The Right Thing

Disclaimer: HP and all things related belong to JKR.

Author’s Note: Written for philstar22, in response to a request for a fic where Harry comforts Hermione from the trauma of what she had to do to her parents to protect them.

The Right Thing

Harry jerked awake, snapping from uneasy sleep to full awareness in one instant, as he usually did these days. He lay there, listening, to the sound of the wind outside, the skittering chirp of a cricket. Nothing seemed to be stirring outside.

Within the tent, not far from him, he could hear the sound of Ron’s even breathing and from the other side of the tent—

He sat up, looking over to Hermione’s cot to see a lump underneath her blankets as she had pulled her blanket over her head. He frowned.

Moving quickly and quietly, he crossed the tent, crouching by Hermione’s tent as he reached out a tentative hand to touch the blanket. “Hermione?” he half-whispered.

He heard a quick hitch of breath and then she pushed the blanket down. “Harry, why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Why aren’t you?” he returned in the same husky whisper, but even as he asked it, he noted the faint trace of tears on her cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head in a quick, jerky movement, as if to say Nothing, but then, as he waited, blurted out, “It’s my parents.”

Harry glanced over to see Ron turning over in his cot and made a quick decision. “Come on,” he whispered, standing and holding out his hand. He didn’t want to wake Ron; Merlin knew they were all getting little enough sleep as it was these days.

She glanced at Ron as well and then pushed herself out of bed, grabbing her blanket and wrapping it around her as they hurried out of the tent, stopping just beyond it to settle on the grass.

Hermione didn’t say anything, only turned her face up to the sky, staring up at it as if the stars could provide some comfort.

Finally, Harry asked gently, “What about your parents? They’re safe now; you took care of that.”

Hermione let out a shuddering breath. “I know I did but… but… oh, I don’t know… I had to obliviate them, change their memories, and it’s just… they’re my parents, Harry… I—I—what gave me the right to meddle with their memories like that? I didn’t tell them why or even what I was going to do; I- I couldn’t, because I knew if I did, they would try to persuade me to come with them and… I took away their choice and just acted, as if… as if they’re just puppets for me to manipulate… But they’re my parents and—and it’s just wrong to do that to them.”

Harry sighed. “You weren’t meddling or manipulating, not like that; you did what you had to do to protect them. It was the right thing to do, and you did it.”

“The right thing, maybe… but it’s just… harder now…”

And there was so much pain in her voice, soft as it was, that he reached out to put his arm around her shoulders. He was half-wondering how she would react—but then, after a moment, she leaned against him, burying her face in his shoulder, with a sound that was half a sob and half a sigh.

He tightened his arm around her. “You did the right thing, Hermione,” he repeated softly. “It is hard, but you did what was right, not what was easy. You always do.”

Hermione was quiet as she rested against him, but he could feel the warmth of her breath even through the cloth of his shirt, could tell that her breathing was evening out as she calmed.

“They’re safe now and that’s what matters.”

“Right,” Hermione agreed with an attempt at her usual firmness, before she added, more quietly, her voice faltering ever so slightly, “I just… miss them now…”

“I keep thinking,” she went on, not quite steadily, “that if I came up to them now, they wouldn’t know who I was. They wouldn’t know my name or—or anything…”

“I… don’t know,” Harry began hesitantly, not at all fluently, uncertain of how to put his nebulous, half-formed thoughts into words. “They might not know you specifically but I think… somehow, in some way, they would recognize you… They would see that you look like your mum, but you have your dad’s eyes. They would see something of themselves in you… Sort of how I can recognize myself in my dad when I look at pictures of him or when I saw him in Snape’s Pensieve. I don’t think, even if your parents saw you right now, they would see a stranger.”

“That’s… nice…”

“And I don’t know… you might have obliviated your parents’ memories of you but memories are funny… they’re not like something you can just… erase… The memories are still there… somewhere… even if your parents can’t think of them… It’s like…” Harry trailed off, swallowing.

“Like what, Harry?”

Hermione’s question was soft, understanding, and somehow made him able to continue. This was Hermione, after all. If there was one person in the world whom he could talk to about this, it would be Hermione. He knew that. And yet… it was a hard thing for him to talk about this with anyone. But for Hermione’s sake…

“It’s like… when I first met a Dementor… I heard my mum screaming… the way she—she begged Voldemort to save me… I didn’t know or consciously remember that, but somehow, my memory did… and it… came back, because of the Dementors. I- I didn’t even know or recognize my mum’s voice, but I had remembered it…”

“Oh, Harry…” Hermione shifted, throwing her arms around him in an awkward hug, given the way she had already been leaning against him.

“Thank you,” she said after a long pause, her voice coming out muffled against his shirt, before she straightened up. “I feel better now.”

She sounded more like herself too. “I’m glad,” he said quietly. “So you’ll be alright now?”

She nodded slowly. “I think so. I just miss my parents, more than I usually do…” She paused, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. “It’s funny; I haven’t usually missed my parents that much because we could write and I was always busy with stuff… Now, though… just not being able to write and knowing they don’t remember me, I miss them more. It’s irrational, I know, but…”

“It might be irrational, but it makes sense,” Harry said slowly. “It’s… a little bit like how I miss Sirius more now…” He swallowed and broke off at the mention of Sirius’s name. He rarely, if ever, mentioned Sirius anymore and just the sound of his name made Harry’s chest twist a little.

As if she sensed it, he felt Hermione slip her hand into his, gripping it in silent sympathy and silent understanding, and he closed his fingers around her hand, returning the pressure.

Neither of them said anything more for a little while, only sat in silence, but it was somehow a silence that comforted, a peaceful silence.

“Harry?” Hermione finally broke the silence, her voice soft.

He glanced at her to see that she was staring out into the darkness. “Hmm, what?”

“If- if something happens to me--”

“Nothing is going to happen to you!” he interrupted her, his voice sounding overly loud and harsh in the night. He belatedly realized that his hand had clenched involuntarily and was probably crushing hers and forcibly relaxed his hand.

“Ssh, Harry, it’s okay and- and you don’t know that. We don’t know what will happen.”

He didn’t know how but her tone somehow managed to soothe him, even as everything in him wanted to react, to revolt, to her words, the almost calm acceptance in them.

“If something happens to me,” she repeated, and his hand tightened around hers automatically at the slight tremor in her voice that was all that betrayed her emotion, “will you go to my parents and—and restore their memories, bring them back home?”

He swallowed hard. “Hermione, I- you…” he faltered.

“It’s just… if something happens, I don’t… I don’t want my parents to go on not knowing… I want… I want my parents to remember… I want them to be able to come home, back to England… Will you do that for me, Harry?”

He wanted to protest, wanted to argue and insist that she was going to be fine because—because anything else was unthinkable—but he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. “Yes,” he finally said. It was all he could say, all he could do.

She let out a shaky breath. “Thanks, Harry.”

She glanced at him and then attempted a wobbly smile. “Don’t look like that, Harry. I’m going to do everything I can to be around long after this is all over.”

He tried to force his lips up into the semblance of a smile, as he knew she wanted him to, but couldn’t quite manage it, managing only a twitch of his lips. “Good.” He paused, hesitating. She was frowning now, her expression a familiar one of concern, and he wished he could reassure her that he was fine, that she hadn’t disturbed him too much, but the words caught in his throat. He couldn’t lie to her, not then, not about that, not even to comfort her. He was rather used to telling reassuring, comforting fibs to people, used to making light of things, used to hiding his fears. But not with her. Somehow, at that moment, he knew he couldn’t. With her, he could only be honest. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out.

Her frown deepened. “Harry…”

“I hate this,” he continued on, not letting her continue. “I hate knowing you’re in danger; I hate thinking you might get hurt, and it’ll be because of me. I hate--” He broke off, his words abruptly stopped by Hermione putting her hand on his lips.

He reached up to grasp her hand, pulling it away. “Hermione, you--”

“No.” She cut him off firmly, stemming his protest with just the word, softly spoken as it was but all the more forceful for its very softness. “No,” she repeated again. “Harry, how many times do I have to tell you we’re in this together. It’s not your fault; if anything, it’s mine.”

“How could it possibly--”

“It’s my fault because I chose this; I’m choosing to stay with you through all this. Yes, I’m in danger, but if I get hurt, it’ll be because I chose this, not you.”

“Hermione, that’s not…”

“You said it yourself, Harry. Running and hiding, trying to stay safe, would be the easy thing, but we have to do what’s right, remember? This is the right thing to do.”

He sighed, giving in. He knew he couldn’t win, not against Hermione, not in this.

He didn’t have to say anything, knew she could read his surrender in his face.

“I’ll be careful, Harry. I promise.”

“Okay.”

She gave him a small, serious smile. “Come on, then, Harry. We should try to get some sleep.”

“Yes, Miss Prefect,” he said as he stood up, trying for and succeeding at a faint smile.

“5 points to Gryffindor,” she responded with manufactured lightness.

And he followed her into the tent with a smile, unforced this time.

“Good night, Hermione.” His voice automatically lowered to a whisper, mindful of Ron sleeping.

“Good night. And Harry?”

He paused, glancing back at her to see the soft expression on her face, that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t quite not.

“Thank you… for listening to me about my parents and for… well, everything else. I- I don’t think Ron would have understood.”

Harry didn’t respond to that, loyalty to Ron stopping the words, although he had to admit that she was right. Ron probably would not understand, not because he didn’t want to but because he… couldn’t. Ron, whose parents were alive and well and fully involved in the War; Ron, who still saw his family fairly regularly, in spite of everything; Ron, who had yet to experience a real loss…

Hermione hesitated. “Anyway, thanks, Harry.” And then she stepped close, slipping her free hand into his, before she stretched up to brush her lips against his cheek.

He froze, wondering why he was suddenly so conscious of the feathering of her breath against his cheek, of the warmth of her lips where they touched his skin.

She drew back slightly to give him another barely-there smile.

Their eyes met and held, the moment lengthening into something neither had intended but were both suddenly helpless to break.

He could not have identified any one, clear thought, his thoughts suddenly jumbled and racing through his mind, too fast and too confused to grasp—of the things he’d told her that he’d never mentioned to anyone else, of the pain in her voice as she spoke of her parents not knowing her now, of the warmth of her hand in his, of how he’d found he couldn’t lie to her, of her eyes and her features that he knew so well and yet was somehow beginning to wonder if he’d ever really looked at before…

Without conscious thought, almost of its own volition, his free hand lifted until his fingertips rested ever so lightly against her cheek in a gesture that might have been a caress if it had been allowed to grow up.

He sensed rather than heard the slight hitch in her breath, felt rather than saw her reaction—and then he forgot everything else as he bent his head and closed the small distance between them. His lips touched hers and he kissed her. Softly, his lips just brushing hers, but then she seemed to sway, drifting in closer to him. And the kiss went on…

And he forgot all the reasons he’d never done this before, forgot where they were, forgot how late it was, forgot everything except that this was Hermione and—and her lips felt so… good… and—and…

He lost track of time but it was probably only about a minute before they both drew back. It was one of those minutes that seemed as if the seconds had stretched out, time slowing, because of the significance of it.

They were still close, close enough that their breaths mingled, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold and amber and hazel in her eyes, even in the dimness of the tent.

“Hermione…” he breathed and then stopped, unsure of what to say, what to do.

“Harry… I- I didn’t think…” she trailed off. And he didn’t know how—it was… irrational—but somehow, he knew what she meant to say, that she hadn’t thought this would ever happen, hadn’t thought he would ever treat her as anything other than a purely platonic best friend.

“I know,” he said softly. “I- I didn’t see it until now, didn’t really see you until now…”

He trailed off, his eyes tracing her features, so familiar and so… dear… And he understood that although the kiss had been more instinct and impulse than deliberate, it had also been real. And this—whatever it was he felt for Hermione—was real. Real and deep and lasting…

And impossible.

“I- we can’t do this right now.” He steeled himself to have to explain, to tell her both that he really cared but also that he couldn’t care.

She blinked but then her lips curved into a small smile that managed to be more poignant than even tears could have been. “I know, Harry. This isn’t the time, not now, not while we’re fighting.”

He sighed, suddenly resenting the War with a fierceness he’d never felt before. “Yeah, we can’t do this now.” His fingers were still resting on her cheek and he moved his hand to cup her cheek in what he knew would be the last caress he could give her, at least for a while.

“But later, after this is all over…” Hermione began.

He gave her a slight smile and bent to brush his lips against hers again, a quick fleeting kiss, but in the kiss was a promise.

She reached up to curl her fingers around his where he was touching her cheek, lowering his hand as she slowly backed away, although she kept their hands linked. “Good night, Harry,” she said softly, giving him a last, real smile, a tender smile that showed him more than any words could have just how much she cared. He caught his breath, the sight of her smile at that moment bringing a swift, bittersweet ache to his chest, even as it imprinted itself on his memory, on his heart.

She released his hand with a final pressure of her fingers and turned to return to her cot. Leaving him to return to his.

Later, after the War ended, when they were no longer in such constant danger… It seemed like an eternity away, with so much uncertainty, so much risk. But they had done the right thing. This was not the time to start a new relationship, not now when they both had to be focusing on bigger, more immediate, more important things. And he could hear the words echoing in his mind again, that they had to do what was right, not what was easy…

Yes, they had done the right thing. But in the meantime, they both knew, they both understood. And for now, when he could still feel Hermione’s lips against his, still feel the touch of her hand holding his… For now, just knowing would be enough.

~The End~

(at least for now)