Title: Vox Corporis
Author: MissAnnThropic
Email: miss_annthropic@yahoo.com
Warning: This fic contains some scenes of physical intimacy which may not be suitable for younger readers.
Spoilers: Post-Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
Summary: Harry brought his arms up around Hermione and held her. It was easier every time. It was easy now. What was beyond the ease of this embrace? Hermione was a powerful witch, but her greatest magic was how she could do this to him. Nothing in his life had ever made him feel like everything would be okay… except when Hermione held him.
Author's Note: I have read all of the Harry Potter books (up through "Half-Blood Prince", anyway), and I did enjoy them, but I was not lured over to the Harry Potter fandom until the Goblet of Fire movie. I loved that movie. On the whole, I think the movies were better than the books in the Harry Potter 'verse. That may put me in the minority, but be that as it may, that piece of information is necessary before jumping into "Vox Corporis". Because I liked the movies better, I take my cannon from them as opposed to the books. I borrowed from the books when the movies left me no recourse (the most obvious example that comes to mind is that Ron has Pig in this fic; the movie never showed Ron replacing his familiar after Scabbers turned Wormtail but the book did), but for the most part if you didn't see it in the movies I don't use it as a foundation for my fic. If that's going to bug you to no end, turn back now. If not, read on.
Disclaimer: None of this is mine. I'm just a fan writing out of affinity for the source and I get nothing out of this other than enjoyment. And neither am I Sara Teasdale, from whose poem the title "Vox Corporis" hails.
URL: wickmoo.com
Forum: There is a forum for discussion on "Vox Corporis" which I have set up on my LJ. It gives me a chance to answer any questions you might have about the story and also to chat on a more personal level with the readers. Link: http://miss-annthropic.livejournal.com/tag/vox+corporis
"Vox Corporis"
Sara Teasdale
The beast to the beast is calling,
And the mind bends down to wait:
Like the stealthy lord of the jungle,
The man calls to his mate.
The beast to the beast is calling,
They rush through the twilight sweet-
But the mind is a wary hunter;
He will not let them meet.
Things were in a state of near-total chaos in Mad-Eye Moody's office. Apparently, discovering an escaped prisoner of Azkaban and loyal servant to Lord Voldemort (who had gone through a recent rebirth) in their midst, assisting the real Moody (who'd been trapped in a chest for months without reprieve), handling the death of a Hogwarts student, juggling the visiting schools and officials for the Triwizard Tournament, and intercepting and placating a suddenly nosy Ministry of Magic was enough for anyone to get lost in the shuffle. Even a boy like Harry Potter.
After Crouch Junior had been unmasked for the impostor he was, Dumbledore had herded Harry to the anteroom of the office when the Minister of Magic had caught up to Hogwarts's head wizard and demanded to know why a young boy's body was being transported home for burial.
Dumbledore had gently led Harry aside and, with a pat on the arm, left him there to tend to the unpleasantries of a student death mostly out of earshot of the traumatized boy.
'Tending to a few details' had become entanglement in a thousand and one knots, and everyone was so busy and confused that no one noticed eerily quiet Harry on the outskirts.
Harry watched the heads of magic, both in the ministry and at Hogwarts, pass in and out of his line of sight. They moved hurriedly but with a strange flatness. They were like puppets or paper dolls, insubstantial and somehow unreal. They moved and talked and gesticulated and congregated but Harry saw only vague blurs of human shapes. It was like he wasn't wearing his glasses; he couldn't focus on any one person. He just let them flow in and out of his sight. No effort to catch and hold on a single object, no attention to the faces or shapes... just images, flowing past, coming in and vanishing.
His arm hurt. The lancing pain had given way to a throbbing, fiery sensation. He knew his arm hurt, part of him felt it, but even his own injury seemed disconnected. He cradled his wounded arm but it seemed autonomic, preprogrammed and stilted.
There was a blackness in his blood. He felt a thick, dark weight push through him with every hollow heartbeat. It pounded in his temples, ached on his forehead, sludged with freezing tendrils to his limbs and skin.
With each passing moment he felt less and less. The pain wasn't searing anymore, the terror ebbed, even the grief thinned. It left very little person in its wake when all the substance of him was stretched so far. He existed because laws said he did, but Harry watched his teachers bustle about, and he thought maybe he was a ghost. His mind played tricks and maybe he wasn't really there; maybe he'd died in the graveyard. Maybe he was a ghost, like Cedric, like his parents. Maybe he was dead and didn't know it.
He certainly felt more like a ghost than a person. An odd peace, a stillness, settled around him with that thought. Yes, dead... where there was no pain, no fear, no self... he could be that.
Maybe he'd disappear at any moment. No one seemed to see him. He could be dead. He should be floating but for the thick evil in his blood, bound to a demon and thrumming with a darkness he didn't own. It was in him like a disease, a possession. Black, thick, and oily instead of smooth, watery red. He would be a ghost but for that heaviness in his veins.
Death was cold. He was certainly that. One of the few sensations that did register, a sense that penetrated his nonexistence to hint of physical form, was cold. The room got colder and colder as time trudged on. He couldn't move to ward it off, his body wouldn't let him find someplace warm, but he felt it. Like the icy air when Dementors swarmed. He shouldn't know that, he was just a boy. A boy with demon blood.
Vaguely, distantly, he knew his body was trembling. It tightened painfully in his arm, made his insides ache and his brain pulse against his skull, but it wasn't enough for him to do anything about it. He wouldn't move for that... couldn't.
His blood roared in his ears, an increasing tempo of 'whoosh, whoosh' that grew louder, filled his senses, and then he heard nothing of the conversation flying around him. He saw lips moving, hands gesturing, but as for sound, comprehension... it was out of his grasp. They weren't making sense, they were on another plane, in a dream, hazy and illusory.
He thought he was colder. He thought his arm hurt. It was hard to think, but then, ghosts with evil blood didn't have to think. They were, and Harry only was, in his corner, invisible, unnoticed.
And so cold.
McGonagall stepped back from the ministry attendants as they finally came to collect Crouch Junior. She could not be far enough away from the man. He'd go back to Azkaban where he belonged, and if there was any justice he'd suffer the most hideous punishment for what he'd done.
The full scope of what exactly he'd done and the activities to which he was party, however, were still a little uncertain. Things were in upheaval. Dumbledore had gone to speak with the heads of the other schools; they demanded to know what had happened in the maze. No one knew. There were pieces, speculations, assumptions, but so much was still unknown.
So very dreadful that a student had died. And Voldemort... if it were true then Hogwarts was bound to see dark times ahead. Especially with Harry–
McGonagall quickly scanned the room, almost frantically, when she suddenly remembered the boy. Surely he'd been taken away from the center of all this ugliness, but she couldn't remember seeing anyone leave with him. She was aghast to see him still in the room, standing unsteadily by a far wall. His clothes were in tatters, dirty and torn, and his skin was mottled with grime and blood. He was loosely holding his bloody arm to his body, and his eyes were locked and unfocused on a distant, unseen point. His skin was pale and his eyes terrifyingly empty. He looked so small. She had told Dumbledore it was a mistake to let Potter compete in the tournament. Just a boy. A mere boy. How had they allowed it to come to this?
McGonagall moved quickly across the room and only slowed when she was two steps from Harry. "Mister Potter?" she ventured gently and canted her head to try and meet his gaze.
Harry didn't respond to her voice or presence. He continued to stare vacantly and absently cradle his arm.
McGonagall drew closer and soon realized Harry was shaking. His breathing was shallow and irregular.
"Mister Potter," she tried again and reached out to touch him. Her fingers curled softly around his shoulder and Harry swayed drunkenly under her hand. Moody's room had quickly cleared, only Snape remained behind rummaging through Moody's belongings, looking for anything that might be tied to the Dark Lord and Crouch Junior's handiwork.
"Harry?" McGonagall said, this time in concern. Harry wasn't answering, he wasn't listening, and he was so pale, his skin frighteningly cold to the touch, his entire frame trembling.
Snape, hearing McGonagall's tone, paused to look over his shoulder in their direction in mild curiosity.
McGonagall gasped and quickly wrapped her arms around Harry's shoulders when, without warning, he started to fall. "Severus!" she called reflexively, and Snape reached their side in two strides. Harry was leaning heavily into McGonagall, still feebly cradling his arm, still staring sightlessly, still shaking.
Harry's legs started to fold under him.
McGonagall gave a pitiful sound and Snape reached out and gripped Harry's upper arm in a firm fist. In the next moment it wasn't enough when Harry's legs buckled and he started to fall. In one movement Snape scooped the boy up and presently stood with Harry in his arms. McGonagall's hand came to her mouth and Snape held the boy's limp body away from him like it was a wet raccoon.
Harry's head lolled and his arms simply folded atop his stomach.
"Quickly, we must get him to the hospital wing," McGonagall said, and Snape gave one appraising look at Harry in his hold and had to agree with McGonagall.
Hermione scarcely dared to breathe. She could feel her heart pounding against her ribcage and her muscles tensed to the point of shaking. Ron's body pressed so closely to hers made it uncomfortably hot under the cloak, but Hermione barely noticed him. Ron was just as silent as she, and probably just as terrified. From the look on his face before they'd nicked Harry's cloak from his chest, she considered herself lucky that he wasn't vomiting down the back of her neck. As for herself, she was holding her breathing so strictly in check because she feared any exhale would come out a sob.
They must not be heard. She and Ron were crouched by the far wall of the hospital wing. Waiting.
After Harry returned to the arena with Cedric's body there had been shocked stillness, numb inactivity. Hermione noted only that Cedric was dead, Harry had been led away in a bad state, Cedric was dead, people were crying, Cedric was dead. When the remaining professors snapped out of the mass stupor they ordered the prefects to herd the students back to the castle.
It was then Hermione started thinking straight. Harry was missing. They had to find Harry. From the glimpses of blood, from his wails, she was certain he'd be taken to the hospital wing. She'd grabbed Ron's arm, dragged him unflinchingly up the boys' stairway, fetched Harry's invisibility cloak, and with it masking their passage they made their way to the hospital wing. They would not be stopped, Hermione would not be stopped, they had to see Harry.
They arrived, however, to find the room empty. No Harry. No Pomfrey. Just silence. It was baffling, it made no sense, but Hermione shuffled herself and Ron to a wall, out of the way of traffic, and they silently waited. Harry would be brought here, Hermione wouldn't let go of that certainty. She had to see Harry, had to know that he was okay. That one student had returned dead, but Harry was all right.
It seemed they waited a small infinity before the doors opened and the empty room was suddenly inundated. Hermione's heart leapt into her throat and her knees threatened to fold under her. She heard Ron abruptly stop breathing beside her at the same sight that had made Hermione feel decidedly unsteady.
Dumbledore led the procession, followed quickly by McGonagall. Both turned to look back at Professor Snape. Snape was carrying Harry's limp form. Hermione grimaced and bit her lip, wanting to scream. No! She wanted to rush from the cloak's safety, run to Snape and snatch Harry from the teacher's hold. Harry wouldn't wake up for him! Harry hated Snape. But she and Ron could wake him, she was sure of it. They were his best friends; he'd wake for them well before he ever would for Snape. She knew Harry would. More times than she could count she'd convinced Harry to do something on her urging. She knew how to win Harry's will, and that was no small feat to boast. She could make him wake up. Harry would listen to her, he had to! He absolutely could not be dead.
Snape looked rather put out having to carry his despised student, but he obeyed Pomfrey's commands as she trotted in after Snape and bade him to lay the boy gently on a bed.
Gently. One wouldn't gently lay a corpse. He had to be alive! Hermione's hands clutched the cloak savagely and her heart tried to tear at the seams under the stress of not knowing.
Harry was placed, gently, on a cot. He was completely unresponsive. His face was deathly pale under the dirt and blood. He didn't move at all of his own volition, lying limply where he was placed. Hermione could barely stop the screams lodged in the back of her throat. Do something! Help him!
Snape retreated and Pomfrey was at Harry's bedside immediately. She physically rolled Harry's head so she could pry back his eyelids, look at his gums, feel his pulse. Harry was like a coma patient, oblivious. Dumbledore watched worriedly while McGonagall wrung her hands and chewed her nails like a school girl wondering if any boy would ask her to the dance. Being Hermione of only a few weeks ago, actually; Hermione was too sick with dread to find the humor in that.
Pomfrey withdrew her wand and whispered an incantation over Harry's prone form. She gave a small flick of her wand.
To Hermione's immeasurable relief, Harry's eyes snapped open.
For a split second he merely stared, wide-eyed and unfocused. Then he panicked. Like a spooked cat, Harry leapt up the bed, away from Pomfrey. He hit the wall and gasped.
"Harry…" Dumbledore said slowly in his softest, most soothing voice.
Harry clutched his right arm to his body, curled into a ball, and collapsed to one side as he let out a strangled, pitiful moan and threw up.
McGonagall jumped back and Snape moved farther from the bed with a disgusted sneer.
Pomfrey conjured a small vial of potion and reached toward Harry. After vomiting he had curled on his side in a fetal position, cradling his arm and shaking. Heart-wrenching whimpering sounds were coming from his throat.
When Pomfrey touched him he cried out as though struck.
"Mister Potter, please… drink this, it will calm you."
Harry tucked into a tighter ball and clenched his eyes shut, as though to blot out awareness of others' existence.
"Mister Potter," McGonagall pleaded.
Dumbledore held up his hand to silence both women and walked over to Harry's cot. Without a care to the mess Harry had made, Dumbledore sat down on the edge of the bed, reached out a hand to Harry's head, and began petting his hair like one would a beloved dog. The old wizard's lips moved in silent words, but the effects were soon noticeable. Harry began to relax, he stopped shaking and crying, and eventually he was taking deep, ragged breaths.
"That's a good boy," Dumbledore said, then held out his other hand for the potion. Pomfrey gave it to him, and Dumbledore leaned forward, closer to Harry, and said, "Now do take this, Harry. Better than lemon drops. It will help, I promise."
Harry languidly rolled on to his back and looked up Dumbledore. He looked as though already in a drugged stupor, lulled and numbed by the headmaster's magical words. Dumbledore gave a small nod and smile and brought the vial to Harry's lips. Harry obediently opened his mouth and the potion was slowly poured in.
Then everything stopped for five minutes. In that time Harry visibly relaxed under the potion's effects. He started to react more normally to his surroundings, no longer behaving as though painfully gun shy of every little movement and sound. Dumbledore eventually stopped patting Harry's hair, but he remained seated beside the boy.
Harry finally blinked and asked in a cracked voice, "What happened?"
Dumbledore patted Harry's arm softly. "Afraid to say you passed out. Completely understandable."
Harry frowned, still a little confused. "I don't remember…"
Pomfrey was quick to dart back in now that the patient was no longer hysterical. "Nasty state of shock you were in, Mister Potter. Now, let me see that arm of yours."
Harry sat up carefully, eyed Pomfrey, then held out his wounded arm. He glanced down at the soiled bed and stammered, "I'm sorry…"
Dumbledore waved his wand deftly and the mess disappeared. "Sorry about what, Harry?"
Harry swallowed but didn't answer.
"We need you to tell us what happened, about Voldemort."
Hermione was silently crying by the time Harry gave a broken report of what had happened during the third task of the Triwizard Tournament. His recount was stilted and brief, everyone in the room to a person knew it wasn't the full story, but by the end they knew enough. They knew the Dark Lord had returned. Ron's arm found its way to Hermione's waist and by the end of Harry's hesitant tale he was squeezing her so tight it hurt. Hermione couldn't speak to tell Ron to let up.
McGonagall was holding a hand to her mouth, Snape was deep in troubled thoughts, Dumbledore looked personally afflicted, and Pomfrey was trying to focus only on her work without much success (if her croaks and gasps were any indication).
After his abbreviated account, the blank expression Harry had held ever since drinking the calming potion began to change into a tense, pained look. He winced, grimaced, and finally pulled his arm away from Pomfrey to hunker down on the bed in a curled up position, arms crossed over his stomach, his right one with care.
"Harry?" Dumbledore asked in obvious concern.
"It… hurts," came Harry's reply in a thin voice.
"Where?" Pomfrey queried, sounding a little surprised.
Harry shivered and his voice was harrowingly small. "Ev…everywhere."
Pomfrey looked to Dumbledore, consternated. "That potion should have eased any pain for at least three hours."
Snape, from his sentry position some paces away, said pointedly, "Anesthetic potions wouldn't hold with the after-effects of the Cruciatus."
Complete silence descended. Hermione's heart seemed to stop cold in her chest. No. Oh, please, no.
Dumbledore's eyes turned down to Harry searchingly. Harry didn't speak, wouldn't even look at the teachers, only hunched his shoulders and knit his brow. His silence was answer enough.
Pomfrey was the first to speak. Infuriated. "He wouldn't! To a boy! Of all the bloody, vicious, cruel… an unforgivable curse!" The stout woman's face grew red. Hermione couldn't remember seeing Pomfrey so angry. For the time being, Pomfrey seemed to have forgotten that this was certainly not the first time Harry had been on the receiving end of an unforgivable curse.
McGonagall was just as affronted. "That beastly creature of a man!"
No one questioned Snape's assessment or his expertise in the subject.
Dumbledore seemed resigned… for now. He'd be mad on Harry's behalf later. "What can you do for him, Poppy?"
Pomfrey took control of her fury and said sadly, "Not much, not nearly enough. One of the horrors of the Cruciatus is its resistance to potions and spells to ease the suffering of the after-effects. It's ghastly," Pomfrey looked defeated that there was so little she could do to help Harry.
Dumbledore nodded. "In that case, let us do what little we can."
Hermione and Ron remained crouched by the wall under the cloak while Pomfrey cleaned Harry's wounds, gave him numbing potions for what little good it would do to try and ease the aching, and finally did a cleansing charm to rid his skin of the dirt and grime of the contest. He could still do with a hot bath and some sleep; there were some things even the best charms and spells couldn't replace. For now, Pomfrey had done all she could do.
"I think we should let Harry rest," Dumbledore finally proclaimed. Hermione's attention peaked. They'd dared not move, lest they give away their presence, and her muscles were aching from staying frozen in such an awkward position. At odd intervals she'd had to elbow Ron when he, too, felt the cramps of staying crouched down and tried to lean on her to spare his own muscles. But now things were changing, people were clearing out. Maybe they would at last get to go to Harry.
Snape had left some time ago, but McGonagall had to be escorted to the door, clearly reluctant to abandon Harry. Pomfrey was almost apoplectic when she was also herded away. She stuttered and huffed, but Dumbledore merely said, "I admire your dedication, my friend, but as you said there is little you can do. He needs some peace and rest."
As the two women were leaving Dumbledore said loudly, "Minevra, should you happen across Mister Weasley and Miss Granger on your way back, do send them down here, won't you? They must be dreadfully worried."
The door was barley shut, and Dumbledore still standing with his back turned, when Hermione boldly threw off the cloak from her shoulders and stepped out brazenly. Ron made one attempt to grab her and haul her back, but Hermione's determination and resolve made her too quick and Dumbledore turned at that moment.
Ron, knowing they were caught, dropped the cloak and waited.
"Ah, Mister Weasley and Miss Granger," Dumbledore said in a knowing tone, "how fortunate for you to show up so unexpectedly."
Hermione tried to think of something to say but the words were caught in her chest. She wasn't functioning beyond the need to see Harry. After a few seconds staring mutely at Dumbledore, she abandoned the attempt to formulate any kind of explanation for the headmaster and strode across the room to Harry's bed. Ron was right behind her.
He looked even worse up close. She could see the faint remainders of bruises and the red lines of cuts that had been healed closed. He was so pale, his face lined with the grimaces of pain, as he curled on his side, arms tucked close. He looked like he was bracing to be kicked, bent double to guard against blows.
"Harry…" she said gently and sat down beside him. She dropped her hand to his arm and felt the chill to his skin.
Harry opened his eyes at the touch. For a split-second he tensed and started to shift away from her. He only stopped when he registered that it was Hermione. He looked openly at her, a harried, sick anguish in his unabashed gaze. Hermione felt a tear trickle a path down her cheek. She could see so much pain, in his eyes, in the thin press of his lips, in the pinched skin around his eyes. It was there, bare and raw. The horror of Voldemort, the grief of Cedric, the agony of Crucio.
Harry tried to smile for his friends, but it was pathetic and pointless. In the end he settled on a strained, "Hey, guys."
"Bloody hell, mate," Ron muttered from over Hermione's shoulder.
"Truly the act of a despicable being," Dumbledore said somberly in agreement.
Hermione moved her hand to Harry's head and tenderly brushed his disheveled black hair back from his knitted brow. She was consumed with the need to touch him, to feel him living and real under her hands. She didn't care how it might look or who else was in the room watching. They'd nearly lost him tonight. She touched Harry. Harry shivered and his breath sounded strained, but he permitted the contact.
"It may be a difficult night for Harry," the headmaster said gravely. "The effects of the Cruciatus curse are not easily shaken. As there is regrettably nothing Madam Pomfrey can do to ease his pain, I imagine he would be most comfortable in his own bed."
Hermione was only half-listening, too preoccupied with the sight of Harry so battered and torn. She felt as though she couldn't properly come to grips with just how close he'd come to dying. Was there even a way to properly come to grips with something like that? It could have easily been Harry's body, cold and lifeless, instead of Cedric's. With Voldemort, death was always a very real threat, and it had been a horrifyingly close call for Harry tonight. It made her blood run cold to think of it, even as she watched Harry hurt for his narrow escape.
Dumbledore turned to Ron. "Mister Weasley, if I arrange for Misters Longbottom, Thomas, and Finnegan to be lodged elsewhere for the night, could you and Miss Granger see Harry discretely back to his room?"
Ron nodded. "Yeah, all right, we can do that."
"Very good. I leave him then in your hands."
Hermione could not sleep. She lay in bed, her mind racing. Scant hours ago she and Ron had helped Harry up from his hospital bed, sandwiched him between them, each slinging one of Harry's arms over their shoulders, then draped themselves in the cloak and led Harry toward the Gryffindor tower. As promised, the room Harry and Ron normally shared with three other boys was empty. They set Harry down gingerly on his bed and he seemed to sag in a measure of relief to be back to somewhere familiar and safe.
Hermione had stood by a little awkwardly as Ron fetched Harry's night shirt and pajama pants. Harry, beyond modesty, had struggled out of his clothes and into his night attire. Hermione got him a glass of water to sit on the nightstand in case he was thirsty during the night. They settled Harry into bed and asked if he wanted anything. No. They asked if he was feeling any better. Maybe just a little. Did he need more blankets, because he was shaking rather badly. Yes, he was quite cold. Eventually Harry was tucked under Dean's, Seamus's, and his own quilts, had water within reach, his wand in sight, his pillow fluffed, and finally Harry had to say he was okay and they had to leave him at that. After that, they just stayed in the room with him and kept him company. No one spoke of Voldemort.
Hermione hadn't wanted to leave, but it got late and she was forced to retire to the girls' dormitory. She could only trust that Ron could handle any of Harry's needs on his own. She'd gone back to her dorm room late and all the other girls were already in bed. Two were crying themselves to sleep. One was clutching a stuffed hippogriff like a small child. Hermione didn't cry. She had spent all her tears at Harry's hospital bed. Now she was just bone-weary and hurting inside… hurting for Harry and what he'd been through.
After a good hour staring at the black ceiling Hermione couldn't take it anymore. To devil with the rules, she had to see if Harry was doing okay. She wouldn't rest until she knew he was still safe, still breathing, still alive to hurt.
Without a sound, Hermione slipped out of bed in her nightgown, grabbed her wand out of habit, and left the room. She crept into the common room, up the boys' stairwell, and with agonizing slowness eased open the door to Ron and Harry's room.
She stood frozen a moment to try and make out the room. When the moonlight stood out from night shadows enough for Hermione to see she tiptoed inside and closed the door. She could hear Ron closest to her, snoring. She was instantly disgusted that he was sleeping, when Harry might need something, but Hermione quickly forgot her anger as she moved silently to Harry's bed.
She could see his shape huddled under the mountain of blankets, and at first she couldn't tell if he was sleeping or not. Tentatively, she reached out and tracked her hand up the fluff of quilts, questing toward Harry's head. She stopped shy and leaned in, trying to catch sight of his eyes to determine if they were open or closed.
Her answer came by sound. He hiccupped, like a muffled sob, and Hermione's heart bled. He was so wounded and alone. Even though Harry always did stand alone, he usually seemed strong doing it. Not now. Now he seemed lost.
With Gryffindor courage, and careful not to wake Ron, Hermione pulled back the amassed covers enough to slip into the warm cocoon with Harry. She could feel him shaking in the faint vibrations in the mattress before she'd even touched his body. She couldn't tell if he knew she'd joined him in bed or not. She had to think he knew she was there, but he could have been too disoriented to notice. Hermione knew the textbook profile of the Cruciatus, she could say what he would feel, but to see him feel it was so different from anything she'd read.
She wouldn't let him physically withdraw. She would try to ease the nerve-searing residual pain. She would be there to see him through the symptoms of shock. She wouldn't let him recoil from contact, because she wasn't going to give his tortured mind time to decide human touch was bound to hurt. She'd talk to him to distract him from any bouts of nausea. She'd be there so she and the night could absorb his tears in secret. She wouldn't let Harry suffer the way the stupid books said he would, Hermione wasn't going to stand by and allow for it.
Hermione gave a whispered command and a flick of her wand and the curtains surrounding Harry's bed fell into place, shrouding the mattress and its occupants with privacy. She then placed a silencing charm around them. If Harry dreamt tonight, he need only wake her.
Satisfied, Hermione wedged her wand between the mattress and springboard, out of the way, and snuggled down in the covers. Carefully, she scooted over toward Harry.
When they touched, her fingertips finding his chest, he sucked in a breath and tensed. She pulled back to give him a moment, to not feel cornered or pressured. She didn't try again until he exhaled.
Hermione found his arm in the dark, traced it to his shoulder, his neck, then up into his hair. Harry's breathing caught and hitched but he didn't fight or jerk away.
Hermione slowly, rhythmically threaded her fingers through his hair, again and again. Her mother had comforted her in the same way so many times as a young girl and it had always soothed her. Hermione didn't know of a better way to comfort Harry.
Harry lay still and let her do it. His breathing still did funny things, but he was permitting the touch. The books would say he wouldn't. Hermione already felt she was besting the authors.
Harry croaked, like he was trying to say something, then suddenly and unexpectedly grabbed her. The snatch of his arms around her was almost desperate. She didn't offer even a second's resistance. Hermione slid over quickly to him and Harry clutched at her and trembled. At first he was rigid, tense as his psyche warred with itself, battled between the part saying this was contact and it would hurt him and the part that knew it was Hermione and that Hermione would never hurt him. The harder he fought himself, the tighter his hold grew. But he continued to hold her.
Hermione whispered softly to him, continued to stroke his hair, and Harry pressed her tight against him. And then, at a moment she couldn't pinpoint but knew had come all the same, Harry's traumatized gut instinct lost out to his reason. Once it did, his death-grip hold on her loosened slightly. His reason for squeezing her so tightly had shifted and with it his crushing pressure, though his hug was still surprisingly strong. Now he was holding Hermione because it helped.
Hermione realized this had been for her as much as it had been for him. She needed to know he was alive. If he was holding her, he was with her. It was all that mattered.
Harry's grip was unrelenting. His arms were like vices around her torso. One of his legs tangled in hers, as though to prevent her from leaving. He buried his face in her neck and Hermione switched to rubbing his back.
Harry flinched.
"Don't… don't…" he croaked, and Hermione stopped her circles on his back, afraid she'd hurt him.
"No," Harry whimpered, "just don't… don't go."
Hermione immediately began rubbing his back again. She hurt for him. She hated for him; never had she hated the way she did Voldemort just then. "Oh, Harry. I'm here. I'll never go."
Harry sucked in a few shuddering breaths and his arms found new places to hold her, never giving her a moment to move away. Hermione didn't intend to, anyway.
Harry nuzzled deeper into the mane of her hair, his breath hot on her throat. Hermione was shocked when a shiver ran down her spine. She wasn't sure why, or what flush had raced up her chest to her cheeks, but she'd attend to it later. For now there was only Harry. She hugged him close, almost as strongly as he held her.
Harry's hands moved, uncertainly at first. Initially she thought he was touching base with her, reaffirming again and again she was really with him, comforting him, with every new place he touched. His hand clutched at her waist and Hermione curled one arm around his shoulders to hold him that much nearer. Her remaining hand she placed on his chest for the sake of feeling his heart, beating steadily, fast and strong, beneath her fingers. It made her own heartbeat quicken to feel his.
For all the manner of terrible she felt, this felt oddly good, too.
Harry's face, so far tucked innocuously in the crook of her neck, turned into her skin. Hermione sucked in a sharp breath when she felt his lips press lightly, lingeringly, against her throat. He kissed her! And then he did it again, tasting, testing kisses on her neck, under the veil of her hair.
Hermione shivered again. Hot senselessness swept over her. She became oddly devoted to sensation, and her mind wasn't doing most of its usual supervising. Unbidden, she leaned her head back to give him better access. Harry took it, kissed her throat and below her ear, and all the while his hands were kneading, moving, and Hermione was lightly raking the sole of her foot up his calf without realizing it.
Hermione trembled wildly as Harry leaned forward, toward her, just barely rolling her until he was looming over her, continuing to kiss her neck. She didn't know what had happened, how her concern for Harry had turned into this, but a part of her was screaming that it didn't bloody matter how. Her heart was racing, whether out of terror or elation she couldn't decide. Harry leaned over her, pressed against her, his upper body resting atop hers. Hermione's lungs felt thick and belabored. It felt like she was trying to catch a good breath in a fog-laden moor.
Harry shifted slightly, his mouth moved, and then it was on her chest, on the bit of skin exposed above her nightgown.
Hermione whimpered involuntarily at the touch. She fought for just one good breath, tilted her head back and away from Harry thinking fresh air might be there. She didn't really notice the way her hands, each of them having developed a life of its own, were curled around Harry's shoulders.
Harry's breath was ragged and heavy against her skin as his lips parted to kiss her. He leaned in closer, pushed her gently further on to her back, and then he was settling down partially atop her, his weight a very real sensation. As if to test out just how real it was, Hermione stretched and wriggled slightly under him and it only amplified the sense of contact in every single place they touched.
Hermione felt, against her thigh, something firmer than the solid body of Harry elsewhere, and only then did Hermione's thoughts cartwheel into a frenzy. Only then did she realize, with a shock of clarity, what this was. She wouldn't know, she was a teenager, never one fancied by the boys, she had no experience to tell her, but even she knew what that was. What it meant. Where it meant they were both headed.
Hermione discovered in that terrifying, jarring moment, that she wanted it to happen. Wanted it very much. Right now. Here. With Harry.
Every denial and block she'd ever built around her best friend that kept him firmly in the friend category, that cloaked his attractiveness for her own sanity, shattered beyond repair. And then it was Harry, the very good-looking, caring, wonderful person she could not imagine a life without practically all over her, touching her like that. And she responded to him as if she were one of the beautiful girls at Hogwarts and not merely the bushy-haired, bossy bookworm.
Hermione curled her free leg up to touch Harry's hip. Harry's breath escaped him in a rush, as though the gravity of what they were doing just hit him, too. But he didn't stop. Hermione wasn't sure, in his state of mind, he could be that strong. He was on the edge of broken… he was also on the cusp of experiencing something besides pain.
Hermione wasn't going to deny him.
She tugged at his arms, guided him up, and when she could she kissed him on the mouth. Harry was seeking entrance past her lips with his tongue in the next breath, and Hermione surrendered. Harry moved and settled himself more directly on top of her as he thoroughly kissed her. And there was something desperate in his kiss, something understandably needy and even angry. Angry at Voldemort. Hermione was angry, too, and she told Harry so with the force of her kiss, the bold, unselfconscious thrust of her tongue. From the way he gave back, she was certain it was the way he needed it.
The pressure from Harry on her lower body grew more pronounced, and rather than let on she might be a little scared Hermione tore her mouth from Harry's and nibbled on his neck. Harry shivered, but Hermione suspected it wasn't in a bad way.
His hand was suddenly on her waist, then tugging her nightgown up. Hermione bit a little harder than she meant to when his hand moved to touch her bare stomach. Harry paused a split-second at the bite. Hermione hugged him and vowed to herself to be more careful with him.
Harry began to suckle on her throat again, her misdeed reviewed and forgiven, as his hand slid further up her gown. Hermione's hands curled into fists against his back. She shocked herself when Harry shifted against her, only a little, but the friction ignited a reflex in her and her back arched.
Harry grunted in gruff surprise and he tore at her panties.
Hermione yelped then bit her lip as Harry divested her. She still had her gown on and the both of them were half-covered by the bed's blanket, but suddenly she felt unspeakably naked. It was like the dream where she turned up for Potions completely nude. An absolute feeling of vulnerability and exposure.
For a moment she was thankful she couldn't make out Harry's expression in the dark, nor he hers.
Harry did pause, however, a brief but pregnant hesitation, and Hermione had to think the magnitude of what they were doing was rearing its ugly head with him, too. Was he scared of this, too, she wondered. A night full of so much fear. It seemed wrong in her mind, after what Harry went through with Voldemort in the graveyard, that he should feel anything like fear toward her.
And then the pause seemed endless and Harry was only a speechless, motionless shape near her, and Hermione became afraid. Of losing him when he was only a few inches away. For all he'd seen and been through, those inches could turn into leagues before she could breathe a word of protest.
Hermione reached out and found his chest. He was breathing hard. Maybe fear, maybe lust, maybe fighting sobs. Hermione couldn't know, had to help, needed Harry.
She gathered his shirt front in her hand and tugged him toward her. She didn't pull hard, didn't do anything enough to spook him, but she made it clear. She was there for him, he could have her. He wasn't alone.
Harry came down atop her again, and Hermione almost shyly opened her legs to cradle him. Harry croaked and stiffened. Hermione raked her fingers through his hair, his scalp sweaty.
Harry's ragged breathing was the only sound besides her pounding heart for what seemed ages, and then he was shifting and moving. At first, Hermione didn't know what he was doing, only that the back of his hand kept brushing against her inner thigh and even more private regions, driving her crazy with theretofore unexplored sensation and feelings, until finally he stopped fidgeting and advanced slowly toward her again.
And Hermione jolted as though set on fire when she discovered Harry had been removing the last barrier between them, his pajamas and boxers.
Hermione felt a flash-point second of fear, afraid of the unknown, the first venture, but with the fear was excitement. It was so thick she could scream for it, but instead she made the strangest keening sound she didn't know she was physically capable of emitting and squeezed Harry gently between her legs. Her legs shook, and she knew half of it was fear, but it didn't deter him. She didn't speak a word to make him stop.
There was some blind prodding, rather graceless in its execution, but when it was right Hermione arched again. Harry ran with it and moved in.
Hermione knew it would hurt the first time, and it did, but she didn't let on to Harry. If she told him he was hurting her he'd probably ease up, slow down, maybe even manage to stop all together, but Hermione didn't say anything. She let him lead, let him take her, and it was probably a good thing for her that he was just as uncertain and awkward as she. It made him slower, clumsier, and it gave her some time to adjust.
There was still the pain, and the resistance and tear as Hermione's girlhood was shredded. She could tell Harry sensed it, and was confused and worried, but Hermione blessed the night that hid the grimace on her face.
Eventually Harry found a rhythm, a pattern of rocking forward and back that suited him, and in time it suited Hermione and she made not one sound of discomfort. What was the loss of her virginity to what he had been through tonight? It didn't compare, she wouldn't deign to say she hurt even half as much as he did. And her pain was in the name of love. She had no room to complain.
Harry moved, his breathing became faster, his skin hotter to the touch. Hermione worked her hands under his nightshirt and clung to his living body. Nothing to complain about, so very many things for which to be thankful. Harry was here to do this, alive enough to move in her, Harry enough to be beyond regret.
Hermione encouraged Harry with her hands and her arching back until at last he peaked and spilled into her and Hermione gathered him to her as he willingly sank down atop her.
And only then, cradling Harry's exhausted, reeling body, did Hermione think about Ron only a bed away. About tomorrow when she would have to face Harry in the light. About her parents or the teachers who would be scandalized to find out what they'd done.
Harry's breathing slowly began to even out and he gingerly rolled off of her. Hermione sadly let him go, at once feeling his absence in the ache in her arms and her body.
For a moment Hermione could feel Harry looking at her, mind plagued with questions he didn't want to ask but couldn't help thinking. Some of them would be the same as her own. Hermione doubted he'd ask; Harry wasn't like that.
Hermione felt a sense of completion and fulfillment that she could be here for him this way. Ron could not have done it. Cho or Parvati wouldn't have been enough. Hermione had given him absolute support on his darkest night. He'd been faced with a choice between retreat and advance, and she'd provided him the safest of places to go.
She was not sorry for what had happened.
The moment of tension was broken, and Harry hadn't asked a single question… as Hermione knew he wouldn't. His arm slowly, almost questioningly, snaked out and around her waist. Hermione rolled into him, came up flush against his still-sweaty body (his nightshirt was damp in spots), and brought her hand to rest on his side.
Harry pulled her closer, perched his chin atop her head, and it was in that moment the most insanely sweet thing anyone had ever done to her. Hermione smiled into his chest and relaxed into his hold. It wasn't over, not by far, but the hardest part for Harry, for now, was past, and he'd come through still strong and alive.
In her dream, they were watching her. She was at Cedric's memorial service, but instead of being on a bench she was standing at the front of the Great Hall, between the congregated students at her front and Dumbledore at her back. And all their eyes were on her. She could feel their stares locked on her, pinning her with discomfort, self-consciousness, and a wild, unexplainable agitation that bubbled in her blood. She could scream but for their scrutiny. Her eyes swept the crowd, the countless faces with unblinking eyes watching her. She couldn't find Harry. He wasn't there. Panic washed over her, so thick it ached in her body. She turned her head and strained to see through the throng of students but she couldn't find Harry. Beyond their faces, toward the back of the crowd, she saw Cedric, his gaze the most unblinking of all, his face bloodied, skin ashen, body unnaturally still as he watched her. Cedric present in the crowd… that meant this memorial service would be for someone else. Where was Harry?! If they would all stop watching her and let her get to Harry before he died!
Hermione flinched awake with the coiled snake of terror taut in her chest. Her hand reflexively slid a few inches across the covers in a blind search for her wand.
And then she stopped, breath held when her surroundings registered.
She was lying in bed. The soft light of morning was a blanket of its own. She was cognizant of her body for the unfamiliar aching sensation. There was not a sound, nothing to have roused her.
The panic of her dreamscape ebbed away… but the sense of being watched remained.
Hermione turned her eyes upward, as though sensing a presence, and her gaze fell upon Ron. She stiffened and for a time couldn't even think, could only look at him.
Ron was standing near the head of the bed where he'd pulled aside the curtains to look inside. At first Hermione could not understand why he was in her dorm.
Then Hermione remembered she wasn't in her bed, she was in Harry's, and the myriad memories of what had transpired last night rushed at her like a rockslide with each pebble and boulder a vivid detail. Hermione's heart began to hammer as she watched Ron for a reaction. She felt the urge to reach down and tug the covers, currently draped across her middle, up to her chest like they did in the movies, but she couldn't manage even that. She was too afraid to move until she could get a read on Ron's reaction.
Ron, obviously, had not expected to find Hermione in Harry's bed. He seemed to stare at her a long time in incomprehension. Hermione stared back.
Ron finally shifted his gaze away from Hermione to a spot beyond her shoulder. He'd be looking at Harry. Hermione desperately wanted to look, too, she ached to know he was there, yearned to check to see if he was okay, but not until Ron caved.
Shortly, Ron looked back into Hermione's eyes. His expression remained inscrutable but for a slight relaxing of his lips. And then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. Hermione's breath silently escaped her and she felt her sore muscles unlock. She'd never felt such an aged sense of camaraderie with Ron as she did in that instant.
Without a word, careful not to make a sound, Ron disappeared. The curtain fell back in place and Hermione listened to his footsteps leave the room.
Only then did Hermione move. She closed her eyes and fought to calm her heart. She didn't know what had just happened, what it would mean for the future, but right now she let it leave with Ron. When she could breathe she tentatively rolled over and looked toward Harry.
And the vestiges of panic that had wrapped around her trachea from the depths of her dream faded away like wisps of smoke. Harry lay in bed beside her, sleeping. He was on his side facing her, and Hermione studied him. His face was not the normal calm repose of sleep; tension lingered even in slumber. His eyes weren't softly shut but rather seemed resolutely closed. A hinting shadow on his brow threatened to blossom into a full furrow. His mouth was pinched, his body curled under the blankets and arms folded over his chest. He looked like he was primed to defend himself from attack, and it was heart-breaking to see. But she could see him breathe, could feel his body heat so close because the bed wasn't made to fit two. Harry was still there, he was alive. Hermione sighed in immense relief.
She noted, in a kind of reminiscent passing, that if his hair was a little more disheveled than normal, and if his body seemed more solid and real to her than it used to, and if the swell in her chest when she looked at him was a bit stronger than it had once been, in her eyes he was remarkably unchanged for their illicit meeting last night. She woke beside him in his bed the morning after and it was still Harry. Last night the girl in her had not been sure so much could stay the same after what they'd done; now she knew better. She could go on if this is how it would be. There was an immeasurable relief in that.
And then Hermione was looking at the still-present ghosts of Harry's injuries, the hint of pain even in sleep that claimed his form, and she ached anew for him… in ways beyond how she already ached, anyway.
Hermione called gently, "Harry."
Harry's breath stuttered tensely then the shadow became the promised furrow. His lips pressed tighter together and he ducked his head down, burrowing into the pillow.
"Harry." Hermione reached out carefully and touched his shoulder.
That woke him. Harry flinched and jerked back, eyes flying open and for a moment he looked unseeingly at her.
Hermione removed her hand and waited.
She could see recognition sink in. The bewildered, startled expression changed to familiarity and relief. Then the pain still coursing through his body, remnant of the Cruciatus Curse, set his features in a grimace. And then his eyes flashed deeply and he looked long and hard at her, for a moment the Cruciatus forgotten. She knew their midnight activities had flown back at him.
Hermione quelled the flutter inside her stomach at his heated look and gave a calming smile. She wouldn't let it change them, wouldn't let it make either of them awkward, because she couldn't stand the distance that awkwardness would put between them. "You okay?" she whispered.
Harry blinked at her, seemed to take from her manner the way she was going to treat what they'd done, and in the next moment he accepted and agreed with it. The look left his eyes and back was the old Harry she'd known for years. He nodded to her question and cleared his throat. "Yeah." He cast a quick, questioning look at her that asked 'and you?', since it seemed they weren't going to actually speak to what they'd done. He'd ask with his eyes, instead.
It would be their fleeting moment of looking 'it' in the face together, unflinching. It struck Hermione in her breast, thick and real and part of a world wholly apart from muggle or magic. Hermione smiled her reply. "Best get dressed so we can make it down in time for breakfast."
It was so painfully casual that Harry seemed thrown. He frowned at her, then he lowered his gaze and his shoulders hunched. "I'm really not very hungry…" his voice trailed, but unspoken was the hurt and plea. That he would rather stay in bed, buried under the covers. That the Cruciatus still held him, that the encounter with Voldemort and what had happened to Cedric didn't make the student body of Hogwarts worth braving. That he wanted to curl up, alone, and lick his wounds.
Hermione almost gave in and let him but for selfish reasons she wouldn't this time. She wanted Harry with her, where she knew he was okay. It was out of her sight, in the graveyard, when he'd nearly been killed. A senseless, irrational part of her believed that as long as he was with her he would be okay.
Hermione shuffled closer... maybe a little closer than she would have the day before yesterday. If Ron had not already left Hermione would have tasked him with bringing them something. "Please, Harry, you should eat something. We needn't stay long, just long enough to get some toast and juice to bring back here."
Harry looked up at her at the explicit 'we' of her statement. But then he stopped questioning it. He sighed in grudging surrender. "All right."
Hermione smiled softly. "Right, then, I'll just…" then a flash of awkwardness when there was no way to leave his bed without drawing attention to the fact she was leaving his bed. "I'll just kip over and get dressed and meet you in the common room." Hermione reached down over the side of the mattress and fetched her wand from where she'd stashed it last night then crawled out of bed. As she did, her body seemed to speak to her in an entirely new dialect. Somehow the way her limbs moved, the way her nightgown touched her skin, the way her hair fell over her shoulders… it seemed different. Hers but unacquainted all at once. She was bashfully aware of the sensation of her bum in direct contact with the soft fabric of her nightgown without the usual barrier of her knickers. That was a brand new sensation. She was briefly torn about whether or not to look for her undergarments. They'd be lost, buried somewhere in the covers of Harry's bed, but she couldn't quite face the visceral reality of digging around to find them. As easily as that she abandoned them. She knew Harry would find them later, and she couldn't wrap her head around wondering what he'd do with them, but they were her material sacrifice to last night. With a blush she cast one last look at Harry, just beginning to unfold his legs and arms to clamor out of bed, then headed back to her own dorm to dress.
Harry was unusually quiet on the way toward the Great Hall. The corridors were deserted, and while at the hour it was not abnormal for that part of the castle to be so quiet, it seemed eerie in the knowledge of last night's events. Hermione stayed close at Harry's side and periodically slid a concerned, searching glance at his face. He looked miles away, ensconced in a dark place that Hermione couldn't perceive. As they approached the doors of the Great Hall, and the buzz of a multitude of voices within, Harry tensed and his pace slowed. Hermione slipped her hand discretely into his and his fingers closed around her hand. His eyes flicked down to her face momentarily, and there was a soul-weary ache there that Hermione hoped would be gone when the after-effects of the Cruciatus abated.
Suddenly Hermione wanted a moment before Harry had to walk into the Great Hall to suffer stares from everyone. She pulled him gently to a stop and without resistance Harry halted and turned to her. He looked down at her and his expression read 'I don't want to do this'. Hermione couldn't tell if it meant breakfast or something much more encompassing.
"I just want to look at your arm before we go in," she said lowly. It was an excuse, but it was true that she wanted to see if the cut on his arm was any better.
Harry looked laconically at her but he didn't pull away when Hermione lifted his right arm and pulled back the sleeve of his robe. Despite having been closed by Pomfrey, it was still a very vivid red mark. Still an angry wound. It still looked dreadfully painful. Hermione grimaced in empathy and traced her fingers down the side of his arm in lieu of being able to touch the injury itself for fear of hurting him further.
A shudder rippled through Harry's body and he tugged his arm free of her.
"Does it still hurt?"
"Yeah," he muttered, and Hermione knew he wasn't just talking about his arm.
"Well, come on then, let's grab something and we'll head back up to the common room."
Harry sighed irritably but followed when Hermione started forward again.
Hermione's world of perception was narrowed down to only Harry until they stepped into the Great Hall. Then the world exploded in eyes and silence. Predictably, everyone turned to look in Harry's direction and went quiet. Hermione felt like reaching out and taking his hand again but refrained by force of will.
Hermione found Ron's face at the Gryffindor table and honed in on him. She made a bee line while Harry followed silently.
Hermione reached their friend and gave a tight smile. "Morning, Ron," she greeted, as though this was the first time today they'd seen one another. Ron looked at her pointedly a moment then looked away to greet Harry. "All right there, Harry?"
Hermione was gathering toast, jam, and a pitcher of pumpkin juice. She was focused, single-minded. Get what they needed and get Harry out. The silence was now interspersed with whispering, hushed words to accompany the unrelenting stares, and Hermione felt a lion-sized impulse to rise up and shield Harry from it.
"Harry."
Hermione startled at Dumbledore's nearby voice; she hadn't seen the headmaster approach them. She looked up at the old wizard, her arms full of toast and juice. Dumbledore continued to address Harry without sparing a word to Hermione. "If you would come with me, I'm afraid the Minister of Magic needs to speak with you about last night."
Hermione quailed inside, indignant that Harry be asked to recount the misadventure again. Her mouth hung open in disbelief as she stood there stupidly with her stolen breakfast items.
Harry only nodded.
"It shouldn't take terribly long, I'll be there and I will have to insist that you be permitted to be seen by Madam Pomfrey as soon as they have what they need. Come along."
Hermione opened her mouth wider to protest, spurred by the recently awakened frantic desire to stay with Harry, but the headmaster silenced her with a mere look and then he was herding Harry away from the other students and out the door.
'At least Dumbledore will be with him,' Hermione thought sourly as she put the bread and pumpkin juice back down. With an agitated huff she plopped down at the table beside Ron. Conversation slowly crescendoed back to normal levels while Hermione frowned down at her untouched toast.
"How is he?" Ron's genuinely concerned voice cut into her thoughts.
Hermione looked up at him and her frustration at Dumbledore and the ministry took a backseat to the immediate presence of Ron, his presence a reminder of what he'd seen, what he knew. She couldn't forget the way he'd looked when she first woke, when he caught her in bed with Harry. Hermione tried not to let on in her expression that their early-morning confrontation was in the forefront of her mind.
She leaned closer to Ron to whisper her answer so no one would listen in. "Well as can be expected I suppose. He says it still hurts, but I think it's a lot better. He doesn't look nearly as pale as he did."
He nodded. "Yeah, I noticed that. Looks loads better." Ron frowned, his eyes cut left and right, then he said, "Listen, Hermione… it was really rotten of me to fall asleep last night, you know, when Harry might have needed something. Dumbledore was counting on us and I blew it. Wasn't something a good friend should have done at any rate, but I'm glad you came in to keep him company at least."
'He doesn't know,' Hermione thought with sudden understanding. Ron had not suspected anything beyond Hermione spending the night with Harry so he wouldn't be alone. And in that moment she was very glad Ron was a thick prat. It made things easier; Ron wouldn't be awkward around them because he didn't know anything untoward had happened between his two best friends. Nothing had changed between the three of them in his mind. And if Ron didn't think anything more had happened, no one would. Ron was close enough to both of them to notice the smallest hints that anyone else would miss. And Ron didn't suspect. Last night was immediately her and Harry's secret.
A sense of relief and ease almost unfamiliar under the current circumstances seemed to trickle through her bones.
"It's okay, Ron. Honestly, I couldn't sleep in my room anyway, not without knowing Harry was okay."
Ron nodded, reassured, and returned to his breakfast.
Hermione played with her slice of toast a moment longer before a sudden thought struck her and she straightened, turned to Ron abruptly, and grabbed his arm.
"Ow!" he yelped, but Hermione ignored his outburst.
"Ron!" she hissed, leaning in again, "we simply can't let him go back to that dreadful family of his after term ends. Can you imagine him spending a summer there with those people after this?"
Ron's mouth pursed unhappily. "You're right." Every term Harry came back from the Dursleys solemn and neglected; it was a week back at Hogwarts before he'd be back to his old self again, before he could shake the influence of his cruel aunt and uncle. It was something neither Ron nor Hermione had failed to notice.
In a shocking display, Ron abandoned his food and stood from the table, gesturing for Hermione to follow. "We'll owl my mum; I know she'd let Harry come stay at the Burrow for the summer."
Hermione jumped up and quickly followed Ron. The Burrow would be so much better than the Dursleys. It was already something of a second home to Harry (the first being Hogwarts; the Dursleys didn't even count as a home but more of a prison), and he'd be with people who actually cared about him. She couldn't bear to think of Harry with those awful relatives of his when he was already so shaken. They'd tear him down in his moment of weakness, like a bloody pack of wolves instead of family members. It was something Harry didn't need right now. And this was something Hermione could do for him, action she could take to safeguard him; get Harry away from those heartless people.
Hermione and Ron went up to the owlery with a quill and piece of parchment at the ready. Together, heads bent over their letter, the two of them sat on the ledge outside the owlery door and composed the message that would travel to the Burrow to hopefully secure Harry's sanctuary over the summer holiday. Ron was scribbling in his barely legible scrawl while Hermione sat with Pigwidgeon in her lap, clasped between her hands to still the Scoop owl's neurotic bouncing and hooting. Even restrained, the bird still bobbed his head and flailed his taloned feet like a beetle on its back.
"Bloody nuisance, Dad leaving in the middle of the night like that," Ron grumbled as he began to roll up the finished parchment, "coulda just asked him outright while he was here."
"Your dad works for the ministry, makes sense he'd have to get back straight away, wouldn't it?"
Ron didn't answer, instead leaned in to capture one of Pig's restless legs and tied the letter to it. "Take this home to Mum, Pig, and don't get lost, you ruddy bird."
Pig fanned his tail feathers, held back from doing much else, and Hermione opened her fingers to let him go. At once the bird took to the air, making one wild loop before zooming toward the horizon. Hermione watched the twitchy little owl going then turned when a rustle of feathers to her right drew her attention. Hedwig had alighted on the ledge beside Hermione and was looking out reproachfully, with mild disgust, at Pig. Hedwig turned her beautiful amber eyes up to Hermione. Harry's devoted snowy owl looked worried, as though she was fully aware of all that had recently befallen her master. Being a wizard's familiar, perhaps she was. The owl also looked disdainful that the welfare of her master was in the claws of that idiot bird.
Hermione stroked Hedwig's soft, pure white feathers. "I'd have rather sent you, Hedwig, but neither of us asked Harry if it would have been all right and we wanted that letter off as soon as possible."
Hedwig blinked but seemed to grudgingly agree. She blinked again and ruffled her feathers under Hermione's slender fingers.
Hermione looked once more after Pig (who was now a black spec in the sky), then she dropped down from the ledge. "Come on," she said to Ron, "let's go find Dumbledore and let him know we mean for Harry to go home with you this summer." It wasn't even a matter of asking but of insisting. Hermione couldn't fathom being overruled on this, not even by Dumbledore.
Hedwig took a couple of steps across the ledge closer to where Hermione stood and reached out to gently nibble on her shoulder. It was clearly meant to communicate appreciation for their efforts of Harry's behalf.
Ron jumped down to accompany Hermione and Hermione gave Hedwig a last pet before they set off for the castle again.
Madam Pomfrey stuck her head out of her office when she heard the doors to the hospital wing open.
"Oh. I should have known it would be no good trying to keep you two out," the old witch said when she saw Hermione and Ron enter. Ron gave Madam Pomfrey a rather plaintive look, as though trying to puppy-dog face his way into getting to visit Harry. Hermione took a different approach. Her face was stolid and stony; she defied Pomfrey to tell her to leave.
Either one or the other, both, or neither worked, but whatever the case it didn't really matter because Pomfrey just gave a shake of her head and didn't pester the two students further.
Hermione and Ron found Harry reclined on a bed to the left of the entrance, the sole occupant in the hospital wing. Hermione couldn't ignore how alone he looked. She wanted to hug him, let him know he wasn't alone, soothe him and reassure him, but she knew if she succumbed to that impulse it would be for her benefit and not his. He was alone and despondent but he was also used to it. He'd started summer holiday early; the only thing missing was the physical presence of the Dursleys.
Harry looked up as his two friends came to his bed. "Hi, guys."
"How are you feeling, Harry?"
Ron rolled his eyes before Harry could answer. "Oh, lay off him, Hermione. He's going to go spare with you asking that every time you see him."
Hermione shot a glare at Ron but Harry only smirked, faintly and humorlessly, but it was a lot better than he'd been doing yesterday.
"For your information, Ronald, what I meant was what did Pomfrey say?"
Harry's expression closed and he gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Pretty much the same she said last night. Potions and charms don't work against the Cruciatus, Voldemort's a bastard."
"Bloody right," Ron muttered.
"Did she seem to think you were better?" Hermione pressed.
Harry sighed and somehow it seemed to suddenly, viciously exclude Ron from their discussion. "A bit. Nothing I couldn't have told her, though. I do feel better. Down to feeling like I took a bludger during a match and fell off my Firebolt."
"Ouch," Ron hissed. Hermione frowned, her eyes never leaving Harry while he rubbed the topside of his right forearm with his left hand. She opened her mouth to say something else but changed her mind.
"Well, this should make you feel even better," Ron began, and Hermione moved a few inches aside as though to give Ron the floor. In a sense, it was his heroic moment and she would let him have it. Harry looked up, semi-interested in what Ron was saying. Ron was emboldened. "Hermione and I went to Dumbledore and told him that there wasn't a chance we'd be letting you go back to the Dursleys this summer after… well, you know, after what happened. Insisted you be allowed to come to the Burrow with me, demanded it, didn't we, Hermione? Said there wasn't any bloody way we'd have you at that dreadful house all holiday."
During Ron's speech Harry's expression grew increasingly alert and attentive. The light that ignited in his eyes wasn't so much joy as intensity. He was catching every nuance, every word, every unspoken meaning. Ron was oblivious; Hermione was merely watchful.
"So we kept at him until Dumbledore agreed and said you could spend the whole holiday with me and my family at the Burrow," Ron finished.
Harry didn't answer right away. His eyes cut to Hermione and his gaze held on her what seemed a long time. It was strangely discomfiting and Hermione covered her odd blush by clearing her throat. "It wasn't honestly that difficult. Convincing Dumbledore you should go home with Ron, that is. He seemed to think it was a good idea."
Harry finally tore his eyes from Hermione. He looked at Ron and gave a friendly nod and smile. "Thanks a bunch, Ron. It'll be nice not having to go back to Privet Drive."
Ron grinned. "Right on that count, mate. I've owled Mum asking if you could come. She hasn't owled back yet, but of course she'll say you can. Mum wouldn't turn you away. And it'll be great, having you there all summer. We can play wizard's chess, practice Quidditch, skive off on chores, all sorts of fun stuff."
Harry settled back on the pillows propping his torso up. "I appreciate it." Harry cast another sharp, burning glance at Hermione. She met his eyes and gave a fleeting half-smile.
Ron left to tell the twins and Ginny they'd be having company that summer. Hermione stayed behind with Harry. Once Ron was gone she moved to the side of the bed and sat on the edge. Harry scooted over to give her room but her hip still ended up touching his outer thigh.
"I know that was your idea," Harry finally said.
Hermione smiled at him. "I'm just trying to help you, Harry."
"You are. Seriously, thank you."
Hermione looked down at her lap with the remnants of her smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She didn't know what else to say. She saw Harry stop rubbing his injured arm, saw his right hand move in her direction, waver, and Hermione met him half-way. She reached out her right hand and silently took his hand in hers. Harry curled his fingers around hers and they sat like that a minute, unspeaking and unmoving but for the faint shifting of their connected hands.
Their companionable silence was broken by the doors to the hospital wing opening. Hermione turned her head and saw Dumbledore enter. Pomfrey saw the headmaster as well and took up at his side. Both adults reached Harry's bedside side by side. Dumbledore's eyes moved from Harry to Hermione sitting next to him then to their hands still twined together. Hermione made the barest of movements to pull her hand free but Harry's hold didn't loosen. She took it as indication that he didn't want her to draw away and with that unvoiced request she unwaveringly continued to hold Harry's hand. They were friends and Harry had almost been killed; not even prudish Pomfrey could blame them.
Dumbledore's gaze returned to Harry's face. "I take it Miss Granger and Mister Weasley told you the good news?"
"About going to the Burrow this summer? Yeah."
"I can imagine it comes as a relief."
Harry looked down with something akin to embarrassment on his face. He had a terrible home-life at the Dursleys and everyone knew it. Or at least Dumbledore knew, and that was enough at that moment.
Hermione didn't like the sudden shift and gave Harry's hand a squeeze. She looked up at Dumbledore, annoyed that the gentle old wizard could so inadvertently and casually wound Harry.
Dumbledore returned Hermione's look and, oddly, began to chuckle.
Hermione frowned and Harry looked up, embarrassment replaced with confusion.
"I daresay you've awakened some new dimension of maternal instinct in Miss Granger with recent events, Harry."
Hermione ducked her head and blushed. She hadn't known her look toward Dumbledore had been so transparent. Harry looked to Hermione, their eyes met discretely a second, and he gave a fleeting, private smile that made Hermione's abashment at Dumbledore's comment vanish entirely.
"She put in quite a campaign for you when she and Mister Weasley came to see me a short time ago. Shouldn't have been surprised if she'd drawn her wand on me if I hadn't agreed to your summer holiday accommodations. I suspect the only thing that held her in check was the fact her final scores for this term are still undecided. Well, that and I completely agreed with her. A commendable friend to have in your corner." Dumbledore gave a sincere nod to Hermione and it bolstered her, made her sit up straighter and prouder.
"I know," Harry replied plainly.
Hermione was back to feeling embarrassed and decided to make a break for it. She tugged her hand out from Harry's hold and stood. "Well, I had some things I wanted to tend to before summer holiday. I should go see to them. Thank you again, Headmaster."
When Hermione moved to leave, Harry, for the first time, showed signs of animation more expansive than a shoulder-shrug. He sat up and turned on the bed to let his legs hang over the edge. "Madam Pomfrey, may I leave now?"
Pomfrey's cheeks puffed as she chewed on her distaste of that idea, but she could not change the fact that there wasn't anything medically she could do for him. The mediwitch looked toward Hermione, who had stopped at Harry's request, then gave a huff and hand wave. "Oh, very well."
Harry stood and looked toward Dumbledore. "Was there anything else, sir?"
Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling. "No, no, Harry. You can go."
Harry nodded and looked at Hermione standing beyond Pomfrey and Dumbledore. Their gazes locked and silent communication flared. Hermione waited for him. When Harry caught up with her they both headed toward the doors shoulder to shoulder. Only once they were in the hall did Harry ask, "Where are you going? Care for company?"
Hermione had that bothersome urge to hug him again. "You know I don't mind you coming along, but I'm going to the library." Hermione gave her destination like it was an undesirable place. For Harry, it wasn't exactly the Quidditch pitch, and it would have been enough to send Ron running.
Harry, rather than groan or look glum, smirked. "Shoulda known you'd want to go to the library even though classes are over. Well, let's go, then."
Hermione moved in to Harry's side and curled her arm around his. It wasn't quite the affirming hug she kept feeling inclined to give him, but it seemed to appease that beast within her that needed physical contact to prove he was still okay.
The next day was Cedric's memorial service. His parents had already taken his body home for the funeral, but the students were gathered in the Great Hall to pay tribute to their fallen comrade. It was then that Dumbledore told the rest of the student body, as well as the representatives of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, what had happened that night in the maze. About Voldemort and Cedric's end at the tip of the Avada Kedavra.
Hermione sat beside Harry and heard Dumbledore's voice, but she didn't hear the words. She knew them already. Her attention stayed on Harry. She'd dreaded this. Her dream haunted the edges of her thoughts, and she half-expected to be able to turn and see Cedric's lifeless eyes locked on her from the back of the room. She heard people crying, she knew she was, too, but her main concern was Harry. How would everyone react when they knew what he'd seen in the graveyard? Could anyone who wasn't Harry handle that kind of news? They were all kids, frightened children, next to what Harry had endured his entire life. He shouldn't have to depend on their ability to cope. His life shouldn't be made harder by their inability to handle the truth. Hermione wanted to ferry him away, out of the reach of their taunts and eyes and whispers.
But, as always, Harry proved stronger than for which Hermione gave him credit. He didn't cry, didn't cringe, didn't hide. He sat there and remembered Cedric. He paid tribute as no one else in the Great Hall to their lost classmate.
And if there was to be a backlash from the students toward Harry after hearing the truth, it seemed there was an acclimation period before anyone braved to broach the subject with him. No one gave Harry grief, not even the detestable Slytherins. They weren't comfortable around him, they steered clear and gave him a wide berth, but that was fine. Hermione and Ron were there, and Neville, Ginny, Fred, George, Dean, and Seamus were almost the same as ever. Harry had his buffer of tried and true friends among the students. It would hold until the summer holiday.
That night in the common room, two days before they would be heading home for summer holiday, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were the last ones in the Gryffindor tower still awake, clustered around the hearth fire. Ron was on the rug, on his back with his hands interlaced behind his head, while Harry and Hermione were on the couch. None of the three were talking, but a tension did permeate the air around them. Hermione was anxious about the idea of Harry leaving in two days for the Burrow only because she wouldn't see him until next term. She knew he'd be better off at the Burrow, safe and nurtured by the eminently maternal Molly Weasley, but that didn't appease the griffin in her chest that told her she needed to keep Harry close. She knew it was silly and didn't say anything to either Ron or Harry about it, but it dampened her mood and she could tell the boys noticed. Well, Ron didn't notice so much as pick up on the fact that the atmosphere was a little drearier, because Harry did notice and he'd been quieter for Hermione's grumpiness. It was just as well they'd be leaving for the holidays soon; Hermione was throwing the boys off with her mood. And once she was home she could rest assured that Molly Weasley would be like a hawk when it came to Harry's well-being.
Hermione tucked her leg up underneath her on the cushion and glanced over at Harry. He was in his pajamas, a tatty old hand-me-down T-shirt from Dudley and flannel pants. Unbidden, Hermione noticed the way his shirt hung on his body. Since that first night after Voldemort, the unspeakable night she would never mention to anyone, she discovered she just noticed Harry more acutely than she used to. It was simply that details she never really attended to before suddenly jumped out and she noticed. She also discovered what would probably be considered a guilty pleasure. She liked noticing Harry, the way his hair fell and his body moved and his expression waxed. It was comforting to see him in subtle motion as he was now, breathing and blinking and thinking in the firelight. Somehow it made things right for the time.
Harry was watching her at that very moment, and Hermione tried to remember if he'd been watching her the entire time or just happened to look when she noticed. He watched her rather frequently. Did Harry use to watch her before and she hadn't noticed? She didn't know, but she didn't mind. It wasn't uncomfortable to find him watching her. Watching her just for the sake of watching, the simple act of absently observing. That seemed strange in the same way it was strange that she didn't get flustered when Harry caught her watching him. Maybe for the right to openly watch him, she likewise gave him unspoken permission to watch her in much the same way. And since it was mutual, it was okay.
Both were startled when there was a frantic tapping on the tower window. Ron jerked and looked over his head toward the window. "Oh, good, about time." He rolled to his feet and went to the window. When he opened it, Pigwidgeon came darting in excitedly. He made a few circles of the room before Ron could catch him and remove the note tied to the bird's leg. Once he had the paper he let the bird go and Pig twittered then flew out the open window.
Ron unrolled the scroll with a loathsome look toward the retreating Pig. "Oh, good, it's from Mum. Let's see…" Ron's eyes scanned as he read. "Great! Just like I said, Harry, you can stay. Never doubted it for a second. Mum'll be picking you up from King's Cross with the rest of us. Oh, wait…" Ron read further. "Hey! We're going on a vacation! All of us, I mean. Wow, I didn't figure we'd get to go on another trip so soon after Egypt. Not for another few years, for sure. No worries, mate, you're invited along, naturally."
"Where are you going?" Hermione asked.
"Romania. Cool! Harry, looks like we'll be spending half the summer holiday with Charlie." Ron quickly read a passage in the letter. "What with the tournament… uh… well, on account of that, the lair director, Charlie's boss over in Romania, is letting the dragon-keepers have guests over to test out a kind of public relations program to raise interest in dragon-keeping." Ron read silently a moment. "Wow, looks a bit like the dragon overseers are hoping the use of dragons in the… you know, the tournament, will get more people interested in working with them. Does seem a bit off-balance that the Aurors get all the attention for dangerous jobs, after all, what with fire-breathing dragons!
"In any case, it means we get to spend half of summer holiday in Romania finding out what it's like to work with dragons! How bloody brilliant is that? A bit scary, of course, but not all dragons can be like the ones used this year, could they?"
Hermione could see Ron was quickly getting hyped up about the prospect of a vacation. She knew it wasn't Romania or the dragons in themselves that had him excited, but more the act of going. It was what normal, well-off families would do, spend part of their vacation in another country. That would be all Ron noticed or cared about. Hermione looked toward Harry to get his reaction and found him almost unnaturally still. He was staring into the fire, as though actively trying to be motionless, the only flicker of life a pensive look in his eyes.
At long delay Harry looked up at the exuberant redhead. "Sounds great, Ron." Despite the words, the tone was grave and low. Even Ron, in his state, noticed and his energy lagged.
Harry frowned to himself. "But… well, I think I'd better just go back to Privet Drive."
Ron's mouth opened in shock and Hermione's eyes widened. Harry didn't say a word.
"What?!" Ron ejaculated. He gaped and blinked. "You can't bloody mean that. Why would you want to do that?"
Harry looked distinctly uncomfortable and shifted his gaze away from his friend. "It's just that… I don't really fancy a holiday in Romania surrounded by dragons. To be honest, I had quite my fill of dragons after that Hungarian Horntail."
Ron paled then looked down at the note longingly. Hermione could see him debating with himself, torn between what he should do as a friend and what he selfishly wanted to do.
"Well… I don't imagine we have to go," Ron finally took the high road. Not without a tone of regret and obvious reluctance, however. "I mean, if we explained to Mum…"
"No," Harry interrupted. "No, you guys don't get to see Charlie enough. You all ought to go. I won't let you cancel this vacation for me." Harry gave Ron a smile. "Go, Ron. I'll be fine. Don't worry, no problem."
Ron frowned. Hermione willed Ron to take up the gauntlet.
"Well, if you're sure…"
Harry nodded. "Definite. Have a good time and watch yourself, I can't abide by those dragons much."
Ron's shoulders slumped but he didn't fight. He sighed in defeat instead. "All right then. Well, I better owl Mum back and let her know that you won't be coming. She'll be disappointed, I know, she really does fret over you, Harry. Ginny'll be down-right gloomy."
Ron went upstairs, changed, then headed out of the common room to go to the owlery and get Pig. Hermione and Harry were left alone with only the loud cracks and pops in the fireplace to break the silence.
Hermione sat beside Harry and quaked inside. Her efforts seemed to have evaporated around her and Harry was back to doomed to that wretched family for the summer. She wanted to be furious with Ron but she couldn't very well expect his whole family to not see Charlie when the chance presented itself. Harry was right, the Weasleys didn't see much of Charlie, what with the second oldest son living in Romania. Hermione was angry that she couldn't get angry.
Harry was subdued. He was resigned. He was back to his pre-holiday mental preparations. Hermione sighed in consternation.
Harry, without turning to look at her, cocked his head in query.
"Are you sure about this, Harry?"
Harry's mouth tightened. "Yeah, I am."
"Surely dragons couldn't be all that bad."
Harry turned to look at her, and his eyes were unflinching while at the same time begged for understanding. "Your opinion tends to change after one has spit fire at you and tried to tear you limb for limb. I just… well, it may sound foolish but I know I'd just be waiting for another one to start in on me like that Horntail and I'd just as soon not spend all holiday waiting to be attacked. My chances are better at the Dursleys, I think." Harry laughed sardonically. "Less chance of dodgy nerves at the Dursleys."
Hermione wanted to cry or scream, she wasn't sure which, so she sat there and frowned.
Harry looked away and stood. "I'm turning in. Goodnight, Hermione."
Hermione watched Harry trudge up the stairs. Her mind worked furiously. After all of three seconds she jumped up from the couch and hurried up the girls' dorm. She dressed quickly then left the Gryffindor tower.
Dumbledore better still be awake.
"Come in."
Hermione hesitated only momentarily at the beckon from the other side of Dumbledore's office door. The knocker she had just used had wagged its tongue against her palm and Hermione wiped the slobber from her hand as she pushed her way into the headmaster's office. The portraits were all sleeping and it lent an air of almost tomb-like quiet to what would be the normal state of a muggle room. The headmaster was in a baby's breath blue night robe, standing behind his desk feeding Fawkes. He turned his head when she entered. "Ah, Miss Granger. You're about the castle particularly late, and I must commend your athleticism in evading Missus Norris and Filch at such an hour. Please, sit and have a lemon cake, to have made it here without detection must have worked up a dreadful appetite."
Hermione dutifully sat down and eyed the plate of lemon squares that had appeared on a table in front of her. She took one but rather than eat it she held it in her hand and watched Dumbledore.
The headmaster finished feeding his phoenix then turned to his guest. "Now, as headmaster I must chide you for being out of your house tower after curfew. And now that that's out of the way, what brings you here?" Dumbledore sat down at his desk and peered at Hermione over his half-moon glasses.
Hermione took a breath. She'd been so head-strong and sure when she left the tower… now her bravely seemed dwarfed by the headmaster's presence.
"Headmaster… it's about Harry."
"Ahh."
Hermione put the lemon square back. "Ron just got answer from his mum about Harry staying at the Burrow this summer."
"She didn't decline to take Harry in." Dumbledore's eyebrows rose in the beginning state of shock, or at the very least genuine surprise.
"No. Absolutely not. She said he could stay… thing is, sir, that the Weasleys are going to be spending half of the holiday in Romania visiting Ron's brother Charlie at the dragon lairs."
Dumbledore nodded and waited.
Hermione sighed in irritation. "And then when Harry hears this he decides he'd rather go back to the Dursleys than vacation at a dragon lair. He said something about putting up with the Dursleys being worth not having to put up with the dragons. Personally, I'd think dragons would be an improvement, but Harry was adamant."
Dumbledore nodded again. "I can see that flummoxes you."
"Well, yes sir. That family of his is rotten, you and I both know it. I'd think Harry would do anything to not have to go back there. I'd even think dragons would be a small price to pay."
Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "If I may point out, Miss Granger, you've never been pursued by a dragon."
"Of course I haven't, but still…"
"The concept of being hunted by a dragon and the experience of it are very different things. You'll find most who have been dragon prey find the memory quite… disturbing. It's not a reaction that can be rightly or quite succinctly put into written words. No, it doesn't surprise me that Harry would choose his less-than-loving family over the dragons right now. His unpleasant encounter with a dragon is very recent, and with a Hungarian Horntail no less… Don't think less of Harry for his reluctance to meet a dragon again so soon. The last time I tangled with a dragon it was eight years before I went near another one, and that was Norbert."
Hermione couldn't help but smile. "Well… I suppose. You're right that I can't speak to what it was like for Harry going head to head with that dragon. But still, because of that whole dragon thing he's opting to return to the Dursleys rather than spend the holiday with the Weasleys.
"Sir… I still feel strongly that Harry shouldn't have to go back there."
"Yes, I can see you do. What do you propose?"
With a jolt of determination, Hermione sat up and looked Dumbledore in the eye. "I propose Harry come home with me."
Dumbledore merely watched Hermione as if she were being graded.
"Of course he wouldn't be as comfortable at my house as the Burrow, as he's never been there before, but I could ask my parents and I'm sure, I'm almost certain, they'd say yes. I could owl my mum and dad tonight and beg them to let Harry come this summer if I have to. Would that work, Headmaster?"
Dumbledore did not answer right away. He ran his index finger through his beard and looked up at his sleeping portraits as though seeking their opinion. Finally, after an unbearable moment of silence, he answered. "I have considered that. In fact, the moment you told me Harry decided not to go with the Weasleys I've been turning the problem over in my head."
"Problem?"
"I'm afraid so. You see, at the Burrow Molly and Arthur are there to safeguard Harry. Magically protect him."
Hermione's heart sank. "Oh."
"Thus the problem. I have no doubt that your parents would be most courteous and gracious; your manner would suggest they're positively delightful muggles. But they are muggles. With Voldemort's return we can't know what is in the very near future. We must consider Harry's safety; there's nothing to say Voldemort won't try to attack Harry while he's away from the school."
Dumbledore stood and paced behind his desk. "That your family is muggle, however, also bears a distinct advantage. You're of no relation to Harry the way the Dursleys are, so the connection would not be obvious. You live in a muggle home in a muggle community… I would bet my favorite shower cap that neither Voldemort nor his followers would have the first clue how to use a 'telephone book'. While Harry would be vulnerable, he'd also have a measure of protection gained through the difficulty to locate him. I believe the muggle phrase is 'hiding in plain sight'?" Dumbledore tapped his chin thoughtfully. "There is still the problem of him being so defenseless should anything happen."
"Is there any way the ministry could lift the ban on underage magic? Just for me and Harry? Between the two of us, I know… well, I think we could manage to fend off any attackers."
"I'm afraid not. First, to do so we would have to inform the ministry of Harry's intended whereabouts, and to be frank we don't know where Voldemort's dormant supporters have ended up. I hate to say it, but we cannot completely trust the Ministry of Magic. Second, while I admire both Harry's skill as well as yours, particularly given your ages, you are both still students. I could not in good conscience leave you to fend for yourselves considering the possible dangers."
Just as Hermione was feeling hopeless Dumbledore stopped and his eyes twinkled meaningfully.
"But there may be a way…"
Hermione sat up alertly.
Dumbledore turned to Hermione. "Now, under any other circumstances my first inclination would be to have an Auror assigned to Harry. At present, however, that's not a wholly wise move. We've already addressed the questionable alliances within the ministry. And we can't get you and Harry special allowance for underage magic for the same reasons. But who is able to use magic without it registering with the ministry?"
Hermione thought furiously. She couldn't think of anyone who could use magic without the ministry getting wind of it. The ministry was strict about keeping and eye on people doing magic who shouldn't be or in ways they oughtn't to be. As she wracked her brain her eyes fell on the plate of lemon squares. A passage read in a book once leapt into her thoughts.
"House elves!" she exclaimed.
Dumbledore smiled.
"But no," Hermione shook her head. "Dobby used magic at Harry's house in third year and the ministry jumped down Harry's throat for it, thinking he did it."
"Yes… but Dobby was under the service of the Malfoys at the time and he was at the Durlseys without leave from his master to be there, and nor were his actions aimed to serve his master. That made his magic use illegal in house elf law. When a house elf performs illegal magic the ministry knows it. A house elf under command to perform magic would not register, nor would…"
"A free elf."
"Very good, Miss Granger. I trust I do not have to tell you how powerful house elf magic is?"
Hermione shook her head. She knew. The house elves were restrained only by their code of conduct toward service and wizard-kind. While they wielded magic effortlessly, they seldom chose to do so outside of service to their masters. They didn't have the ferocious drive to compete that would predispose them to seek equality with wizards and witches while they inherently had the magical ability to do so. Their lives were simple as slaves, and for their service they were cared for. Their inherently unassuming nature was the reason that free elves weren't monitored. They didn't do harm because it would complicate their lives, which they'd much prefer to avoid.
Hermione thought aloud, "Then, do you propose Dobby…"
"Gracious, no." Dumbledore's answer surprised Hermione. "Do not mistake me, I am fond of the vivacious elf himself, but he is… shall we say… obsessive? I don't know if you noticed, but Dobby has developed quite a fixation on Harry. I imagine he would be more of a nuisance as Harry's watcher than a help. We must also remember that Dobby served the Malfoys. While his intentions are good, the wizards from whom he learned his magic and its uses… well, no need to really speak to that, I should think.
"I do have an idea for an elf that might suit our purposes."
While Hermione sat watching, Dumbledore walked to his fireplace, grabbed a handful of floo powder, and tossed it into the flames. His expression became focused and intent, indication of tapping into the power of his concentration. The fire flared green, sputtered, then a small creature bounded out of the hearth.
Hermione blinked. It was a house elf. A house elf with globular green eyes and bat-like ears more erect than Dobby's. What threw Hermione was that this elf was wearing clothes. The magical creature was wearing a pair of smiley-face boxers, they covered its body knees to chest, and strings tied to handfuls of the elastic band served as suspenders. The elf looked around the room, looked at Hermione, then turned to Dumbledore.
"Master Albus! So long it's been!"
"Hello, Kimmy." Dumbledore knelt down beside the house elf and looked toward Hermione. "Hermione, this is Kimmy. Kimmy, Hermione Granger. Kimmy has served the Dumbledores for over ninety years."
Hermione couldn't quite believe it. "The Dumbledores have slaves?" She could not help the reproach in her voice.
Kimmy screwed up her face and scratched at her leg while Dumbledore chuckled. "Oh, Kimmy was set free a long time ago. She hasn't been owned for close to eighty years."
Hermione frowned in confusion.
Kimmy grunted. "Kimmy likes working for Masters Albus and Aberforth! Kimmy stays because she loves them."
Dumbledore touched Kimmy's shoulder. "I must say without Kimmy's supervision my brother Aberforth and I might well have died of malnutrition when our dear mother passed."
Kimmy looked up at him in adoration and overwhelming compassion.
"These past few decades Kimmy's been looking after Aberforth. When he's there to let her, that is. Has Aber come back from his latest holiday?"
"Not yet, sir. He owled me these boxers two weeks ago." Kimmy proudly tugged on her boxer shorts, looked to Hermione, and boasted happily, "Kimmy does love boxer shorts."
Hermione smiled.
"Yes. We have tried to pay her wages for her service; the only currency she'll accept is to be paid in boxers. I'd hazard to guess she has the most impressive boxer collection in Britain." Dumledore turned to address Kimmy. "Kimmy, I wondered if I could impose on you for a great favor."
"Anything, Master Albus. What would you like Kimmy to do?"
Hermione sat quietly while Dumbledore explained Harry's predicament. She let her thoughts drift to the letter she was have to draft to her parents, how she would word her plea, when at last something new in the conversation recaptured Hermione's undivided attention.
"… so, Kimmy, I had hoped that you'd agree to go to the Grangers this summer holiday with Harry and Hermione and make sure Harry's safe."
Kimmy bounced on the balls of her bare feet, her big ears quivering and the boxer shorts shifting on the small body. "Oh! most certainly, Kimmy would be happy to."
Hermione found herself unexpectedly torn, vacillating between elated and filled with trepidation. She was sure she could convince her parents to let Harry stay, but a house elf? A house elf in a muggle home, in a muggle town, in her parents' kitchen?
Dumbledore rose and smiled warmly. "I can see you're wary, but you have nothing to fear from Kimmy's discretion around muggles. You see, Aberforth and I grew up near a muggle town… well, within a good afternoon's walking distance, really. We made quite an adventure of moving among the quaint non-magic folk when we were young, in fact. We thought the muggles were immensely amusing, endearingly so. So fond of our excursions were we that our mother made provisions for our activities around the muggles in the guise of Kimmy here. Would you please show Hermione your muggle cover, Kimmy?"
Kimmy beamed, crouched to place her hands on the floor, and before Hermione's eyes the house elf shrank, changed, and suddenly instead of the house elf there was a tan-colored Chihuahua. The bulging eyes and bat-like ears still looked remarkably like Kimmy, but they fit the breed of dog she's become so well that no one would suspect it was a house elf in disguise.
The implications struck Hermione. Harry could go anywhere and his protector would appear to be nothing more than his pet. No muggle would look twice at the little dog at Harry's side.
"That's brilliant, Kimmy!"
Kimmy gave a shake then transformed back, immediately rearranging her boxer overalls.
"Well, Miss Granger, Kimmy would seem to solve our dilemma. I assure you, she has interacted with muggles well enough to know how to behave so as not to upset them. A better-comported house elf you'd be hard-pressed to find. Now, if you can convince your parents to agree to letting Kimmy stay at your home this summer, I could certainly see my way clear to letting you take Harry back with you."
Hermione jumped up from her seat. "Oh, they will, sir! I'll make sure they do. Thank you, and thank you, Kimmy. This is wonderful. This will mean so much to Harry. I'm going to owl them straight away." With a grin and suddenly feeling invincible she dashed from the office and toward the owlery.
It was well past midnight before Hermione actually made it to the owlery. After leaving Dumbledore's office she'd rushed back to the common room, retrieved several sheaves of parchment and a quill, and took up at a table normally utilized for homework where she set about composing the letter she would send to her parents. She set herself the task of getting it finished and off that very night. She wouldn't let it sit another moment. Putting together the right way to approach her parents with the idea of a boy and a house elf staying with them over the summer had required more tact and skill than she'd originally anticipated. She didn't suspect her parents would be horribly opposed to Harry staying over; it was the house elf she wasn't sure about. For all their support toward Hermione and her witch status, they were still muggles and largely unacquainted with the magical world (to which house elves firmly belonged). Feeling guilty for it, but for Harry's sake not guilty enough to change her mind, she decided to omit the details on Harry's guardian. If Kimmy could remain in dog form then her parents need not be any the wiser. After all, they allowed her to have Crookshanks in the house, so a Chihuahua shouldn't be that different. After that slightly deceitful decision was made, writing the letter seemed to become a bit easier, but it still had to be just right. She couldn't abide by any letter that would fail to convince her parents to have Harry as a summer guest. It became a homework assignment, subject to the same exactness and perfection. She started several drafts that she scrapped and discarded; she began anew it seemed half a dozen times. Early in Hermione's effort, Ron had returned from owling his own mother and seen Hermione scribbling and contemplating feverishly. The look of sharp concentration on her face surely made Ron believe that its source was a textbook, for he gave an exaggerated yawn and dashed up the boys' dorm stairs before Hermione could catch him. Hermione had barely spared him a glance; she had a friend to rescue.
Finally, with Crookshanks coiling around her legs and hopping on to the table to swat at the jumping feather-end of her quill, she had her letter done. She didn't even look at the time, unconcerned, as she stashed her finished note, grabbed up her cloak, and headed out of the common room.
The owlery was eerie in the black of night. The occupants, normally so docile and calm during the day, were now uncommonly active and vocal. Hermione had never visited the owlery at night and would avoid it if possible in the future. The fast, stealthy whisper of feathers rushing past her face was enough to make anyone jumpy.
Hermione peered around the darkness uselessly a moment then pulled out her wand and cast lumos. There was a wave of indignant, angry hoots at the sudden light, dark bodies shifted and moved in a wall of avian complaint. A great many owls just fled the tower entirely, a crowd of birds making for the windows and door. Hermione ducked the mob and looked up. The light found a single patch of white in shadow near the ceiling and Hermione sighed in relief at the sight of Hedwig's back.
"Hedwig."
The snowy owl turned her head and looked down at Hermione. A dead rat, mangled and half-eaten, dangled from her beak.
"Eww… Hedwig, come down here, please."
Hedwig seemed to weigh the options, ruffled her feathers with a disgruntled shake at having to abandon her meal, then let the corpse drop to the ground twenty feet below and left her perch to fly down to Hermione. Hermione was startled when Hedwig came right at her (though Hermione couldn't imagine what else she could have expected the bird to do), and when she instinctively brought up an arm to shield her face Hedwig wrapped her feet around Hermione's forearm and landed cleanly on the girl's arm.
Hermione staggered at the unexpected weight but managed to keep from pitching Hedwig to the floor or ending up there herself. It felt horribly awkward and ungainly to have the owl on her arm. And she was surprisingly heavy. She couldn't fathom how Harry made it look so natural and effortless.
Hermione took Hedwig outside to the stone ledge, thankfully free of the fray of night raptors. She took a deep breath of clear air then opened her eyes to see Hedwig watching her intently. Her expression would almost seem to ask 'what did you expect in an owlery at this hour?'.
Hermione pushed the thought aside and moved closer to the ledge. Not so discreetly, she rested her arm supporting Hedwig on to the ledge. Her arm was tired from only holding Hedwig a few moments. Harry's bird clucked her beak, maybe offended or disappointed at Hermione's pitiful upper body strength, but stepped off Hermione's arm and on to the ledge. Then again she fixed the girl with the same expectant amber gaze.
Hermione pulled the letter to her parents from her pocket and faced Hedwig. She took a breath. "I didn't ask Harry if it would be all right to use you to send a letter, Hedwig.
"Harry was supposed to spend the summer with the Weasleys, but that fell through. I wrote my parents to ask them if he could come home with me. I hoped you'd take this to them as quickly as possible. I'd use a school owl, but I wanted to ask if you'd do it first, because you're much faster than they are."
Hedwig immediately stuck out her leg.
Hermione smiled gratefully. "Thank you, Hedwig." The bird stared at her, as though to say that she agreed for Harry's sake and it was pointless, almost insulting really, to thank her for something she would do in a heartbeat.
Hermione quickly tied the scroll to Hedwig's leg. As soon as it was secure the snowy owl took off with a powerful beat of wings and quickly disappeared into the night.
Hermione remained at the ledge a long time, staring into the darkness. She knew it was unrealistic to expect Hedwig to return so soon, but she couldn't seem to pry herself away from the hope that maybe Harry's bird could do it. She was still there when most of the school's owls began returning from their night of hunting.
Harry was the first one awake in his dorm room. He'd jerked out of a nightmare with his heart racing and lungs burning. He'd been back in the graveyard. He had been tied, prone on his back on the ground between tombstones, and Wormtail was there with his dagger. He'd said a few drops of Harry's blood weren't enough, and he'd proceeded to cut Harry, peeling strips of flesh free and wrapping them around a fetus-like creature in the grass as though Pettigrew meant to recreate his lord using Harry's skin like paper maché.
When Harry reoriented to his surroundings and realized he was in fact in his bed at Hogwarts, the bitter vice of fear wrapped around his chest turned into a drowning, sour ache. His shoulders slumped as he sat up in bed, his head drooped, and his bones throbbed. It was getting better, the marrow-deep pain from the Cruciatus. Hopefully, in a day, he could be distracted from noticing it in every waking moment. And in some of his sleeping moments. The sensation of the knife peeling parts of him away had been distressingly real.
Harry's stomach flipped. He'd already been distracted from it once, the only time since he'd been tortured that he'd honestly been able to not think about it. That first night, in this bed, with…
Harry shook sharply from his thoughts. It seemed scandalous to think on it for too long, to linger on details too closely. It made his head spin, made his skin tingle strangely, made his stomach lurch. It was just dangerous to go beyond glancing blows of recollection. That entire evening and night had been too much, too many senses and feelings and extremes, everything on the brink of overload. Harry had to disconnect, detach, or he was afraid he'd go a little mad. He was scared that he didn't know what he'd do if he actually addressed that night, that moment, that one reprieve in agony.
A look toward the window showed blackness, but a blue-black that bespoke of impending dawn.
Harry slowly extricated himself from his bed covers. He wouldn't be able to fall back to sleep before it was time to get up again; he might as well get up. The other boys were still sound asleep. Ron's snores were accompanied by the rhythmic croaks of Neville's frog Trevor to produce a truly hideous duet. Dean and Seamus were quiet sleepers, more moving lumps than people until they stirred. Neville slept like a puppy with occasional squeaking sounds, but at the time he was quiet.
Harry crept past his dorm-mates and padded lightly down the stone stairs to while away the long hours before the day.
When he reached the foot he froze.
He'd expected an empty common room at such an ungodly hour. Instead he saw Hermione. She was curled up on the couch asleep.
Unable to move, Harry stood a moment and watched her. A precursory twinge threatened to become that stomach lurch he tended to shy from. She looked peaceful, vulnerable, very purely Hermione when she didn't have to prove herself to anyone. It was a rare sight. The ever-present crinkle on her brow of complex thought was gone, leaving her expression relaxed and obscenely lovely.
Harry hadn't thought he wanted company, but he discovered he was glad Hermione was there.
He moved across the room and approached Hermione, bent to touch her shoulder to shake her awake, but at the last moment stopped. Somehow, just seeing her was enough to ease his mind. The vestiges of his nightmare were losing hold, and it seemed almost criminal to wake her when she looked so comfortable.
Harry sat down on the floor in front of the couch instead and watched her face, the way wild curls of chestnut hair fell in tendrils near her closed eyes, her cheeks the resting place for dark eyelashes and her lips slightly parted. Even at rest like this her hair was untamed. Harry could certainly commiserate with Hermione on the topic of unruly hair. Sleeping as she was, she looked so frail, and yet she was the strongest person he knew besides Dumbledore. When she set her mind to something nothing would stop Hermione Granger. He couldn't think of anyone who truly gave Hermione her due. She was more than incredible, and most would have the audacity to call her plain. She was far from it. She was unsung. Brilliant, but largely overlooked. People knew she was smart, but 'smart' was an inadequate way to describe her. Harry, at least, knew she was amazing, even if he couldn't tell her. How he could have made it through even his first year without her he didn't know. He and Ron both owed Hermione more than either could ever repay. Yet she never tried to collect. Hermione just gave of herself…
Harry's stomach jumped, letting him know his thoughts were straying into dangerous territory.
But it was true. Hermione had saved him in so many ways and he'd never really thanked her.
Hermione shifted, grumbled faintly under her breath, and opened her eyes. She didn't start to find Harry a mere foot from her, she simply watched him in return a pregnant moment. Then she blinked lazily. "What is it?" she asked in a thick, sleepy voice.
Harry's skin prickled. "I was just thinking."
Hermione stretched languidly. Harry's eyes swept the curve of her back when she arched.
Hermione resettled and sat up. "About what?" she asked, her voice much more normally pitched. She patted the cushion beside her and Harry moved off the floor to sit next to her. There was plenty of room on the couch for them to spread out, but Harry inexplicably found himself sitting right beside her, their sides brushing lightly. Hermione didn't seem to mind, because she didn't move away.
"What are you doing down here?" Harry asked. It was better than telling her what he'd really been thinking. It wasn't fit to be spoken aloud. Somehow, it had the feel of the forbidden.
Hermione hesitated and bit her lip. "Oh, um, I'll tell you later."
Harry looked askance at her. That kind of evasion she might pull with Ron, but she wasn't supposed to withhold things from him. Harry was paused by his own reaction. Since when? Had it always been that way? When did he start to expect her to confide in him more than Ron? But he did expect it, because Hermione talked to Harry. It only then struck Harry how true that fact had always been, and how he'd taken it for granted until that very instant.
He was jolted from his thoughts when Hermione touched his right arm. The hairs at the nape of his neck tickled, but he didn't resist when Hermione gently took his arm in her lap and rotated his wrist to reveal the underside. He looked down at the fading pink of the healed knife-wound. He was too conflicted to really feel. He saw the evidence of what had happened, but it was made oddly distant by the way Hermione traced her fingertip over the mark.
When her finger neared his wrist his fingers curled of their own accord and Hermione stopped, perhaps thinking it was a silent indication of pain. Harry couldn't figure how to let her know it wasn't.
"Would you go spare if I asked how you were feeling?" Hermione asked gently.
Harry smiled. "No. I feel…" Harry stopped. The first thought that had come to mind as he sat there in the quiet of the early morning, alone with Hermione at his side in the common room, had been something close to 'comfortable'. But it seemed wrong to say that after what had happened. That shouldn't be the answer, but his first reaction had been to say that he felt kind of close to good. But the ache was still resonating dully in his muscles and bones, he still felt the edge of terror from seeing a friend killed before his eyes, he still felt the darkness that was Voldemort's magical connection to him like a sickness in his blood. He should answer that he felt dreadful.
But he didn't. Somehow, just sitting with Hermione, it went away. It faded to a background noise. She made things better, she made his crazy life mimic normal. And for Harry, anything that made him feel even an approximation of normal was a gift.
Hermione was watching him, obviously concerned about his inability to answer.
Harry frowned. He knew how he should feel, couldn't justify how he did feel, was confused that how he should feel was how he'd felt only a few minutes ago but no longer did, so he settled on an honest shrug. "I don't really know how I feel."
Hermione clearly didn't like his answer, probably because there wasn't much she could do to help if he didn't know, but she didn't press him. She gave an accepting nod and looked toward the fireplace.
Harry studied her profile as her eyes went out of focus and she got lost in her thoughts. He'd seen her do it countless times, but he'd never really watched the process flit across her face.
He was going to miss her this summer. Somehow, he knew he'd miss her this time more than he had in the past. Aside from the sordid details of him and Hermione together that he could not let himself dissect for some faceless danger he could not name, what he remembered about that first night after Voldemort's return was feeling like he might not make it to morning with his sanity intact. He'd honestly been afraid of breaking down. He'd felt like he was stretched threadbare, and at times he'd truly believed he'd lose his mind. He didn't know what would be left of Harry Potter come dawn. And then he'd come through the night and greeted the sunrise with a kind of security he'd never had before, because Hermione had suddenly, blindingly, become this source of power to him. She stood like a windbreak to the gales of madness, a sheltering stone in a raging river of fear and pain, an immovable figure to block the horrors rushing him. In a single night she became his anchor.
With the summer holidays only a day away, he acknowledged that in so short a time he'd clung to Hermione's strength. He began asking and needing half of what she'd always tried to give him before but that he'd never had the ability to claim. He took it now, he let her hover and defend and care for him, and he knew it wouldn't be easy for him to give up her attentions. He'd dressed his wounds in her presence, and he wasn't sure he could stand to have those injuries torn open again in order to push Hermione back to where he used to keep her.
The day in the hospital wing when she and Ron had come to tell him about the Burrow, Harry had just suddenly realized that Hermione had become more important to him than Ron was. It had surprised him, because for so long Ron had been his best friend, the first one he'd ever made, but looking at the two together it hit him that Hermione had displaced Ron. She meant more. He could lose Ron's friendship sooner and more easily than he could lose Hermione's.
That had left a strange, scared churning in his gut. Somehow it seemed like he was abandoning Ron, and he didn't want that to happen, but then Ron had started talking about wizard's chess and Quidditch and he'd looked at Hermione and just accepted it. Since that night, in a way, he'd felt a distance from Ron. He thought it might trace back to the beginning of the year when Ron hadn't spoken to him for months because he refused to believe that Harry hadn't put his name in the Goblet of Fire. Ron had accused him of lying, of deceiving his best friend, while Hermione had helped him through the tasks with steadfast devotion, being so very Hermione from the very start. Harry wondered if this now, this suddenly stronger bond to Hermione and weakening of his connection to Ron, was some backlash of that. Was he just choosing Hermione because she'd never doubted him? Was he that petty and vengeful?
He thought that he might be.
Even still, he'd never felt this kind of necessity concerning Ron. He'd never needed Ron the way he knew, deep down, he needed Hermione now. And that was unnerving. Harry didn't know what he was supposed to do.
"Harry?"
Harry blinked and returned his attention to her. She was looking at him and the orange firelight painted an amber line along the contours of her face. In her eyes he could almost make himself think she needed him as much as he needed her.
But he knew he was dreaming, trying to put something there that wasn't. Hermione didn't need, couldn't need, not the way Harry did. Hermione was too strong for that.
"What is it?" Hermione queried. "You looked troubled." She reached out and took his hand. Harry looked down at their hands, the way her fingers so easily and naturally slid between his. His stomach fluttered again, and it made him glad breakfast was hours away. The way she made touch seem so pleasant and desired had been a quandary for him since second year.
"No one but you ever really touches me," he said before he could stop the words.
Hermione's eyes widened, as though accused of cheating on a test, and she gave a guilty, "Oh," and moved to pull her hand out of his. She clearly took his comment as being chastised.
"No," Harry said, a little too quickly and strongly, and he held her hand tightly to stop her from drawing away. She stopped tugging and looked warily at him. "I… I didn't mean that in a bad way. I just… noticed."
"Does it… bother you?" she asked in a small voice.
Harry frowned and shook his head. "It bothers me when other people do. I guess I don't know how to be touched. The Dursleys…" Harry broke off and Hermione's fingers squeezed his in understanding. "I learned to not like it.
"But I like it when it's you. I've never minded you touching me. And you know, I never… well, I don't really like Ron touching me, either… never have, and I know that's awful but it's true. Is that weird?"
"No. When you think about it, I mean, it really makes a lot of sense." Hermione's voice was pained on his behalf. She looked down nervously, bit her lip, then glanced carefully up at him through her lashes. "But… you don't mind me?"
Harry shook his head again.
"You remember in second year?" he asked, and Hermione gave a half-nod as she waited for clarification on which part of second year they were discussing.
"You're the first person I can remember ever hugging me." Harry met her eyes and did not waver. Something was dancing in her eyes, more than reflections from the firelight, and he knew it was important, even if he didn't know quite exactly how. "I've always remembered that."
Hermione's eyes glistened in sharp sympathy and undeniable affection. "Oh, Harry," she croaked and pulled her hand out of his to throw her arms around his neck. Harry startled, his stomach lurched mightily, and a lump lodged in his throat. She pressed against him, her arms circled his neck and rested against his shoulders, her hair tickled his face. She smelled really good. Harry trembled. Hermione tightened her hold on him, and Harry snaked his arms around her body to hug her back. Unknown feelings surged like ocean waves in his bloodstream, and he didn't understand them and he was afraid and it made his heart pound, but he trusted Hermione to keep him safe. She wouldn't let him drown; he trusted her to save him. He didn't need to understand because Hermione would figure it out, she always did.
Maybe someday she'd tell him why he felt so uncomfortable and awkward when other people touched him but why it felt so good when she hugged him.
Hermione pulled away but not completely. She kept her arms around him, let her interlocked fingers loop around Harry's neck, but drew back enough to rest her head on his shoulder. Harry didn't know if he was supposed to let go of her or not. He knew he didn't particularly want to. Uncertain but willing to take the chance, he kept his arms where they were, looped around her back with their weight drawing her faintly closer, and he waited expectantly for Hermione to tell him off. For a few seconds he didn't breathe in tense readiness to pull away at her scolding. But Hermione didn't tell him to back away or take his hands off her. To the contrary, she actually shifted closer until they were flush against each other, pressed quite tightly side to side, but it made her hold and his more comfortable. Only then did Harry let out the breath he'd been holding and let himself relax. Hermione sighed too, resettled her head on his shoulder, and Harry swallowed thickly. She fit really nicely against his side, he thought. His stomach was in knots and his heartbeat was drumming madly, but he was happy. This made him feel good.
Hermione spoke softly, and he could hear a smile in her voice. "You shouldn't have told me that, Harry." Harry stiffened in the first flickers of fear that completely overrode any confusion that might have come from hearing the tone of her voice mismatch with her actual words. But Hermione wasn't moving away or swatting at his arms. She stayed there, her head on his shoulder, and continued to let him hold her. She continued lowly, "There have been so many times I've wanted to hug you, because you looked like you needed it or because I did, and I stopped myself because I thought you wouldn't like me just hugging you like that. But now I don't know if I'll be able to stop anymore."
Harry found himself smiling and feeling slightly light-headed. Relief was almost palpable, and it was accompanied by one of those new, unidentified emotions that hit him in the stomach. "Well, you can. I won't mind."
Hermione squeezed him tighter and Harry would have been hard-pressed to recall the nightmare that had woken him only moments ago.
As she looked around the Great Hall, it occurred to Hermione with a kind of bitter disgust that end of term had a strange effect on students. It was a time of merry anticipation, relief that the term was done, that summer holidays were about to begin, that freedom from homework and exams was a hair's breadth away. It had a strange confundus effect on the students at Hogwarts. The Great Hall was an almost perversely normal cacophony of children's voices as they tucked in to their last dinner feast. Earlier that evening they'd bid farewell to the Beauxbatons and Durmstrangs, and it was as though with them departed the dark reality of late. The students at Hogwarts were letting themselves pretend nothing was wrong. They knew