Fragile
It didn't strike Harry how fragile Hermione was until he happened upon her crying.
It was late one evening, the kind of late when even the seventh years had gone to bed, and only Hermione was still working. She'd finally persuaded Harry to do his Potions essay the night he'd got it and- Merlin- had it taken long. But he'd finally scribbled down a swift conclusion that he hoped made sense in the morning and struggled to his feet. He yawned, told her he was turning in, and padded up the stairs blearily.
About halfway up, he remembered his essay, and how it was still lying on one of the plush chairs. Harry shrugged, and brushed it off, collapsing onto his bed. About an hour later Harry awoke, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. For some reason, the image of Fred and George taking turns in peeing on his homework was fresh in his mind, so he staggered to his feet and trudged back into the common room.
Then he heard sobbing. Hermione sat, staring into the crackling fire, with tears running down her face. He didn't know what to do: should he comfort her? And so he froze.
And as he watched Hermione curl up in a ball and hug herself tightly, his image of her as a strong, unbreakable rock crumbled.
And he wasn't sure what to think.