His Favorite Holiday

Bingblot

Rating: G
Genres: Romance, Humor
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 17/02/2006
Last Updated: 17/02/2006
Status: completed

He knew who he *wanted* his secret Valentine to be from, but it couldn't be... She didn't care about him that way... Fluffy one-shot.

Chapters

1. His Favorite Holiday

1. His Favorite Holiday

Disclaimer: You can tell JKR didn’t write this because, well, 1. it’s H/Hr and 2. it ignores HBP.

Author’s Note: Pure fluff with no redeeming social value whatsoever, written for Valentine’s Day. And ignoring the latest, nonsensical addition to canon, better known as Half-Baked Plot, or The Book Where JKR Proved She's Really a Mediocre Writer After All, or the Sudden Miraculous Appearance of the Chest Monster and Ginny!Sue...

His Favorite Holiday

Oh bugger it all.

Harry realized, too late, the minute he stepped into the Great Hall for breakfast that morning what day it was.

Valentine’s Day.

He had forgotten about it. Or he had deliberately put it from his mind.

Either way, if he had remembered what day it was, he would have avoided the Great Hall at all cost and especially at breakfast, when the owls arrived.

It looked like McGonagall had decided to follow Dumbledore’s example and strive for normalcy in the middle of war in decorating Hogwarts for the day.

The Great Hall had been decorated with white, pink and red banners, rather like the House banners at the end of every year in the color of whichever House had won the Inter-House Championship—except, of course, that they were white, pink and red.

He promptly decided that he hated the colors pink and red.

He grimaced mentally as he made his way to his usual spot at the Gryffindor table, studiously looking straight ahead of him and avoiding the gazes of the girls who smiled at him.

He could swear that on this one day alone, the female population of Hogwarts all but doubled. They positively appeared out of the stone-work, he was convinced.

He sat down at the Gryffindor table, thankful that Seamus, Dean and Neville didn’t mention the day or the decorations.

He was on the verge of reaching for some pancakes when he saw that the butter had been festively colored pink and promptly changed his mind about having pancakes. Or, indeed, having any food at all which would require the use of the pink butter.

He reached for the muffins instead, noting thankfully that they hadn’t been decorated. And neither had the pumpkin juice.

He ate in silence, once again keeping his gaze fixed on his plate as if he saw some fascinating secret being revealed in it, sensing the gaze of Merlin-only-knew-how-many eyes watching him.

And then he heard the flutter of wings from up ahead and the owls swooped in—at least twice the usual number of owls.

He mentally braced himself—and sure enough, he was soon barraged with a positive flood of notes—every single one of them, he noted with disgust, in pink or red envelopes. Some were even shaped like a heart. Some were attached to roses. Some were attached to packages of chocolate and other sweets.

Lord, he hated this day.

He only prayed that he didn’t receive another verbal card sung by some house elf, serenading him about his ‘eyes as green as a fresh pickled toad’ or some other ridiculous simile. On this day of all days, he wished he’d been lucky enough to be born with eyes that weren’t such a noticeable color. Brown, maybe.

Although, he thought suddenly, he knew from experience, just how pretty and distracting brown eyes could be… At least when they were in the face of the girl whom he had slowly come to realize meant much more to him than just a friend.

Deliberately, he began to shove all the Valentines he had received into his bag with the intention of throwing them all away unopened.

Callous, maybe, but at the moment he didn’t care and he certainly didn’t have the patience to open every single one of them to read a whole lot of blathering about how “handsome” he was. In fact, he decided, if he had to read dozens of gushing descriptions of his eyes, his hair, his smile, his flying skills, and/or his bravery, he was going to kill something. No, he thought with an inward shudder at the thought of the cards, best just to throw them all out, unopened.

It would take the patience of a saint to get through all those nauseating cards—and he’d be the first person to admit he was no saint.

And then he stopped, his hand pausing as he noticed one small envelope mixed in with all the others.

This envelope stood out, not because of its gaudiness but because of its simplicity. It looked just like any other owl sent on any other day might look and was very simply addressed to “Harry”. There wasn’t a sign of a heart or a rose or any flourishes of calligraphic writing imploring him to “Be My Valentine”—no, there was just the one word, written in a plain style, just his name.

Curious almost in spite of himself, he reached for the envelope and opened it slowly.

A plain piece of parchment was inside—no card, no confetti, and once again, no hearts in sight.

Black ink had been used—and not any special red ink.

Harry,

I just wanted you to know that I love you. I love you for your smile and your humor and your kindness and your courage. I just love you for you. And I wanted you to know so you never have to feel alone.

If you want to know who I am, you can meet me under the big oak tree by the Lake after lunch today.

Love,

A friend

Harry smiled, oddly touched by the short note. It was so very simple and direct, in spite of the anonymity. And how had this girl—whoever she was—guessed that he did, sometimes, feel incredibly alone as the One with the Power Voldemort Knew Not. It was—comforting—to know that somewhere this girl loved him.

But who could she be?

He ventured a glance around at the girls looking at him with smiles that ranged from being hopeful to simply flirtatious to positively covetous (he shuddered and hastily looked away from those.) Who could it be?

He mentally ran through the list of girls he knew and considered to be friends of a sort—and the girl had to know him at least a little to write the note she had written.

Ginny—no, of course not. He dismissed the idea almost as quickly as it had come. She didn’t like him that way anymore, even if they had gotten to be friends, and even though she and Dean were no longer dating. He rather suspected, though, that she and Anthony Goldstein might start dating soon.

Susan Bones—he thought it but then dismissed it too. Susan was nice, yes, and he did consider her to be a friend but he could not believe she loved him. He glanced at her quickly—to see her smiling at Justin Finch-Fletchley in a way that was unmistakable. Right, not Susan then.

Who, who, who could it be?

He knew who he wanted it to be—but he also knew that it was wishful thinking on his part.

It wasn’t her handwriting for one thing—and for another, more importantly, she’d never given him the slightest indication that she cared about him as anything other than a best friend.

He stifled a sigh and then looked up as Ron and Hermione sat down at the table.

Ron looked at the pile of Valentine’s still on the table and grinned at him. “I see your admirers are out in full force today, Harry.”

He made a disgruntled face and threw a roll at Ron which Ron caught easily.

Ron looked down and then made an odd noise that had both Harry and Hermione staring at him.

He gestured at an envelope that had just been dropped onto his plate. “I got a Valentine!”

“At least you only got one,” Harry groused. “And not one million. In fact, here, take these,” he said, shoving the packages of sweets across the table to Ron.

“Oh thanks, Harry,” Ron grinned before turning his attention back to the envelope and opening it quickly.

He read it quickly and then sat staring at it, his face and ears having gone red.

Finally Harry asked, “Well, who’s it from?”

Ron made another odd noise and glanced up at first Harry and then at Hermione, who looked amused as she began to eat her breakfast. “Luna,” he croaked out.

Hermione’s smile widened. “I knew she fancied you, Ronald,” she declared.

“Don’t call me that,” Ron said quickly, his ears turning an even brighter red than before.

“That’s nice,” Harry said, although his grin and his tone betrayed his amusement at Ron’s expense.

Hermione looked at Harry. “Did you get any Valentines you liked today, Harry?”

He quickly and instinctively shoved the one note he’d read under a pile of unopened ones, not sure why he didn’t want Hermione to see it but somehow he didn’t. “Oh- er- no, not—that is, I didn’t really open many of them.” Or any of them—and had no intention of opening any more, he mentally added.

“Oh.”

An expression he couldn’t read crossed her face—almost like- disappointment?—and then she stood up. “I have some work to do before class,” she said hurriedly and left.

Ron shook his head as she left, already beginning to open the packages of sweets. “Mental, she is,” he said but it was more out of habit than any real meaning and so Harry let it pass.

He took out the note again, rereading it, thinking.

He did want to know who the girl was—but could he- should he- meet her by the lake? He didn’t really think so—it would seem like tacitly admitting he’d like to know her better and could possibly learn to care about her and all that. It would be the first step. And could he do that? Meet with some other girl when he already knew he fancied, no, loved, a girl already?

No.

No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t meet any other girl—not like that, not when she’d confessed to loving him. Even if the note had only said to come if he wanted to know who she was, he could guess perfectly well that if he did go meet the girl, the girl would have every right to expect some sort of feeling in return—or at least the possibility of it.

It wouldn’t be fair. To any girl—or to Hermione, not that she would care, he supposed, if he did meet the girl. But he wouldn’t feel right about it. Meeting another girl when he knew perfectly well the only girl he had any interest in that way was Hermione…

No, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

But the least he could do was write another short note thanking the girl and letting her know he appreciated her note.

~*~

Harry sat staring at a blank piece of parchment over lunch, wondering what on earth he could possibly say to this unknown girl.

He didn’t even know how to address the bloody note; ‘Dear friend’ sounded too—odd—too stilted.

Finally he gave up and decided not to address it at all.

He just needed to be honest, he decided.

He bit his lip and then began writing.

Thank you for your letter. I really appreciated it. It was the nicest Valentine I’ve ever received, honestly.

I do want to know who you are but I decided I can’t meet you today. It wouldn’t be fair to you, see, because, well, I already care about another girl.

I hope—I’d like to think—we can be friends.

Thanks again.

Your friend,

Harry

There.

He read over what he’d written. It was very short, rather hopelessly direct, in fact. And he certainly wasn’t going to be winning any awards for penmanship or for eloquence or touching letters in the near future.

He only hoped this girl wasn’t too hurt or disappointed by it. He hated to think of hurting this girl when, considering he didn’t even know who she was, he rather considered her to be a friend already just from the note she’d written.

He sighed and then got up, hurrying up to his room, going over to Hedwig who sat perched in her cage.

“Hey Hedwig.”

Hedwig cocked her head to one side as if in question.

He opened the cage and passed a hand lightly over one wing in greeting as she gently nipped at his finger. “Can you take this note and give it to the girl who’ll be waiting under the big oak tree out by the lake?”

He tied the note to her leg and then moved to open the window so Hedwig could fly out. She landed briefly on his shoulder, nipping lightly at his ear as if to assure him she would do what he’d asked, and then flew off.

So much for that, then, Harry thought, as he went down to the kitchens to grab a late lunch.

~*~

“Where’s Hermione?”

Ron looked around at the dinner table. “Dunno. Haven’t seen her.”

Harry turned to Neville. “Hey, Neville, have you seen Hermione?”

“No, sorry.”

Harry frowned slightly and then asked Ginny, “Have you seen Hermione?”

Ginny shook her head. “I haven’t seen her all day actually, not since breakfast.”

“She wasn’t at lunch?” Harry asked in surprise. He hadn’t been at lunch either, admittedly, preoccupied with the note he’d had to write to that unknown girl.

“No.”

“Oh.” Harry frowned down at his plate for a moment, wondering where on earth Hermione could be. What could she be doing?

Surely—nothing could have happened to her… He promptly tried to squash the flicker of panic he felt at the thought, telling himself he was being ridiculously paranoid and alarmist.

Hogwarts was the safest place in the wizarding world; Hermione could take care of herself and, moreover, if anything had happened to her, Professor McGonagall or somebody would have told him…

Unless, of course, no one knew it yet…

He felt another prickle of apprehension and got up, making a quick decision. “I’m going to go find Hermione,” he explained to Ron, who nodded, and then he left the Great Hall quickly.

He went first to the Library, knowing it wouldn’t be the first time Hermione had gotten absorbed in some book or another and forgotten all about such mundane things like meals.

Of course, that was all it was, he told himself reassuringly. She had just gotten caught up in her research and forgotten all about the time. Nothing whatever to be worried about.

Except she wasn’t in the library.

And Madam Pince hadn’t seen her this afternoon.

His apprehension was growing by leaps and bounds now as he headed towards Gryffindor Tower at something like a run.

Hermione, Hermione—had something happened to Hermione?

He nearly skidded into the Common Room after gasping out the password to find it empty as everyone was down at dinner.

He wondered if she had gone to her own room but knew better than to try to make it up the stairs.

The Marauders Map!

He ran up to the 7th year Boys Room, throwing open his trunk and digging into it for the Marauders Map.

Thank you, Dad, Sirius and Remus, he thought fleetingly as he took out the folded piece of parchment.

“I solemnly swear I am up to no good,” he said hastily and then watched as the thin black lines marking out Hogwarts spread over the parchment with the small black dots.

He bent over the map, skipping over the cluster of dots in the Great Hall and focusing on the dots around the castle.

Then he found it, the dot labeled Hermione Granger—in the Room of Requirement.

Of course!

He let out a sigh of relief.

“Mischief managed.” The parchment went blank and he hurriedly stuffed it back into his trunk before setting off again at a run for the Room of Requirement.

Halfway there, he paused and then changed direction, heading down to the kitchens to grab some food for her. She must be hungry if she’d skipped lunch and dinner.

“Hermione, there you are. I’ve been--” his words cut off as she seemed to flinch at the sound of his voice and refused to look at him.

She was sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the room, her arms wrapped around her knees.

He absently put the food down on a table that conveniently appeared next to him and then moved to sit next to her.

She kept her face turned away from him and he felt a swift pang of hurt.

“Hermione? What is it? What’s wrong? Why didn’t you come to lunch or dinner? Hermione?” His voice was soft with concern and worry as he put a tentative hand on her back in a comforting gesture.

He felt her breath hitch and finally she said, quietly, in a voice that strove to sound normal, “It’s nothing. I- I just wanted to be alone for a while.”

He frowned, moving his hand in slow, gentle circles on her back. “It isn’t nothing. Hermione, you’ve been crying; you don’t cry over nothing. I know you don’t. So what is it? Can- can I help in any way?”

He wished he dared to put his arm around her, wished he dared to wipe her tears away himself. Before—when he hadn’t realized how he felt about her—he might have dared to do it, just as her best friend—but he didn’t dare now, not when he knew how he felt. But he hated to see her cry, hated to know she was sad or upset over anything.

She was silent, her face kept hidden and buried in her arms, as her shoulders shook with occasional sobs.

He stayed beside her, wishing desperately he could help her somehow and mentally resolving to hex whoever it was who had made Hermione cry like this.

After a few minutes, she asked, very softly so he could hardly hear her, “Who is she?”

He blinked, confused. “Who is who?”

“Her. The girl you- you care about.”

For a moment, Harry could swear his heart stopped and he forgot to breathe. His mind went blank with pure shock.

“You know?” he blurted out without thinking—and then he realized just what it meant that she did know he cared about a girl.

He had only told one person about that. Only one person could know about his caring about a girl—about Hermione.

The girl who had written him that Valentine. The unknown girl he had written that note to instead of meeting her under the tree.

Hermione was—she had written him that Valentine. And that meant… Hermione loved him. She loved him. She loved him!

He felt a swift surge of elation—to be followed immediately by a stab of dismay and guilt.

She loved him; she’d written him that sweet Valentine. And he hadn’t shown up for the meeting, had written her a note saying he cared about another girl.

Oh God…

He was the reason she was crying now.

Finally, he recovered some presence of mind—and finally, he dared to do what he’d wanted to do and put his arm around her, his other hand moving to bring her face up to look at him.

She resisted but he persisted until slowly, reluctantly, she met his eyes.

Tears streaked her cheeks and sparkled on her eyelashes and he gently wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumb.

“Don’t you know?” he asked softly. “Can’t you guess, Hermione, who I care about? She’s the one person who’s always been there for me, who’s helped me with everything. She’s the nicest, smartest girl I know—and the prettiest.”

The flicker of confusion in her eyes at his first words cleared, to be replaced with dawning hope and then happiness.

“Oh Harry…” she breathed. “It’s me?”

He allowed himself to smile slightly. “Of course it’s you. Who else could it be?”

She smiled.

“I- I wanted the Valentine to be from you,” he told her. “But I didn’t think it could be because you didn’t think of me that way and besides, it wasn’t your handwriting.”

“I knew you would recognize my writing so I used a quill that I enchanted to disguise my handwriting, make it more anonymous. I- I didn’t want you to know it was me unless you decided to find out on your own by meeting me. I think I knew you wouldn’t meet me unless you thought you could care.”

He smiled slightly at how she knew him so well. “I probably would have gone to meet you,” he admitted. “But I decided it wouldn’t be fair—to you, oddly enough, for me to meet another girl when I knew I- I cared about you already—even if you didn’t know or care about me that way.”

“Oh Harry…”

And she looked at him with so much happiness—and love—shining in her eyes that he did the only thing he could think to do in response—and kissed her. It started out as a gentle kiss, a little uncertain, but she parted her lips and the kiss deepened, his tongue exploring her mouth, learning the taste of her, the feel of her.

And when it ended, he smiled into her eyes. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Hermione,” he said softly.

“I meant what I wrote to you in that note,” she told him quietly. “I do love you.”

Everything inside him seemed to still at hearing those words he couldn’t ever remember hearing before—and somehow hearing her say them meant so much more, even if he knew, now, that she did because she had written them. But hearing the words was different, meant more somehow… “I know,” he finally said softly. “I- I love you too.”

It was amazing how—easy—it was to say those words to her…

She smiled and he kissed her again—and he couldn’t help thinking that Valentine’s Day was a very pleasant holiday after all, possibly his new favorite holiday…

When you say you love me,

Do you know how I love you? ~“When You Say You Love Me”, sung by Josh Groban

~The End~