Author's Note: I'm working on Potential, I assure you, but I've been struggling to find the perfect way to transition to the next part of the chapter. Expect an update soon-ish, depending on how quickly inspiration hits! To tide you over, I present a little story that's been buzzing around my head for the past few days. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Harry Potter lives within the imagination of a Ms. Rowling, and I only borrowed him in order to allow him some quality time with Hermione.
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Summer
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As a child, Harry had always liked summer. Dudley had always been at a friend's house, or beating up neighborhood kids-away from him. Aside from the usual chores, the Dursleys tended to ignore him, which gave Harry a little time to play outside without fear, and a imagine a Dursley-free world.
Then Hagrid came along, and suddenly, summer meant imprisonment: separation from this incredible new world to which he now belonged. For Harry, summer had meant endless waiting and chores and they had never been pleasant once he started at Hogwarts.
And now-what? Voldemort was gone, defeated forever; he never had to see the Dursleys again. Harry was a permanent fixture in the Wizarding World thanks to his increased heroic status. So, really, he was supposed to feel delighted, relieved, delirious with joy (with, of course, a small helping of sadness for the friends he lost). Instead he felt-
Nothing.
Not the apathetic about the world nothing, or the cold-hearted world-be-damned nothing, or even the soulless nothing of a Dementor's victim. Rather, there was the strange sensation of having no idea what to feel or think about anything. Voldemort was dead-Fred was dead. Sirius had been avenged-Lupin was gone. Ginny waited-and suddenly he wanted nothing she had to give. Ron and Hermione survived-but were they moving closer together and further away from him?
The possibility of further isolation had consumed any and all other emotions for the past week, and Harry was no closer to figuring out whether or not anything was going to happen. Even though both he and Hermione were staying at the Burrow (which was busier than usual as it underwent repairs), her treatment of Ron hadn't changed a bit, and Ron didn't seem eager to do anything either. Perhaps he should have found this obsessing over his friends a little telling, or even just plain weird, but Harry was far too immersed in these broodings to actually see through the melancholy and do anything.
Not that this behavior had gone unnoticed. Even as the Weasleys grieved their own loss, Ron and Ginny constantly shot Harry concerned looks, though they never could quite make sure it wasn't just mourning like their own. Hermione had opened her mouth to say something several times now, but would simply shake her head and change the subject. Harry wasn't sure if he appreciated this or not.
But he certainly wasn't a fan of the sudden downpour, as it was interrupting his walk around the Weasley property. He ran for the house, but running didn't prevent the rain from drenching him before he reached the safety of the kitchen.
Mumbling in disgust, he pulled out his wand to perform a basic drying spell, but in his distraction only managed to shoot a few sparks at his shirt.
"You'd think the Boy-Who-Lived could dry his own clothes," Hermione remarked dryly, her sudden appearance startling Harry, who promptly shot her something between a frown and a weak smile. Unfortunately, this combination looked rather like a sneer, and Hermione raised her eyebrows at the strange expression, but as offered her help as usual,
"Here, let me do it," and promptly ensured Harry's clothes were once again dry.
"Thanks, Hermione," Harry remarked lamely, and made for the stairway.
"Wait just a second, Harry," Hermione suddenly added, and he halted on the first step.
"What is it?"
"I just…" Hermione hesitated, "I just thought maybe we could talk. It seems like it's been a while since we last spent some time together."
Had it been anyone else, Harry would have agreed upon some vague `later' time, and proceeded upstairs. But after spending all his time with her over the past year, Hermione's fear that they were growing apart felt a little strange, and he couldn't help but agree to stay.
Hermione gestured to the stool beside her, and offered the most sincere smile he'd seen in a long time. Harry managed to smirk back as he took the seat, and for a moment they simply sat there, enjoying the comfortable kitchen and the rhythmic noises coming from all over the house.
"Where are the Weasleys?" asked Harry, suddenly aware of how strange it was for the kitchen to be vacated of all red-haired persons.
"Family visit to George, or something," Hermione replied matter-of-factly, and Harry found the reply unusually vague for someone so exacting as his best friend.
"Or something?" echoed Harry, curious about the reasons behind the avoidance.
"I was a little preoccupied when they told me," she replied coolly, and frowned when Harry grinned. "What?"
"I just thought it was funny that something could distract you so much that you would forget something."
"I'm not allowed to think about other things, then? Is that it?" she replied quickly, and both of them knew she hadn't really taken offense.
Her ability to understand that Harry's teasing wasn't a challenge (unlike Ron's, perhaps) was yet another reason to linger in the kitchen-they didn't have petty arguments, except in jest, and such a friend was almost as powerful a reason as the telling fact that Hermione had to speak so overtly about their friendship.
"Thanks," remarked Harry, totally disregarding the impending `argument,' and with no coherent explanation for the sudden display of gratitude.
"For what?"
"For being there, I guess." It seemed like a bad idea to admit he didn't quite know why exactly he felt the unexpected urge to express gratitude, and she seemed fairly satisfied with his reflex answer.
"Harry, you know I'm your friend. You don't have to thank me," She replied, though judging by the pleased look on her face, Hermione didn't exactly mind, either.
"I know," and this time he really smiled back, which pleased Hermione so much that she slid off her stool and engulfed him in a hug.
"What was that for?" He mumbled into her bushy hair.
"For caring, of course," Hermione replied as she pulled away (though her hand still gripped his right arm), and glanced over his shoulder to look outside.
"It's stopped raining, by the way," she added, and the two walked outside hand in hand.
Because sometimes words aren't really necessary, and Hermione's unwavering friendship had fixed what Ginny's admiration and Ron's jokes could not. Perhaps that was why she came first.
The significance of that decision went unnoticed by Harry, as they enjoyed the sudden outbreak of sunlight, which made the greenery sparkle all around them.
And Harry had a feeling summers would be good again.
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