More

Bingblot

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 31/01/2006
Last Updated: 22/02/2006
Status: completed

This was Hermione and he was her best friend—and she needed comfort so he would comfort her...

Chapters

1. More

2. More Than His Girlfriend

1. More

Disclaimer: HP and everything else you recognize still belongs to JKR (however little she might deserve it.)

Author’s Note: First posted at the fanfict00bs LJ community.

Fluff- for Anne, because she needs it.

More

“It’s Charlie.”

Two words were all it took to completely shatter the relative peace of their night. They had just been talking, idly, in the house on Grimmauld Place which they were using as their base of operations since there was really no safer house in the wizarding world. And then there had been a knock on the door—which had startled them enough since only a very few people knew they were there—and Harry had opened the door to see Remus and Tonks.

They stepped inside, quickly, glancing back at the empty square to see if there were any loiterers, and didn’t even say hello before simply blurting out the news. Just those two words. “It’s Charlie.”

Harry swallowed hard, taking in the grim expressions on Remus’ and Tonks’ faces. Somehow every nightmare he’d ever had seemed to flash through his mind; he remembered seeing Mrs. Weasley’s boggart the summer before 5th year—in this very house, he thought numbly.

Ron took a step back, his skin suddenly gray. “Is- is he-” he choked out but then stopped, not able to say the word.

Remus hurriedly continued. “He’s alive!” he assured Ron. “He was just hurt; there was a little skirmish earlier. He’s in St. Mungo’s now. We’re here to take you to him. Your family’s waiting.”

Ron swallowed and then stepped forward. “Ok,” was all he said.

Remus looked to Harry and Hermione, standing as still as if they’d been turned to stone, almost identical expressions of shock, dismay, grief and sympathy on their faces. “Harry, you can’t come. It- it’s not safe. You- Voldemort-” Remus stopped, looking uncertain.

Harry said what he knew Remus had been about to stay, quietly. “I’d draw Voldemort’s attention to St. Mungo’s and it’d be dangerous for everyone.”

A sad expression crossed Remus’ face and he nodded.

“I understand.” Harry’s voice was almost toneless and for a moment, he sounded very old.

Tonks spoke up now. “Hermione- you can come, if you want to.”

Harry’s—and everyone’s—gaze turned to look at Hermione.

Hermione looked from Ron’s stricken expression to the equally stricken one on Harry’s face—and then stepped closer to Harry, slipping her hand into his. “No,” she said, unnecessarily. Her voice faltered slightly but she continued bravely. “No, I- I’ll stay with Harry. He- he shouldn’t be alone.”

Remus nodded once, a flicker of—approval?—flitting over his expression, before he turns to Ron. “Do you have anything you want to bring with you?”

Ron shook his head slowly as he turned to look at Harry. “I-” he began, wanting to say—something—but Harry interrupted him before he could.

“It’s ok. Just- just go be with your family. And tell them—” he swallowed and then continued, “tell them I’m sorry.”

For a moment, Ron’s expression crumpled to show the extent of the fear he was feeling.

Hermione stepped forward to hug him. “I- I’m sure Charlie will be fine,” she tried to assure him although the slight waver she couldn’t keep out of her voice kept her words from being as comforting as she wanted them to be.

“Yeah,” Ron managed to choke out. “I- I’ll see you,” he said to both of them and then turned to Remus and Tonks. “Let’s go.”

~*~*~

“Harry?”

Harry awoke with a start, automatically grabbing his wand as he sat up.

Hermione started back, flinching in spite of herself at this proof of just how much Harry had changed. He’d never been one to wake up quickly (he’d told her once that he wasn’t a morning person) but nowadays, the slightest sound woke him and he was able to switch from sleep to instant alertness in the blink of an eye. She could only be glad that he was, at least, able to get some sleep these days. He hadn’t slept much when they first started this search for the horcruxes, always nervous about a possible night attack, until finally, she’d managed to set up protective wards around Grimmauld Place which would alert them if ever anything with a hostile intention approached the house. It had taken some weeks of research and testing but she had managed to make the ward so it was resistant to being dismantled from outside the house. Only then had Harry felt safe enough to sleep at nights without staying up to keep watch.

“Hermione? What is it?” Harry’s voice was concerned. She’d never woken him up at night before and there had been something—a slight quiver, a hint of tears—in her voice when she said his name that instantly had him worried.

“I’m sorry for waking you up,” Hermione apologized softly.

“It’s okay,” he assured her hurriedly. “What is it?”

“I- I just couldn’t sleep. Do you mind if I stay in here with you? I- I don’t feel like being alone right now.”

“Of course.” Quickly, Harry scooted over on his bed, pulling back his blankets to let Hermione in.

He lay on his back stiffly, having moved over as far as he could until his side was pressed to the wall and no part of him was touching Hermione. This was Hermione, his best friend, he told himself repeatedly. He didn’t—he couldn’t—think about her as anything else. She only wanted some comfort and he was not—could not—should not—take advantage of it. This was Hermione and he didn’t care that way about her.

But not all his increasingly frantic admonitions could make him unaware of the warmth from her body, the weight of her lying beside him, the sound of her breathing—just the knowledge that she was there.

And then all other thoughts vanished as he heard her breath hitch in a stifled sob. “Hermione! What is it?” He paused. “Are- are you worrying about Charlie, about Ron?” he ventured.

“N-no,” she answered with another stifled sob. “And yes, sort of.”

At any other time, he might have laughed and teased her but not now. She sounded so—vulnerable—and it tore at him.

He shifted closer to her, ignoring the part of his mind that was protesting. This was Hermione and he was her best friend—and she needed comfort so he would comfort her.

She continued with another hitched breath. “I- I started thinking about my- my parents.”

“Oh,” he said quietly, understanding dawning on him. Of course…

Hermione’s parents had been put under Order protection months ago, for fear of their being made targets by Voldemort in an effort to get at Harry. Hermione had had to see them and explain as much as she could about how they would be relocated to another community where they’d live under assumed names, under the constant surveillance of the Order, for their own safety. She had also had to tell them that for safety reasons, she would not be able to either send or receive owls directly from them. Any owls would need to go through the Order and could not be sent any more than once every couple months or so.

So they had gone into hiding and Hermione had heard from them only twice since then.

But what was worse was that the very night after the Grangers had left their home, it had been burned to the ground. A harsh warning and a threat that had filled Harry with the cold certainty that everyone he knew was in danger.

The Order had placed a watch on the Dursleys’ house in Privet Drive as well—although the Dursleys remained unaware of this as Harry knew all too well how they would react to the knowledge.

He turned onto his side to face Hermione, putting a tentative arm over her. “They’ll be okay, Hermione.”

Her breath hitched in her chest again. “I- I miss them, Harry. And I worry about them,” she admitted softly.

It was the first time she’d ever admitted as much. She tried not to talk about her parents too much and kept herself busy as much as possible with researching about the Founders in an attempt to guess what the other horcruxes might be, along with reading and rereading what little information on horcruxes she could find, as well as researching about Dark magic and other curses and hexes which might be able to help them.

Harry sometimes thought that Hermione was reading and studying more now than she would have been for her N.E.W.T’s. He thought it again now—and wondered, for the first time, somehow, what he would do without her…

She was studying and reading so much—until her eyes were sore and there were shadows under her eyes—for him. She was here and not at Hogwarts, not Head Girl or anything—because of him. She had helped him more than anyone else, had done so much, all for him. She had given up her parents for him…

He was suddenly filled with gratitude and affection and something else he’d never felt for Hermione—or anyone—before: tenderness.

He tightened his arm around her ever so slightly, shifting just a little bit closer to her, wondering if she would push him away or move away herself.

She didn’t.

Instead she shifted closer to him—so close he could feel her breath tickling his cheek.

He swallowed the obstruction that had suddenly arisen in his throat at her closeness and tried to speak. “I-I’m sorry,” he said, his voice just barely more than a croak. “I- I wish…” he trailed off but he knew she knew what he had been going to say. I wish I could do something to help. I wish I could promise they’d be okay.

“I know,” she said quietly.

Then, even though he couldn’t see her, he somehow knew that she was struggling not to cry anymore, trying to calm herself.

He knew her, knew how she hated to seem weak, almost as much as she hated not knowing the right answer to something. It was why she always hid in the times she cried. She wasn’t like most girls who cried in public—and, he sometimes suspected, cried in public deliberately in order to incite sympathy. Hermione didn’t do that; he’d only seen her cry twice in all the times he’d known her and the first of those times, when he and Ron had made up after the First Task in 4th year, she had run off to hide immediately. The other time was at Dumbledore’s funeral and that was it.

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met, you know that?” he found himself telling her softly.

He sensed rather than saw her slight smile. “I’m not that strong.”

“Yes, you are.” It was easier, somehow, to say out loud these things he’d only thought before, here in the dark when he knew she couldn’t see his face. “You are strong—and you make me stronger too. I- I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.”

“Really?” Her voice was quiet and filled with doubt and some wonder as well.

“Really.”

She didn’t say anything more and neither did he, but he felt oddly comfortable now. It seemed so—natural—somehow, to be lying next to Hermione in the dark like this. And it didn’t matter that he’d never been this close to Hermione before, never shared a bed with anyone before…

And somehow it only seemed natural to move his head slightly and brush his lips against hers—tentatively, the most fleeting touch of his lips to hers. He wasn’t even sure what made him do it, ignoring the tiny voice in his head warning him that this would change everything and might just make things very awkward between him and Hermione. He just knew he wanted to—suddenly, amazingly, given he’d never really thought about kissing Hermione before—and it seemed, inexplicably, like the right thing to do.

She didn’t move away from him or say anything and he sensed her staring at him and was just wondering if he could try to pretend it hadn’t happened when he felt her move and then he felt her lips touch his, lingering for just a moment—just long enough for him to realize this was a real kiss—and then it was over.

His heart had begun to race and he didn’t stop to think about what he was doing—that this was definitely going to change everything—as he kissed her for real, his arm tightening around her… Her lips softened and then parted as she kissed him back and he knew a flare of joy, and then he forgot everything else in the taste of her (who knew she would taste this good?), the feel of her, the warmth of her so close to him…

They kissed softly, gently, exploring each other’s mouths lingeringly.

When the kiss ended, they were both breathing faster. Harry was suddenly, uncomfortably aware that he was hard and straining against his boxers and pyjama bottoms.

“Hermione,” he breathed, “I- that was…” He trailed off, having no idea what to say.

“I know,” she said softly and quickly brushed her lips against his again.

She settled back beside him as he rolled over onto his back, putting a little more distance between their bodies.

There were a few more minutes of silence as Harry wondered what exactly had happened and what this would end up doing to their friendship and then she spoke up, sounding uncertain, “Should I leave?”

“No!” he reacted instinctively. “No, stay here,” he finished in a calmer tone, not even sure exactly why he was so sure he wanted her to stay but his reaction to her question had been too swift and too sure not to follow.

Again, he sensed rather than saw her slight smile, but she said nothing more.

He lay on his back staring blindly up at the ceiling wondering how it had happened that he had kissed Hermione and- and liked it so much… Wondering when she had become so important to him that just the thought of her crying or sad hurt him… This was Hermione, his best friend—and now, something more than just his best friend… He didn’t know what she was anymore—he just knew she was more.

He had no idea how long it was before he realized from the evenness of her breathing that she’d fallen asleep and, obeying a sudden impulse, picked up his wand and whispered “Lumos” quietly, not wanting to wake her up.

He studied her sleeping face in the light from the tip of his wand with an attention he didn’t think he’d ever given her face before, noting the smoothness of her skin, the shape of her eyebrows, her eyelashes, the curve of her cheek and her lips—she had very pretty lips, he noted, lips that made him want to kiss her. She was so pretty—how had he never noticed it before?

With a whispered “Nox,” he put his wand down and settled back beside her, wondering at the warmth he felt inside just from watching her sleep. He felt—peaceful, happy—in a way he couldn’t remember feeling in a long time. Not even—he realized suddenly—not even from those few weeks when he’d been with Ginny last year.

Ginny. He thought of her with a little pang of guilt. He tried to remember her expression at Dumbledore’s funeral, the grief and then that intense one when they’d broken up—tried to remember how he’d felt at seeing her—and then found, to his dismay and surprise, that he couldn’t, not really. He could only picture her vaguely, at best, and even the memories conjured up no particular feeling in him, more a vague feeling of warmth as if he were remembering something that had happened a very long time ago but had no effect on his life now.

And he suddenly realized, too, that today had been the first time he’d thought about Ginny in a very long time. He had thought about her often at first, seen her at Bill and Fleur’s wedding (though he’d avoided talking to her)—but then he and Ron and Hermione had begun their search for the horcruxes, for real, and he’d stopped thinking about her that much. He’d been too busy, too preoccupied with the horcruxes and Voldemort and everything else that he’d simple forgotten to think about her. Had forgotten to miss her.

Ginny was, he thought now, something from the past. A pleasant part of those months of his life last year, before Dumbledore had died and before he’d realized he needed to find and destroy the horcruxes alone, a time that he thought of now as having been the last attempt at a normal life. But it—and she—were just that, his past. And he’d moved on, had to move on, had to change.

And Ginny wasn’t a part of that. She wasn’t a part of his life now. He had changed too much, he realized—and suddenly he knew that even if all the horcruxes were destroyed and Voldemort defeated, he and Ginny couldn’t be together. It was over—for real, for good—in a way that even the break-up hadn’t achieved. And somehow, he didn’t even feel regret or a sense of loss at the realization. It just seemed—inevitable, almost.

Beside him, Hermione stirred slightly, her hand which had previously been holding the covers relaxing and then moving to rest on his shoulder.

He turned his head so that his lips brushed her fingers for a moment. Ginny was part of his past; Hermione was—now. She was—more… He needed her and he cared about her—and he liked kissing her, wanted to kiss her again…

He yawned, feeling sleep overtake him and his last thought before he succumbed was to wonder if she felt the same way about him…

~*~*~

Oh God, what have I done?

Hermione opened her eyes to the consciousness that not only was she lying in Harry’s bed but she was curled up next to him, her cheek resting against his shoulder, her hand on his chest.

Carefully, slowly, so she wouldn’t wake him, she lifted her hand and tried to shift away from him so she wasn’t pressed against his body.

Oh God…

She hadn’t meant—hadn’t thought—for this to happen when she came into Harry’s room last night. She had been lying in her bed trying to sleep but thoughts about Charlie and wondering how he was and how the Weasleys would be coping kept her awake—and then had led to thoughts about her own parents. She tried not to worry about them too much because she knew they were, after all, much safer than she herself was—but she wondered if they understood why she needed to be here, wondered how they were doing, adjusting to being given, overnight, completely different identities and lives. And then the tears had come.

And suddenly the darkness and the silence of her room seemed oppressive and so unspeakably lonely that she simply had to get out, had sought out the comfort of the one person she knew would understand.

She hadn’t planned—hadn’t thought—of anything beyond her simple need for some company and comfort. But even if she had, she would never have expected Harry to kiss her—it was Harry, after all, who still tended to look uncomfortable with any physical gestures of affection, Harry who thought of her as only his best friend…

And then he’d kissed her, the lightest, briefest brush of his lips against hers and for a moment, she’d almost convinced herself she’d imagined it—as, goodness knows, she’d imagined being kissed by Harry before. But no, her lips had been tingling and she could sense something of his own surprise at what he’d done and before she could think better of it, she’d kissed him.

Kissing Harry was—was so- sweet—felt so right, somehow, almost natural—as if she’d been kissing him for years now, or as if she’d been meant to kiss him…

But now she could only wonder, with panic beginning to creep in to the edges of her thoughts, what would happen to their friendship now? How would he react? Would he regret it? Maybe—maybe it had just been an instinctive, boyish response to having a girl in bed next to him and he hadn’t really meant anything by it.

In fact, the more she wondered, the more likely that seemed.

Of course he hadn’t really meant anything by it. But he was 17 and he’d found a girl lying next to him, no matter that he might never have thought of her as being a girl before—so what would be more natural than to take advantage of the moment?

But she wondered, with a pang, how on earth she was ever going to be able to hide her own feelings for him now that she knew what it felt like to be kissed by him, to kiss him…

She sighed softly and then, glancing over at him, saw that he was awake.

Calm, she had to be calm… Act as if the kiss had meant nothing…

She felt herself blush hotly at the intimacy of waking up next to him—even if nothing had really happened—and promptly ruined her resolution of acting nonchalant by blurting out, “What was that?” And what she meant was, Why did it happen?

He blinked and then she was absolutely astounded to see a sudden gleam of amusement in his eyes and the slightest of smiles on his lips. “I think it’s called kissing.”

She smiled involuntarily, responding automatically to his humor. “You know what I meant. Why?” She paused and then added, a note of uncertainty creeping into her voice, “We’re friends.”

“And friends don’t kiss each other like that,” he finished the thought for her.

She blushed again and nodded, averting her eyes, too self-conscious and uncomfortable to look at him anymore.

Slowly, he moved one hand to touch her chin, gently forcing her to look at him again. Uncertainty and nervousness were clear to be seen and heard in his eyes and his voice as he said, “I- I think I—like you as more than just a friend. I- is that okay?”

She smiled, seeing the relief in his expression, and shifting closer to him once again, kissed him lingeringly. “I think,” she whispered against his lips, after a long moment, “that’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He smiled and kissed her again, his fingers tangling themselves in her hair.

More than best friends… He didn’t know exactly what that meant or how their relationship would change—but at that particular moment, it didn’t matter.

More than best friends—and for right now, that was enough.

2. More Than His Girlfriend

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: Finally finished, the 2nd and last part of this little story.

More Than His Girlfriend

The next two days were the happiest of Harry’s life—barring the twinge of guilt he felt at thinking it when he knew Ron was probably having a bad time of it, worrying over Charlie’s wounds.

And yet—and yet—they were the happiest days… He was happy…

Somehow. The threat of Voldemort, the hunt for the horcruxes, was still a shadow in the future but those two days felt like a moment out of time, when nothing outside of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, no one outside of the two of them, really mattered… And sometimes he found himself wishing it could always be like this, just him and Hermione.

He realized, oddly, that somehow they hadn’t really spent any extended amounts of time together since that time in 4th year when he and Ron hadn’t been talking. But they’d been different then—he’d been different then, hadn’t appreciated her for all that she was…

Now he did—and he found he loved to be with her.

Being with her—relaxed him… He felt comfortable with her, at home—whether they were talking or not.

And Merlin knew he had discovered he also loved to kiss her and touch her. Kissing her was—wonderful. Touching her was—was—better. He had nearly died of nervousness when he’d first slipped his hand under her shirt to touch the bare skin of her back, half-expecting she’d hex him into the next century. She hadn’t. She’d only deepened their kiss and he’d continued caressing her skin, though he’d limited it, at first, to her back. Her skin was so smooth, so soft, so warm, so—perfect… And he’d realized that she made the most delightful little sounds when he touched her in certain ways, little gasps of breath, soft moans… Sounds that encouraged him to be bolder in his explorations, his caresses… Oh yes, he loved kissing Hermione, touching Hermione.

He shifted, realizing he was uncomfortably hot and half-aroused already just from thinking about touching Hermione.

Good lord, I’m feeling horny because of Hermione. Just thinking about her can make me horny.

It still surprised him that this was Hermione, his best friend—and something more than that, who he was thinking of in this way.

On second thought, he had better not think about that.

But it wasn’t just the snogging.

It was more than that.

They talked—about everything, it seemed. They talked about the horcruxes, about Voldemort, about how Charlie might be doing, about how the Weasleys would be handling it, about house elf rights, about Sirius and about Dumbledore…

He finally told her, in detail, as he hadn’t told anyone before, about all that had happened in the cave that horrible night. Told her about having to force Dumbledore to drink that potion and watch Dumbledore in agony…

And she hadn’t said anything but had simply hugged him, hard—and he had hugged her back and somehow felt comforted by her very nearness.

They talked about Ginny.

“Do- do you miss her?” Hermione had asked, rather uncertainly.

He had looked at her but before he could answer, she had hurried on to assure him, “It’s okay if you do, you know. I know you—care about her. It’s okay, I understand.”

He had stopped her babbling by kissing her quickly. She had stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise, and he’d told her, quietly, “I don’t miss her.”

He sighed and looked away, thinking about all that he’d realized in the past day. “I- I’ve kind of forgotten to think about her, honestly. She- she’s part of the past, part of the time before—but she’s not part of—now.” He looked back at her, meeting her eyes. “I’ve realized, too, that I don’t need her—I don’t need her for me to be happy; I don’t need her to help me; I don’t need her… But, Hermione,” he’d said, “I do need you.”

“Oh Harry…” She had kissed him—and then they didn’t say anything more for a while…

He glanced over at Hermione, who was sitting curled up by the fireplace with a heavy book in her lap.

The firelight flickered over her face and hair, throwing parts of it in shadow.

He was struck—as he always seemed to be when he looked at her now—by how pretty she was—and amazed that he hadn’t really noticed it before. He’d thought she was pretty at the Yule Ball—but then after that night, she had just gone back to being Hermione and he’d forgotten, although he’d never thought she was ugly—but not-ugly was not the same as being pretty. She was Hermione, his best friend, and he never really thought about her looks one way or the other. But now, seeing her for real, even with her hair as bushy as it usually was, he knew she was pretty—very pretty—and not because of Sleakeasy’s or make-up or dress robes but just her…

“Hermione,” he spoke up suddenly, “what happened between you and Ron?”

He had wanted to ask her before now but never quite felt comfortable about it until this moment when it simply slipped from his mouth.

He knew something had happened between Hermione and Ron—after all that had happened last year at Hogwarts. He didn’t think Hermione and Ron had ever really gotten together though—although he hadn’t really thought about it what with his preoccupation at the beginning of the summer with the horcruxes. Until one day just a little before Hermione’s birthday, he’d realized that Ron and Hermione were just friends now. They bickered still—as always—but there was nothing else, no tension, no extra feelings beyond those of simple friendship. It had made things much more comfortable among the Trio and though he’d wondered, he’d never had the nerve to ask. Until now.

Hermione looked up from her book, pushing it off her lap. “You mean, after last year?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I- I always knew Ron fancied you, at least since our 4th year. What happened?”

Hermione blushed.

(She really was adorable when she blushed—how had he never realized that before either?)

“Oh, Harry, I- I was such an idiot!”

He blinked. “You’re never an idiot, Hermione.”

She smiled slightly but shook her head. “No, I was. I- I know you must have thought I’d gone mental last year.” He shook his head and opened his mouth to deny it but she continued on before he could. “I think I was mental last year. It- it was just I’d always known Ron rather fancied me—and while I didn’t really think I fancied him, I kind of liked knowing that he fancied me.” She looked away, blushing again, as she admitted, “It made me feel—I don’t know—pretty, more like- like a normal girl.”

He frowned slightly. “But you are pretty—and not being a ‘normal’ girl isn’t bad; it just means you’re-” he made an awkward gesture with one hand, “you know, better than that.”

She smiled again, scooting closer to sit next to him.

“But then when Ron and Lavender started snogging—I felt—I felt like Ron had betrayed me or something, somehow. And I’d always sort of thought that if I ever did fancy Ron, he’d always be there and- and I guess I liked that. And then, well, he wasn’t there for me—and I- well, you know, I started acting mental.”

“No, you weren’t. You were just jealous.”

“That’s just it; I don’t know if I really was jealous or not. I just knew I was angry at Ron for snogging Lavender when I’d always known he sort of fancied me and I- I didn’t like losing to Lavender.” She bent her head so her hair fell down around her face, hiding it from view. “I- I was an idiot.”

“And then—well, it really started at Dumbledore’s funeral. He was so sweet then and I started to think maybe I really did fancy Ron and maybe we really should be together. But it- it just never really felt right. It was just really awkward being with him, somehow. I- I never felt like I could really be myself; I was always having to think about what I said because I didn’t want to fight and I could tell he was being just as careful—and it was awful. It wasn’t even like we were really best friends anymore—there was just this weird—something—between us but we weren’t comfortable with it; we weren’t happy with it—and we both knew it. And I finally told him that one day—and he was relieved, when I’d been so nervous that I might hurt his feelings. We laughed about it then and realized how much more comfortable it was just admitting we were friends but nothing more.”

“Then- then you don’t think he’ll mind we’re—you know…” He trailed off awkwardly, as it was his turn to blush this time.

What were they? Were they—together? Was that what this really was? The kissing, the touching—that certainly made it seem like they were together. But could he call Hermione his—his girlfriend?

He wrinkled his nose involuntarily at the thought. No. Somehow, it- it just didn’t seem right to think of Hermione as his girlfriend—Hermione was just—Hermione. Girlfriend seemed so—he didn’t know—not enough… Admittedly his only experience with a girlfriend was with Ginny—and while the snogging and touching part was the same, that was it. (And he could swear that it was—better—to kiss Hermione, to touch Hermione, than it had ever been to kiss Ginny or touch her in the very limited touching he’d done.) But it wasn’t just the snogging and the touching with Hermione—it was more—it was how he could talk to her, about everything; it was how he cared about her; it was how he needed her to help him, just needed her with him; it was how he loved to see her smile…

He had never felt any of that with Ginny.

He didn’t know what to call this new thing with Hermione. He didn’t want to call her his girlfriend; she was more than that. She was just—Hermione. His Hermione, he amended mentally, in a category of her own.

“No, I don’t think he’ll mind.”

And then as if her words had conjured Ron up, there was a knock on the front door.

Harry started up to open the door, hesitated, glanced back at Hermione, seeming to think about something, and then, he blinked and went out to the front hallway to open the door.

Ron had been accompanied by Remus who greeted Harry briefly but then had to leave again, while Ron stepped inside the kitchen, where Hermione was waiting.

“Is Charlie okay?” was the first thing Harry asked when he walked into the kitchen.

Ron had sat down in one of the chairs around the table, looking tired. Hermione watched him in silent concern.

“Yeah, he’s going to be fine, the Healers said.” He sighed. “It was just—bad, for a while at first—but then he woke up and the Healers said he’ll be okay.”

“How are your parents doing?” Hermione asked quietly.

“Dad’s fine, always sounding hopeful and telling us not to worry. He had to keep going to work, you know, but he spent the rest of the time at St. Mungo’s with the rest of us. Mum- well- you know, Mum. She couldn’t fuss over Charlie since the Healers wouldn’t let her, so she fussed over everyone else even more.” He paused and grinned teasingly at Harry. “Ginny says hi. She asked about how you were, what we’ve been doing, at least ten times. Got right annoying. She was acting nearly as bad as that summer after first year when she wouldn’t stop talking about you.”

Hermione glanced involuntarily at Harry to see how he reacted to Ginny’s name.

Harry looked uncomfortable but his eyes sought hers as well and she suddenly understood that what Harry had said about Ginny being his past and nothing more was really true. He had meant it. She could see it in his eyes; he didn’t miss Ginny, didn’t want to be with Ginny.

She smiled softly at him and, without conscious thought, her hand, of its own volition, reached for his. His hand moved as well, grasped hers.

“Er- Ron- something happened while you were gone…” Harry began awkwardly and then trailed off, not sure what to say or how to explain what had changed between him and Hermione. It had just—happened… And it had felt right, somehow, felt—good…

The teasing grin faded from Ron’s face as his gaze focused on their joined hands.

Ron stared at first him and then at Hermione, his expression a mixture of shock, dismay and—and something else that Harry couldn’t quite decipher.

“You- you and Hermione- you’re together? She- she’s your- your girlfriend?” Ron stammered, looking as if he felt like he’d suddenly stumbled into some sort of alternate universe and needed some time to adjust his thinking.

Hermione colored, glanced rather shyly at Harry and then looked back at Ron, an uncertain expression crossing her face.

Harry hesitated, glanced at Hermione, remembering the past two days—and then began, “No- uh- not my girlfriend…”

Beside him, Hermione sucked in her breath softly, and he glanced at her, seeing her suddenly stricken face.

And before he could think, before he even knew what he was going to say, he found himself blurting out, “I love her.”

Wait. What? He stilled. What did I just say? I love her? I do? I- what?

“You- what?” Ron’s voice rose an octave or so on the last word in shock.

A thick silence fell, until it became so quiet he thought that Ron and Hermione could probably hear his heart pounding in his chest.

Hermione stared.

Ron stared.

He ignored Ron for the moment to look at Hermione.

“You- you love me?” she asked softly, incredulously.

He stepped closer to her, one hand lifting to touch her cheek briefly. “I- uh- yeah, I do.” And then his thoughts caught up with his mouth and he realized it was true. He did love Hermione; that was what was different about being with Hermione and being with Ginny. He hadn’t loved Ginny.

He held his breath for a moment, wondering what she’d say, if he’d blurted it out too soon, if she cared about him too…

And then she smiled—a smile so bright that, later it occurred to him to be thankful that he hadn’t gone blind—before she threw her arms around him and hugged him.

He closed his arms around her, partly from instinct but mostly because he wanted to. He liked holding Hermione—and Merlin knew, he very much liked feeling her body pressed against his.

Her lips brushed his cheek and she whispered into his ear, “I love you too.”

The whispered words—and the shock of hearing them—made him draw back when probably nothing else in the world would have. “You do?”

She nodded and then leaning in again, whispered in his ear, “Why else would I want to kiss you and touch you?”

His body reacted—whether it was from her words and the memories they evoked or from the warmth of her breath in his ear—he didn’t know and hardly cared.

He moved his head, bringing his lips closer to his, three inches separating them, two inches, one inch…

And then—“No.”

Sod it.

He and Hermione separated as if they’d been electrocuted, Harry feeling himself color at realizing how completely he’d forgotten Ron’s presence.

“Ron, I- I’m sorry--” he began but Ron interrupted before he could.

“You and Hermione together…” He paused and Harry held his breath, hoping Ron wouldn’t be angry or hurt or jealous or anything. Harry didn’t want that, had never wanted that.

“Okay, that’s fine—but I am not going to stick around to watch you two snog. If you’re going to snog, do it somewhere not-here, somewhere I’m not.” Ron shook his head, trying to look sober but his mouth curved into a grin in spite of himself at the expressions of mingled surprise and embarrassment on Harry’s and Hermione’s faces. “Fellow can only put up with so much, you know, and watching your best friends snog is definitely too much.”

“Oh Ron!” Hermione looked about ready to hug Ron too and Ron hastily stepped back, looking rather disturbed.

“No, er, hug Harry if you must hug one of us.” Ron paused, and then added with a grin, “Harry would probably enjoy it a lot more than I would.”

They all laughed and knew that things were going to be okay in spite of the change in Harry and Hermione’s relationship.

~*~

Ron lay in bed trying very hard not to think about the fact that Harry was in Hermione’s room right now, trying not to wonder about what they might be doing.

Harry had gotten up again just minutes after he had gotten into his bed and left, muttering something about getting a glass of water.

Apparently Harry had decided to either wait until it rained so he could drink fresh rainwater or he had decided to drink enough water to float a ship—given that more than twenty minutes had passed.

So Harry had obviously gone to Hermione’s room.

Leaving Ron to not think about the idea that his best friends were snogging and very likely more than that just across the hall.

It wasn’t that he was jealous; he wasn’t. It was just—too strange to think that Harry and Hermione were together like that. He’d never really thought Harry might feel that way about Hermione.

He shifted, turning over onto his side to stare blindly at the wall, remembering the way their hands had reached for each other earlier.

His first reaction had been jealousy—not because he fancied Hermione but simply because he didn’t like knowing they had something like that when he didn’t. It had been an ugly feeling, an ugly thought, and he’d been glad that it had subsided in a moment, replaced by shame at even feeling it.

It had just seemed so sudden, so completely unexpected that he’d felt as if the floor were tilting beneath his feet—coming on the heels of Harry’s absolutely astounding (and uncharacteristic) confession of loving Hermione.

Loving Hermione? And for Harry to actually say so—out-loud and to him? If Harry had confessed to being secretly in love with Professor Trelawney, Ron would have been more surprised—but not by much.

But before he could even identify all the conflicting emotions inside him, he’d stared as Hermione threw her arms around Harry and Harry—for almost the first time in his memory—returned the hug in full measure.

Harry, who was still uncomfortable with physical gestures of affection and who had initiated such a gesture exactly once that Ron could remember, when he had kissed Ginny in the Common Room last year.

He hadn’t been able to hear whatever it was that Hermione whispered in Harry’s ear but he had been able to see Harry’s expression.

And he’d realized something at that moment. Harry wasn’t smiling as he looked at Hermione but he was happy; Ron could see it, suddenly realized that it was the subtle difference in Harry which he’d noticed when he’d first seen Harry today but which had slipped his mind afterwards.

Harry had been so tense, so preoccupied, and usually withdrawn because of his worries, in these past months that Ron had become rather used to it. Had become used to all the times when Harry snapped at them for something or retreated to one of the empty rooms and didn’t come out. Had become used to seeing Hermione watch Harry out of the corner of her eye, concern and worry and sympathy in her expression.

Harry was different now. He seemed—lighter was the only word Ron could think of to describe it. Less tense and more, well, himself, the Harry Ron remembered from before Dumbledore had died, before Sirius had died.

And it was because of Hermione.

He had known then that it didn’t matter if he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of Harry and Hermione together. What did matter was that, somehow, being with Hermione was good for Harry, was what he needed especially now when they lived their daily lives wondering how much more time they had.

But he was still not going to just stand there as Harry and Hermione snogged, having quite obviously forgotten his presence and probably his very existence as well. His best-friend-nobility had its limits—and watching them snog was way beyond it, so he’d interrupted—just in time, he thought, twitching at the very thought of having to see them snog.

He wasn’t comfortable with the idea of Harry and Hermione together, but he would become comfortable with it. Because he could see that Harry needed Hermione. He would become comfortable with it. And that was all there was to it.

~*~

Harry knocked softly on Hermione’s door, opening it when he heard Hermione say, “Come in.”

Hermione was sitting up in bed in her pyjamas, a thick book in her lap.

She blushed and instinctively pulled her blanket up to her neck when she saw him, even as she smiled at him.

He managed a slight, brief smile, shuffling his feet slightly out of uncertainty. It was amazing how awkward it felt to be in Hermione’s room in his pyjamas, never mind that they had spent the last two nights in his bed. “I- er- just wanted to talk to you.”

He moved to stand by her bed, looking and feeling uncomfortable as he hesitated about sitting down on it, before she closed the book and put it away and drew back the covers in a silent invitation.

He sat down beside her, putting a tentative arm around her, that tightened as she rested her head on his shoulder. This was- nice, he reflected, just sitting like this with Hermione. He liked that she leaned on him, liked the warmth and the weight of her against him…

“What did you want to talk about?” she asked softly after a minute.

He blinked. “What- oh- I- that is--” he hesitated and then blurted out, “Did you really mean it?”

“Mean what?”

He wished he had kept his mouth shut, suddenly feeling as if he’d been an idiot and not wanting to sound so- well, vulnerable. “When you said you loved me—did you mean it?”

He closed his mouth, opened it again, feeling like he should try to explain, if he could, his sudden doubts, but she answered before he could.

“Yes.” She shifted slightly so she could look at him, meeting his eyes directly. “I love you, Harry.”

His heart seemed to pause and then start beating again, faster than usual. “I- why?” he blurted out. “You shouldn’t. It isn’t safe—for you. It’s dangerous—and- and I can’t promise I’ll--”

She cut him off with her lips, kissing him lingeringly, her tongue tracing the outline of his lips before sliding inside his mouth to tease his tongue.

When she drew back, he could only blink at her, having forgotten whatever it was he’d been about to say.

“I love you, Harry,” she said again, emphasizing each word. “I wasn’t about to leave you before and I won’t now; I don’t care about the danger. And don’t even think that you won’t be around for long. You are not going to die; I won’t let you die.”

He could only stare at her, startled that she had actually put into words his hitherto-silent fear that he wouldn’t survive the final battle against Voldemort—and somehow oddly comforted by her very certainty. She wouldn’t let him die… And even if he knew in his rational mind, that her saying so didn’t actually guarantee anything and didn’t mean all that much, he couldn’t help but feel better.

She wouldn’t leave him; she loved him. Her unwavering loyalty warmed his heart more than anything he could think of. And even though he knew she was in danger and some small part of him could almost wish that she had admitted that it would be better that they just stay friends at least until Voldemort was gone—he couldn’t help but be glad that she hadn’t. She wouldn’t leave him…

Not like Ginny. The thought darted into his mind and he stiffened, suddenly remembering how- quickly- Ginny had agreed to break up. He’d been glad of it at the time because it spared him having to argue and explain himself—and it was only now that he stopped to think that maybe, just maybe, it would have been- nice- if she hadn’t been so quick to agree, if she had shown more that she cared enough about him not to care about the danger, to fight to stay with him.

Like Hermione would have…

He knew it too, that if it had been Hermione he had tried to break up at the end of last year, she wouldn’t have let him go. She would have fought and argued and flat-out refused to let him go into danger alone—and that meant something. Meant a lot.

He gazed at her, studying her as if he’d never seen her before, one hand lifting to touch her cheek.

“I love you,” was all he could say, the only way he could tell her just how much it meant to him that she cared so much, that she wouldn’t leave him.

She smiled and kissed him again.

His hands went to her waist, tugging her closer to him, as he deepened the kiss irresistibly. He hadn’t meant to; probably shouldn’t... But when she kissed him, he couldn’t help it; he had to kiss her back. The touch of her lips to his made any and all thoughts about anything besides the taste of her, the warmth of her, fly straight out of his mind.

She gave a small gasp as he slid his hands under her pyjama top, his fingers caressing the smooth skin of her back and inching slowly upwards.

Finally, one hand cupped her breast, simply resting there for a moment, loving the feel of her, the softness of her filling his hand…

She broke the kiss on a soft sound of pleasure, her lips wandering his face, along his jaw-line and up his cheek to suck on his ear and then dart her tongue into his ear.

He jerked and squirmed automatically away in surprise and she laughed softly, returning her attention to his ear.

Dear Merlin, his ear… His ear— when had his ear suddenly become so sensitive?

She was sucking lightly on his ear and he could swear he could feel it all the way down to his toes—and pooling around the growing hardness in his boxers.

He moved his head to bring her lips back to his, moving his hand in a way that made her moan in the back of her throat, as he’d known it would.

God, I really do love snogging Hermione…

He could feel himself losing any coherent thought other than those thoughts centered on her, the feel of her, the warmth of her, the smoothness of her skin and the delicious little sounds she made…

“Harry, wait,” she gasped, her hands pausing in their explorations of his chest to push ever so lightly.

He stopped, his hands dropping from her body, opening his eyes to stare at her.

She was flushed and breathing hard—beautiful, he thought. “I- I think we’d better stop.” She looked as reluctant as he felt as she continued, somewhat shakily, “We shouldn’t do- this- until, well, Ron’s had the chance to get more used to us, I think. You- you had better go back to your room.”

He closed his eyes, sighing, trying to will away the hardness in his boxers (it didn’t work) and wishing he could ignore the voice of his rational side in his head (the one that sounded much like Hermione) that said she was right.

He couldn’t spend the night with Hermione; he hadn’t meant to do much more than talk when he knocked on her door but she had kissed him and he had responded and it had just happened, becoming much more than just a snog…

“You’re right,” he finally managed to say, amazed at how normal his voice sounded.

“I—good night, Harry,” she said, kissing him again, very quickly.

“Good night.” It took an effort of will to get up and move away from her bed.

He looked back at her when he reached her door.

She smiled slightly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

And somehow, just those words allowed him to return her smile. “I know. Sleep well, Hermione.”

She smiled and he closed the door behind him, still smiling.

He would see her in the morning; she would still be here, still be with him, no matter what happened…

And that was all that mattered.

~The End~