Three Words

Disclaimer: Only borrowing JKR’s characters and her world for fun and not for profit, etc etc.

Author’s Note: Written for kimmy_77, who requested a fic with jealous!Harry in it.

Three Words

Hermione was positively breathtaking tonight. She was almost glowing with enthusiasm, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling. She looked beautiful, he couldn’t help but think, in all the intensity of her passion, that love of learning which he always associated with her and had, he realized, genuinely missed seeing. In this last year, she had faced all they had to do with a grim determination, along with an unwavering faith in him, which had been, at times, his only life-line, his only hope. And he hadn’t realized until now that he’d missed this side of her, the joy she took in learning that was so uniquely Hermione.

And now, finally, thanks to her Healer training at St. Mungo’s, he was seeing that Hermione again.

He should be happy for her; he was happy to see her smile and her enthusiasm.

Only—he wasn’t.

Because Hermione’s enthusiasm seemed to be focused on, centered around, one person in particular. Healer Westlake—or David, as he apparently was now to Hermione-- was the Healer in charge of Hermione’s training. And as far as Harry could see, David was rapidly becoming one of Hermione’s best friends. In the last week since Hermione’s training at St. Mungo’s had begun, he had gradually taken up a larger and larger proportion of Hermione’s conversation. That first night just over a week ago, it had been the occasional mention of, Healer Westlake said this or said that, or Healer Westlake showed us this, or he mentioned that. Two nights ago, Hermione had started referring to Healer Westlake as David. And tonight, it seemed to Harry that every other word out of Hermione’s mouth was of David or something he’d said or something he’d done or some story he’d told her.

Harry was rapidly beginning to detest the name of David Westlake.

Surely, there had been rumors of a Death Eater by that name… Hadn’t there? There must have been. He wanted this David Westlake to be evil. Or something.

Only he couldn’t even convince himself seriously to suspect this Westlake bloke to be anything but what he was, a very good Healer.

Because he still trusted Hermione’s opinion and he knew, more than anyone, how right she tended to be about people. She’d seen the truth about Mr. Crouch’s character long before they’d heard what Sirius had to say about him; she’d been right about Remus way back in their 3^rd year when she’d kept silent about his being a werewolf out of that trust. And if Hermione believed—and barring any evidence to the contrary, he could not seriously suspect this Westlake fellow of being anything bad.

He still detested Westlake, sight unseen, of course.

He didn’t even know exactly why Hermione’s near-constant mentions of “David” put him so on edge, but somehow, it did.

For the first time ever, he wished he were anywhere in the world but there. Listening to Hermione talk with so much enthusiasm about another man.

She really was beautiful, he thought again, looking at her flushed cheeks and the light in her eyes as she said, “And David told me today that I was the cleverest student he’d ever trained. I got the highest score in the group on the test we had the other day.”

“You say that like it’s a surprising thing,” Ron commented rather dryly.

Hermione blushed, looking self conscious. “Well, really, it is. I mean, everyone else is really smart too and I didn’t think I’d done that well, but David said that he was impressed with the detail of my answers and he liked the clarity of my thinking.”

If this bloody Westlake bloke had handed her the entire universe on a plate, Hermione could not have sounded more thrilled and flattered.

And that was somehow the last straw. It was just so absolutely wrong that Hermione would look so happy over this relative stranger—she was glowing, damn it!—as if this Westlake fellow were the first person to ever tell her how clever she was.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he burst out, “can you stop talking about this David Westlake for one bloody minute?”

For a fleeting second, his words didn’t register with Hermione, mild surprise at his tone all that showed on her face. And then in the next instant, all the happiness that had brightened her entire expression had vanished with the suddenness of a snuffed candle.

He regretted his outburst the moment it had left his mouth but it was too late to call it back, although if he could have cut off his tongue before he’d said it, he would have as he saw the fleeting look of stark hurt in her eyes before it was swiftly masked.

“Of course, since you’re so clearly not interested,” she said with forced calm.

And then before he could think to apologize, before he could even blink, she was gone, leaving his and Ron’s flat without another word—leaving, for the first time in his memory, without a last smile for them, without some small gesture of affection like a touch on his arm or his shoulder as she left.

She was gone—leaving him to hate himself with a virulence that almost strangled him. He truly was the world’s biggest bastard; he would have been better off if Voldemort had managed to off him. Better be dead than have hurt Hermione like that. God, that look in her eye… He had hurt her—her, of all people. How could he have hurt her like that? How could he have said something like that to her?

But in that moment when all his growing frustration and irritation with this Westlake fellow had surged up inside him, he hadn’t been able to help it.

“That was harsh, mate,” Ron finally ventured, his tone careful as if he knew he were about to tickle a sleeping dragon. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, just about bloody everything,” Harry grimaced before he, too, got up and went into his room, shutting the door behind him, where he threw himself onto his bed.

What had gotten into him, anyway? How could he possibly have said such a thing to Hermione?

Yes, so she’d been talking about this David Westlake a lot, but that didn’t justify anything.

For the first time, Harry stopped to think about just why Hermione’s constant mention of this David Westlake bothered him so much. Why should he care if Hermione had become such close friends with the fellow? Hermione had other friends as well, but they had never bothered him. He knew that he and Ron were Hermione’s best friends; he’d never doubted that.

Only—he realized—he had begun to doubt it, lately.

Because Hermione was so thoroughly immersing herself in the training at St. Mungo’s and enjoying every minute of it—because she had been spending the majority of every day with her new friends at St. Mungo’s, with this David Westlake, and seeing him and Ron only a few evenings a week…

Because much of what Hermione mentioned in passing as what she and David had discussed, he had no idea about. He hadn’t even heard of some of the diseases and magical conditions which Hermione had sometimes mentioned. And clearly, David Westlake not only did not possess that problem, but he knew enough about it that Hermione could learn from him, and she did.

He knew Hermione; he knew just how much she loved to learn, how much she appreciated talking with others who appreciated books and learning as much as she did. She had never really found that kindred spirit before—until now, Harry thought with a pang. Until now… Because she had, as far as he could tell, found that kindred spirit in Westlake.

He felt a sudden stab of fear. Was it possible that David Westlake would be Hermione’s new best friend? That they could bond over all their apparently shared interests until he and Ron just became old, childhood friends whom she cared about but saw infrequently?

He’d always known that Hermione was by far the cleverest person he knew. He’d never minded not being as smart as she was before, somehow. Now, suddenly, it bothered him immensely, to think that Hermione might have found someone else who could provide the sort of intellectual companionship and friendship she deserved.

He knew a sharp stab of fear bordering on panic at the thought. He didn’t know how to live without Hermione as his best friend; he didn’t think he could function without the knowledge, somewhere in the back of his mind and in his heart, that Hermione was there for him.

He remembered how she had somehow always smiled when she saw him, her expression brightening a little in welcome. And he’d treasured that.

He and Ron were Hermione’s best friends and he knew just how loyal a friend she was, to both of them. But he’d also known, too, that when it came to real understanding and companionship, Hermione had turned to him. Because while he didn’t know as much as Hermione did, he at least was willing to listen and he cared for what she had to say in a way that Ron was not. So he’d been secure—almost smug in his security—in knowing that he was the most important friend, the most important boy, in Hermione’s life. He hadn’t put it into conscious words but he knew, understood, that he had been the center of her life, in many ways.

And it was only now, when faced with the sudden possibility of losing it, that he realized just how much it meant to him to know that. He suddenly felt lost, adrift, at the very thought that he might be replaced as Hermione’s best friend, that Hermione might turn to someone else for understanding.

Maybe he wasn’t clever enough for her; maybe he didn’t deserve to have her as a best friend—no, he knew he didn’t deserve to have her as a best friend. But he needed her, nonetheless.

He needed her friendship and her loyalty and her faith in him; he needed her cleverness and her sense and her honesty in telling him when he was being stupid. He simply needed her.

And perhaps more importantly, he wanted her to need him too. He wanted to be her friend, her companion, the person she turned to for understanding and sympathy.

He wanted to be the one to make Hermione happy… He wanted to be the one to make her eyes sparkle with so much joy and enthusiasm… He wanted to be the one to bring that smile to her face…

Instead he had hurt her. He had been the one to extinguish her smile.

How could he have said such a thing to Hermione? Would she forgive him? What if she couldn’t forgive him?

After all, maybe she was tired of his tendency to get people he cared about into danger. Maybe she wouldn’t want to forgive him… Before, he might have tried to tell himself that Hermione would forgive him because he helped take the edge off her relations with Ron, because he understood her better than Ron. Now, though, this with damnable Westlake bloke around and clearly getting along so well with Hermione and the other new friends she was making at St. Mungo’s, would Hermione even want to remain friends with him and Ron? Was it possible—could Hermione feel that she had outgrown her childhood friends?

He tried to imagine his life without Hermione in it as his best friend—and shuddered, his chest tightening around a kernel of fear. Not because he couldn’t imagine a life without Hermione—but because he could. And he didn’t want that life.

What would he do without Hermione’s calming presence? Without her to challenge him and make him try harder, think more—just be better, a better version of himself? (To say nothing of the fact that without Hermione, he’d probably end up dead or seriously injured, with his record.)

He needed her in his life—and he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—lose her to some fellow who’d known her for all of a week.

On that thought, he leaped up, suddenly unable to stay here, unable to go on while at odds with Hermione. He couldn’t stand knowing that Hermione was justifiably angry at him (and worse, hurt by him as well). He needed to fix things. Somehow, he needed to fix things…

“I’m going to see Hermione,” he told Ron, who was watching a Remote Apparition of the Quidditch game.

Ron looked over at him. “Good luck.”

Harry’s lips twisted slightly. “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

Ron couldn’t help but be half-amused in spite of his sincere sympathy for Harry, at the sheer novelty of Harry being the object of Hermione’s wrath rather than himself. Plus, he couldn’t deny the rather unholy amusement he’d gotten these past few days out of watching Harry’s expression darken with every mention Hermione made of this Westlake fellow. It was really quite new, to see Harry so consumed by jealousy and at the same time, so utterly oblivious to the real reason behind his deteriorating mood. And tonight, the show had come to its climax. Ron heartily wished Harry luck; he had too much experience with being the object of Hermione’s anger to do otherwise.

Ron returned his attention to the game with a last thought for Harry, who was probably standing outside the door of Hermione’s flat at that very minute and hesitating before knocking.

Harry stood outside Hermione’s flat, hesitating—and feeling another pang of remorse at his hesitation. He never hesitated before entering Hermione’s flat; half the time he and Ron didn’t even bother to knock, or if they did, it was only perfunctory before simply pushing the door open. They had keys and Hermione’s door was charmed to open for their “Alohomora”, although there were wards up to prevent anyone else from entering that way.

But now, he hesitated before he took a last breath and knocked.

There was a beat of silence and then he heard her voice through the door. “What is it, Harry?”

He didn’t pause to be surprised at how she knew it was him; of course she knew it was him. He swallowed, hating himself anew at the stiffness of her tone. “Please, Hermione, can I come in?”

There was another moment during which he could almost hear her hesitation and her mental debate and during which he hardly dared to breathe, before the door opened and he saw her.

To anyone else, she would look completely fine, unmoved, but he knew her too well. He could see the flicker of vulnerability and of hurt, warring with anger, in her eyes, could see the slightest evidence of a few tears in the faint puffiness of her eyelids. And he knew a rush of guilt and regret that put all he’d already felt to shame.

And even though up until that moment, he’d had no idea what he would say to her, suddenly the words came rushing up, a torrent of apology and self-recrimination. “God, Hermione, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it; really I didn’t. I’d never want to do anything to hurt you and I shouldn’t have said it. I’m a colossal git to have even thought it and I didn’t mean it. Really, Hermione, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry… Forgive me?”

He waited, hardly daring to blink or breathe for what seemed like forever before Hermione sighed a little and some of the tension left him as he recognized the softening of her stance and her expression. And he knew a flood of relief and of gratitude.

“I should hex you into next week, you know,” she finally said, her words rather belying the lingering trace of anger and hurt in her voice.

“I know,” he said remorsefully. He paused and then he added, with a glimmer of humor in his eyes, “But you won’t, will you?”

She let out a small laugh commingled with a sigh. “I suppose not.”

He couldn’t quite venture a smile just yet but he felt the tension ease from his shoulders, rather as if a heavy weight had been lifted off them.

“Why did you say it, Harry? I never thought you could say something like that, Ron maybe, but never you…” It was more a simple question than a reproach but he flinched anyway.

“Honestly, I was jealous,” he admitted. “It just seemed like David Westlake was becoming one of your best friends and I started to wonder if I—well, if me and Ron—were clever enough for you or- or anything. I mean, you’re making your own friends at St. Mungo’s, people Ron and I don’t even know, who spend most of their days talking and thinking about things that Ron and I have probably never even heard of. I just… I’m scared to lose you,” he finished, the last words spoken so softly Hermione had to strain to hear them.

“Oh Harry…” she sighed. “You silly idiot.” And somehow, her tone made those three words sound almost like an endearment. “What, did you really think that I might outgrow my friendship with you and Ron?”

He shrugged a little sheepishly now, even as he knew a surge of relief and happiness at her words, her dismissal of the possibility of her outgrowing their friendship as if the very idea of it was ridiculous.

“Harry, you and Ron are my best friends. You’ll always be my best friends. After all we’ve been through, I don’t think anything could change that, and honestly, I don’t want it to. You two keep me sane; you make me laugh, make me relax when I need it. My new friends at St. Mungo’s are nice; I like them, but they could never replace you. As for David, he’s one of the smartest wizards I’ve ever met and I think he’ll make a great mentor and a good friend. But in many ways, he’s too much of a Ravenclaw and you’ve spoiled me for really enjoying a Ravenclaw’s company all the time.” She smiled slightly and then added, “You know, I already told you this in our first year.”

He blinked, confused for a minute, as he tried to remember what she might have said to him in first year to make the point—and then he did remember. Books and cleverness. He managed a smile. “There are more important things, like friendship and bravery.”

“You remember,” she smiled.

“Of course I remember. It was the first time I ever heard you admit anything might be more important than books,” he added teasingly. It was the first time anyone ever hugged me, he thought. And it was true. He hadn’t appreciated it at the time, too nervous over what he was going to face and too unsure of himself—but he knew better now. She had given him his first hug, his first kiss (on his cheek), all those little touches and gestures of affection or concern—things which were so small really, so insignificant, except to someone like him who’d grown up without them. In some way, he thought, Hermione might have saved more than just his life; she might have saved his heart…

His eyes met hers—seeing her as she had been then, an 11-year-old girl with bushy brown hair and more kindness and courage than he’d realized, to what she was now… Beautiful—and beautiful in a way that transcended simple prettiness; she was, quite simply, the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. And he wasn’t sure exactly when or how it had happened; he only knew that, at that moment, it was true.

“And I was right. Friendship and bravery. See, Harry, you’ll always be my best friend.”

“What if I don’t want to only be your best friend?” he blurted out suddenly. “What if that’s not enough?” He didn’t know exactly where the words had come from but he found himself speaking them anyway. Found himself speaking them—and realizing, belatedly, that he meant them.

He did want to be more than just Hermione’s best friend—maybe he had for months now? Would he have gotten so upset, so jealous of David Westlake (who, he knew, was still single, even if he was in his 30’s), if he hadn’t wanted more? He had acknowledged to himself, earlier, that he wanted to be the one to make Hermione smile, to make her happy—to know that he meant as much to her as she did to him. And only now, did he stop to think about what that really meant.

He wanted to be the most important person in her life—just as she was, in his life. He wanted to know she felt the same way…

She was staring at him, her lips slightly parted in surprise, her eyes wide and a little uncertain as they studied him.

Their gazes met and held—and for a moment, their thoughts were almost as clear as telepathy.

Hers questioning: Really? You really care that much?

His answering: Yes. Of course, yes. I care… so much…

And then she smiled, very slowly, the smile beginning deep in her eyes and spreading to illuminate her entire expression. (And some little part of his brain couldn’t help but note that it was a brighter smile than any which Westlake had ever brought to her face.) “Then,” she began very softly, “I’d say, yes. You can be—you are—more than just my best friend.”

“Hermione, I…” he breathed before he trailed off, completely losing track of whatever he might have wanted to say, distracted by the shape and softness of her lips. What was there to say?

“I think,” she said slowly, thoughtfully, “my answer was always going to be yes. It just—makes things complete, somehow. There’s friendship and bravery and there’s love…”

Put like that, it really did seem almost inevitable—and maybe, in some strange way, it really had been. Who else could he care about like this? Who else could be this important to him? “Yes,” he agreed softly. “There’s love…”

And on that last word, he cupped her cheek in his hand, his lips touched hers, and he kissed her. It was amazing how such a relatively small act could be so life-changing.

And his last coherent thought before he could think of nothing and no one else except for her, the taste of her, the feel of her lips against his, was that she was, as always, right. Those three words almost seemed to summarize their relationship up until now. Friendship and bravery and love. It had begun with friendship and bravery; now it seemed only natural that it continue with love. Always, even before they’d known it, there had been love…

~The End~