Seeing is Believing

Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR.

Author’s Note: Part of my birthday gift for the wonderful and brilliant Goldy_dollar. *hugs Frances*

Seeing is Believing

It was over.

Or very nearly.

Harry stood alone, looking as if sheer will power alone was keeping him on his feet and conscious as he stared down at the heap of black robes and the wand which were all that remained of Voldemort in the small crater in the earth formed from the blast of pure magic and power that had ripped Voldemort from his mortal body. There had been a sound like an explosion, a blast of the magical energy which had been all that had been keeping Voldemort- and the last bit of his soul- together, that had knocked Harry off his feet as well as killing every plant in a 5 meter radius.

But it was over now.

Ginny stood at the edge of the scene of destruction, her gaze having first found Harry—who looked so- different- infinitely older somehow—now moving to take in the rest of it.

She had accompanied her mother, along with Professors Sinistra, Vector, Flitwick and Sprout, and a few other of the less-active members of the Order in the last mission, to help capture the remaining Death Eaters and help the other Order members who had gone in ahead, soon after Harry. She had had to cajole, beg, plead, threaten and practically throw a fit of hysterics in order to convince her mother to let her come, reasoning that it wasn’t likely to be at all dangerous, really, and that she needed to go. She needed to see Harry and—she had convinced her mother—Harry would want to see her. She had told her mother about her and Harry’s all-too-brief relationship and stressed the almost-promise which she considered Harry to have made, that they would get back together once Voldemort was defeated.

Never mind that she had heard, from Ron and from Remus and even Professor McGonagall, in the few pieces of conversation she’d managed to overhear, that Harry not only never mentioned her name but that he and Hermione had grown even closer than they had been before.

She didn’t believe it. Of course Harry and Hermione had grown closer; Harry, Ron and Hermione must all have grown closer; they’d spent the last year together, working together to find the horcruxes and avoid Voldemort and the Death Eaters who had made sporadic attempts to find Harry and eliminate him for the past year. But Harry loved her; she knew he did; he had to; he must… She cared so much about him, had waited for him all this time and turned down Dean’s hint that he’d be interested in getting back together, as well as Neville’s more shy and uncertain overtures and a few others. And now, with Voldemort gone, of course she and Harry would get back together.

She had it all planned, even down to a mental picture of herself on Harry’s arm at the Victory Ball she was sure the Ministry of Magic would throw for Harry once they recovered from the last attack on the Ministry. She would look beautiful and she and Harry would make a wonderful couple, with their contrasting coloring and everyone, she was sure, would comment on how fitting it was that Harry, the son of Lily and James Potter, and she were together, with their coloring so like Lily and James’s had been. It would be perfect, the stuff of fairy-tales.

So she had insisted on coming. And her mother had finally, and reluctantly, given in.

The Death Eaters, who still survived, were nearly all subdued, most of them having given up the moment they saw Voldemort defeated.

There were a few stragglers, though.

Bellatrix Lestrange was currently being tied up, shrieking curses and struggling. Rodolphus Lestrange had been Petrified and was also being restrained.

Dolohov was still up and still armed, fighting in a grim duel against Professor McGonagall and Hagrid.

Lucius Malfoy was dueling with Remus and with Ron (Ginny saw her brother with a gasp). Malfoy was clearly on the point of defeat, was fighting with a desperation born of that knowledge as he saw Charlie, Hermione, and the remaining Order members turn toward him.

The rest seemed to happen in slow motion—and, paradoxically, too quickly for her to do more than stare in horror.

Lucius Malfoy had fallen to the ground, was apparently no longer able to stand, but with a last, desperate effort, a singularly sneering expression on his face, he made a slashing motion with his wand arm, no words escaping his lips but the intent clear to be seen in his expression.

What looked like a blue flame hit Hermione straight in the stomach and she collapsed without even a sound.

A split second later, four voices yelled out “Stupefy” in unison and hit Malfoy head on.

And at the same moment, another sound, another voice, that sounded nearly inhuman with all the terror and agony it expressed, rang out. It was a sound that would echo in Ginny’s ears—and in the ears of everyone else who heard it that day. “Hermione!”

It was Harry.

Only a moment before Ginny had thought he looked on the verge of collapse. The next moment, he had run, no, sprinted, to Hermione’s side, beating Ron, Charlie, and Remus to her even though all three of them had been closer to her than he was.

Ginny had just one glimpse of his face before he fell on his knees by Hermione’s side, just one fleeting glimpse that lasted less than half a second. And that one glimpse was enough to make her heart stop and then fill with dismay.

And she knew the truth.

Harry loved Hermione. Really and truly loved Hermione. Harry and Hermione hadn’t just gotten closer; they had fallen in love.

She didn’t know how or when or why it had happened but she knew it was true. The sound of his voice, the look on his face, the speed with which he’d gone to her—they all told her that, whatever he might have once felt for her, whatever he might still feel for her, didn’t matter. Because he was absolutely in love with Hermione.

~*~

Harry couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could hardly move.

He almost thought he must have died when he saw Hermione fall, when he saw that spell hit her, as nightmarish memories of Sirius disappearing behind a veil, of Hermione falling down unconscious in the Department of Mysteries, of Dumbledore falling from the Tower, flashed in his mind.

“Hermione!” Her name was ripped from his chest in a near-shriek of soul-stopping fear and dread.

He didn’t know how he managed to make himself move but somehow he did and found himself falling to his knees by her still form, gathering her in his arms, with no conscious memory of how he had gotten there.

She was so limp, so unmoving, so pale…

Oh God, oh God, oh God, no… No, no, no, no, no… This couldn’t be happening… No… Please, dear God, no…

He clutched her to him, one hand gripping her lifeless one, kneading it, as if he could somehow transfer his energy, his life, to her. His head bent over her, his eyes squeezing shut against the sting of tears. “Hermione, no, no, no…” he found himself whimpering, his lips against her forehead. “Don’t die; you can’t die; please don’t be dead. I- I love you and I never got to tell you that. I love you and you can’t leave me. Please. You can’t…”

Ron and Remus both knelt on Hermione’s side, Remus grabbing Hermione’s other wrist, the one which Harry wasn’t holding.

Remus let out a breath and to Harry’s horror-clogged mind, it sounded like a death knell and he clutched Hermione tighter. “No!” I don’t want to hear it. You can’t tell me that! I don’t—I refuse to hear it! I can’t lose her!

“She’s alive.”

She- what?

Harry’s heart stopped again, though this time it was from relief, and he knew if he’d been standing, he would have collapsed. He couldn’t find his voice; he seemed to have lost the ability to speak.

Ron was the one to ask, “Are you sure?” His voice was almost raw with his own emotion and, later when Harry remembered it, Harry would feel a wave of affection for Ron- as well as gratitude for being the one to ask the question.

“I can feel a pulse. It’s a little feeble, but it’s there.”

She’s alive, she’s alive, she’s alive, she’s alive…

If there were any two more beautiful words in the English language, he didn’t know what they were. He pressed his lips to her forehead, wondering if it were possible to go insane from relief so great he felt dizzy from it.

“We need to get her to St. Mungo’s.” Remus spoke again, his voice the only one which remained calm in spite of the tension.

And the words galvanized Harry out of his stupor and he struggled to his feet, his arms still holding Hermione, only to stagger and nearly fall, except for the support of Charlie and Ron.

Nothing less than the knowledge—which he had just had proof of—that he could not carry Hermione, let alone stand upright himself, would have made him relinquish his hold on her at that moment.

Remus scooped Hermione up. “You need to get to St. Mungo’s too,” he addressed Harry, who nodded, just once.

Remus frowned down at Hermione next. “I don’t know what it will do to her if we try to Apparate her in this state. We’d better take a Portkey.”

At this moment, Mrs. Weasley hurried up. “Is she alive? Is she okay?”

“She’s alive. We need to get her to St. Mungo’s but we need to Portkey there as I don’t want to risk Apparating her.”

“I have a Portkey to get back to Hogwarts,” Professor Sprout volunteered. “We can get the St. Mungo’s Healers to Hogwarts and it’ll keep the media away.”

“Good.”

That was the last Harry heard before he succumbed to the growing dizziness and let the blackness swallow him. And his last coherent thought was, Hermione’s alive.

~*~

Harry returned to consciousness slowly, his mind swimming up to the surface through the muddy waters of unconsciousness.

Gradually, he became aware that there was someone beside him; he could sense someone’s presence in the room though the someone wasn’t touching him, wasn’t making a sound that he could hear.

“Hermione?” he mumbled, hardly able to make his lips move, but automatically, instinctively, calling for the first person he thought of, the first person he wanted to see.

He heard a sharp intake of breath and with a Herculean effort managed to wedge his eyes open, squinting to see who it was bending over him.

He blinked, tentatively, as if he weren’t sure he still possessed the ability to do so, his vision clearing enough for him to identify the person.

His heart dropped slightly.

“Ginny,” he acknowledged with another mumble, his eyes closing again.

“How are you, Harry?” She sounded concerned.

He made a soft noise like a grunt in response, not quite able to muster the energy or the coherence to answer.

His eyes opened again as the memories returned. “How’s Hermione?” His words were slightly slurred, barely intelligible, despite all his effort.

A brief silence ensued—one that managed to clear away a good deal of the fog from his mind from the sheer terror it induced. “She- she hasn’t awakened yet,” Ginny finally answered reluctantly.

And even in his less-than-coherent state, he could guess the unspoken, We don’t know if she will…

Oh dear God…

Harry struggled against the lingering heaviness of his mind and tried desperately to force his muscles to obey him.

“Need t’see her,” he managed to say.

“I- I don’t think you should try to move, Harry,” Ginny began. “You- you’ve been out for a long time and Madam Pomfrey said you shouldn’t until the Charms have had a chance to work.”

“Where is she?” was all the answer Harry gave to Ginny’s admittedly rather feeble protest.

“Over there, behind the curtains,” Ginny said, gesturing with her head to the blocked-off corner of the Infirmary.

He never quite knew how he managed to push himself up on his elbows, except that it required an inordinate amount of effort and took what seemed to be forever.

A wave of dizziness passed over him and he closed his eyes, gasping, just barely managing to resist falling back onto his pillow.

Hermione. He needed to see Hermione…

Clinging to that one thought like a life-line, he waited for the dizziness to subside before slowly, carefully, pushing himself up further until he was sitting up.

Now for his legs…

“Harry!” He heard Ron’s voice before he saw his best friend hurry over to his side. “You’re up.”

Ginny greeted Ron with an expression of gratitude. “He’s trying to get to Hermione.”

Ron nodded and then frowned at Harry. “Nothing doing, mate. You’ll kill yourself trying; look at you. Lie down. What’ll Hermione say when she finds out you hurt yourself worse by being stupid and trying to get up too soon to see her?”

The mention of Hermione’s name pierced through his obstinate clinging to his need to see Hermione as nothing else had.

He gave in with a sigh and lay back again. “But--” he began.

Ron cut him off with a shake of his head. “Not now, Harry. Y’look like death warmed over, you know. You’re more likely to scare Hermione than comfort her right now,” he added, trying to smile.

But…

Harry attempted to voice another protest but his mouth seemed to be full of cotton, his head was swimming again, and before he could, he slipped back into the welcoming void.

Ginny looked at Harry, unconscious again, his skin looking deathly pale against the darkness of his hair. “He really does love her, doesn’t he?” she heard herself ask as if from far away.

Ron glanced at Ginny. “I’m sorry,” he said, instead of answering her rhetorical question. They both knew that he didn’t need to answer.

She knew it, accepted it—would, no doubt, hate it later when she thought about it, but not right now, when Harry was unconscious again, when Hermione might not wake up. She couldn’t even resent Hermione for having taken Harry away from her—as she realized, in some small part of her mind she’d refused to acknowledge or think about, she’d always known she and Harry couldn’t last. She’d always known that somehow, even when she and Harry had been together last year, he cared more about Hermione—and Ron—as his best friends than he did about her. He might have been snogging her—but he didn’t talk to her. She was never as important to him as Ron and Hermione were, never as important to him as Hermione was.

And now, looking down at Harry’s still form, she accepted the truth. That she had had Harry for a matter of weeks—and that was all she would ever get with him. Hermione had had Harry for years—and Hermione would still have him, would have him forever.

She came out of her reverie to hear Ron say, “Can you help me with this?”

Ron was trying to move Harry and the bed he was on over to where Hermione was lying in another of the Infirmary beds, but he found he couldn’t control both the bed and Harry at the same time.

She sighed to herself even as she helped Ron move Harry into the curtained-off corner of the Infirmary, even as she helped Ron push the two beds together. And wondered at herself quite literally bringing Harry and Hermione together when she still harbored some little resentment—but she couldn’t not do it. Not when they were both unconscious—not when they didn’t know if—when—Hermione would regain consciousness.

~*~

She was wandering in an unknown, dark place—and she was alone…

She felt no confusion though, no loneliness, no pain—it was- pleasant, somehow—and for once in her life, she didn’t care that she didn’t know where she was or what exactly had happened to bring her here.

And then she sensed, rather than heard, someone calling her name.

“Hermione. Hermione.” There was so much longing- so much love- in the voice she found herself turning towards it automatically.

“Where are you?” she heard herself ask.

“Don’t leave me,” was the only response she got.

She kept walking, her steps quickening, following, trying to find this person. She couldn’t remember who the voice belonged to, other than a vague feeling that she should know, a vague feeling that once the person had meant more than anything else to her—and she needed to find this person.

“Hermione…”

The voice was getting softer, more despairing, and she began to run blindly towards where the voice came from.

And then she was suddenly assaulted from all sides and from within, battered by pain, sharp, searing, intense. She cried out—and somehow from deep inside her, she knew who she cried out for.

“Harry!”

She was stumbling, she was falling, curling up on the ground—she was losing…

She felt a fleeting touch of lips on hers—a kiss, a kiss that was both a caress and a prayer—and wondered if she were dying…

And then she awoke.

Her body jerked, her mouth opened on a gasp, she opened her eyes and saw…

Harry. His face was pale and looked ravaged with dread and grief and worry, as if he had just dropped off to sleep, exhausted by his own fears.

“Harry…” Her voice was little more than a thread of sound but he awoke with a start, disoriented, until he saw her.

His face, his entire body, seemed to collapse in on itself from the very intensity of his relief—as if the only thing that had been keeping him upright and together had been his worry and now that support was gone. His head went down to rest on her hand, kissing it, his hands clutching hers, and she felt the wetness of a few tears. “Hermione, Hermione, Hermione…” He seemed incapable of speech other than to murmur her name over and over again, in a tone that struck her as sounding familiar when she realized—it was the same tone she’d heard in her little vision-dream-fantasy?, the one that had first made her start looking for him.

Madam Pomfrey came hurrying up. “Miss Granger! You’re awake!” She turned her attention to Harry, making a disapproving noise. “Mr. Potter, I have allowed you to stay with Miss Granger until now but now that she is awake, I must insist that you get some sleep before I force-feed you some Sleeping Potion.”

Harry turned to Hermione with the hint of a smile. “I’m so glad you’re awake,” he whispered.

She nodded. “I know.”

He bent over her, his hands cupping her cheeks lightly, and brushed his lips against hers. It was the first time he had kissed her (when she was conscious, at least). He felt her suck in a little breath and then her lips softened, clung to his for a moment, before he finally drew back.

He opened his lips to say something—but Madam Pomfrey interrupted. “Mr. Potter, please. Miss Granger will recover much quicker if I am allowed to assess the extent of her injuries, while you sleep.” Her words were crisp but her tone was gentle.

He hesitated, looking reluctant to leave her, but she interceded. “Go sleep,” she told him quietly.

He nodded, giving her hand a last, gentle squeeze, before he left.

Madam Pomfrey bent over her, quickly casting a few diagnostic charms to assess the extent of the internal damage and making soft sounds of varying distress and hope to herself.

“You’re very lucky, Miss Granger,” she finally said. “I was beginning to think… People who are so deeply unconscious for as long as you were usually slip into a coma and never awaken. I wasn’t sure you would come back to us.”

Hermione tried to smile but the pain, which had receded a little from her consciousness on seeing Harry, had returned and exhaustion was overtaking her, oblivion tugging at her mind.

And her last coherent thought before she slipped back into sleep was that she’d had to come back, for Harry…

His face was the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes again—and in a fleeting moment before he realized she was awake, she saw the unguarded, completely open, expression on his face as he watched her. It was a look she had never seen before, could not remember ever seeing on anyone’s face, a look that brought tears to her eyes; it was a look of such stark, naked—tenderness—a look that was full of so much boundless caring and concern she felt her breath catch in her throat.

“Harry…” she said softly.

He bent forward to take her hand, smiling slightly. “Hey. You’re back. How are you feeling?”

“Sore and still tired,” she admitted, “but better than I was.”

He flinched slightly, the smile vanishing from his face. “I- I thought I was going to lose you,” he whispered hoarsely. “And I- I knew I couldn’t—I can’t--” he faltered, swallowed, and then finished, “I need you.”

He met her eyes and she was shocked to see that there were tears in his eyes—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Harry cry.

“I’m here,” she said soothingly. “I’m not going anywhere.” She tried to smile but only managed a slight twitch of her lips. “You’re stuck with me.”

He didn’t smile, just held her gaze with the intensity of his. “Don’t leave me.” There was a desperation in his plea, despite the softness of his whisper.

“I won’t.” And the words were a promise, a vow.

He dropped his head to rest his forehead on her hand, a slight shudder racking his body as he remembered the long hours of heart-stopping, soul-wrenching fear of thinking he might lose her, before he looked up at her again.

“I love you.” The words were amazingly easy to say—and almost seemed insignificant compared to the depth of feeling behind his other words, but he needed to say them now.

“I love you too.”

Saying those words which she’d never before allowed herself to say to him, the words she’d kept inside herself for so long now, she understood, with a knowledge that touched her very soul, what had brought her back to life from the dream-world between life and death where she had been. Love had done it. Love—hers for him and his for her—had been what had called her back to life—because she couldn’t leave him alone…

~*~

Ginny stepped into the Infirmary only to stop short as if she’d run into an invisible wall.

Harry was with Hermione—and even as she watched, he brought his hands up to frame Hermione’s face and kissed her—at first gently as if afraid he might hurt her, but then Hermione’s arms went up around his neck and the kiss deepened from there.

Without conscious thought, Ginny lifted one hand to touch her lips, remembering the times Harry had kissed her—the intensity of his kisses.

She heard Hermione make a soft sound in the back of her throat and the sound snapped Ginny out of her trance to realize she shouldn’t be watching this and she stepped back out of the Infirmary, leaving both Harry and Hermione completely unconscious that she’d ever been there.

She had known before that she had lost Harry—but now, after seeing that moment, she couldn’t help but wonder if she had ever really had Harry…

He had never looked at her the way he had been looking at Hermione—with so much single-mindedness as if she was the only other person in the world, as if she was the most beautiful, the most precious thing in the world, as if he would gladly give up his life- his soul- for her…

He had never loved her that way.

And in an odd way, the realization was somehow strangely comforting, the last remnants of any lingering resentment vanishing. It wasn’t that Hermione had taken Harry away from her; it wasn’t that she had lost Harry to Hermione. It was that she had never had Harry; it was that Harry had always, whether he knew it or not, belonged to Hermione…

You cannot lose what you never had.

~The End~