A Connection

mysterium26

Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Drama
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 29/06/2005
Last Updated: 29/06/2005
Status: completed

Yet another take on Harry revealing the prophecy to his nearest and dearest. Plus some other light-hearted banter! Not necessarily as lame as it sounds (once you get past some minor corniness). My first story; please review!

Chapters

1. A Connection

1. A Connection

Hey guys, this is my first fan fic…I’m still not happy with it, but at least it got the entire idea out of my head and down on the screen. Anyway, I’d be really interested to know what you think, so please leave a review with any criticisms you can make to help me out. Thanks! And now on with the show!

SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1A Connection

Harry Potter gazed at the dancing flames in the Gryffindor Common Room fireplace without really seeing them. His two best friends were currently incapacitated–Hermione being in the library, and Ron asleep in the armchair beside Harry– but Harry didn’t mind all that much because, as always, something was weighing heavily on his consciousness. Unfortunately while most people could banish negative thoughts and images to the most remote and deepest regions of their minds, this 16-year-old could not afford that luxury. Lord Voldemort was still lurking just out of reach, still gaining power, still forming some sort of scheme that Harry knew would only lead to the inevitable. A showdown.

He’d been sitting on the idea of the prophecy for months, hoping to be presented with an opportunity to share it with those closest to him. Running his worn hands over his weary face, Harry glanced at a sleeping Ron with a hint of envy; Harry had not had a full night’s sleep since before Siri–Don’t go there, he thought.

Harry had faced his demons and conquered the self-loathing anger that had threatened to engulf him, but it would be months, or perhaps even years until he would be able to truly comprehend the loss of his godfather. In fact, it became clear to him that he would have to control his anger if he wanted to beat Voldemort. Harry had spent the majority of the previous summer in Grimmauld Place, a location he initially feared would be a worse punishment than having to live with the Dursleys. However, despite the dark and dank atmosphere permeating throughout Grimmauld Place, Harry swore to himself that he could sense the lingering presence of his godfather. Although faint and most likely undetectable to anyone but himself, this presence seemed to buoy him up past the gloom and despair of both the house and his mood. He resigned to move on in order to honor Sirius’ memory, encouraged by Sirius’ own determination and the resolute, yet reasonable voice of his conscience.

After these silent minutes of personal reverie, Harry’s mind returned back to the common room and its occupants. As the next day would afford a trip to Hogsmeade, most of the upper year students were scrambling to finish their homework assignments before turning in. Harry unknowingly released a heavy sigh as he turned to retrieve his parchment, quill, ink, and school books from his bag. Just then Hermione breezed into the room, returning (with an armful of books, mind you) from her study session in the library.

“Hey Harry,” she smiled, knowledge invariably burning a rosy hue on her cheeks. Harry couldn’t help but notice the refreshed expression on her face.

“Harry, what’s the matter? Is something wrong?” she asked, looking concernedly at him, glancing out of the corner of her eye at Ron and rolling her eyes slightly.

“No, I’m all right. Just thinking, you know,” he replied, braving an attempt at a smile before turning back toward the fireplace.

Hermione seemed to consider him a moment, her head cocked slightly to one side, a puzzled expression on her face. It cleared up the moment Harry returned his gaze to her. She didn’t want him feeling guilty or responsible for her worrying or her sleepless nights, so she tried to hide her concern behind books and studying. Something was bothering him, and she felt slightly hurt that he didn’t trust her enough to tell her.

Then again, it is Harry. He suffers alone as though it will spare everyone else. Besides, it’s not like you’re an open book either. So, Hermione moved to change the subject.

“Want to get Professor Flitwick’s essay done so we don’t have to worry about it tomorrow while we’re sipping butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks?” Her voice sounded falsely cheery even to her, and she fully anticipated his answer to be in the negative, so she surprised when Harry nodded and forced another half-smile.

They relocated to one of the tables and soon half a dozen spellbooks and rolls of parchment littered the table, the silence filled only with the scratches made by Harry and Hermione’s quills, Ron’s snores from by the fireplace, and various conversations by other students (whose focus had steadily declined as the night progressed). It took about two minutes for Hermione to notice that now only her quill was making scratching sounds. She looked up to see Harry’s eyes fixed on her, his quill slowly dripping ink onto his parchment.

She blinked as a slight blush crept up her cheeks, which caused Harry to shake his head in confusion.

“Hermione,” he began, clearing his throat to hide its slight tremolo, “Do you want to play Twenty Questions?”

Now it was Hermione’s turn to be confused. Recovering, she replied somewhat uncertainly, “Sure, Harry, but I don’t quite remember how it goes.”

“Well, technically, it’s a game where one person chooses an item in the room and the other person has to guess what it is in twenty yes or no questions. At least, that’s how we used to play it in my Muggle primary school.” He shrugged, then continued, “But I want to play it as more of a getting-to-know-you type game. Each of us can just ask to other random questions about anything–but they can pass if they want to.”

Harry and Hermione’s friendship had always been centered around the ever-present threat of Voldemort. They’d been together in their darkest moments; her knew her deepest fears and practically every quirk, but had no knowledge about her life her before she met him or became acquainted with magic. As far as he was concerned, he was going to make up for lost time while he could.

So, he is actually inviting me to question him, Hermione thought to herself. However, she replied with, “But Harry, we already know practically everything about each other. And what about Ron?”

Harry glanced at the slowly rising and falling mound that was Ron and quirked an eyebrow at Hermione. “Well, if you want to be the one to wake him up...”

“No! You’re right, no Ron.... So then, erm, you can go first, if you like,” she offered, not really knowing what to expect.

“Okay, well, we’ll start simple I guess. Er...what’s your favorite color?” he asked somewhat lamely, wishing he would have actually thought of a more intriguing question for his best friend of over five years and yet surprised that he didn’t already know the answer for the same reason.

Hermione chuckled, “Well, I’m rather attached to pink now that you mention it, but I can’t choose an actual favorite.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want the other colors to be jealous!” she answered, barely able to maintain a serious expression.

After a brief pause, Harry let out a howl of pent-up laughter that caused several second year girls across the room to squeal in surprise, Ron to stir in his armchair, and Hermione to raise her eyebrows in both shock and amusement. After all the Boy-Who-Lived had gone through, Hermione was glad that he was still able to take pleasure in, well, more juvenile things, and more so that it was her comment that fixed that genuinely delighted grin on his face.

“Okay, okay, it wasn’t that funny, Harry,” she blushed.

“Fine, I’ll get a grip on myself,” he said, attempting to stifle his snickers and failing miserably in the process.

“Okay, your turn. What’s your favorite color?” asked Hermione, expecting the typical Gryffindor response of red and gold.

“Well, you know, I kinda like blue I suppose, but I’ve always had a bit of a preference for green–I know, it’s a Slytherin color,” he added hastily, “but it’s been that way ever since before I came to Hogwarts.”

Hmmm, perhaps I don’t know as much about the little things as I thought, she mused. “Don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you. But I wouldn’t tell Ron if I were you. So then Harry, what’s your favorite day of the week?”

“Hey, wait a second, it’s my turn to ask a question!”

“No, you asked me the color one,” she responded.

“Yeah, but then you asked me the same thing and used up your turn,” he laughed, a triumphant grin on his face.

“I think it would be fair,” Hermione continued, her bossiness coming back into play, “if the person who asked the question answers it as well. That way it’s not so one-sided.”

She may have a point. What do I have to lose? he pondered. Oh, you know, just your dignity, pride, the ability to remain relatively unhexed by Hermione in the near future...a voice chirped. All right then, another, slightly stronger voice answered, I’ll just have to only ask questions that I feel comfortable answering as well. This could be tricky, as it’s Hermione. She’ll see right through me. Forcing a heavy sigh, he raised his hands in mock exasperation and muttered, “Whatever you want, Hermione,” in a feigned defeated tone.

She laughed openly, the first time in many months. It felt good to be acting so childish and carefree around her best friends (well, Ron was in the general vicinity) again. She welcomed the relinquishment of her role as the worrywart. It was almost as if there was no Voldemort. Almost...

This thought sobered her. “Anyway, Harry, what is your favorite day of the week?”

“Any day that I don’t have Potions,” replied Harry quite truthfully.

“I tend to like Fridays,” Hermione mused, almost to herself. “There seems to be more time then,” she concluded, nodding her head.

“More time for what exactly?” Harry asked, assuming she was going to mention reading or homework.

“Well, for things like this actually. It’s a chance to sit around and talk about silly, average things. That’s probably what I miss the most, you know,” she added quietly. “With the war and everything. I...well, I just don’t feel seventeen. More like...thirty-seven.” She tried to laugh to lighten the mood, and reprimanded herself for ruining such a good moment between her and Harry. When she glanced up, she was relieved to find that he was still smiling. The way he nodded his head and held her gaze told her that he understood her perfectly and had probably been feeling the same way for quite some time.

“Hem hem.” Both Harry and Hermione burst out laughing at his ridiculous interpretation of their former (and thankfully, brief) Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and headmistress, Professor Umbridge. They discussed her possible whereabouts with ease for a few minutes before slipping into a comfortable silence.

Having finally formed an interesting question in his mind, Harry cleared his throat excitedly. “Hermione,” he began as her eyes shifted back and forth between of his, “How, er, when did you know you were a witch?” In all their years of knowing each other, he couldn’t believe he never thought to ask, the same way he’d neglected to ask Neville about his parents. It seemed so obvious now, as she was Muggle-born, that there must have been some pretty strange events in her past before she received her letter from Hogwarts.

She chuckled slightly, straining to remember. “Well there were simple things at first–like pages of books turning by themselves when I was very tired. You can imagine how terrified I was then, fearing something was happening to me...but there were other things as well. You know how my parents are dentists?” She paused and smiled at the interest clearly showing on Harry’s face. “Well they’ve always been rather adamant that I maintain proper nutrition and a strict dental regimen–yeah I know. Anyway, sometimes at dinner they would refuse to let me leave the table until I finished my vegetables. Most of the time I was fairly agreeable about it, but every now and then, if I wanted to go outside or read a book I’d been itching to finish, I’d be really quite stubborn. I’d sit there with my arms crossed in front of me (she mimed her immature yet endearingly childlike posture earning another smile from Harry) and when I’d look down at my plate, all the carrots or whatever would be gone! I’d check under the table or in my lap, but they were never there. Naturally my parents would assume that I had simply eaten whatever food it was, so they’d excuse me from the table, and I was too stunned to argue a lot of the time, so I never said anything.” She sighed slowly, lost temporarily in her memories of a much simpler time. Quietly, she almost whispered, “How did you know?”

“There were some rather odd events in my childhood that I couldn’t explain, but...well I was never encouraged like you probably were by your parents to ask questions or get to the bottom of things, so to speak. I mean, the things that happened never annoyed me or scared me. I mean,” he said slowly, trying to hide the sorrow in his voice, “I already knew what it felt like to be different than everyone else, but this sort of made me feel special. And then on the day that I turned eleven, Hagrid turned up and told me all about Hogwarts and my parents, and my past...”

“That must have been a lot to deal with,” Hermione supplied sympathetically, only now understanding the true magnitude of just how lost he must have felt, compounded by his natural youthful naivety.

“Why did you decide to come here to Hogwarts if your magic scared you?” Harry asked, fixing his stare on the floor.

“Well, it wasn’t such a scary thing once I’d read all about Hog–”

Harry interrupted, “You mean Hogwarts: A History, right?” He grinned.

“As a matter of fact, yes. It was my first attempt to really understand what was happening to me. With magic, I mean. The letter explained a lot and a special messenger was sent to the house, as well as McGonagall, to answer my parents’ questions, them being Muggles and all. But, well, I guess I really decided to come here because it made me feel...well, special, like you said. I mean, I didn’t really have any friends to sway my decision otherwise, and my parents have always been really supportive of me making my own decisions, so I just packed my trunk, bought all of my magical necessities, and, well, just came here,” she finished, shrugging her shoulders.

“Well I suppose it’s rather easy to see why ended up coming to Hogwarts, knowing the other options opened to me,” he said, launching into a description of the day he entered the foul-smelling kitchen and witnessed his aunt dyeing Dudley’s old clothes. Hermione was the perfect audience, clapping her hand over her mouth in shock or giggling in all the appropriate places. It suddenly struck Harry how different his life would be if he hadn’t ever received news of Hogwarts or never met Ron or Hermione.

“Did the Dursleys make it difficult for you to leave?” asked Hermione.

“Well not at first, but Hagrid just needed to persuade them. I know Dudley will never forget that day!” He quickly explained Dudley’s little anatomical addition that Hagrid provided on Harry’s eleventh birthday.

Hermione gasped. “But he could have gotten into serious trouble! He’s not allowed to do magic!”

Harry wasn’t fooled by her stern expression because even as he watched, the corners of her mouth twitched slightly, struggling to hide her true amusement. When a moment passed he suddenly asked, “But Hermione, how did you feel about leaving your parents? Weren’t you guys pretty close?”

“Well, we were close primarily because I am an only child, and I didn’t really have a lot of childhood playmates so I’d always be around to talk with them and everything. But...magic sort of set me away from them I thought, made me different, like I wasn’t really the same as them, and it frightened me. They’ve never made me feel abnormal or unwelcome or anything, but even when I was eleven, I knew that they’d never really understand me–”

She stopped. I shouldn’t be talking like this. Who am I to complain when I’m the one who has parents that love me and a warm bed instead of a dark cupboard... She shivered at the thought.

“Are you okay? Cold?” Harry’s concerned voice penetrated her thoughts, his hand on hers.

Oh no, now he’s feeling sorry for me, she thought. I need to change the subject. “A little cold, yeah. Why don’t we move back over to the fire?” she offered, swiftly pulling her hand out from under his. She immediately regretted the action seeing the questioning look in her eyes. Reluctantly he agreed, and both took their favorite chairs by the fire.

“Well, it’s just, you know, you never talk about them. You’re parents I mean,” he said, as though the conversation had gone uninterrupted.

She weighed her words carefully, trying not to unintentionally offend or hurt him. “We were close, and we still sort of are when I come back home, but I bet you’ve noticed that I don’t spend much time at home besides summer holidays. I would rather be here... But they wouldn’t be able to understand everything, Harry. Things like Prefect, O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s are fine, but I don’t think they’d be comfortable with much else...”

“What do you mean, they wouldn’t understand?” asked Harry, puzzled and a little bit annoyed that she was dismissing her parents awareness of the various goings-on at Hogwarts so easily. Then realization hit him. “Are you saying that they don’t know about anything that’s happened here? Happened to you? About Voldemort? About you getting hurt–” he swallowed and ploughed on, “or Petrified? Are you saying that they don’t know any of that?”

“That was more than one question,” said Hermione with a forced laugh. His serious expression compelled her to abandon that instinctive evasive maneuver. With another heavy sigh, she turned her head toward the fire, not meeting his eyes. Then in a small voice, “No, Harry, they don’t. They don’t know about anything that’s happened.” Her head snapped back toward him. She had to justify herself to him, convince him as much as herself. “It’s not that I’m afraid they’ll take me out of Hogwarts or anything, but...oh Harry, how would I even put it into words? It would be a stretch to convince them that dragons are real, not to mention the possibility of Apparating and time-travel.”

He nodded, accepting her reasoning as she had seen him do on countless occasions before. This time, she wished that she believed it as much as he seemed to. Despite what she’d said about not fearing what her parents would do if they were ever informed about past events regarding her stay at Hogwarts, she was secretly terrified that they’d take her away from it, even if only to keep her safe. She couldn’t bear the thought of not being there when she might perhaps be needed. As far as she was concerned, for her parents, ignorance is bliss.

For Harry, the fact that Hermione had kept her parents in the dark about their years here at Hogwarts definitely put a new perspective on things. How much do they really know? Do they think that I’m just some friend of their daughter’s? Do they know how much I need her, that I’d do anything to protect her? He felt somehow hurt that he was probably just an ordinary friend in the Grangers’ eyes, but decided it wasn’t the time to be dwelling on that.

Both students frantically groped for a light question, something that would put them back in the laughing mood from fifteen minutes before. Harry spoke first, saying the first thing he thought as his eyes searched the room for inspiration and focused on his other best friend, “So who do you think Ron’ll end up with?”

Hermione seemed rather startled at first at the implications of this question, but directed her eyes toward the redhead in silent consideration. Ron, now only a few paces away, remained oblivious in his sleep-induced stupor. She smiled, turned back to Harry, and shrugged, then leaned forward as Harry beckoned.

“I think it’ll be Luna Lovegood that does the trick,” he whispered conspiratorially, hitching a grin on his face. Hermione’s serious facade broke and she allowed her unrestrained laughter to fill the room. Harry smiled at the girl across from him, not understanding how anyone could call her plain. They just don’t see her the way I do, like this, he mused silently. They must only see the bookworm hunchbacked over her parchment with her forehead furrowed in thought.

Hermione let her laughter naturally die away before meeting Harry’s eyes. This moment is perfect, right here. No arguing, no dark thoughts, just two people enjoying the company of one another and acting their age. She found herself wishing she could freeze the moment just as it was, to save it for reflection as she pleased. “Harry, you and I both know that Ron is rather hopeless, especially when it comes to the opposite sex.”

“Yeah, but just wait and see...Hey, how come you never go out with anyone?” he asked, hoping that she wouldn’t think that he was making fun of her. This was a serious question, one he’d been sitting on for a long while, but never really felt the urge to ask.

“Oh please, Harry, be realistic! With Prefect duties, schoolwork, and having to babysit you and Ron, I’d never have time to make a proper relationship! Especially with you and Ron as my best friends, I expect that would be quite intimidating for a guy,” she answered, a faint blush glowing on her cheeks. “Besides,” she continued, “I could ask the same of you.”

“You could. I guess you have a point, there are a lot of time constraints, even if you don’t count Voldemort, but I’m sure you could make it work. I mean, not you specifically, I just meant ‘one.’ Not that I’m saying you couldn’t make it work, just, oh Hell. You know what I mean,” Harry stuttered, his superb eloquence thus demonstrated. Speech, or any kind of diatribe, was definitely not his forte.

“Then there’s all the inter-House arrangements. Ginny told me last year that despite her and Michael’s mutual, er, attraction, because they were in separate Houses, it put a lot of strain on the relationship from the beginning. It almost makes you wonder, do you think we would still be friends if we were in different Houses? You, Ron, and I, that is.”

“It’s hard to say really...Didn’t the Sorting Hat almost place you in Ravenclaw? It’s just I remember you saying something about it last year,” said Harry.

“Yeah it did actually. Well, that would have been it right there then, wouldn’t it? Our friendship would have been over before it even started! Ron wouldn’t have insulted me, I would not have been in the bathroom crying on Halloween and you and Ron wouldn’t have rescued me!” Hermione laughed at the vague possibilities, glancing down at her watch as she did so. It was getting late, but they didn’t have lessons the next day and, checking the weather conditions through the common room windows, she decided she would not mind having a bit of a lie-in the next day.

“The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin, you know,” said Harry in a small voice, staring at the flames. She was startled from her musings initially, but sensed that there was more that he wanted to say so she prompted him with her silence to continue. “But I begged it not to,” he said, looking at her, the desperation of almost six years previous evident in his voice, “It was right after Malfoy was just sorted, and I really disliked him already, and Hagrid had already explained to me about Slytherin’s poor reputation. Even when I saw the hat in Dumbledore’s office second year, it stuck by its first instinct. ‘You would have done well in Slytherin,’ it said. It was wrong, Hermione,” he told her firmly. “There are powers and gifts that Voldemort may have unintentionally transferred to me,” (he reached up to unconsciously rub his scar), “ like Parseltongue and all that, but he’ll never be a part of me.” He stopped, wondering if he’d said too much. “It’s funny though. What if the Sorting Hat put you in Ravenclaw, Ron in Gryffindor, and me in Slytherin? I mean, we’ve already determined that it would be quite unlikely that we’d even become friends, but what if there’s a reason it put all three of us in Gryffindor?”

“Yeah, maybe to help each other out. You and Ron would help me to bend the rules a little and I’d help you pass your classes!” Both Harry and Hermione chuckled heartily at this view of the matter.

“Hermione, do you believe in Fate?” This question was another result of Harry’s recent ponderings and he was anxious to get Hermione’s opinion.

Her laughter faded a little as she considered the question. “Well...I’m not much attached to the idea of everything being predestined. I means that no matter what we do, which path we choose, which choice we make, in the end none of it really matters. What happens is supposed to happen. I mean, especially with the whole Time-Turner thing third year, you can’t possibly predict what will happen because there are so many variables.” Her voice rose as the fervor usually reserved for her S.P.E.W. speeches increased. A long pause ensued. “But,” she almost whispered, “I suppose with the truth in prophecies and everything, Fate might very well exist, and it requires our choices and so forth to help or hurry it along. So with a prophecy, you might know the end result but not the path that leads you to it.”

Harry stiffened at the mention of the prophecy, but Hermione, lost in her own thoughts, didn’t seem to notice. Suddenly, it seemed apparent that the course of the conversation had offered the very window of opportunity that Harry had been hoping for. If ever there was a perfect moment to tell his best friend his biggest secret, this was it. Harry knew that Hermione was the only one he trusted enough with whom to share his burden. What about Ron? Hermione’s voice seemed to echo in his head, his confidence shaking slightly. Wouldn’t it be easier to tell Ron and Hermione at the same time? It would certainly save him the effort of repeating the prophecy and all of its encumbrances again later. He decided that there would be no simple way to go about this. However, he’d spent all night talking to Hermione, and right now, he was only ready to tell her.

He realized that she had been watching him intently during his lapse in speech. “Is something the matter, Harry? Why did you ask me about Fate?” she asked, a little afraid of the impending answer. She had followed the darting of his eyes, the uncomfortable shifting in his chair or shaking of his head, and watched as he nodded to himself, as though he’d been deliberating a point. Whatever he’d decided just then, it was important.

“Hermione,” whispered Harry, his eyes boring into hers, “What’s your biggest secret?”

She blinked after a few moments, the question having caught her completely off-guard. Even as she tried to convince herself that she had nothing to hide from her best friend, she knew it was a lie. She knew right away what that secret was, but it didn’t make her any more anxious to divulge it, especially to Harry. Her eyes glazed over slightly as she relived the memory....

“Hermione?” came the voice of Harry, breaking through her reminiscence. She shook her head allowing her eyes to focus on Harry,“You haven’t said anything for about two minutes. Look, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“No, there is something. Do you remember our Defense Against the Dark Arts exam in third year with Professor Lupin?” she asked. Hermione felt the prologue was unnecessary as Harry would probably know exactly what she was speaking of if she just delved right into, but she was trying to stall a little to compose her thoughts in a more logical order. At Harry’s vigorous nod, indicating that his interest was definitely peaked by this topic, she continued slowly, “I was fine until I reached the boggart. If you remember, that day in class when Professor Lupin had everyone take turns, you and I were among the few that didn’t get to face it. Until the day of the test I didn’t think anything of it. I knew the information about the boggart, but I didn’t think about encountering it during a practical exam. I know what you thought I saw in the trunk, but I lied. It was true that I saw Professor McGonagall, but I hope you know me well enough to realize that I don’t dread a piece of homework receiving impartial credit as much as what it represents.”

“And...what is that exactly?” To say Harry was confused was a bit of an understatement.

“The Professor McGonagall boggart told me I’d failed everything. Failure. That is what I fear above all else. Not just in school, but in life. I...I couldn’t live with myself if I failed the ones I love. If, for some reason, I couldn’t do what was required of me. And that’s the funny part. I failed at facing failure. Isn’t that some kind of double negative?”

She hoped that telling him this wasn’t a mistake. But it was Harry, and she could trust him. Besides she was tired of committing all of her thoughts to parchment, as it took so long and made her hand cramp occasionally. And she had little free to write as it was, so she’d resigned to writing in the common room, a practice she hid under the guise of writing letters to Viktor Krum. Did people, and by people she meant Ron, honestly believe that she would put that much thought into a letter that couldn’t be sent because of the risk of frisked owls and confiscated post anyway?

Harry was shocked to say the least. He did not really expect her to answer him, not even to offer a facetious reply such as, “I hate peas.” The sheer honesty in her confession was what struck him the most. How very vulnerable she had seemed just then. And, as he was starting to become lost in the image of her profile, he realized that perhaps he ought to respond.

“Hermione, when I first met you I thought you were bossy and interfering,” he said, directing toward her a compassionate smirk. She sharply turned back to him, wondering how on earth this was supposed to make her feel better. “And very little has changed since then except my attitude toward it. Your bossiness and interference, not to mention your cleverness, resourcefulness, and loyalty, have saved my hide many a time. You’ve never failed me, Hermione. And the time may come when you think that hope is lost, but I know you, and you never give up.”

“But I have failed you Harry, and I’m so, so sorry about what happened to Sirius, and that I couldn’t be there–”

“Hermione, you were unconscious! Because of me and my brilliant plan to get us all killed....You were right, you know. About the vision, about Voldemort, about everything! I never told you, but I thought you should know. I should have listened to you, you were right...” He stood, turning his back from her and facing the mantlepiece to hide the pain in his eyes.

“No, Harry, I wasn’t right. I fell for Kreacher’s trick, same as you. And I know you never told me it was him, but I figured that much out on my own,” she said. Neither had spoken of that night at the Department of Mysteries or any of the events before, and, though time had passed, the pain had been acute and both were still reeling from it.

Without turning Harry began to mumble so that Hermione had to lean forward to catch what he was saying. Slowly and deliberately she heard him say, “Hermione, please believe that you have never failed me. You’ve always been there, even when I ignored you for the sake of a piece if wood, even when I’ve yelled myself hoarse at you, even when I’ve practically put you in the Hospital Wing myself. I trust you the most of everyone.” Now he turned to face her, the flames accentuating the intensity of his gaze by throwing half of his face into shadow. Then, almost so quietly that she could barely hear him, he said, “Which is why I have to tell you something. I don’t really know how to say it, so bear with me. But I need you to promise that you’ll help me tell Ron when the time is right.”

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

“Okay, here goes. When Neville told you all last year that the prophecy smashed in the Department of Mysteries and we didn’t hear a single word of what it said, I didn’t say anything. For Neville, that had been true. But for me, when I got back to Dumbledore’s office and...discussed that night’s events, he revealed to me the exact wording of the prophecy as witnessed by himself not long before my parents were killed. It explained a lot, like why Voldemort keeps coming after me–it’s more than just a mad revenge thing. There’s a prophecy about us. I don’t remember it word for word, you’re the only person I know who can quote speeches from months past, but it’s been haunting me since that night, among other things. It pretty much says that in the end, I will have to murder Voldemort or he will murder me. We can’t coexist, and it has to be one or the other. There’s no halfway,” he finished. His shoulders slumped and he ran a hand through his hair.

All the while, Hermione was silent, though her mind was racing. Finally she stood up, and walked close to the fire to face him. Without breaking eye contact she placed a hand on his shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be soon, Harry. It doesn’t have to be now,” she said, forcing confidence but unable to keep her eyes from tearing up.

She put great emphasis on the last word. In the here and now, he could still be Harry, just Harry, and that was all she needed from him. A calm seemed to overtake him, an understanding. Suddenly she felt it too, and when they regained eye contact, she nodded.

“But I think you know it will be, Hermione. It will be soon.”

As her resolve weakened, tears spilled from her eyes, a mixture of pride and sorrow. Her best friend had grown up far more quickly than he should have had to; he learned all the lessons the hard way. A wave of helplessness washed over her. She wanted to make everything all right for him, so that he could enjoy a normal adolescence, but she knew that she didn’t have that power. His behavior the past few months suddenly made sense and she inwardly chastised herself for another assumption that it was all to do with Sirius’ death.

Watching her thoughts flicker across her face like the flames in the fireplace, he broke the silence. “I know, it’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?”

She nodded again, emitting a small chuckle as she did so. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t feel thirty-seven, more like sixty-three,” Hermione sighed.

“No wonder you knit so much,” Harry laughed. She couldn’t help the smile forming at her mouth. With a forced casualness, he asked, “You’ll help me tell Ron, right?”

Hermione did not miss the pleading in his eyes. “Do you even need to ask?”

“I need to hear it, Hermione. Tell me you’ll be there,” he gasped earnestly, forsaking his attempt at indifference. He looked to the side toward the mantlepiece.

“Harry,” said Hermione forcefully, pulling him to face her, “Harry, listen to me. I’ve always been here for you. Even when you’ve tried to get rid of me, I stuck by you.” She paused. Carefully, she added, “And I always will be. I won’t fail you. I refuse to fail you. Always, Harry.”

His eyes, still staring into hers, began to fill with tears at her sincere promise. The strength he used hiding his feelings from the outside world was spent, and he was on the floor in a heap on his knees. And then she was there beside him, doing her best to comfort him.

“Harry...” she ventured.

“Yeah?” he answered thickly.

“Are you...are you scared?”

He pulled away to look at her. “To death.”

Her sharp intake of breath indicated that she did not share his humor in the situation.

“I feel better, though. Talking about it and all, I mean... I guess we’re learned a lot about each other tonight, huh?”

Hermione smiled. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Thank you, Hermione. For listening. For being here. It...it means a lot, even if I don’t show it.”

“You’re welcome, Harry,” she answered quietly. And, because she felt that they both needed it, she embraced him once more, their kneeling forms silhouetted against the flames. He returned the hug, enjoying the simple closeness of his friend. And even as they sat there, long after the fire was extinguished and Ron’s snores became the only sounds in the room, neither of them noticed the connection growing between them, a connection forged in something much stronger than friendship.

The end.