than his was asked for. Even in her occasional fractious days when the stubborn determination that had been her strength in earlier, better days, reappeared, he remained and still, the only voice she heard was his gentle one, the only touch she felt was his tender one.
Some people said it was a pity that he, the hero of whom such high hopes had been had, had been reduced to being only the caretaker of someone who was, for all that she had once been so much more, little more than a helpless child. No one who had once known them, seen anything of the bond they had shared, said such a thing. It was only ignorance.
He knew what was said of him by those nay-sayers-that he might have become mentally unstable as well to give up everything and everyone to care for her. He didn't care. They didn't understand.
She was still herself; she was still the only person he needed beside him, and without her, his life would be no life at all.
He saw only one person from his former days, once every year.
One friend, his oldest friend, was permitted to visit-when she was asleep as, aside from him, all her other attachments seemed to have been lost and only made her uneasy.
Once every year, he saw his friend, the one link he retained to the rest of the wizarding world.
"They're having a special ceremony to commemorate 10 years since Dumbledore's death," Ron said quietly on this one day. "They'd really like it if you would attend, even if only for a while."
"Only if she can go too," was the quiet, firm, and expected answer, the only answer he ever got to such inquiries-and that was the end as they both knew, though neither said, that she would never be able to go to any such event; it would be too unfamiliar and therefore threatening to her.
Ron had expected nothing less but he felt a pang of disappointment nonetheless. "Don't you miss-anything?" he finally ventured, hesitantly, to ask something he'd never dared ask before.
"I have her. I'm fine."
And looking at Harry, Ron knew it was nothing less than the truth.
He had never needed the fame or the status or the fans; he had needed her, still needed her-and with her, he was happy. Still.
Nothing else mattered.
It was just the two of them-as, perhaps, it had always been, deep down, despite the strength of Harry and Ron's friendship.
What Harry and Hermione had was beyond friendship, transcended it-and Ron could do nothing but be thankful that at least, Hermione still had her one friend, her one tie to life, one aspect of her old self which hadn't been shut down.
And that was all.
But maybe, that one part of her old self-her complete and utter trust in Harry and her love for him-was the most central part of her and as long as she still had that, she was still, no matter how changed, Hermione. And she didn't need anything else…
~*~*~*~*~
A Hero and a Father
"Mummy, can I ask you something?"
"Of course, love. What is it?" Hermione smiled at her 5 year old son.
"My friends today said Daddy was a hero. Is that true?"
Hermione reached over and pulled her son onto her lap. "Yes, your dad is a hero. He's a hero because he's brave and kind. And when years ago, a group of bad men were trying to hurt a lot of people, he fought them. He started to fight the bad men when he was just a boy a little older than you. He was scared because these men were very powerful but he fought anyway. And that's why he's a hero. He fought and risked his life because it was the right thing to do."
"And then he married his beautiful best friend and lived happily ever after. End of story."
Hermione and Andy looked up with a smile and Andy quickly wiggled his way off of Hermione's lap to run across the room and hug Harry's leg.
Harry bent and picked up his son, making a face of exaggerated effort that made Andy giggle.
Hermione watched with a soft smile. She really loved watching Harry with their children. He was such a wonderful father.
Harry glanced over at Hermione with a grin. "Telling tales from our childhood?"
Andy hooked an arm around Harry's shoulders, grinning. "I asked her if you're a hero, Daddy, and she said you are."
"Ah."
Andy cocked his head to one side and looked curiously at his father. "Daddy, why didn't you tell me you're a hero?"
Harry sat down with his son on his lap. "Because it's not that important to me."
"But- but you're a hero! All my friends want to meet you."
Harry smiled and dropped a kiss on his son's hair. "Then they can meet me sometime. But you know what, Andy?"
"What?"
"I don't really want you to remember that people call me a hero."
"Why not?"
"Because all I really want you to think of me as is your daddy. Understand?"
Andy shook his head, looking confused. "But I can think of you as being my daddy and as being a hero."
Harry laughed and gave in. "Ok then. Now, I think it's time for you to be in bed."
Harry stood and let Andy get into bed and then tucked him in. "Good night."
Hermione stood as well, kissing Andy's cheek. "Sleep well, love."
"G'night Mummy; g'night Daddy."
Softly, Harry closed the door of Andy's room, and then stopped, his hand still on the knob, as Hermione stepped close and slid her arms around his waist.
Harry linked his fingers loosely behind her back looking down at her in pleased surprise for this random embrace. "Well, what's this for?"
"Nothing except I love you."
Harry grinned. "I know you do."
Hermione pretended to swat him. "Stop that. You know what I mean. I love you for being such a good father."
Harry's smile softened. "I love you too," he said softly just before he closed the distance between their lips and kissed her. Loving the familiarity of the kiss and the feeling of her in his arms, loving that even after more than 10 years of marriage and having 2 children, he never tired of kissing Hermione. And he realized yet again that he didn't care about what he'd done to make people call him a hero. All that really mattered to him, the things in his life he was proudest of, were his wife and his children.