IMPORTANT NOTES:
1.) This is a DH compatible fic except for the epilogue, of course. As far as I know, the epilogue is nonexistent to me no matter how many people say otherwise. There will be some changes though and I'm going to mix book scenes with the movie scenes because I'm one of those people.
2.) English is not my first language and any mistakes in this fic is entirely my fault. I don't have enough time to proofread every chapter I write and I don't want a beta. I'll try to keep the wrong grammars and typos to a minimum though.
3.) I know that the Marriage law trope has been done a thousand times over but who says that it can't be done again? This story is purely for my pleasure and for you, my fellow Harmony shipper, as well.
4.) Some OOC-ness ahead. This is a post war fic so it's a guarantee that the characters are OOC. War changes people and it would take a long while for them to be the same or nearly the same as before.
I guess that's about it. Enjoy ~ NR xx
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.
Chapter One
When Does Happiness Begin in After?
A glittering chandelier. Curly black hair. Wild silver eyes. A dagger. A series of flashing lights. The agonising pain. A slur carved on her arm.
Hermione snapped her eyes open and forced herself to remain in the soft mattress of the bed despite the lingering thoughts that had made her want to bolt in the first place. Her throat was tight, veins bulging out of her neck, her jaw locked open, as it took whatever power she had left in her possession to stop herself from screaming aloud. Her honey eyes darted around the room, her trembling body instantly tensing as she noted how dark and cold it was. Alarm and panic gripped her tightly like a man clinging desperately to his lifeline as she was unable to discern her whereabouts.
For a disorienting second, she wondered if she was still in the Malfoy Manor, and her rescue from Bellatrix Lestrange's torture leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts and the end of the war, was just a figment of her imagination; a reprieve created by her mind to distract her from the pain of Bellatrix's curse. However, there was a faint and familiar smell of perfume in the air and Hermione's body slowly began relaxing against the thin mattress when she remembered that it was Ginny's scent and the memories of the last three months came rushing back like a dam breaking and there was water flooding the whole vicinity. She wasn't in the Malfoy manor anymore; she was currently at the Burrow, in the Weasley's eccentric home, and sharing a room with the youngest child and the only girl in the family, Ginny Weasley.
That meant that it wasn't just her imagination. They had really won the war, and Lord Voldemort was truly dead and cannot be resurrected again with the use of his Horcruxes; the ones that she and her best friends searched and destroyed all throughout the past year. That meant that she wasn't in some dark and dingy dungeon in the Malfoy Manor, and Bellatrix wasn't going to appear anytime soon to teach her a lesson. She was dead, just like Antonin Dolohov and Fenrir Greyback. Hermione continued staring at the ceiling, feeling a dull ache settling in her chest. Bellatrix was dead, just like Cedric Diggory, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin, Sirius Black, Dobby, Dennis Creevey, Lavender Brown, Fred Weasley and so many others. And just like them, she was going to be remembered albeit for different reasons.
Hermione pulled herself up the bed and scratched her untameable brown hair that had only gotten wilder in time. The hand she used was the same arm that had been abused and branded by the mad woman in her nightmares. Until now, she hadn't mustered enough strength to look at the word ever since Fleur Delacour-Weasley had bandanged the wound and covered it from everyone's sights. Only she and Fleur knew about the awful word etched on her skin and they had an unspoken agreement to not speak of it, not even when they're with company or if they're alone. The only times she managed to catch a glimpse of the scar on her left arm was when she was in the showers and that was only a quick glance. She knew that the puckered skin was still red, as though it was days old instead of months, and occasionally, it would bleed through the bandages; the cursed dagger preventing her scarred arm from ever healing or fading. She was branded, like an animal, and she would carry the word forever.
She was hardly the only person tortured amidst the war. Luna had spent a large amount of time in the dungeons of the Malfoy Manor and although she seemed to escape unscathed from the experience, there were moments when Luna would stiffen whenever someone snuck up behind her. Hermione could only imagine what she'd gone through in the hands of the Death Eaters. On the other hand, Ginny, Neville and a lot of other fifth and sixth years were subjected to an entire year of the Carrow Twins and they were known to use Unforgivable curses to punish them for their disobedience. However, out of all of them, Hermione didn't only have the mental scars but also the visual scars to prove that she survived in the war, and lived after experiencing the deranged, Bellatrix Lestrange.
She looked over at Ginny's side of the room and the trepidation in her heart lessened when she saw her asleep in her bed, red hair spread out across her pillow and the moonlight from the window struck her hair, creating a halo. Ginny had always been beautiful but she looked otherwordly that night. The only thing that ruined the beautiful image were the creases on her forehead as her eyebrows knitted, and the frown on her lips. Even in sleep, something was troubling her. However, there were no signs of nightmares — struggling, sweating, whimpering, and loud panting — and that was enough for Hermione, considering that Ginny had just lost a brother in the war three months prior. She was only sixteen, nearing seventeen, but Ginny Weasley was far from the shy child who aimed to please everyone before. Like Hermione and everybody else, Ginny grew up far too quickly.
With a quiet sigh, Hermione decided to leave the bed despite the late hours of the night. She couldn't go back to sleep, not even if she wanted to, not when all she could see whenever she slid her eyes shut was Bellatrix Lestrange, her crazed smile and the maniacal gleam in her silver gaze, when all she could remember were the friends she once had and lost in the war. No, sleep would evade her again tonight, just like the nights before and the ones after. She casted one look at Ginny, making sure that she hadn't disturbed her sleep, before leaving the room to go down to the kitchen after checking that her small beaded bag with her wand inside was still strung around her neck.
Hot chocolate always made her feel marginally better after a nightmare. She discovered that since the summer before her sixth year, when Antonin Dolohov used to invade her thoughts and senses after their gruesome encounter in the Department of Mysteries. Like Bellatrix, he left a mark on her too: the large purple scar across her chest that began in the valley between her breasts, leading down to her stomach, and ended on her left abdomen was one of her first and largest scars to date. The scar was a few years old but it was still in a slightly discolored purple and blue, like a bruise that would never fade. It was a sign that she was hit by a dark curse.
The door to the kitchen was open and she could see a large yellow glow inside, indicating that a number of candles had been lit by someone. Hermione wondered if someone was still awake or if someone had been awoken by a nightmare and couldn't sleep, just like her. It wouldn't be the first time someone had joined her in the kitchen before. She couldn't count the times she had kept George Weasley company in the three months she stayed in the Burrow. The man had lost his twin at the battle and was almost always in a catatonic state; a shell of the man he used to be.
One time, she had also joined Molly Weasley in the kitchen and listened as the matriarch of the Weasley family bustled around in the room, silent tears running down her cheeks, no doubt remembering the child she had lost in the war and the sacrifices that she had done in order to protect her remaining children. In a way, the kitchen became their little sanctuary in the Burrow, the only part of the house that remained untouched from all the horrors and was instead filled with happy memories of a complete family. Indeed, it was the only place that had survived barely unscathed when Death Eaters began raiding the Burrow and set the house on fire, just to prove that they could.
She crept towards the door and the tension that straightened her spine had eased when she spotted the familiar messy raven hair, green eyes and round crooked glasses. It was the first time she had seen Harry in the kitchen before, although she knew that he, too had countless of nightmares of the war, the battle, and the traumatising years before that. Sometimes, Hermione wondered how Harry had done it: survive the pressure of saving the Wizarding world, the constant danger that surrounded him, the lives that were lost that he considered his burden, and the Horcrux feeding off his emotions like a leech. He had sacrificed so much for the Wizarding world. He could've chosen to leave but he decided to stay and become a hero for them; the precious Boy Who Lived.
Hermione debated at first whether to come in or not. These past few months had been hard, especially to Harry who seemed to have created a wall of self loathing and anger around himself, pushing everyone else out. It was like in fifth year all over again although this time, they were unable to get through the wall no matter how many times they tried. Not even Ginny and Molly, who Harry usually listened to, could break the walls that kept them out. She was afraid that she would be invading something private if she approached him. Harry had been less than forgiving whenever he thought someone was meddling in his affairs. Just the other day, he snapped at Ron for asking him if he was okay. That resulted into a nasty fight that agonizingly silenced the occupants in the Burrow for the rest of the day until Harry came to apologize to Ron.
She played with the strands of her hair and sucked in a breath. He looked as though he was deep inside his thoughts and disturbing him might set him off again. She wanted nothing more than to ask and offer her help to him but she knew more than anyone else that prying into Harry's business would only do more bad than good. After all, she was the one who he directed most of his anger towards back in their fifth year. In time, she learned to keep silent whenever it came to Harry and his moments. Maybe she should just leave him alone.
She nodded resolutely in agreement with her thoughts and was about to move away from the open doorway when his green eyes lifted and their gazes met. His thick eyebrows rose in surprise as Hermione sheepishly waved at him. She waited for the outburst to come, for his eyes to harden and his lips to tighten into a straight line, but Harry's constant anger seemed to be subdued that night because he lifted his hand to wave back at her.
"Hey," Harry softly called out, his lips tipping up into a half smile. "What are you doing out there?"
Hermione hesitated before she stepped into the doorway and made her way to him. "I didn't know whether you wanted me here or not," she told him as she took a seat across from him.
The smile turned bitter. "Am I that difficult to deal with right now?"
Hermione stared at his solemn eyes and knew she couldn't lie to him. "Yes," she said quietly. "Just a little bit."
Harry hummed and looked down at his hands on the table. He cleared his throat. "So, why are you still up late at night?"
Hermione sighed quietly at the abrupt change of their conversation. Maybe she shouldn't feel so surprised. Feelings and emotions weren't really Harry's forté. He was an extremely private person. He still had a hard time with sharing and expressing what he truly thought and felt unless it was anger. The times she had seen him so emotional were when he saw Sirius falling into the Veil and when he had learned that he was one of Voldemort's Horcruxes, which meant that he had to die in order to save them all.
'I'll go with you.'
And she was prepared to die alongside him, for him. It was so strange to think that not so long ago, she was willing to sacrifice her life for the young man in front of her.
"I was asleep," she answered him. "But I woke up. Nightmares."
His green eyes flickered at her answer and he slowly nodded his head. "I see," he intoned.
"Does it go away?" She asked quietly as she tugged her hair, closing her eyes briefly when she felt the sting on her scalp. She pulled too hard.
"What does?" He asked blandly.
"The nightmares," she clarified. "Does it ever go away?"
It took a moment. Then— "No," he answered, as quiet as she. "It really doesn't. Over time, you learn to live with it, really."
Harry would know, Hermione thought. She was aware that ever since fourth year, his nights had plagued him. Sleeping was his most vulnerable state and his dreams were the hunting grounds that Voldemort used to invade. She knew because she often listened to his sleep whenever she was on watch during their Horcrux hunt, when Ron had left and when they both felt as though they were the only two people in the world. Many times, Harry would wake up from the nightmare and Hermione would pretend as though she hadn't heard his grunts of pain, his gasps of undiluted fear, and his thrashing against the sheets as though someone was holding him down and he desperately wanted to break free.
"How are you, Harry?" She asked and braced herself when she saw the flash of annoyance across his face.
"I'm fine, Hermione," he uttered irritably, clenching his jaw and probably gnashing his teeth together. "How many times do I have to tell you that I'm fine?"
Hermione stared at him, at the tired red rimmed eyes, at the five o'clock beard on his jaw, at the slumped shoulders, at the hunched back, at the gaunt cheeks, and thin face, and knew that he wasn't as fine as he made it out to be. It hurt Hermione that Harry was lying to her. Wasn't she the one who stayed with him until the very end? Wasn't she the one who went to Godric's Hollow with him and witnessed his painful reunion with his parents? Wasn't she the one who saw him in his most vulnerable state, who never faltered in his most awful and cruel moments? Wasn't she the one who would go through different kinds of lengths just to protect and keep him safe?
Ever since he had saved her from the troll, Hermione knew that she would do anything and everything in her power to keep him safe. She promised to herself that no harm would come to him and she tried so hard to cover him from the harsh reality. He had saved her life after all and that was the only thing that she could repay him for his efforts. Back when they were in their second year, when everyone in school started to suspect Harry the Heir of Slytherin — when she was one of those people who had suspected him — she still did what she could to stop their accusations and find the one responsible for the attacks despite that most of the victims were muggleborns and there were high chances that she could be the next victim — which she was in the end.
In their third year, she risked Harry's wrath by telling Professor McGonagall about his new Firebolt, worried that Sirius Black would place a curse in place of an innocent gift. She'd gone back in time, knowing that it was illegal and they could've been likely killed, because she wanted to save Sirius for Harry, for him to have some semblance of a family. And hadn't she read books day and night just to help Harry in the Triwizard Tournament and worried herself sick whenever he was performing the tasks? Hadn't she pestered Dumbledore and tried to convince him that they should write to Harry that summer after fourth year, waited for him every night in the common room whenever he served detention from Umbridge, researched spells and tried to protect the secret of the DA, tried to persuade him from coming to the DOM for fear that his vision was true, led a professor to the centaur herd to stop her from cursing him, and almost died for him?
She knew she wasn't always successful in shielding him away from the awful stuff but she had done those things for him even though most of them were everything against her morals and virtues. At a young age, she had devoted herself to him — completely and absolutely. Everything that she did was for him and everything that she was was because of him.
Still, it wasn't enough.
"You don't have to lie to me, you know," she said to him.
He bristled. "Seriously, Hermione—"
"It's me, Harry," she interjected before he could raise his voice and therefore wake the whole house. Her gaze was steady on his. "You don't have to lie to me. Hadn't I done enough to warrant your trust?"
Harry went rigid. "You don't understand," he spat out viciously.
"Why? Because you think I don't know what loss feels like?" Hermione asked, feeling a bubble of emotion bursting inside of her. "I do, Harry. Don't you think that I understand more then everyone else in this house? I was there. I was there the whole time. Just because your loss is greater than mine, doesn't mean that I no longer understand. Remus was like a father to me and Tonks was a sister. Fred," she almost sobbed his name, "might not be close to me but I grew up with him, just like you did. I was there and I'm now here, and I can't accept your answer anymore, Harry, not when I know that you're hurting."
He leaned back away from her and flicked his eyes to the table, unable to meet her gaze. "Why can't you just leave me alone?" He muttered, sinking into his seat.
"I've already done that, Harry. I tried to leave you alone and I don't berate you whenever you're shouting at someone. I've done that for months now but I can't do it anymore." She searched him with her eyes, desperate for him to look at her but his gaze stubbornly remained on the table. "I've tried to be patient, Harry. I really did. But you can't go on like this anymore and I just can't keep on pretending that there's nothing wrong with you. Please, Harry. Just, please, talk to me."
After Bellatrix had tortured her and while she was recovering in Shell's Cottage, she vowed to herself as she laid in bed, crying and cradling her bandanged arm, that she would no longer beg for anyone and not for anything. It humiliated her that Bellatrix had made her beg. She hated herself that the cruel witch had made her reduce herself into a crumpled mess on the carpeted floor with so much blood on her arm and a burning sensation on her skin where the awful word was carved. But, just like before, Harry made her break her promise, whether inadvertently or not. Harry was the only one who could do that. She was powerless when it came to him.
Harry closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "I'm sorry, Hermione." Just like that, he broke down his walls with the help of those whispered words.
Hermione slowly slumped against her seat. And just like she, he was powerless when it came to her.
"I thought..." He lifted his head and he looked at the ceiling; a weak attempt to stop the tears in his eyes. "I thought that it would be over once he's dead, you know? That I would finally live peacefully once he's gone and he can't hurt me or the people that I love anymore. But... But I still can't sleep, Hermione. I keep on thinking that he's still there at the back of my head, waiting to attack me once I close my eyes and succumb to sleep, and I'm afraid that I won't be the one waking up in my body but him. I know it's unreasonable but I can't get it out of my head."
"Oh, Harry." Hermione reached her hand out and touched his hand with her fingertips. "Haven't you been sleeping at all?"
"I'm so afraid to the point that I don't sleep anymore, Hermione. I don't bother to try." He chuckled bitterly. "I thought that he would no longer haunt me once he's dead. I was wrong."
Her fingers wrapped themselves around his hand and grasped it tightly. His own hand flipped and their palms pressed against each other. Harry's eyes drifted shut and Hermione watched him take a calming breath, his thumb brushing her knuckles, drawing as much comfort from her as he could. After all those months, she had finally managed to crack the wall and Harry had finally let it crumble. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe he was too tired to fight her and create an excuse. Maybe he was tired of pretending and he just wanted someone to know the truth. She saw the large purple bruises underneath Harry's tired eyes and she wanted nothing more than to erase it away, just like she wanted to erase his pain and guilt away.
"Come on." She tugged his hand as she slid off the chair and stood in front of him.
His eyes opened and revealed wary green irises. "What is it?" He muttered, standing up to his feet and letting her pull him out of the kitchen. His eyebrows furrowed as they went upstairs in quick but quiet steps. "Where are we going?"
Hermione didn't answer him, choosing to squeeze his hand instead in case his impatience would awaken his slumbering anger. Thankfully, Harry seemed to accept her response although a noise did escape from his throat. They finally arrived at the third floor of the house, halting in front of a bedroom where Hermione knew was Percy Weasley's old room. Harry was currently staying in his room instead of sharing with Ron when the third Weasley child opted to stay in his flat after the second month of living with them . Percy likely had enough of the depressing state the occupants of the house had been. She pushed the door open and led Harry into the room before closing it gently behind her.
"What are we doing here, Hermione?" Harry asked, standing in the middle of the room and running a hand through his messy jet ink hair.
Hermione turned to him and silently crossed the threshold until the distance between them was a mere half meter. Harry stared at her as she wordlessly brought her hands up to his chest and pushed him back until the back of his knees hit the foot of Percy's bed. He unceremoniously plopped down on the mattress, confusion marring his face as she bent her knees and kneeled before him. She was glad that the candles were unlit or Harry would've spot two red spots on her cheeks.
"Hermione...?" There was a sudden hesitancy in his question, as though he didn't know whether to want to hear her answer or not.
"You're tired, Harry," she said at last as she took his shoes off. He didn't even put some socks on.
"What does it have to do with anything?" He replied exasperatedly.
She peered at him through her thick brown lashes. "I'm tired, too," she confessed in the dead of the night.
His breath hitched. "Hermione..."
She quickly rose to her feet and brushed his hair with her fingers, her thumb lingering on the lightning shaped scar on his forehead that defined him as the Boy Who Lived the moment he vanquished Voldemort on the night of his parents' deaths. It was the mark that labelled him a hero and a foe. Oftentimes, she was fixated on his scar; the innocent looking scar that had housed one of Voldemort's fractured souls inside, unknown to them all. The scar that had changed one little innocent boy's life. This was the scar that had started it all and the man who bore the scar was the one who ended it.
"Let's go to bed, Harry."
Hermione could feel his green eyes on her and, with her hand still on his head, she felt him nodding his acquiescence. Together, they moved towards the bed and laid on their side, facing each other; Harry on the right and she on the left. There wasn't any room for two people on the bed but they made do. Their bodies weren't touching, not one strand of her bushy hair reached his tousled hair, although Hermione felt his hot breath grazing her nose and cheeks, and felt the mattress sinking to his weight. They had never laid on one bed before, not even when they were in their Horcrux hunt. When Ron had left, the paranoia between them doubled. With one man down, it seemed that the two of them weren't enough for protection anymore. No matter how strong their wards were, it didn't stop the idea that it was them against the world. More often than not, they couldn't sleep, too afraid of what the night would bring, and the two of them would take watch together. Side by side, they would sit in front of their tent, hearts in their throats and wands ready in their hands just in case.
Hermione slowly shut her eyes. It seemed like a long time ago when she sat next to Harry by the fire, eyes scanning the silent and dark forest, grateful that she wasn't alone to face whatever horrors were waiting beyond. She remembered the pain present in her chest ever since Ron had left them and the tears sliding down her face every other night as she wondered where he was and what he was doing, if he was safe or if he had been captured. She remembered how everything felt so hopeless but she was determined to end the war with Harry, to stay by his side even though it would cost her life. She gave him the strength that he needed and, in return, he gave her some small amount of joy — but joy nonetheless — in her most hopeless moments. She honestly didn't know how she could survive if something were to happen to him.
Hermione didn't sleep that night and when the sun rose from the window behind her, she could see that Harry was also wide awake. However, despite the water beneath her eyelids and the dull ache in her forehead, she felt lighter than the last months before. Her heart didn't feel as heavy as yesterday and she could see that Harry's eyes had softened somewhat, no longer hardened. They were not speaking and their eyes hadn't wavered from each other, not even when they heard noises from three floors below, signalling that the others had already awaken and were now likely waiting for Molly to finish the meal she was preparing.
The comfortable silence between them shattered when someone knocked on the door. "Harry?"
It was Ron. Hermione was mildly shocked. Ron's footsteps were distinctive; loud and heavy, always rattling the wooden floorboards. She usually knew when Ron arrived because of his steps. However, this time, she hadn't heard him come.
Harry blinked in surprised, likely not hearing Ron beforehand. "Yes?" He called out to the close door, not moving his head. Instead, he slid his hand across the bed to intertwine his fingers with hers.
"Uhm, breakfast is ready," Ron hesitantly answered. "Mum's asking for you. Do you want to—"
"I'll join you later," Harry briskly interjected before he could complete his statement. "Thanks."
"Err, alright." His feet shuffled. "Err, have you seen Hermione? She's missing. Ginny said that she woke up without her in bed."
Harry's eyes narrowed slightly and he looked at her with a pointed expression. "It's your call," he whispered to her.
Hermione's fingers twitched inside of Harry's grasp. If Ron found out that she stayed in Harry's room half of the night, he would go berserk. They hadn't spoken about the kiss that they shared in the Final Battle; the kiss that was driven by adrenaline, fear, and a promise to make it through the night. After the battle, they didn't have time or the right emotions to talk about it. Too many lives had been sacrificed and taken, including Fred, whose death tore a hole in the Weasley family. Ron was grieving while Hermione had demons to face on her own. That didn't mean that there wasn't something there between them that could be disregarded, even though they were too much in pain to acknowledge it.
The same went to Ginny: Harry's ex girlfriend who was still hoping for the Boy Who Live to come back to her. Hermione always spotted the longing in her dark brown eyes whenever it landed on the green eyed hero of the Wizarding world. She was mildly surprised that Ginny hadn't approached and demanded him until she realized that the youngest Weasley child was probably hurting as well and needed as much space as possible before she embarked on another ride of romance with Harry. Although they weren't back together yet, everyone expected them to and was likely waiting for it to happen. Hermione didn't want to add Ginny's pain if she found out that she spent the night with Harry.
"Tell him you don't know," she whispered back.
Harry did so without question and Ron left after grumbling under his breath. Hermione laid there for a few short moments before deciding to rise from the bed, rustling the extra sheets and blankets beneath that she hadn't noticed the night before. She turned to Harry who shifted on his back and crossed his arms beneath his head, watching her silently as she tried to untangle the knots in her hair with little to no success. She had forgotten to brush it the night before and now she was suffering with the consequences in the morning. She took note that it was the second time she had forgotten to brush her hair again. In fact, she forgot several of her late night routines over the past year. It was likely because of their horcrux hunt; it didn't seem logical to carry on with her more feminine rituals while they were on the hunt for a madman's fragmented soul.
"I never noticed how much trouble you get with your hair," Harry said, pulling his upper body up to sit on the bed. "Here. Sit down on the bed."
Perplexed, Hermione sat at the foot of the bed, her body twisted as she faced him. When he suddenly grabbed a comb from the bedside table and settled behind her, legs folded under his thighs, she was shocked into silence. She slowly faced forward, turning her back to him, and her hands drifted to her lap as she felt his hands touching her hair and trying to comb and tame the knots. Harry worked through her hair, grunting when he came across a particular hard knot and murmuring apologies when he tugged too hard. She closed her eyes, welcoming the feel of his fingers through her hair, even the occasional sting on her scalp. It took a long while but her curls finally submitted to Harry's hands.
"No wonder you don't have any trouble writing essays before," he remarked as he flexed his fingers. "Your hair makes great practice for your hands."
Hermione laughed although it was softer than her usual laugh. She was careful not to alert anyone of her presence outside the four walls of Harry's room. Aside from Ron, Molly wouldn't be pleased if she discovered Hermione was in Harry's room. It bordered on impropriety to have a girl sleep in a boy's room, especially in his own bed. Molly was a pureblood witch with old fashioned views about women. It was one of the reasons why they often don't get along before. Like most of the pureblood wives, Molly believed that a witch's place was by her husband's side in his home, cleaning the house and raising his children, which Hermione vehemently didn't agree on. Hermione might submit to learning about household charms — with complains — but she would never be satisfied with being a wife and a mother in the family; it would likely drive her insane.
"You're the one to talk," she teased, flashing him a small smile. "As if you don't get enough practice on your own hair. You need a good comb, Potter."
She mussed his hair for good measure. Harry didn't laugh but his lips twitched into a faint smile and his eyes seemed to gleam just for a second — and it made her heart soar. It had been so long since she had last seen him truly smile. She stared at him, trying not to let her desperation leak through her eyes. She wanted to remember this moment, to burn it in her memories just in case. Harry matched her stare with his own, his expression unreadable. Hermione wondered what he was thinking, if he regretted letting down his walls and was now currently building them back up again. Hermione didn't want him to throw himself behind the wall and she clutched his hand before he could start thinking it.
He blinked his green eyes and his jaw dipped to his chin as he gazed at the tight hold she had on his hand. "You're not letting go, are you?"
It was such an innocent statement littered with a thousand different thoughts and underlying messages. You're not letting me go, are you? You're not leaving me alone again, are you? You're not going to let it end this way, are you? You're not giving up on me, are you? Hermione tried not to smile in case it showed her bitterness. Harry should know by now.
"No," she answered him in a voice that offered no room for arguments, as though it was the most obvious answer in the world.
He peered into her eyes and it took a long while for him to respond. "Thank you, Hermione," he muttered underneath his breath.
She gave him a grin. "Anytime, Harry." And she meant it.
She rose to her feet and left the room, throwing a smile over her shoulder before closing the door behind her. She paused and pressed a hand on the wooden door, felt the splinters and cracks beneath her palms, and she slid her hand off after a moment. Then she walked down the stairs, leaving a piece of her behind with Harry, just as Harry left a piece of himself that she carried downstairs with her.
Even her footsteps, as light as it was, felt even lighter.