Because He Needed Her

Bingblot

Rating: PG
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 14/02/2009
Last Updated: 14/02/2009
Status: completed

She was alive and she was there-- and he couldn't push her away now. He needed her too much... Another take on what should have happened at the beginning of HBP; one-shot.

Chapters

1. Because He Needed Her

1. Because He Needed Her

Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR, little though she deserves it. I’m just borrowing her world to fix her mistakes a little.

Author’s Note: I wanted to go back to the nice, innocent time right after OotP came out and before the disaster that was HBP. Yet another take on what should have happened after OotP and how HBP should have started. Mostly fluff—consider it my little Valentine’s Day gift for you all. Enjoy!

Because He Needed Her

Harry jerked awake with a sharp gasp, a scream clogging his throat but he forced it back as he blinked, getting his bearings.

Sirius. The name seared his mind and he felt a sharp surge of mingled grief and anger commingled so much that he couldn’t tell which emotion was stronger.

Sirius. He pictured again the red light hit Sirius in the chest, the look of surprise on Sirius’ face, before he fell through the Veil…

Harry shuddered to himself, closing his eyes as if that would somehow block the image of Sirius falling through the Veil from his mind. It didn’t work; all it did was seem to make the image even clearer and he opened his eyes again, staring into the darkness of his room.

Sirius. For a second, he could swear he heard Sirius laugh, the familiar dog-like bark of amusement, and he almost smiled before another memory intruded, wiping away all amusement. He remembered the night he’d met Sirius and Sirius asking him if he wanted to live with him instead of with the Dursleys, remembered his rush of excitement and happiness at the thought of leaving the Dursleys, of living with someone who actually cared.

He tore his mind away from the memories, that were just too painful now, and tried to think about something, anything, else—but the only other things that came to mind weren’t designed to cheer him; if anything, they only made him feel worse.

He remembered arguing with Hermione and insisting, stubbornly, that they go rescue Sirius. Stupid, stupid! He should have known better! He’d already realized that Voldemort had found a way to somehow get into his head. He should have known better than to argue with Hermione; how often was Hermione wrong? He should have known better than to think Sirius would be in the Ministry—as Hermione had pointed out, how would Sirius have gotten into the Ministry at that hour of the day with no one noticing? And for Voldemort to be in the Ministry too at that hour? He’d been stupid and Sirius had been the one to pay for his mistake.

Damn it!

His fist clenched, his eyes stinging with sudden, angry tears, and in a surge of self-hate and anger and guilt, he slammed his fist into the wall.

Sodding bloody damn!

He almost savored the sting of pain in his knuckles—and then started a little at the quiet knock on the door before he heard Hermione’s voice.

“Harry, can I come in?”

“Oh, if you want to,” he said ungraciously.

She slipped inside. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he said shortly.

With one quick wave of her wand, she turned on one light and moved over to sit beside him on his bed, her eyes going from the tiny crack in the wall to his bruised and bloody hand.

“Oh, Harry…” she sighed. “Here, let me help.”

Without waiting for an answer, she took his hand in hers, conjuring up a small jar of some white ointment and some bandages with quick, efficient movements, and focused on rubbing the ointment onto his abused knuckles.

Her touch was gentle and Harry felt himself relax almost in spite of himself, some of his anger dissipating.

But then, he had found that she was almost the only person he wasn’t mad at right now.

He was angry at himself for being stupid, angry at Dumbledore for not telling him everything, angry at Snape for being such a bastard and not helping him with Legilimency at all, angry at Kreacher for lying. At times, he was even angry at Sirius for going to the Ministry instead of leaving the rescue to the rest of the Order. He found himself getting increasingly annoyed with even the Weasleys, all of whom were so careful around him now, tiptoeing around him as if they feared he would snap—he knew it was ungrateful of him, given how kind the Weasleys had always been to him, but he couldn’t help it. Their carefully sympathetic expressions and barely-hidden pity in their voices grated on him and made him almost want to lash out.

Hermione was the only person who did not tiptoe around him, did not treat him like he was some fragile thing constantly on the verge of cracking.

His gaze focused on her hands as she worked on his hand. She was so gentle—and somehow, the thought almost surprised him, not because he didn’t know she could be gentle but because he did know. And yet, gentle was never a word he particularly associated with Hermione; when he thought of her, he thought of cleverness, or loyalty, or courage, or determination—but gentleness? He didn’t think of her as gentle or kind but he knew she was. He suddenly remembered how she had stopped him from attacking the Death Eater with the baby’s head, saying he couldn’t hurt a baby—but he knew he would have, if it hadn’t been for her. He would have regretted it later, he knew, but in the heat of the moment, he would have, had been going to hurt the baby—except she had stopped him.

It wasn’t only that she was the voice of his conscience now but somehow, she made him better, a better person—in spite of himself, more often than not, it seemed, but she did. When she was with him… that was why he needed her with him…

He abruptly stiffened, tensing once again. He needed her—but he couldn’t keep her with him. He couldn’t let her stay with him. Not now, not anymore, not when he knew what that meant…

“I know you’re angry but hurting yourself isn’t going to do anyone any good,” she chided him, mildly enough, but her tone effectively expressed her disapproval, even if it was mixed in with sympathy.

“I am angry!” he admitted heatedly. “I’m angry at everyone but most of all, I’m angry at myself. It’s my fault Sirius is d—gone, my fault--” his voice broke on something like a sob and he turned away from her sharply, his shoulders slumping, as his anger abruptly died to be replaced with the soul-searing guilt and sorrow.

“Harry.”

His name was all she said, just the one word, as she rested her hand on his back.

He flinched away from her. “Go away, Hermione. My hand’s all bandaged up now so you can leave.”

His voice was cold and would have sent anyone else scurrying away, but not Hermione.

“No.”

“For God’s sake, Hermione! Leave me alone!”

“Harry!” She almost forcibly turned him around and then threw her arms around him in a hug that spoke of so much emotion, so much determination, it almost made her words unnecessary. “Don’t shut me out, Harry. I won’t let you shut me out and I’m not going to leave you alone.”

Harry stiffened, all his muscles locking in preparation to push her away—he was going to push her away—he had to push her away… But he could, somehow, feel Hermione’s heart beating, strong and fast, against his, could hear her breath and feel the warmth of her—warm and solid and alive—against him and his mind leaped back to that terrible, wonderful moment in the Department of Mysteries. To Neville saying, “Dat’s a pulse, Harry, I’b sure id is,”—words that had somehow, in spite of Neville’s broken voice, sounded as beautiful as anything he’d ever heard. And that moment of knee-weakening, heart-stopping, dizzying relief—Hermione was alive!

She was alive and she was there and—and he couldn’t push her away now.

Slowly, his arms went around her as he returned her hug, a little tentatively at first but then with more force as he remembered that moment of stark panic when he’d thought—for one ghastly second—that she was dead.

But she hadn’t died; she had lived and it was one of the few good things he remembered about that horrible day.

He needed her… Needed her too much—because even though he knew he should push her away, distance himself from her, he couldn’t… He just wasn’t strong enough to push her away, wasn’t strong enough to do this alone.

So even though he knew he shouldn’t, he hugged her back, clutched her to him, and in the warmth and comfort of that hug, Harry felt the hard, aching knot of guilt and regret and sorrow and anger in his chest begin to loosen. It didn’t go away but for the first time, he thought that someday, it might…

He let out a few shuddering breaths and found himself admitting, very low, “I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I can forgive myself or—or anything.”

Her arms tightened around him briefly before she drew back, meeting his eyes. “Harry, it wasn’t your fault. You shouldn’t blame yourself, honestly you shouldn’t.”

“How can you say that? It was my fault. I was the one who insisted on going to the Department of Mysteries and if I’d just listened to you… How can you say that it’s not my fault? Why don’t you blame me?”

“Did you really think I would? It wasn’t your fault, Harry; it’s Kreacher’s for lying to you and it’s Voldemort’s fault for tricking you into thinking Sirius was in danger.”

Oddly, the mention of Voldemort broke through his haze of self-recrimination so he had to listen to her, had to believe her sincerity and her honesty, but he couldn’t believe it himself. “If I hadn’t been stupid, Sirius would still be here…”

Hermione suppressed a sigh but didn’t argue with him, instead took a different tack. “Harry, you can’t keep on blaming yourself like this; it does no one any good and Sirius wouldn’t want you to think like this.”

He sucked in a sharp breath.

“Think about it, Harry. Even if Sirius had known what was going to happen, do you think it would have stopped him from going to the Department of Mysteries to save you? You know it wouldn’t have. If he had the choice again, even knowing what would happen, do you think he’d act any differently?”

“No.” The word was very low, soft, almost compelled from him unwillingly.

“He wouldn’t want you to beat yourself up over what happened, Harry. What you did, you did because you cared—and you can’t blame yourself for that.”

He didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything. Was she—could she be right? His throat was tight, his chest clogged with emotion, and he suddenly wished that Hermione would leave. He was terribly afraid he was going to cry and he didn’t want her to see it.

The silence seemed to stretch on forever and every second hurt her. He wasn’t looking at her, was staring fixedly at the floor and she almost flinched, unwanted tears pricking at the back of her eyes.

Had she gone too far? She knew Harry, knew his stubbornness, knew how he blamed himself—why would he believe her for simply saying it wasn’t his fault?

She hesitated, arguing with herself, but then finally moved to stand up. He wasn’t listening; he didn’t want her help or her comfort—at least not now. Earlier, when he’d returned her hug, she’d thought… She’d thought he might but now—no, she wouldn’t stay if it would only make him angry and upset him more.

“Think about it, Harry, and believe me. It wasn’t your fault,” she repeated as she stood up.

He grabbed her hand before she could take a step. “No, stay,” he blurted out, almost before he knew what he was going to say. Whereas just a second earlier, he’d wanted her to leave, now he knew he couldn’t bear it if she did. He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted… He wanted to be with her… “Stay,” he said again.

And she did.

She sat back down beside him, her gaze drawn irresistibly to his hand still gripping her fingers, their joined hands resting on the bed between them. She didn’t know if he’d forgotten to let go or if he actually intended to keep holding her hand but she wasn’t going to pull away. It wasn’t a romantic sort of hand-holding; it was a shade too tight, a little awkward with the way he was gripping her fingers, but for a fleeting, foolish moment, Hermione let herself imagine, let herself hope…

After a minute, though, he released her hand as if he’d just realized he was still holding it. She felt his sideways glance at her but didn’t look at him and finally he looked away, returning his gaze to the floor.

He didn’t say anything and she wished she knew what he was thinking, why he’d told her to stay, if he’d really meant it but she didn’t say anything either. Could not think of anything to say.

How long they sat in silence like that, she couldn’t have said but this time, at least, she felt that the silence was a comfortable one, a silence that comforted and soothed—at least, she hoped it did.

After a long while, Hermione moved, shifting a little, and then daringly let her head fall to rest on his shoulder, wondering if he would move away, if he would say anything.

He didn’t.

Finally, after a moment’s hesitation, Harry ventured to put his arm around her, tentatively, wondering if she would let him, if she would be made uncomfortable—and wondering, too, why he was doing this.

Their hug earlier had been more an outburst of emotion but this—this involved a conscious decision. This was something he’d never done before. He didn’t know what had made him think to put his arm around her; he only knew that it somehow felt right.

She didn’t move, only nestled her head a little more firmly against his shoulder.

His arm tightened almost imperceptibly around her, more by instinct than design, as his heart leaped.

And in the silence, he couldn’t help but wonder… Dangerous thoughts, thoughts that could lead to betrayal, edged into his mind.

He tried to imagine telling anyone else about his guilt over Sirius, tried to imagine being comforted by anyone else, but he knew there was no one else whom he would have talked to. There was no one else he trusted enough to show his vulnerabilities to. There was only Hermione, had always only been Hermione.

She was his best friend, of course, so trust was natural. But friendship didn’t explain the rest…

Friendship didn’t explain why he had panicked so much when he’d thought Hermione was dead, his whole mind, body and soul freezing in horror, so he hadn’t even been able to react to Dolohov raising his wand. He hadn’t been able to move, let alone think, in that endless second.

It didn’t explain it—not when he’d seen Ron be attacked by that brain and he hadn’t reacted nearly as strongly. It didn’t explain it because—the thought crept into his mind, insidious and persistent--even when he’d seen Sirius fall through the Veil, he hadn’t panicked. He’d felt—still felt—a rush of horror and grief and disbelief—but he had still been able to think, still been able to move. Had still been able to pursue Bellatrix Lestrange with the crazy idea of revenge.

He had only panicked over Hermione.

It wasn’t only friendship he felt for Hermione—but that was where his thoughts stopped, his mind rapidly backtracking.

But the thought persisted, returned to his mind with all the insistence of truth.

It wasn’t only friendship; it was more than that, somehow. More than what he felt for Ron, more than what he felt for Sirius—just more…

Friendship hadn’t pushed him into blind panic. And friendship didn’t explain the odd twist in his stomach the other day when he’d seen Ron put his hand on Hermione’s shoulder and Hermione look up at Ron with a slight, serious sort of smile.

And friendship didn’t explain this, how he could be sitting here with Hermione, his arm around her, and only be conscious of a vague wish that they’d never have to move again…

“Hermione,” he abruptly began, breaking the comfortable silence before he’d even consciously decided to do so, “can I ask you something?”

“Of course. What is it?”

He hesitated, swallowed, and then found himself blurting out, “Is anything going on between you and Ron?” He closed his mouth, appalled; he hadn’t meant to ask so bluntly but the words had escaped him without thought.

“What? No, of course not. Ron’s just… Ron…”

“I think he fancies you, though,” Harry said, rather unwillingly but honestly. He did think Ron fancied Hermione. It was the biggest reason why Hermione had always been firmly placed in the ‘Off limits’ category in his mind. He couldn’t think of Hermione in any way other than a friend—not when Ron fancied her too.

But he’d realized—too late, it seemed—that it wasn’t up to him. He hadn’t meant to feel anything other than simple friendship for Hermione but, he knew now, he did.

Hermione was silent for a moment but then she sighed a little, straightening until she was no longer leaning against him. He felt the loss of her warmth against him with a pang. Obviously Hermione fancied Ron too and she was trying to let him know that, let him know that she was ‘off limits.’ Something inside his chest twisted and he suddenly found it hard to breathe until she spoke again.

“No, I think Ron thinks he fancies me—but that isn’t the same thing.”

“It isn’t?” Harry asked dumbly, even as the hard knot in his chest eased a little, allowing him to breathe.

He wasn’t looking at her, couldn’t look at her, but somehow he sensed the fleeting smile cross her face. “No, it isn’t. I think it’s because I’m the first girl Ron has really known, in a sense. It’s like he woke up one day and realized that I was a girl and thought he must fancy me because I’m a girl and he knows me and has actually talked to me.”

“You make it sound like there’s no other reason for Ron to fancy you.”

“Well, there isn’t, really.”

In any other girl, Harry might have thought she was fishing for compliments; Hermione stated it as if it were a fact.

“That’s a stupid thing to say,” he blurted out unthinkingly. And then he winced at how that sounded. “I meant, um, it’s not true.”

“That’s sweet, Harry, but it’s okay. I know I’m not pretty or fun or good at Quidditch or any of those things guys care about. And I-”

“That’s not all guys care about,” Harry interrupted her. “There are more important things,” he said, unconsciously echoing the words she’d once said to him but once he’d said them, he remembered and he added, with a slight smile, “Like friendship and bravery.”

She let out a soft laugh and he finally looked at her to see her smile. “Thanks, Harry, but even you know that’s not true. What about you and Cho?”

Cho. Harry was surprised to realize that he could barely remember what she looked like anymore; somehow, all that—fancying her—seemed like something that had happened a very long time ago or happened to some other person and not himself. With what had happened at the Ministry—and leading up to it—and Sirius (and for the first time, he didn’t inwardly wince at the name), Cho felt like a very distant, very unimportant, part of his past.

“You’re right,” he conceded and saw her smile a little, more in understanding than in triumph, before he continued, “But you know how badly that went. I know there are more important things,” he repeated and then found himself blurting out thoughtlessly, “And anyway, you’re pretty too.”

Surprise and another expression he couldn’t quite read flickered across her face before she settled for simply smiling. “Thanks.”

He shrugged one shoulder, suddenly ill at ease with her after he’d just blurted out so much. He wasn’t going to ask anything more about her and Ron, he resolved; he couldn’t. She was just his best friend. His best friend, nothing more, nothing less. (Except, he found, to his dismay, that not even repeating the sentence to himself could make him believe it entirely. Not anymore, not now. Hermione wasn’t only his best friend, not to him. He didn’t know what exactly she was or what exactly he felt for her but it was more than friendship, more than what he’d felt for Cho, just… more…)

But apparently, his mouth was no longer connected to his brain or his mouth had just stopped listening to his brain’s commands because in another minute, he heard his voice ask, “Don’t you fancy Ron, though?”

Hermione sucked in her breath a little at the question, her heart suddenly clattering in her chest. She couldn’t believe Harry was asking her this, couldn’t believe he wanted to know enough to ask and that, combined with his artless confession that she was pretty too, made her make a quick decision. It might turn out to be one of the most reckless decisions of her life but she couldn’t not do it, not when her mind was telling her that there was only one reason why Harry would want to know about her and Ron… “No, I don’t,” she said softly and certainly and then took a breath before she finished, “I fancy someone else.”

Harry stiffened, withdrawing almost imperceptibly from her and increasing the distance between their bodies. He was an idiot; he was a stupid idiot—of course Hermione would fancy someone else. She was still writing to Viktor Krum after all and Krum was a Quidditch star and Durmstrang Champion and could tell her about all sorts of things that Harry had probably never even heard of. “Oh,” he managed to say, a little flatly, and then he physically had to bite his tongue to keep from asking who. He wasn’t going to ask, he told himself fiercely, he really wasn’t going to ask. He didn’t need to know… it shouldn’t matter so much to him anyway. (Shouldn’t—but it did…)

He was so caught up in his own thoughts and in trying not to blurt anything else out that he almost missed her next words, soft as they were.

“It’s you.”

It’s you.

He stared at her, not conscious of any other emotion but surprise bordering on shock. She- she fancied him? Hermione fancied him! He felt the first beginnings of happiness break through his surprise—Hermione fancied him!—but then as quickly as his emotions had risen, another thought had them plummet again.

It was impossible. This—whatever he felt for her, whatever she felt for him—it couldn’t happen; nothing could happen. It wasn’t safe. He didn’t even want to think of what Voldemort would try to do if he ever found out about Hermione—didn’t want to think of it but the visions, the nightmares, shuddered through him anyway and he knew it was impossible.

He flinched away from her, from the thought of her being tortured or worse. And all he could think to say, to blurt out desperately, was, “You can’t!”

He felt her stiffen. “What? Why not?”

“It’s not safe. You know it’s not safe! Voldemort would—he would—you can’t fancy me. People who care about me end up being hurt.”

He almost sensed her dismay, sensed her withdrawal from him, and accepted it. She knew he was right; of course she knew he was right. This was Hermione and she always knew, always understood…

He should be feeling relieved, should be feeling glad that he wouldn’t have to argue with her about this—but he couldn’t make himself feel it. He didn’t feel relief at all. His chest suddenly felt hollow, his stomach felt as if the bottom had dropped out of it leaving him empty inside…

“Don’t be an idiot, Harry.”

What? He was jerked out of his melancholy by her voice, still low and quiet, dangerously low and quiet. And he realized with a sense of shock that Hermione hadn’t accepted his words at all. She wasn’t resigned or hurt or sympathetic—at least not anymore. She was angry.

Anger was the last reaction he’d expected from her and, oddly enough, it startled him out of his own determination, his own acceptance, made him begin to doubt himself. He looked up at her, stared at her. “It’s true,” he began, in half-feeble defense.

She gave him such a look that he almost drew back.

“Don’t be stupid, Harry. I’m already in danger and I would be in danger anyway because I’m Muggle-born. And even if it is dangerous, do you think I care more about that than I do about you?” Her voice had stayed quite low throughout but he knew her well enough to recognize the anger underlying the quietness, recognized all her stubborn courage in her eyes and her tone. She pinned him with her gaze as she paused. “Do you?”

There was only one answer he could give. “No.”

And with that one word, all his reasoning, all his fears, somehow collapsed in on themselves, leaving only rubble behind. He was still afraid for her, yes, but suddenly his fears seemed hollow in the face of her reaction. He looked at her, saw the sparks in her eyes, the familiar, determined set of her lips and her chin… No. He didn’t think that of her; knew her better than that. He knew her loyalty and her courage, knew her determination and her strength… He li—loved that about her…

“No,” he said again, more softly. “I know you won’t leave me.” Because he did know it. Of all people, Hermione was the only one who’d never left him, never let him down… And he realized that he’d always known that, in some small corner of his mind, even when he’d been trying to push her away, some part of him had known that she wouldn’t listen, she wouldn’t leave him…

Her eyes and her expression softened. “No, I won’t,” was all she said, her voice quiet.

“I- I care about you too,” he blurted out. “I- I need you,” he added with the same unthinking, blunt honesty.

“Oh, Harry…” She slipped her arms around him and hugged him, nestling her head against his shoulder.

He closed his arms around her automatically, letting his eyes close for a few moments. This was… nice… he thought idly. It felt… good… to feel her warmth against him, her arms around him… He wasn’t used to hugging people or being hugged but he suddenly thought that he could definitely become accustomed to this, this comfort, this feeling of being cared for…

And then she moved, stirred a little against him, and he abruptly realized—belatedly—just how close to him she was, that her upper body was practically pressed against his, that he could feel the softness of her curves against him and… and… And she was definitely a girl and he was a boy and he… he cared about her…

He felt her turn her head to brush her lips against his cheek in a half-daring caress and he drew his head back, turning his head just enough so that her lips trailed along his cheek to touch his lips instead.

For a fleeting moment, time—the entire world—seemed to freeze, hold its breath, as they paused, their lips just brushing against each other in something that was more just a touch of lips than a real kiss, an experiment of sorts, a moment to savor… But then she tightened her arms around him almost imperceptibly and pressed her lips against his more firmly and he responded, his lips softening, his head angling itself to fit against hers better.

Tentatively, a little hesitantly, his tongue flicked against her lips, that parted for him willingly as she pressed closer to him.

He could taste her, he suddenly realized—it was an odd, almost discordant thought to have at the moment but it slipped into his mind—her lips were warm and her mouth was soft and warm and inviting. She tasted like… tasted like… nothing he could identify except to think that it was… nice… comforting and thrilling at the same time… just Hermione…

Her tongue flickered against his before returning with more confidence to tangle with his tongue and he could have sworn his entire body reacted, his heart leaping, his lungs seizing, what little breath he had entirely stopping until he was almost dizzy and finally, reluctantly, had to stop, one hand going up to touch her cheek as if to make up for the end of the kiss.

He didn’t draw back, couldn’t have drawn back much even if he’d wanted to considering her arms were still around him as one of his arms were still around her and he had no inclination to let her go. Instead he only rested his forehead lightly against hers, catching his breath and conscious that her breath was mingling with his.

“Hermione…” he finally breathed. He didn’t know what to say but felt he had to say something and so he settled for just her name.

Her head moved, drawing back just enough so she could meet his eyes. And he could see the way her eyes almost glowed at him, see the slight, half-dreamy smile on her lips.

“Harry…” she sighed softly.

They were both silent again for another long minute, a gentle, contented silence, as he let his eyes smile into hers.

He saw the change in her smile, in the look in her eyes, and it gave him a moment’s warning before she spoke again, softly, half-teasingly, “I knew you weren’t a bad kisser.”

A bubble of laughter escaped from him, almost surprising him. “Maybe it’s you that’s the good kisser.”

She laughed, softly. “Well, if we’re both good kissers, it’s no wonder that felt so good.”

“Did that feel good?” he pretended to ponder it, although he knew his grin gave him away.

She poked him lightly in the back. “Harry!”

He kissed her again, unable to resist her smile, with more confidence this time, his tongue playing with hers, tasting her again… She was so sweet…

The kiss ended slowly, as reluctantly as the last one, before Hermione said, softly, her tone more resigned than anything else, “We should probably go down to breakfast.”

“Yeah, we probably should.” He glanced down at the shirt he slept in and his pyjama bottoms and added, “Just let me change quickly.”

“I’ll wait for you outside,” she volunteered and he gave her a small smile and another quick kiss before she ducked away, with a last smile.

He returned her smile and the smile lingered on his face even after she’d left, as he hastily changed into another shirt and trousers.

He was, he realized, happy, for the first time in what felt like weeks.

His gaze went automatically to the small crack in the wall, the victim of his own frustration and anger, and then back down to his bandaged hand. (It felt as good as new, he thought with very mild surprise; he supposed he should have known Hermione would be quite as efficient a Healer as she was at just about everything else she did.)

Including kissing. He felt another smile on his face at the thought before he grabbed his wand and left the room to see Hermione waiting for him.

He fell into step beside her as they walked down the stairs and then she did something she’d never done before and slipped her hand into his as they walked, not letting go.

He was happy, he thought again, in spite of everything going on, in spite of Sirius, in spite of Voldemort… And he wanted to hold on to this happiness for however long it lasted.

He tightened his grip on her hand at the thought.

Yes, he was going to hold on to this, was going to hold on to her… Because she meant more to him than anything else… He would hold on to her, would never let her go again… Because he needed her…

~The End~