Own Two Hands

Title: Own Two Hands
Author: Jori
Summary: His hands never trembled again. That is, until now.
Rating: PG-13 for one paragraph

A/N: A short story I wrote from Hermione's POV in my attempt to write something fluffy. And something not rated NC-17. That's not easy for me. This idea started stirring around in my head while reading OotP and really got going when that one picture came out in Newsweek (you know the one.) Anyway, this contains wandless magic Harry and some other sappy little plot elements.

This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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One would have to admit they aren't what people notice about him first. We all know what that is as it has already been covered in great length in other tales about his illustrious life. What many never pay any notice to is his hands. The scar blazing across his forehead may tell us who he is but the real story of what he has done with his life lies in his hands.

When we first met on the train, he had the ordinary hands of a typical boy. His nails were a mess, bitten down so far they had to hurt and his fingers were covered in tiny peck marks, surely provided by his new owl. Besides that, they were slightly red, as if he had held them under hot dishwater for too many years now. Ron was the one doing something with his hands, waving his wand at that silly (not really a) rat of his. Harry, meanwhile, was sitting there, fingers (now sticky from sweets) nervously playing with a frayed hole in his pants.

If someone would have stopped me outside the compartment that day and told me what sort of strange power those hands would eventually have in my life and the life of so many others, I would have thought them barking mad. Then I would have suggested they get him to stop biting his nails.

When did I first notice that his hands might be something more? Was it when he put his palm out over that old school broomstick, shouted 'up!' and it immediately ended up clutched in his grip? For all my cleverness, I wasn't even capable of that. Or was it a few minutes later, when his fingers nimbly caught Neville's Remembrall and held on to it? In an instant, they went from being the ordinary hands of a boy to being the hands of a Seeker.

There were many incidents back then that I didn't witness but only found out about later, such as his final meeting with Professor Quirrell or with the basilisk and Tom Riddle in the chamber. With his hands, he fought off Quirrell (or, if I understand the story correctly, he at least held him off long enough for Professor Dumbledore to arrive) and with those same hands he used the sword to slay the basilisk. Many probably wondered how he kept escaping death time and time again. He was just a boy after all, and for how long would that 'The Boy Who Lived' title still apply? Others were simply thankful that he was alive.

Over time, his hands changed and soon were no longer the hands of a child. His nails weren't always chewed upon (except at exam time) and that constant layer of grime that boys seem to carry with them disappeared. Now they often had a thin layer of handle polish on them instead. They were changing, like the rest of him, growing stronger and more confident. With those hands, he could get past dragons and pull people from the bottom of the lake.

Then, for a while, he learned that some things were completely out of his hands. He could bring Cedric's body home but he couldn't save his life. He couldn't save Sirius. But I remember well his hands saving me many times. Instinctively, he'd pull me from danger, his fingers gripping onto me as we ran from one thing or another, making sure I didn't fall behind. His hands were what kept me safe. He'd never let me fall.

And those hands . . . those hands when he first touched me there. A surprise. A sudden shift from being just friends to being something better -- to being in love. Gasping, panting, begging for more, he'd push me over the edge with his hands and this time I wanted to fall. It didn't matter where we were -- behind the Quidditch pitch or under a blanket late at night in the common room -- after I got my first taste of what he could do, it was never enough.

But his hands had another purpose beyond satisfying my desire. "Do you think I can kill someone?" he asked me so many years ago, after we first began dating. He was looking at his hands, those hands I loved, and I didn't have any easy answers for him.

"If you have to, I think you can do anything," I said, taking his hands in mine. He could now do magic without always needing his wand. It was only simple things then, like sticking out his hand and having his wand come to him. This seemed to surprise no one, not even me. There was so much magic pent up inside of him, boiling under the surface and struggling to break free.

Then, looking at his hands in mine, I knew that he would one day have to finish off Voldemort with them, and whether there was a wand in them or not made no difference. He was the one who would be holding the wand. A tiny part of me suffered with him over that thought. As much as we all wanted him gone, I didn't want Harry to be the one who had to do it.

But when the time came, he did the job well. I don't remember how I got there, cowering behind some toppled statue . . . 'Stay down, Hermione. Don't move!' . . . as I watched him hold off Voldemort with his own two hands and this power and magic I had never even imagined existed.

"Love won't save you forever, Potter," a cold voice said, echoing down the dark corridor at Hogwarts. Our last enclave had been breached and there was no turning back now. Ron had been separated from us and I wished he could have been here watching this instead of me.

"Sure it will, Riddle," Harry said, facing down his enemy and calling him by his Muggle father's name. His confidence scared me and I wanted to tell him to come to me. We would wait for help. Help had to be coming soon. But deep inside, I knew that Harry had to do this. Live or die, he had to do this now and I had to believe in him. He glanced my way quickly before focusing on Voldemort. "Love's the one thing I have on my side that you don't. That, and I'm a better wizard than you could ever be."

After that, everything around me erupted in sparks and an eerie glow came from Harry as he aimed an empty hand at Voldemort's wand. It went tumbling to the ground, getting lost in a cloud of thick, acrid smoke.

I hoped I was the only one who noticed that Harry's hand had trembled ever so slightly.

"Now imagine what I'm capable of with my wand," Harry called out. I felt the anger rolling off him, replacing any trepidation he might have had.

Voldemort fell to the ground, clawing at the cold stone floor. Harry stepped closer and drew his wand out of his pocket, aiming it at Voldemort as he stood up. Voldemort wasn't going to make that mistake twice and this time he kept his wand clutched in his fingers.

I forced myself to hold my eyes open, afraid I might be the only witness left when this was over. Someone had to remember this day. Curses flew about, blocked and returned, intermingled with cries of pain and anger. I had never felt so much rage coming from Harry. It almost felt . . . dark.

Time stood still in that corridor and didn't start moving again until it was done. The sparks stopped and the smoke filling the corridor began to clear. Harry was still alive. Voldemort was not. Harry found me, shaking in the spot he told me not to move from, and extended his hand . I took it in mine and he gently pulled me to my feet. We fell into an embrace, tears finally overriding the rush of adrenaline that had been pumping through our veins.

"It's over," he said, holding me, his fingers carefully wiping the tears from my face.

"No, I think it's just beginning," I said, a smile winning out over all the tears. I couldn't even fathom what he would be capable of in the future if he could do these things now.

After that, he was always confident in himself and the ability he had within him. His hands never trembled again.

That is, until now.

I watch as he takes our baby into his arms for the first time and moves the blanket just a little to get a better look at her. His hands are shaking despite his giddy, somewhat confident smile. Only I would notice those hands trembling as he strokes her cheek, his fingers moving gently across her delicate features.

He studies one of her tiny hands, a look of amazement on his face, and then kisses each rosy fingertip. The baby grasps onto one of his fingers and holds it tight. I can't help but to watch where their hands are joined and I can't stop the tears.

"They're perfect," he says, lost in his own world with his daughter.

"Yes, they are. They most certainly are."

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The End