English Oak

Title: English Oak

Pairing: Harry/Hermione

Rating: PG

One-Shot

Entry for Felix Felices Fan Fiction Competition

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended with this work. No profit is being made from this work. The characters involved in this fiction are the property of Jo Rowling. What she does with them is her own business. What I do with them is mine.

A/N: Thanks, WizardKira, for your smashing help, if I do say so myself. ;)

English Oak

Bill and Fleur’s wedding was exactly everything Harry expected a Weasley affair to be, and then again, it was nothing like what Harry expected either. First, the debate of whether to have it in England or France was debated—they settled on England, as Bill’s family was exponentially bigger than the Delacour family. The ceremony was a flood of white-blonde and flaming-red haired people, and ended with Ron nearly going into cardiac arrest when he met Fleur’s wedding attendants. As for himself, Harry was surprised at how easy it was for him to remain platonic with Ginny. They never mentioned what had happened just weeks before, and as if by silent agreement, Ron and Hermione pretended that Ginny and Harry never happened at all. An ache, longing, or something he expected to be there, unexpectedly was absent. His resolution to protect her from Voldemort was solidified that week at the Burrow, and it seemed as if even his emotions were with him in his resolve. Someday this would be all over and he could pick up the pieces with her.

Shortly after the wedding, the three spent a week at Grimmauld Place trying to find the locket Horcrux. Along the way, they found some papers in what was once Regulus’ old bedchamber. After days of sorting through it all (which was a job left to basically left to Hermione, as she had a knack for spotting the subtle), revealing blank documents, and translating parts written in Ancient Rune, the three thought that perhaps they had an idea of where to go next. Black had various maps of the United Kingdom, and on a few he had circled what looked like a dense forest in Northern England.

In the meantime, Harry and Ron tried to destroy the locket, which just a few years ago they had thrown aside because they could not open it. In the end, Hermione, tired of hearing their round-robin discussion of the matter, took a sledge hammer out of the closet off the kitchen and swung it down onto the Horcrux. Whether it was the simplicity of the act or all their attempts combined, it worked. With a great gush of air, the kitchen filled with a strange light and threw them to the wall. After the light had faded, Harry walked over and helped Hermione up. She still held the handle to the sledge hammer with a tremulous hand. Pale from the exertion, she lifted up the chain of the locket with one finger. Ron ran his hands through his hair.

“Blimey, that’s one down then, is it?” he stammered.

Harry looked blankly from Ron to Hermione, “I guess so.”

The handle fell from Hermione’s hand and clattered to the worn wood of the kitchen floor. She fell gracelessly into a chair and said weakly, “I hope the rest are as easy as this.” After more silence, Harry insisted that she get rest for the night, as she looked truly spent. A few days later, with the vague information they had garnered from Black’s documents, they left the safety of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place behind.

^*^*^

Trudging through the damp fallen leaves of late October, Harry, Ron and Hermione were searching in vain for something linking back to Voldemort. As they walked further north, night continued to fall and a light fog crept in among the trees. Curling around their feet and billowing around their cloaks, soon fog covered the ground in white as the weak sun set over the horizon. Harry had a feeling that they were getting close to something, and so they lumbered on until they could go on no longer. Hermione tried to light her wand with no result. Ron and Harry followed suit, both failing to produce even a feeble light. Within a minute, they had lost direction and were completely consumed in a fog which had swirled above their heads, blocking everything but the palest moonlight, giving their new world an eerie glow.

“Well, what are we supposed to do now?” Ron asked, exasperated. They had tried everything from Hermione’s clever bluebell charm to Diffendo to cut through the fog. The Four-Points charm failed to tell them which direction was north, and though Harry still felt that they were close, they couldn’t walk blindly into a trap.

Hermione, who was frustrated by the ineffectiveness of her wand, turned to Ron sarcastically, “I don’t know, Ron, I guess we’ll have to stay here until something happens, won’t we? I mean, unless you know something Harry and I don’t, and if that’s the case, why don’t you just deliver us from this mess right now?”

Ron, Harry could tell from his outline in the fog, was about to get defensive, so he jumped in. “Why don’t we just wait the fog out? The worst that could happen is that we have to wait the night. We probably should have stopped before nightfall anyway.” He waited for some disagreement with what he said, and hearing none, continued. “Let’s just sit down around this tree until we think of something else, or until the fog clears, whichever comes first.”

They sat around the tree, each one facing a different direction. They ate from the provisions they had brought in their rucksacks in silence, listening to the white around them. When they had finished, they put everything back and settled in for a long wait. Ron was rustling to the right of Hermione and throwing things away into the nothingness.

“Ron, what are you throwing? Do you have to make so much noise?” Hermione asked.

“Acorns. We must be under an oak tree, I guess. And, yes, I do have to make so much noise. Do you actually think that something could find us in this fog?”

“Well, they won’t have much trouble finding us if they can hear the racket you’re making Ron,” Hermione replied derisively.

Harry sighed. “So, this is an oak tree, then?” he asked, trying to draw attention away from the brewing argument.

Hermione and Ron snapped their heads to Harry, having almost forgotten he was there. Hermione cleared her throat. “Yeah, it is.”

Again, the three settled into a thick silence, broken occasionally by the lonesome hoot of an owl. After what felt like hours, Harry heard Hermione get up and stretch.

“Hermione?” Harry said.

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere, Harry, if that’s what you’re worried about. I just need to stand up for a bit. The ground is kind of cold.”

Harry saw the fog swirl around as Hermione stepped over his legs and continued to circle the tree, her hand upon the trunk. She shuffled into Ron and stepped over him. He had fallen asleep not long before. She did this about two more times and then returned to her original spot.

“Yes, this is an oak tree, Ron was right. The branches are a little higher than I expected, but I think this is a pretty big tree. You know, some of the oak trees in continental Europe are over one-thousand years old.” Hermione shifted and leaves crinkled under her. “I think this one has a vine wrapped around it.” She reached over and took Harry’s cold hand in her warm one and placed it upon what felt like a leafy rope.

“I thought it was kind of odd, but I’ve not been to this part of the country in a while, and I imagine that we’re in sort of a grove of oaks. It’s not uncommon in this part of the country. This one, I suspect, is quercus robur, the English Oak, or quercus petraea. They look pretty similar, so it doesn’t really matter.”

Hermione was silent for a moment, and then continued. “I’m sorry, Harry, I’m just going on about nothing. I think Ron’s got the right idea of things. If you want to get some sleep, I’ll keep watch out, and then I’ll wake Ron in a few hours.”

Harry shook his head. “No, really, I didn’t mind. It’s better than listening to nothing. I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to, anyhow. We’re too close. I can feel something in these woods, but… well, we can’t do anything until the fog clears, and I won’t go anywhere until our wands start working again, so we’ll wait until morning,” he paused, thinking. “There must be strong magic here, if our wands won’t work with the fog. We’re in the right place.” He looked in her direction and scooted closer. “I’m just glad I’m not here by myself. I don’t know why you and Ron stick with me, but I’m glad you do.” He paused, thinking. “So, what else about these trees? There’s got to be more to the story about them, especially if I can feel Riddle, like he’s right around the bend, or something. I need to know everything I can—we do, if we’re going to find another Horcrux.” He nudged her shoulder. “So, ramble on, if you must,” he finished with a laugh.

Hermione sighed and moved closer to whisper, their shoulders now nearly touching. “Well, oak furniture, for example, is valued for its sturdiness, and its beauty, of course. And, they make some of the strongest doors in the world. When my parents had their house built years ago, my dad insisted on oak doors.” She paused. “Oak is a wand tree, too. Isn’t Hagrid’s wand made of oak?”

Harry laughed. “I have no idea, Hermione.”

“I think it is. Anyway, so, it’s a wand wood and it’s incredibly strong. It’s like the stand-alone of trees, really. Kind of like you,” she said, quietly.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, truly listening by this time.

“Well,” Hermione cleared her throat, “you’ve always stood alone, distinguished—like the oak tree.” She shook her head and Harry felt her hair against his sleeve. “This is stupid. I’m going to shut-up before I make a jerk out of myself.”

“Hermione, it’s not stupid.”

“Harry—,” she began.

“No, it’s not. So, you think I’m like a tree…” he started.

“Well, when you put it like that, it does sound ridiculous,” Hermione laughed, pushing his shoulder.

“Well,” Harry teased, matching the tone of her voice, “make it sound less ridiculous. I’m very curious now.” Harry could feel the burn of her blush through the fog.

“Okay, some people stand alone. Like you. And, some, well… some are like vines, like the one clinging to this tree. People cling to you, too. For example, Crabbe and Goyle are the vines to Malfoy’s tree,” she finished hurriedly.

“So, Malfoy and I are the same, then?” Harry teased.

“Oh! No! I didn’t mean it like that, Harry! Malfoy’s like a cedar, or something that only grows where people don’t want it. I just meant that you’re strong, that you can stand alone. You do. People respect and look to you for guidance, look at the D.A. You don’t need support to stand alone.” Hermione took a deep breath. “Merlin, this is ridiculous,” she whispered. “Vines cling to other things for support. They can’t stand alone. In Herbology, it’s called commensalism. That is, where the host isn’t done any harm, but the other, in the relationship benefits.” She paused. “That’s it. I really am going to stop now. I swear I ate something bad, I never talk like this.”

“No, no, really it’s fine, Hermione. Really,” Harry said assuringly. There was a reflective silence between the soft punctuation of Ron’s snores.

“Not to change the subject, Hermione, but—,” Harry began.

“No, it’s okay,” Hermione said.

“If oak trees are strong, and last a long time, do you think it’s possible that one of the trees is a Horcrux? That we could be looking for a tree—we could be sitting against a chunk of Voldemort’s soul as we speak?”

Hermione nodded. “It’s completely possible, Harry. Though using a living thing would be unstable, like Dumbledore said, I can see how ideal an oak tree would be. It’s strong, and it will last for a very long time. In fact, lots of tree groves share a root system, so the chances of the Horcrux lasting longer than a snake, for example, are high,” Hermione said, impressed with Harry’s thinking.

“So, then, when the morning comes, we look for some sign that he was here,” Harry suggested.

“That’s as good a plan as any,” agreed Hermione. “Well, I, for one, am glad that something came out of all that rubbish about trees,” she sighed. “Why don’t you wake me up in a few hours so you can get some sleep?”

“Sure,” Harry said, already thinking about what the morrow would bring.

“Good night, Harry.” Hermione leaned up and kissed him on the cheek and then rested her head against the tree trunk.

“’Night,” he murmured.

The night crept in around them and after a while, Hermione’s head ended up on his shoulder, and he could smell the earth and her hair and the leaves. He fingered a root near the base of the tree and found a vine that crept up the trunk. An owl hooted in the near distance, and the forest slumbered on in relative peace. Harry, as he discovered was the norm lately, had a lot of time to think about just about everything. How he missed Ginny; how futile his last journey with Dumbledore was; how absolutely terrifying his life should seem now—and how it was that he was on an adrenaline-pumped scavenger hunt, and it wasn’t terrifying at all. Maybe Hermione had a point.

‘Some people stand alone. Like you. And, some, well… some are like vines, like the one clinging to this tree. People cling to you, too.’

As he rested his head on top of Hermione’s, he thought about what it meant to stand alone. What she said sounded nice, but he hadn’t really stood alone at all. Ever since he’d gotten to Hogwarts, he’d had Ron and Hermione by his side. In fourth year, he didn’t do one task on his own, and Hermione started the D.A.—from concept to implementation, she did it. When he thought about it, he still couldn’t believe that she placed her very education in his hands. It boggled his mind to think about it. It wasn’t that he was standing alone, but it was trust like hers that held him up. It was easy to lead when people believed in you. Even now, Hermione and Ron had given up Hogwarts to follow him on a wild-goose chase. If anyone was standing alone, it would be those two. Hermione used to have such high hopes for her N.E.W.T.s, and she hadn’t mentioned them once. If they were at school now, she’d be Head Girl, and she’d be the reigning force in the library, doing research for Potions and Transfiguration. Ron would be working hard at Quidditch, and trying to keep his marks together for the Auror Academy.

If Harry were at Hogwarts, perhaps he’d be trying to find time for Quidditch, his studies, and Ginny. Somehow, he’d rather be here, doing what he was doing, with Ron and Hermione, sitting around this tree, and though not doing anything at the moment, they were out there, doing it. That’s what he’d wanted since Voldemort regained a body.

That last thought ran though his mind again. What he wanted. Not what Ron wanted, not what Hermione wanted. What he wanted. He still couldn’t believe that Hermione gave up her N.E.W.T.s to traipse around the Kingdom with him. They hadn’t been finished with their O.W.L.s five minutes, and she was already thinking about her N.E.W.T.s, and trying to get Ron and Harry worked up about them too.

No, no matter what Hermione might be thinking about her being a vine, she was a tree all her own. She stood up for what was right, even when it was hard, and other people looked up to her. Dobby admired her. Luna looked up to her, Ginny looked up to her.

At the thought of Ginny, he wondered what kind of person she would be, if people were, in fact, either trees or vines. She would be a tree, of course, like him. She was strong-willed, like in Quidditch, and people always noticed her. Even her hair made her stand out among everyone else. She’d taken a stand against Tom Riddle and lived to tell the tale.

But, as Harry sat and reflected upon that part of his life, he remembered how Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had been there when she returned from the Chamber of Secrets. Ginny had always had a family to cling to, someone to miss her if she’d left, someone to notice if she wasn’t there. She fed off of attention—one thing he liked about Ginny was that she was the life of the party and he could forget what was troubling him. She was a strong vine, but she was still a vine.

An owl returned from its night hunt and settled in a tree branch far above them. Hermione, by this time, had turned her body into his. The night was cold and she shivered in her sleep. Harry put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer. There was no reason why she had to be cold. They should have stopped for the night before they got into this mess.

Harry chuckled at the thought of Hermione swinging the sledge hammer and destroying the Horcrux. He knew she didn’t expect anything to happen, and really, it was surprising that she did it at all. She wasn’t an abrupt person, but she had a few surprises up her sleeve. She took it completely upon herself to figure out where the next Horcrux was, and even though she wouldn’t admit it, she probably had the oak tree figured out before he said it. She was strong, too, but even trees are allowed to sway in the wind.

Even as she clung to him in the fog, Harry became more convinced that it wasn’t just him that people clung to, it was Hermione, too. Hermione, more often than not, knew the answer before he asked the question. She helped him solve his problems, and she was a steady partner in the eye of danger. At the Department of Mysteries, she took control of the situation and stared evil down, resulting, to his great horror, in the near loss of her life. He subconsciously held her tighter as he remembered that night, angry at the thought of losing his friends. Why couldn’t they have listened—like Ginny did?

At that moment, it hit him. It wasn’t about clinging, or listening, or being a vine or tree—nice analogy though it was. It was about doing the right thing, and sticking to your principles. Hermione did what she wanted, and she always had, she always would. No matter how much Harry had tried to keep her away—at the Department of Mysteries, she insisted that he not go alone. Time and time again, she stayed by his side, and somehow, he understood she would always be there. A decision like that could very well cost her her life. It was a risk she was willing to take—the proof of which was currently snug in his arms at the moment. She wasn’t about to break away from him—whereas others had chosen the other path.

The cold realization of reality settled in his bones. If you were as safe at Hogwarts as you were anywhere else—as was the case these days—then why was it Hermione who was by his side? Why wasn’t it Ginny who was comforting him?—because he admitted to himself that it was nice not to be alone in this strange forest. Why hadn’t Ginny tried to even see how he was doing? He knew he told her they had to call it off, but then, why hadn’t she even tried? His mum was right by his dad’s side when they were in the Order. He didn’t have her sitting at home—and somehow, Harry doubted that she would have at all.

Hermione mumbled in her sleep, bringing Harry back to the present. The vine that wrapped around the tree was poking him in the back, so he shifted a bit to the side, Hermione’s hair tickling his cheek. She mumbled again, “Hurrmph,” and settled back into sleep. He wasn’t going to wake her up; she’d seemed a little drained since destroying that Horcrux. If Ron woke up and wanted to take watch, he’d let him, but right now, she was going to get the rest she deserved.

Fear stole over him again as he thought of Dolohov striking Hermione down with that curse at the Department of Mysteries. The grip of panic that stole over him that night outshined any feeling he once held in letting Ginny go. He buried his nose in Hermione’s hair, deeply inhaling the spicy scent of cinnamon that had become as familiar to him as the smell of a Quidditch pitch. Warmth spread over his skin as he finally became conscious of the fact that he’d loved Hermione for a long time. Here she was, by his side, after everything that should have driven her far away. She’d given up her family, her dreams and a steady future to follow where he led. She gave selflessly and didn’t ask for anything in return—he didn’t even have to ask. Ron, too, gave selflessly, but for him, it was as much the adventure and getting out of school as it was standing by him. He wouldn’t have to question that Ron would be there, but logic would say that Hermione should have been on the high road ages ago.

He wanted to shake her awake to tell her all that he felt, and smirked as he thought of her groggy response: “Is that all, Harry? I love you, too.” After he explained what he meant, however, he wondered what she’d say. A part of him—a small part—believed that perhaps she loved him, too, even if she didn’t know it yet. If he thought about it, everything she did concerning him assured that notion… If that was possible, perhaps he stood a chance. A much larger part of him, on the other hand, knew that the possibility of this was slim. Perhaps they were good friends and that was all. For right now, it was enough that he knew; right now, he’d appreciate it for what it was.

There is a time and season for everything, Harry had heard once, and so he’d take his time with this. He’d find the right moment to tell Hermione what he should have known and realized years ago—that she’d be there, that she knew him for who he was, not what he was. Among other things, this meant the world.

He thought of how she said he’d always stood alone, and somehow, he didn’t agree. She’d always stood with him—the two of them together, as connected as a grove of trees. Harry held her as the sun filtered through the fog early that morning, savoring the private moments he had until she could be his.