And Suddenly

When Harry first met a witch named Hermione Granger, he practically didn't even know what it meant to love someone. Yes, he had felt something like 'care' and 'warmth' before, but it were only one-sided and mostly short-lived emotions, which had raised him with the idea he couldn't be loved. By anyone.

When he first saw her face on that magical train that took him off to his new life, he was shocked by her eyes. They were a deep shade of brown, chocolate, big, and warmer than any pair of eyes he had ever felt looking at him in his little, miserable life. She looked at him in curiosity, studying his face, his body with a tiny hint of recognition in her smile.

Harry had never felt this overwhelming emotion before.

Like he knew her for years; like he knew she existed all along.

Now, more than five years later, Hermione Granger was the one he knew best, the one he trusted with his life. Even more than his other best friend, Ronald Weasley.

It felt likehe had known her all his life; like she had become a part of his soul, of his body; someone who could be encountered as a soulmate. It was like she knew what he was thinking, every minute, every hour. Their conversations were deep, far more mature than the ones he held with Ron.

Especially after the death of one of his most beloved ones, Sirius, they grew closer. They would stay up all night, making up excuses to not go to be like all of their housemates; giggling about what they said afterwards and just talking with each other, talking for hours, until the sun finally rose and they still didn't feel tired. Harry felt like Hermione was the only person he could talk with about these topics; no one else would act the way she did, listen the way she did, converse with him the way she did.

Harry told her about his pain, his loss and hurt. About how he didn't want to sleep anymore, about the tears that involuntarily flooded down his face when he was silently thinking about his parents, his godfather, his own bloody life.

Often Harry recalled the scene when he had managed to see his parents - even now it seemed like an unbelievable thing when they were young like him, barely fifteen years old and unaware of the sad fate that awaited them. He like to describe their faces, almost breaking into tears but still going on, telling his best friend reminded him so much of her; of his mother named Lily. Hermione tended to smile her subtle and melancholic smile at that moment; something Harry treasured without knowing it.

Showing Hermione the pictures of the photo album he had once received from Hagrid at the end of his very first year, was something he used to do often now. They both fantasized about what had happened just before the photograph was taken, creating little scenes and events which lightened up the image they got of Harry's real family. Harry felt like he was creating a more complete view of the life he had always been so fascinated with; the life he lived before his parents' death. Whispering, he described to Hermione how it would've been if nothing had ever happened; his mother, his father, their home in Godric's Hollow, even his own imaginary room. He told her he'd paint it bright green, and would put pictures of her all over the walls; never would she seem too far away from him then. A room, he told her, a place where the only thing he had to be was a scarless, careless boy.

Often Hermione grabbed his hand, clutching it with the soft, meaningful warmth she spread across his whole body. He couldn't resist curling the corners of his mouth into a slight smile when he felt this, a sudden glimpse of joy.

Often the trail of their conversations hit the memories of their pasts. They enjoyed telling the other about their lives before that wondrous Hogwarts invitation letter had reached them, about how magic had changed their lives. Hermione loved to recall certain memories she treasured, memories she didn't even think she would have remembered if she weren't talking about them with Harry. She told him about her fourth birthday, the candles - oh, the sparkling candles - that were the only thing at the time that had caught her attention. She remembered the first words she could read: "I-am-Hermione-Granger." She heard herself whisper it through gritted teeth, a very small mouth, fascinated about the world that suddenly opened up in front of her. Laughing, she told Harry about her first baby-sitter, whom she liked to tease with her knowledge so much; the poor woman refused to come to their house again, the next time the Grangers needed her. She all seemed to remember it all so vividly that she asked herself why it seemed hidden in a dark corner until now.

With a smile she told Harry her pleasant dreams, with tensed cheeks she whispered her fears in his ears. Harry discovered that Hermione carried a nearly constant feeling of guilt now, hormones striking her like crazyi and producing this feeling of guilt towards anyone. He knew she wanted to do the best for everyone, but never did he realise that Hermione could be so fragile, so humanly breakable. She told her she felt like she messed everything up in front of her, that she need acceptation and approval of everyone, but she didn't need to hear that from him. No, she knew that already.

Giggling, Hermione told Harry about the unintentionally stupid question Seamus asked Snape that day, and nearly bursting out into laughter as they shared the memory once again that flashed: Luna running towards Ron, just poof,

kissing him on the lips; and then saying: 'That was quite nice, Ronald.'

It didn't matter what they said over and over again, they enjoyed and laughed all the same. Sometimes the realisation that someone could hear them came too late, and before they could cover their mouths, a housemate woke up, frowning about the muffled sound that came out of the Common Room. Most of the time that one single student got back to sleep immediately; no-one ever discovered their nightly-conversations. They could imagine Seamus coming down the stairs, drunk on his magic-filled dreams, or Ginny, mad at them for waking her up, and Dear Merlin, you guys better come upstairs quickly before McGonagall notices, being said by a scared Neville.

But never did they return to their dorms. Even when they felt sleepy, they curled up on a couch, resting their bodies against each (space) other, and napping in each (space) other's warmth until the need for rest vanished, and they could return to their conversation.

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Harry felt relieved that he had told Hermione about the prophecy at the beginning of the year - the possibility of having a secret as big as his life hidden from her hurt him, so he decided to take the step and managed to tell her - between heavy breaths - about his unfortunate fate, there on platform nine and three-quarters. Never would he forget her reaction, her face and her expression were carved in his memories. He could taste her bitter tears on his bare lips. They didn't talk much about the prophecy anymore. They both knew it existed, but both tried to ignore it when morbid thoughts flooded their minds; they would have to make the best out of the worst.

Harry loved her smile. While listening to her, he sometimes studied it carefully; a thin line, curled up, lovely and sweet. He liked watching it move under her words, gasping or just being closed in peace. It was something that fascinated him immensely.

It was one of those warm nights, when they seemed to talk and talk and time passed by like a hurricane, when Hermione suddenly grabbed Harry's hand, like poof, without knowing exactly why, but didn't want to let go of it either. Harry turned his face around to her, gazing at her. The thin line that formed her mouth opened a little, like an 'oh', and they both knew they didn't have to say anything anymore.

It was one of those nights when Harry suddenly pushed his lips on hers, when they seemed to get lost in each other's gaze, when they kissed each other so passionately they never wanted to let go ever again.

It was one of those nights they realised they loved each other.

i "Like crazy" can be rather colloquial, and not used as much by the older generation, making the phrase very specific to this generation.