What He Did About It

Bingblot

Rating: G
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 03/08/2008
Last Updated: 03/08/2008
Status: completed

He was loved-- and just what was he supposed to do about it? A follow-up to Mary G's 'One Morning in February'. Pure one-shot fluff.

Chapters

1. What He Did About It

1. What He Did About It

Disclaimer: Not mine; Harry Potter et al belongs to JKR, unworthy though she is.

Author’s Note: Written for madderbrad’s request to write a follow-up to Mary G’s fic, “One Morning in February” (which you can find here: http://www.fictionalley.org/authors/mary_g/OMIF01a.html ) I imagine this to take place in an AU, happier version of OotP, minus things like Umbridge and Ginny-Sue, so assume that Ginny is still a jellyfish in this. ;-) Pure fluff- enjoy!

What He Did About It

He was loved.

He was loved.

She loved him.

What the bloody hell was he supposed to do now? How was he supposed to react?

He tried—and failed—to remember another time when someone had told him they loved him. No one had ever told him that, except probably his parents, when he’d been much too young to remember or care. Since then, there had been no one— the Dursleys hated him and while he knew Mr. and Mrs. Weasley cared about him, he wondered how much of it was due simply to their kindness and his being Ron’s best friend and either way, they’d certainly never said anything of the sort.

He was loved.

How were people supposed to act when someone told them they were loved?

What was he supposed to do? Say? Was he supposed to tell her he- he loved her too—but that was where his mind got stuck, bogged down in uncertainty and confusion.

He didn’t know if he loved Hermione too.

He’d never really thought to put whatever-he-felt for Hermione into words, other than knowing she was his best friend.

She was his best friend—like Ron. Except not. Because somehow she was different; their friendship was different than his with Ron. He didn’t know how or why—hadn’t even really known it was true until now when he’d stopped to think about it—but it was true. Hermione was just… Hermione.

Oh that was a brilliant statement there, Harry, a little voice in his mind inserted sarcastically. Of course Hermione was Hermione.

And if that was a specimen of his insight, he was never going to figure out what to do about knowing that Hermione loved him.

How did he feel about her?

He snuck a glance at her as she ate, listening to something Neville was saying before responding and then watched as Neville smiled at whatever she’d said.

He suddenly realized that it wasn’t unusual to see Hermione talking to Neville; she had always been nice to Neville, kind to him in a more thoughtful, deliberate way than he had ever been, for sure, and Harry was guiltily aware of all the times he essentially forgot about Neville’s existence. He knew he’d never been actively unkind to Neville—that was something he knew he wouldn’t do—but he’d never really made an effort to get to know Neville either, never talked to Neville except when necessary. Unlike Hermione.

He glanced at her again—only this time, his eyes met hers and she gave him a quick smile before turning back to Neville.

How was it he’d never really stopped to think about how nice Hermione was? She was so nice, innately kind—possibly, no, probably, the kindest person he’d ever met.

And he cared about her. He knew that. She was his best friend; he trusted her and relied on her and liked to spend time with her. He hated to think of her being hurt.

But love?

Love was more than that, meant more than that.

He cared about her as his friend but did he care about her like that?

He didn’t think so—could he, when he never really saw her as a girl?

She was only Hermione, his best friend, to him. He didn’t think of her as a girl—not like Cho.

Cho. Just the thought of her made something inside him seem to twist a little and he involuntarily glanced in the direction of the Ravenclaw table, scanning it for her and then pausing when he finally found her.

She was smiling at something someone said to her and her smile… The something inside him twisted again and he looked away.

He’d never reacted like that to Hermione so how could he love her like that?

Except… Except this was Hermione and he could talk to her, he could laugh with her, he could be himself with her without turning into a stuttering idiot.

And after all, wouldn’t that be… nicer?

He mentally grimaced. That did him no good; he was left right back where he’d started.

He made an attempt to push Hermione’s note—her love— and his confusion from his mind and turned to Ron for a safe distraction.

Only to realize that pushing Hermione from his mind was harder than he could ever have imagined.

He heard her say something to him and sometimes, instead of her actual words, he heard ‘I love you.’ He looked at her and wanted to ask her if it was true, if she’d meant it—of course she had; she didn’t lie—and he wanted to know how it felt, how she’d known that she loved him.

He saw her smile and suddenly found himself staring at her lips. He heard her laugh and wondered why the familiar sound of it suddenly made him react in a way he never had before, something in his chest fluttering, lifting.

He looked at her and all he could think, all he could hear, in his mind, repeating over and over again—product of his imagination as it was—was her voice saying, ‘you’re loved,’ ‘I think you ought to know that you’re loved…’ or most often and most simply, ‘I love you…’

I love you. I love you. I love you…

And one night, he dreamed of her—not of her saying the words to him but of him telling her, ‘I love you too.’ And he dreamed of her smile, the brightness of it illuminating her entire face, until she… shone, was the only word he could think of. She glowed; she took his breath away; and then he kissed her and it was perfect… And in his sleep, he smiled and was happy…

When he awoke, he felt restless and odd, more disturbed than he cared to admit by his dream.

Why had he—how could he have dreamed of Hermione like that? He didn’t fancy her like that! He couldn’t!

Could he?

He hardly knew where to look when he saw her at breakfast in the Great Hall, tried very hard not to look at her (it was harder than he would have thought) and tried very hard not to be aware of her either.

He wasn’t aware of where she was sitting directly across from him, wasn’t aware of every bite she took or every time she drank, wasn’t aware of every time she spoke, wasn’t aware of every time she looked at him, while he kept his gaze fixed studiously down at his plate as if his plate was whispering the secrets of the world to him.

“Harry! Earth to Harry!”

He started at Ron’s loud voice in his ear. “Huh? What?”

Ron grinned at him. “What’s up with you, eh? You haven’t said a word and have you even heard anything that we’ve said to you?”

“Nothing,” he answered, a little too quickly and too forcefully. “I… uh… just had a weird dream.”

Well, that, at least was the truth.

“Oh, Harry, it wasn’t—was it about Voldemort?”

Hermione lowered her voice on the name so as not to be heard by anyone else but Ron flinched and let out a soft hiss.

Harry fixed his gaze on Hermione’s ear rather than her eyes. “No, it was nothing like that. I’m fine, really.”

One lock of curly hair had come loose from where Hermione had tied her hair loosely back to keep it out of her face and was hanging just past her ear, brushing the skin of her neck.

Harry stared, fascinated for no real reason he could name, and only aware of a sudden urge to brush the lock of hair back, wondering what her hair would feel like—wondering, too, what her neck (that looked remarkably soft and smooth), the delicate skin of her ear even, would feel like.

He mentally shook himself, tearing his gaze away.

Bloody hell, he’d gone insane. Wanting to touch Hermione’s ear or her neck? Where had that come from?

Clearly, he was losing his mind. And it was all because of that one bloody note she’d sent him!

He heard her voice in his mind again. I think you ought to know that you’re loved.

His chest warmed, even as something inside him twisted a little. To know that someone—oh, who was he kidding?—to know that Hermione loved him meant more than he would have thought.

And now he couldn’t stop looking at her—or when he wasn’t looking at her, he was thinking about her and that was almost worse.

He went through his classes in something like a daze, although his forcing himself not to look at, or think about, Hermione, contributed to his paying rather more attention than he usually did in class and doing rather better than he usually did.

In Charms, he was the next person to master the Invisibility Charm, to temporarily make objects invisible, after Hermione, much to Professor Flitwick’s surprise—to say nothing of his own. And Hermione rewarded him with a smile so bright and so full of pride it made that annoying something in his chest twist, even as his heart started bouncing around inside him. And he smiled back at her before he could think better of it—although even if he had thought about it, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to keep from smiling at her.

Had her smile always lit up her face like that, made her eyes sparkle like that? Had she always been so… so pretty… when she smiled?

Surely she couldn’t have changed that much in the space of a couple days—but that only meant that he must have been blind, or something.

He didn’t know what she saw in his eyes or his smile but then, after a moment, her eyes dropped from his and, unmistakably, surprisingly, she blushed.

And as if on cue, again, he heard her voice in his head, I think you ought to know that you’re loved.

He dragged his eyes away from her to focus on his desk and then was one of the first to almost leap out of his seat in his haste to leave the Charms classroom—leave her—once class ended, only his not-so-brilliant plan died a quick death when Ron hailed before he’d even reached the door.

“Hey, wait up, Harry!”

Ron gave him an odd look. “Your trousers on fire, or something? I mean, I don’t blame you for wanting to get out of here but really, mate, it isn’t a race.”

“I- uh- I wanted to use the loo before Defense,” Harry lied quickly.

“You’d better hurry, or you’ll be late for class,” Hermione warned him.

This utterly unsentimental and utterly Hermione-like thing to say calmed him as nothing else could have. “Yeah, you’re right. I think I’ll wait.”

“What’s with you?” Ron glanced askance at Harry as they left the classroom before he shrugged. “It’ll be you suffering.”

“Some people happen to think being on time for class is a good thing,” Hermione said pointedly, saving Harry from having to respond.

“Some people are absolutely batty,” Ron retorted, equally pointedly, and with a half-glare at Hermione.

Hermione let out an irritated huff of breath as she stalked forward, refraining from responding.

And Harry relaxed more than he’d been able to all day.

Ron and Hermione were bickering again; he didn’t feel any need to either defend her or stare at her. Clearly, all was back to normal in his world.

Right, he was fine. His being distracted by looking at Hermione, his awareness of her at breakfast, even his dream, was only some sort of fluke. It didn’t mean anything. Really.

Normal lasted for all of a few hours before his world fell apart around him.

They were in the Library, studying, before dinner. Or, at least, Hermione was studying, Ron was surreptitiously looking through the latest issue of Quidditch Weekly, and Harry was staring blindly down at his open book, seeing the words on the page but not comprehending anything he read while he tried not to be so conscious of Hermione sitting next to him.

Tried, and failed. He knew every time she turned a page, knew every time she stopped to write something down. It was driving him mad.

Ron let out a cavernous yawn. “I’m going to head back to the Common Room. Harry? You coming?”

Harry glanced at Hermione to see her roll her eyes and opened his lips to agree but heard his voice say, “No, I think I’ll stay here for a while longer.”

Ron shrugged. “Okay, then, be bored. See you guys at dinner.”

“You don’t have to stay just for me, you know.”

“I don’t mind,” he said automatically as he turned to look at her and then laughed a little in spite of himself. “Is that a new fashion?” he teased.

“What?”

“You have ink on your face. Right there,” he said, pointing to the spot on her cheek.

“Oh. Thanks.”

She wiped at her cheek but didn’t manage to get it all.

“Is it gone?”

“Not quite,” he smiled. “Here, let me do it since I can see what I’m doing.”

The words were said lightly enough but then his hand touched her cheek as his thumb gently wiped the ink off her face and all amusement faded, along with his smile.

God, her skin was so soft, so smooth… He stared at her, forgetting to breathe or blink or move, forgetting why his hand was touching her cheek in the first place, and wondered rather dumbly if he’d ever really looked at her before.

His gaze dropped down to her lips that parted slightly on a soft breath…

Good God, what was he doing?

He dropped his hand from her face as if he’d been burned and hastily looked away, busying himself with gathering his stuff together.

“It’s gone now,” he said quickly. “I- er- I’m going to go find Ron. I just remembered I wanted to ask him something,” he blurted out.

And then he fled, leaving the library as if a manticore was chasing him.

He didn’t stop until he was nearly all the way back to the Gryffindor Tower and had to pause to catch his breath.

What had he been thinking? Or not thinking. He hadn’t been thinking; he’d just reacted from instinct—or some other part of him that clearly didn’t listen to his brain.

He’d almost kissed Hermione. He’d wanted to kiss Hermione.

Oh hell. He still wanted to kiss Hermione.

When had that happened? How had that happened?

He didn’t know but it had—and he couldn’t deny it anymore.

It wasn’t that he really cared about her more than he already had but before, he’d been able to rationalize it as her only being his best friend because he didn’t think of her as a girl. But now… It was as if her sending him that Valentine had tacitly given him permission to think of Hermione as a girl and once he started to think of her as a girl, he couldn’t stop thinking about her like that.

He felt like the world had tilted off its axis so south was now east and north was now west or something like that.

And then, on his way to dinner that evening, it got worse.

He was heading for the Great Hall when he stopped short, seeing Malfoy with Crabbe and Goyle having cornered Hermione, each big, beefy goon gripping one of her arms, keeping her imprisoned. His fist clenched around his wand as he felt some surge of emotion bubble up inside him, choking him with its intensity, and it actually took him a moment to identify it as rage, sheer, murderous rage he’d never felt before, not so strongly.

He had his wand out and his mouth open to hex them when Hermione moved, so quickly he couldn’t really see how but she did, twisting sharply and punching one fist straight into Crabbe’s stomach, causing him to gasp and double over. And Hermione took advantage of both the distraction and his movement to shove past him, whipping her wand out of her pocket as she did so.

Malfoy stepped towards her with something like a snarl twisting his face but stopped short when she pointed her wand straight between his eyes.

“I wouldn’t try anything, ferret-face,” she snapped and then when he stepped back, allowed herself a disdainful smile. “Not so brave when your victim isn’t helpless, are you?”

She turned and stalked off toward the Great Hall, but not before muttering something and Harry had to stifle a laugh as Malfoy’s hair immediately grew until it nearly reached his waist.

Malfoy sizzled a glare at Crabbe and Goyle who had doubled over laughing before he ran off towards the Hospital Wing.

Harry stared after where Hermione had headed, trying to sort through the confusion of his thoughts and forcibly relaxing his muscles, one by one, all of which had tensed up on seeing the confrontation.

How dare they corner her like that? How dare anyone even think of hurting her? She was—she was… Hermione and… and she meant so much to him and the thought of anyone hurting her or bothering her in any way made him want to inflict some serious pain on the person who dared…

And he was suddenly very sure—stunned at the revelation, but sure—that Hermione was the most important person in the world to him and he would do anything for her.

The realization knocked the breath out of him, made him feel as if the Whomping Willow had just walloped him in the stomach.

Oh God. Now what was he supposed to do?

He did love her.

This had to be love. It was too powerful to be anything else. It was a melding of all he’d always felt for her and more than that too.

I think you ought to know that you’re loved…

And for the first time, he allowed himself to think, honestly, no prevarications or denials anymore, I love you too.

~*~

Hermione found the note the next morning.

It fell out of her Transfiguration textbook when she opened it in class.

She took advantage of the last minute or so before class started to read it.

It was very short and unsigned, but then it didn’t need to be. She knew the handwriting, the rather cramped, slanted, boyish scrawl, as well as she knew her own.

She glanced at him to see him gazing studiously at his open textbook but somehow she knew he had only just withdrawn his gaze, knew he would look at her again.

And after a minute, he did, glancing at her and catching her eye.

She smiled at him, brilliantly.

He returned her smile with one of his own, even as color crept into his cheeks.

And she heard his voice in her head saying the words he’d written. I love you too.

How either of them got through the next hour, he didn’t know and for once, he could tell, Hermione’s attention in class was less than complete.

But class finally ended and, before he could wonder what would happen now, Hermione took his hand, making his heart immediately start clattering around in his chest as if it wanted to escape and he only just managed to keep from gaping at their joined hands as if he’d never seen them before.

She looked at Ron. “Ron, go on ahead to lunch. I just remembered I have to tell Harry something.”

Ron gave them an odd look but, thankfully, didn’t question it.

Hermione tugged Harry into the nearest empty classroom, letting go of his hand.

And then—silence.

Harry wasn’t quite sure what to do or where to look or what to say—it wasn’t like he had any experience of this.

“Did you mean it?” she finally asked softly.

That got him to look at her. “Yeah.” He paused, hesitated. “Did you?”

And then before he could so much as blink, she threw herself at him and hugged him hard. “Oh, Harry, of course I did! But I didn’t think, didn’t even hope that you’d feel the same way…”

He wrapped his arms around her, daringly allowing his lips to brush against her hair.

“I didn’t know I did until your note basically told me so,” he said with an attempt at humor that somehow fell flat. “Luckily for me, you’re much smarter than I am.”

“Oh Harry…” she laughed softly, drawing back just enough to look at him.

He moved his hand to cup her cheek, irresistibly, much as he had before when he’d been wiping that spot of ink away but this time, it was only because he wanted to.

And again, he forgot how to breathe or move or think as he stared at her.

God, she was so pretty… With her eyes shining, her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly parted, she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen.

His fingers moved, brushing her cheek in a light caress.

“How did you know,” he asked suddenly in a husky whisper, “that I needed to know someone cared?” He hadn’t even realized how much he’d needed to know that someone cared until her little Valentine but it had meant so much… To know that someone alive cared about him, loved him…

“I didn’t, really, but I wanted you to know.”

He would never be able to tell her in words how much it had meant; it wasn’t in him and he didn’t know how to say it. But—his gaze dropped down to her lips—he could show her…

And then, very slowly, he closed the distance between them and he kissed her—and, just like it had been in his dream—no, better than it had been in his dream—it was perfect…

~The End~