The Truth is What Matters

A/N: I’m not JKR (obviously), just another H/Hr fan trying to make sense of the horror that was the romance in HBP.

Text in italics are lyrics from the song, “When I Look at You” the reprise, from the “Scarlet Pimpernel” musical and don’t belong to me. It just struck me as fitting.

In defense of Hermione… Because JKR butchered her character. And to assert my belief that, no matter what JKR says, H/Hr remains the ideal romantic relationship in the books, whether or not JKR is wise enough or a good enough writer to see it.

The Truth Is What Matters

Harry Potter sighed and frowned as he finished reading Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

Oh, he had admired this J.K. Rowling for her take on his life and even enjoyed the first five parts of the series. She’d generally been very good about writing what had happened.

But this book… This book…

The events were mostly true, yes, but not a good portion of the actions which concerned Hermione… Those were exaggerations at best, fabrications at worst, with some startling omissions…

What had happened to his Hermione in this book?

He didn’t understand it. What had she done?

What had this Rowling woman turned his Hermione into?

This wasn’t the Hermione he knew, the Hermione he loved…

He closed his eyes and he could see her face in all the moods, all the expressions, he’d seen her in over the years. Could see her face streaked with tears, could see her with nail marks in her cheeks from having watched him face the Hungarian Horntail, could see her smiling, laughing… The (admittedly sometimes rather frightening) glint of determination in her eyes that she got over her studies and over S.P.E.W… He saw her looking at him with concern and worry and affection in her eyes, little touches on his arm to comfort him, could feel her throwing her arms around him and letting him know that she thought he was a great wizard… A kiss on the cheek to let him know that he wasn’t alone…

Almost instinctively, he turned his cheek slightly—but his lips brushed only air…

When I look at you,

She is touching me…

I would reach for her,

But who can hold a memory?…

Why had this Rowling woman, deliberately it rather seemed, left out his waking up to find Hermione’s worried face near his own after getting hit by the Bludger at the Quidditch match? He remembered the relief in her expression, seeing the tracks of tears on her cheeks from when she’d cried over his being hurt. It had occurred to him only then to be amazed at how much she cared…

He remembered the Hermione who’d taught him the Summoning Charm, who’d encouraged him all the times he’d failed to even move the pillow he was trying to summon. “That’s really good, Harry. Just concentrate a little more and you’ll get it.” The way she’d beamed at him when he’d finally managed to make the pillow fly across the room to him. “That’s it, Harry! You’ve got it!”

He remembered the way her face had flushed in her eagerness, the determination in her eyes and in the set of her chin when she’d talked about rights for house-elves. Remembered all the times she’d frowned at Sirius for not treating Kreacher better…

And now this Hermione—who seemed to have suddenly, amazingly, forgotten about house-elves rights and had said not a word about his trying to use Dobby and Kreacher to spy on Malfoy…

This wasn’t the Hermione he knew and loved.

This wasn’t what had happened; he vividly remembered Hermione dragging him aside after finding out about what he’d asked them to do, wanting to know if he’d offered to pay Dobby more. She’d understood that he couldn’t, of course, do anything about Kreacher since freeing him wasn’t an option, but he could pay Dobby. He remembered, only too clearly, his sheepish confession that he hadn’t thought of it but his promise that he would. (Just as he remembered offering Dobby payment which Dobby had refused as adamantly as a house elf can. “Oh, no, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby is not needing payment to help Harry Potter. Dobby owes Harry Potter his freedom; Dobby is not needing payment.”)

What had JK Rowling done to her?

Oh, you were once that someone

Who I followed like a star,

Then suddenly you changed

And now I don’t know who you are.

Or could it be

that I never really knew you from the start?

Did I create a dream?

Was she a fantasy…?

He looked over at the picture of Hermione which he kept on his nightstand where she was smiling at him and felt his heart turn over in his chest. Along with a healthy surge of anger at this JK Rowling who seemed out, in this book, at least, to make it seem as if Hermione had completely forgotten about their friendship in her jealousy over Ron (which had also been exaggerated to the point of a farce.)

Really, this JK Rowling had written a quite masterful (or not) work of fiction in this book supposedly telling the events of his 6^th year at Hogwarts.

He wondered rather grimly what she would do with the fact that Ron and Hermione’s “relationship” had petered out almost as soon as it had begun as they both realized that rather than being any happier or even particularly enjoying the snogging, they were simply made very uncomfortable (at best) or unhappy (at worst).

He wondered how this Rowling woman would choose to deal with his own slow realization during the next year that it had always been Hermione. Would she even mention it? In all the chaos and the darkness and the danger of searching for the Horcruxes and destroying them, the horror of the attack on Hermione’s parents necessitating their going into hiding for the duration of the war—he remembered seeing the look, not of hesitation exactly but more of guilt, on her face and the stab of fear that had gone through him on thinking that maybe Hermione would choose to go into hiding with her parents. Maybe she would decide that it wasn’t worth it, that she wanted to be with her parents in their exile… And what would he do without her…

It had been a revelation of sorts- albeit one he knew he should have realized much, much earlier: he needed Hermione. He needed her for her cleverness but more than that, he needed her for the comfort she gave him, the strength she gave him just by being there, the faith she had in him, the trust she provided that one person would never leave him, had never let him down…

Followed, gradually, by his realization that his feelings for Hermione went much deeper than friendship or loyalty or affection. That he felt for Hermione what he’d never felt for anyone—different from what he felt for Sirius, different from what he felt for Ron, different from what he felt for Dumbledore or for Hagrid, so much more than what he’d felt for Ginny even at the height of his little crush on her. What he felt for Hermione could only be called—love.

That was why he’d suddenly started noticing her body, the way she smelled, the way she moved, the way she smiled… Why he’d found himself distracted at times by the way her lips moved when she talked…

He loved Hermione—had always loved her if he’d only stopped to think about it. If he’d only stopped to compare his feelings for Hermione with his feelings for Ginny or even with Cho—he could have realized sooner. It was Hermione he really cared for, had always been Hermione…

He hadn’t done or said anything for months after realizing the truth of his feelings. It’d been too busy, too dark, of a time. He hadn’t wanted to burden her or—and this was perhaps the largest reason of all—hadn’t wanted to dwell on something that would make it so much harder, if not impossible, for him to do what he needed to do, risk what he needed to risk…

So he’d waited to tell her, waited to say the words, until he knew he had a tomorrow, a future, to offer…

There had only been little looks, little moments, which he couldn’t help, and he’d somehow known that she loved him too.

He hadn’t said anything until it had finally been over, Voldemort destroyed for good and things had begun to return to some semblance of normal.

And even then, it hadn’t been a great dramatic moment of confession.

They’d been walking away from a last visit to Dumbledore’s tomb, Ron going back to the Castle and they had both angled their own steps away, heading instinctively, through some silent agreement, towards the tree by the lake.

They hadn’t spoken much; he’d only said, quietly, “I think he’s smiling right now, wherever he is.” She’d nodded and said, equally quietly, “Yes.”

His hand reached out almost of its own volition and took hers and they’d walked on, in silence, holding hands.

And he’d just said it. Simply. Not pausing as they walked. “I love you, you know.”

“I know. I love you too.”

And that had been it.

5 simple, softly spoken words on his part. 6 equally quiet words in response. And his hand holding hers.

That was the moment he remembered the best.

It had been so—normal, really. Just a few words and a little gesture. But it had been perfect for all that.

And he wondered how JK Rowling would choose to write it. Could she even write it? Could she somehow capture the simplicity and yet the poignancy and the power of the moment? Could she even begin to describe the way he’d felt?

He rather doubted it, given what she had written (and how she had written it) in this last book.

He shook his head a little as he put the book down.

Ah well.

What did it matter? It was only a book, only one woman’s interpretation of his story.

And he knew what had really happened. He knew the real Hermione, no matter what Rowling had written in this last book.

He knew the truth.

He glanced at the clock and smiled automatically.

Hermione would be home soon from her weekly lunch with her parents (for which he joined her, every month or so) and then the rest of the day they’d planned to be theirs. Not necessarily doing anything special but just an afternoon and evening to be alone together, no work, no other distractions from their usually busy life. Just him and his Hermione.

He put the book into the bottom drawer of his cabinet along with the other five books Rowling had written.

The books were all well and good, the manipulation of facts in this last one notwithstanding—but he knew the truth. And that was all that mattered.

The End