Title: I'll Always Be Right There
Author: Ashley K
Disclaimer: I own nothing from the Harry Potter universe, nor do I own the song lyrics.
AN: The title is from the song by Michelle Branch, "I'll Always Be Right There," and has always reminded me of H/Hr.

"Harry, what's wrong?"

Harry was sick of that question. What was wrong? Life hated him; that's what was wrong. Unfortunately, it wasn't an acceptable answer to give to most people. Before last summer, he probably would have just smiled and laughed it away. That was before all the attacks on Muggles and Muggleborns, before the start of his intensive training, before Sirius' memorial.

"Nothing," he had taken to reply, somewhat curtly, before walking away.

He was surrounded by so many people who 'understood' what was he was going through, people who, the rational part of him knew, were just trying to help. Harry had never felt so alone. He felt like he was in a crowded room, screaming on the top his of lungs with nobody noticing.

Never in all his sixteen years had he felt that way.

When you're all alone and you need a light.
Someone to guide you, through the night.

Harry had taken to go off on his own, something that Dumbledore approved of—as long as Harry stayed on the grounds and had his emergency portkey firmly tucked away in his pocket. Dumbledore had had a special portkey made for Harry; it was roughly the size of a knut and would take Harry to the most secure place in the area. Harry enjoyed this false sense of freedom and his walks grew longer and longer. This was the only time he had for himself. Quiet, Harry-time when he didn't have to worry about what he said, how he said it, and who had heard what he said.

Last year, when everybody hated him, was easier. Blind hatred he could deal with, especially since, for the most part, hated people were left alone. Blind affection, however, was a completely different story.

He was suffocating and had no idea how to save himself.

When you're all alone and you need a friend.
Someone to help you to the end.

People kept asking him what they could do to help, how they could defeat Voldemorte. They didn't realize, didn't know what Harry knew. That Harry was the only one who could.

Harry had seen the shine in Ron's eyes. Ron wanted to be there, wanted to be the one who defeated Voldemorte. Harry understood why Ron wanted what he did; Defeating Voldemorte, even helping to defeat him, would give Ron the acknowledgement he had been searching for his entire life. Harry wouldn't, couldn't tell Ron that, once again, Harry was going to (hopefully) be the one who was thrust into the limelight.

"Harry," Ron had said, gravely, one night, "I-I just want you to know that...I want to be there. I want to help. I can help."

"It's not your fight, Ron," Harry had answered, playing the part of the reluctant hero to perfection. He knew that Ron was expecting that. He knew that, in the end, he would give Ron his word; Ron would be standing by his side in the final battle. Harry also knew, however, that, just like in the Department of Mysteries, Ron would be easily pushed aside and Harry would be the last man standing.

"It is, mate," Ron easily disagreed. Harry nodded, giving Ron permission.

It was so tiring, constantly having to be brave, be the savior, be the hero. He never had the chance anymore just to be Harry, a sixteen-year-old boy. He wasn't just a hero, a savior. Harry wanted it to be over. Once it was through, Harry would be able to be Harry.

That is, if he made it.

When you need someone to catch you when you fall.
I'll be there through it all.

He had been walking on the edge of the Forbidden Forest when it started to rain. Shrugging, Harry turned and headed back for the castle, not changing his pace. It was just a little rain. And what difference did a little water make?

Harry was shivering by the time he got to the Common Room. The Fat Lady had asked him his favorite question and he had hurriedly answered it, blinking back tears that came from nowhere. Closing the portrait door, Harry leaned up against it and closed his eyes, hoping that the Common Room would be empty for once.

On opening his eyes, Harry almost got his wish.

Hermione sat there, facing the door, facing Harry, and was staring at her friend. Harry braced himself for the ever-asked question. Instead, "God, you could get pneumonia! Secoropas!"

Harry felt his clothes immediately dry and felt a little warmer. "Come here," Hermione gently commanded, her arms open wide, still staring at his eyes, which still glistened with unshed tears. Harry walked over to his friend and collapsed in her arms, his head cradled on her lap. "Shhh...you don't have to tell me, it's okay," Hermione whispered, gently stroking his still-wet hair.

Hermione sat there, silently comforting Harry, occasionally whispering meaningless words. Harry laid there, the warmth of Hermione and the Common Room fire comforting, his tears silently running down his face. "Hermione?" he whispered, his voice raspy, as he sat up a while later.

Smiling gently, Hermione reached up and wiped away his tear-tracks. "Don't mention it," she whispered, before kissing him on the cheek and headed up to bed.

Watching her retreating form, Harry felt, for the first time in a long time, like everything was going to be okay. Smiling to himself, Harry followed Hermione's lead and headed off to bed.

Everything was going to be okay.

And we'll be there for each other.
'Cus you're the best friend I ever had.
Just when you thought you were falling.
Then you know I'll always be right there.
Whenever you need me, I'll always be right there.
I'll always be right there.