Summary: A conversation with Dumbledore alerts Harry to a stark truth, a shattering truth, concerning his good friend Hermione and what she truly means to him. One-shot. 4th year.
Though magical in more ways than even Hermione knew to count, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had never seemed so utterly devoid of life, of hope, of that vitality which fused itself so tightly with Harry Potter's heart every time he entered its halls.
The castle had seemingly lost its element.
Hallways, once filled with portraits glimmering with life, gave way to a cold harshness that swept through from closet to staircase. Whispers joined the cold, in hunt of Harry Potter who, despite his many attempts at doing so, could never truly escape the stares and gossip.
Even the Gryffindor common room thundered with a silence every time he entered. Heads were turned, eyes followed, and judgement cut into Harry like thousands of well placed diffindos.
The food lavishing the great hall nauseated Harry, and more than once he'd felt sick at the mere sight of it. The pungent smell of his own bile had ruptured his nostrils. On those occasions, he merely gestured to Hermione that something was up. That the anxiety was rising. That the waves of his own mind were crashing onto beaten shores.
Then he'd run back to his dorm room and curtain himself off from the world.
But he couldn't shut his thoughts out. No—those were always churning like a grinder of negativity. He couldn't, despite how much he yearned to, escape his own mind.
The reason why gloom had overtaken the castle and dipped it into a smoking cauldron of despair?
The Goblet of Fire. That blasted goblet sitting at the front of the Great Hall, gleaming with blue flames more akin to a devilish smile than anything else.
Harry was staring at the goblet now, huddled in a corner of the Great Hall, invisibility cloak shielding his body from sight. Remnants of last night's dinner lingered in the air as smells Harry didn't want to breathe in. Midnight was long gone, the enchanted magical ceiling giving off little, if any, light—not that Harry cared. Sleep abandoned him with as much vitriol as Ron, his supposed best friend.
Moments after the goblet spat Harry's name out, he'd glanced at his best friend. And the betrayal in Ron's eyes was palpable, was a knife that dug into their friendship and severed it with one swing. Harry hoped they could tie the rope of friendship once more, but a knot was never as strong as an unbroken connection.
The entire hall had erupted into sheer pandemonium—shouts flying, a barrage of noise that surrounded Harry and pressed horror into him. The distrust running through the gazes of the rest of those at the Gryffindor table wounded him deeper than even Voldermort could.
Harry, who for his entire life had only sought an escape from abandonment, an escape from judgement, had been thrown into the gauntlet of public opinion once again. Not much he could do about it, though—as the Boy-Who-Lived, even the slightest twitch warranted a double-page spread in the Daily Prophet.
At least Hermione hadn't thought he'd stuck his name in the goblet. She was, sadly, the only one.
He let his eyes, as the coldness of the castle swirled around the Great Hall to meet him, linger on the Goblet of Fire for a second longer. The blue flames provided no warmth. Harry knew, without touching the edge, that the goblet's rim was chillier than Scotland's worst winters. Harry edged a step closer, invisibility cloak sweeping the floor as he neared the golden object that caused so much stress over the two weeks since his name had been spat out.
"'Tis a strange artefact, is it not, Harry?" a voice said.
Fright snatched Harry's breath from him, ramming his lungs into each other as he jumped to the side instinctively. His shoulder smacked the wall, knocking his breath back into him. Gasping, he turned to see who had addressed him, cloak whipping around him as frenzied as his mind.
It was Dumbledore. Standing in his customary purple robes, hands clasped by his waist, looking utterly at ease as if a midnight rendezvous to the Great Hall was as normal as a Hogsmeade trip.
Who knew the old man could be so sneaky?
"There are ways of detecting an invisibility cloak, my boy," Dumbledore said, stepping closer to Harry. He stretched an arm out, gripped lightly onto the cloak's edge, and waited there. As if for Harry's permission to take it off.
Sighing, Harry slipped out from under the cloak and his head met cold air again. Nausea crept into its nose and bit into the sides. He kept his head down, unable to meet Dumbledore's eye after being caught out at night.
For the last week, he'd come out here every day for the same reason. To see that goblet, stare into its blue flames, and wallow in his own thoughts away from everyone else. Away from the judgement that he knew would plague him.
He thought it would help him, thought it would alleviate the stress. Truthfully, all it did was burrow the hurt and pain and issues six feet deeper in his chest.
"Sorry, Professor," Harry muttered, head still down. He collected his cloak in his hands, silky texture and his father's memory doing nothing to comfort him.
"Do not be, Harry," Dumbledore said. A whoosh seized the air, and light broke into Harry's vision. Dumbledore had lit a few candles in the distance hovering above the Gryffindor table like ghouls haunting the night. Their light flickered slightly, as if warding away the likes of Harry—'Not a true Gryffindor anyway,' according to the rest of his house.
Harry met Dumbledore's eyes, and another sigh sunk his shoulders further down. The man knew he'd been in here for the last week, not just today. That much was clear to see in the headmaster's knowing gaze.
"Let us sit and speak," Dumbledore said, gesturing to the Gryffindor table. Harry followed him over, coldness digging into his spine like it wished to break him in half. He shivered, stuffing his invisibility cloak into his pocket.
Not like he had a use for it now, anyway.
The candles hovered overhead like they were eavesdropping on Harry and Dumbledore. Dumbledore sat first, then invited Harry to sit beside him. They turned to each other like students at an opening feast, and Harry didn't miss the glimmer in Dumbledore's gaze, that familiar twinkle flaring like a star from the enchanted ceiling had descended to store itself in his eyes.
Again, Harry shivered.
As a first-year, the Great Hall was what fascinated Harry the most. Larger than five houses on Privet Drive put together, with more food than Harry had ever seen in his entire life, the hall represented the allure, wonder, and grandeur of the magical world that swept him away from his disastrous relatives.
Now, though, it was as if a hollow replacement had instated itself as soon as Harry's name came out of the goblet. Darkness abound, with a chill that was unrelenting at best.
Though Dumbledore smiled, Harry's nausea didn't lessen in the slightest. Truthfully, he wanted more than anything to get the heck out of there and back to his dorm room. Anything to avoid having to speak with Dumbledore, who hid information like he was the castle's secret keeper.
But here he was, and here Dumbledore was. And Harry didn't have it in him to walk out on the headmaster as Gryffindor house walked out on him.
"May I interest you in a lemon drop?" Dumbledore asked, reaching into his pocket and pulling one out. In the slivers of light, the sweet looked a sickly yellow, more like some nasty, pungent medicine Madam Pomfrey would use on her patients.
"No thanks," Harry muttered. He glanced up again. "Do you always just have one in your pocket?"
"It does well to be prepared for important moments." Dumbledore was speaking about far more than just lemon drops. "What is it, my boy, that has you cloaking yourself and roaming the castle at night? Not the beauty of the goblet alone, I hope."
Harry clenched his fists under the table. But he did speak. "Do you believe I put my name into the goblet?"
"Considering I was one of those that charmed the goblet to only accept those of age, I do not believe in your guilt, Harry. The rest of the students, however, are another story entirely."
Harry's fists relaxed and shoulders sunk in relief. Relief of what, though, he wasn't entirely sure. That the headmaster believed him, or that the headmaster believed in him?
Perhaps both.
Opening up was hard for Harry, particularly after Ron's betrayal. But Harry reached into himself and pulled what little he could grasp verbally.
"I'm scared," he said simply.
Dumbledore's gaze never wavered. "Afraid, Harry?"
"More than you can ever know."
"A fair idea I might have."
Harry snorted. "Yeah right. I didn't see your name coming out of the goblet." After a pause, Harry looked up again. "Sorry Professor, I didn't mean—"
"Were you not afraid when facing off against Professor Quirrel? Did the basilisk in Slytherin's chamber not induce fright within your bones, my boy?"
Harry didn't say a word. He didn't trust himself to speak.
Eventually, the silence became too long, and Harry's throat twitched into noise.
"But those times were different," he muttered.
"Not at all," Dumbledore said. "It is not fear that defines us, but our response to such fear." His eyes twinkled again. "Courage is action in the face of fear, not the absence of fear itself. To fear is to feel, and it is to love."
Harry's eyebrows furrowed. "What does that mean?"
"To fear means one has something precious in life. Something dear and close to one's heart. Something one cannot live without." Dumbledore met Harry's gaze, wisdom shining in every reflection of light. "Do not fear losing that thing, but find it and live for it and love for it."
Dumbledore chuckled, then stood from the Gryffindor table. "I daresay you shall find it soon, Harry. Goodnight. Oh, and do not stay up too long. A champion requires sleep, after all."
Harry just stared after the man as he left, bewildered more than anything. And yet in the Great Hall's dimness, in the thin embers of light above him, realisation struck Harry harder than a bludger to the brain.
A realisation that he, for the life of him, just couldn't ignore.
The first task had been booked for the tail end of November, on a Tuesday that Harry was dreading.
Every afternoon, he and Hermione spent countless hours poring over spells and thick, leather-bound tomes in search for a clue as to what the first task was and how to overcome it.
In the corners of the library, where only the two of them and the books before them existed, Harry couldn't escape the jibes of the rest of the school. Their words would wade through the typical smell of dust in the library to attack him. To envelope him in a nervous heat that would tingle his spine and neck and cause sweat to break out on his forehead.
He felt like curling into himself and closing his eyes. As if not seeing or hearing anything meant those things didn't exist. A tactic he once used in primary school when Dudley and his friends wished to bully him.
That tactic had failed then, and it would fail now too.
"Just don't listen to them Harry," Hermione would say, tugging his arm and focusing his attention back on preparing for the first task. "They're a bunch of losers anyway—anyone with a brain cell knows you didn't put your name into the goblet. I don't know what the rest of them are thinking."
"Must mean you and Dumbledore are the only ones with brains in here," Harry chuckled.
"Dumbledore?"
"Oh yeah, he…uh—he talked to me one night in the Great Hall, and told me he didn't reckon I put my name in."
"I thought he was ignoring you. And what do you mean he spoke to you one night? Have you been out at night past curfew Harry?"
Harry blushed, averted his gaze. "It was only a few times." He didn't see a reason to lie to the only other student who believed him. "But I stopped after he told me."
"But why, Harry? You know you need your sleep—you're a champion, and sleep is how the body recovers. I read about it in—"
"A book as thick as this one?" Harry said, lifting the current tome splayed out in front of them. It was a behemoth of a book, spanning hundreds of pages and detailing wizarding history, with clues to past Triwizard tournament events dotted throughout.
Hermione's eyes widened, and then she let out a chuckle. "Well, not quite as large as that."
Harry smiled, bumped her shoulder with his, and returned to their research, knowing that it would likely save his life. Champions, many of them, had died in the past. And Harry didn't want to just become another statistic, despite how likely that scenario felt.
"You'll be fine, Harry," Hermione said, glancing over at him. The sincerity in her eyes, adding a glow to the already lit brown, made it hard to meet her gaze. Harry's eyes slipped to the table.
"We're no closer to finding the actual task, Hermione. Forget how to beat it. And we've only got a week left to prepare."
"But you will beat it, Harry. Because you're you."
The heat wrapping around Harry's collar like a comfortable Gryffindor scarf was of a different kind. He struggled to ignore it as he played with his fingers, the smell of old books almost intoxicating now, as if every sense was supercharged.
"You beat Quirrell," Hermione said, "then a basilisk in the chamber when I was in the hospital wing—who knew how many students you saved then by taking the monster out? And you saved Sirius from being kissed by a dementor and getting his soul taken out."
"I was lucky, Hermione. And I had help—"
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "And you have help now, too. It's no different to before. You—you have the knack of finding a way to beat anything Harry." She reached over and grabbed his forearm, turning it over so the blue veins along his wrist were visible. "It's in your blood, Harry. It's a part of who you are. You're a survivor."
Harry gulped, the stirrings of something beyond magical brewing in his heart. The smell of old leather tomes receded to allow Hermione's faint vanilla scent to overtake him, and her hand on his arm created a warmth that travelled to the tips of his toes.
He was scared, but Dumbledore had said fear was because one was afraid to lose something, whether themselves or someone else.
Staring into Hermione's eyes, staring at the sheer belief—belief in him—glowing in those orbs, Harry knew exactly what he felt. Knew exactly what—exactly who—he was afraid of losing.
And he had no idea how to let her know before he failed the first task and left her forever.
Dragons.
It was bloody dragons for the first task.
Harry didn't know how to process the information, didn't know how to understand that, in less than three days, he'd be facing off against a dragon of all things.
You know, fire-breathing, bigger-than-a-house creatures that were about as friendly as his uncle after a bout of Harry's accidental magic.
Whilst sneaking around behind Hagrid, Harry had seen dozens of wizards, trained wizards, struggling to restrain a single dragon. The idea Harry could succeed against one was laughable.
And dangerous.
Because it meant he could die. Champions had died before—the history books were quick to mention them—and Harry's name would be yet another to add to the list.
Now, he sat in an alcove on the third floor, near the room where Fluffy had been guarding the trap door leading down to the Philosopher's Stone. The halls were deafeningly quiet, with Harry's thoughts of dragons and death and hopelessness filling the silence.
The air, as with the rest of the castle, scented itself with the coldness of a corpse rotting in a graveyard. A pungent tinge lingered as an aftertaste of what Harry could become if—no, when—he failed the first task.
Harry's back snuck into the hollow alcove, stone as comfortable as a bed of icy nails. He bunched his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms over them with the same tightness that the corridor's darkness wrapped him with.
And he sighed. A ragged sigh. Let it all out. Before breathing in the worries and anxiety back in.
"So that's where you are," a voice said, piercing his tumultuous thoughts. A silky, soft voice that comforted and broke his heart at the same time. "I thought you were going to properly sleep from now on, the task's in two days after all."
Harry opened an eye to glimpse Hermione standing before him. It was as if she carried a ray of light with her, because the hallway suddenly brightened. Harry scooted over and she shuffled into the alcove beside him.
For a few seconds, only their breathing tainted the air. And their thudding hearts, beating as one.
"I'm scared," Harry said, the same words he'd spoken to Dumbledore. Harry had always been scared, to tell the truth, in all his previous battles. But he'd never thought deeply about it, never let it wallow within him with as much trepidation as now.
"Of what?" Hermione replied.
Harry's hands clenched themselves into his robes. "They're bloody dragons, Hermione. I'm supposed to be facing a fire-breathing dragon that probably wants to kill me. Heck, it is going to kill me."
"Don't say that." Hermione's voice was shrill, piercing the hallway with an echo, each emotion layering itself in a different reverberation until the noise faded away. "Please don't say that," she whispered.
"Are you as scared as me?" Harry asked.
"More than you," Hermione said. "I've been running myself ragged for the last month—it's as if I'm the one entering the first task, not you."
"You shouldn't be scared. I…please don't be scared."
"Why not?"
Harry gulped. He knew, without a doubt, that he wouldn't survive the first task. A dragon was too insurmountable a task, and after three years of sheer dumb luck, Harry knew his time was overdue.
"Because…" To fear means one has something they cannot live without, Harry finished internally. And he couldn't fail the first task knowing he was that something for Hermione.
But he couldn't tell her either. No matter how much he wished to spill the truth before the fated first task. Telling the truth here seemed forbidden given his imminent destruction at the hands, or fire to be more apt, of the dragon.
Hermione, thankfully, didn't push him to finish his sentence, didn't push him to reveal his painful emotions.
"Remember, it's in your blood," Hermione said, gripping his wrist once more and running a finger along the veins.
Tingles shot through Harry's body, and his breath hitched for a second before relaxing. He balanced his knees with the other arm, letting Hermione hold his left.
"I'll try," he said, but all that occupied his mind was a wall of inferno, produced by a dragon on the hunt to kill. "I'll win," he said, avoiding her eyes, speaking mostly to alleviate her fears.
He believed, well and truly, that his words were one massive lie.
The crowd were like hundreds of shrieking banshees channelling their torrid screams through one massive sonorous charm the size of one of those huge football pitches Harry had spied on the telly when his uncle watched a game or two on the weekend.
Harry, of course, blocked them out. The sounds of his own worry were far louder, and far more potent.
He was in the champions' tent now, sitting on a rickety stool that provided less comfort than sitting on fire. The heady scent of his imminent death hung in the air, and his eyes avoided everything but his fingers that played with one another like children on the last day of school.
Paradoxically, heat and cold fought for control over him, and Harry felt both extremes tug at his champion's uniform. The leather was tight, too tight, with the robes swishing like a violent tide every time he moved. But it was protective, at least.
Harry would need that more than ever.
He kept muttering the accio spell under his breath, as if each utterance would collect into one large spell once he was out there in the open. Dryness clung to his tongue, gums, and inner cheeks like a vacuum cleaner was hoovering his mouth.
Harry gulped down a thick, hot wad of saliva. Then another.
A ruffle sounded from the other side of the tent. Then a voice spoke, a voice whose texture was refined. A voice Harry had yearned to hear far more than even he knew.
"Harry, are you in there?" Hermione asked from the other side.
Harry stood, shuffled over to the tent's opening, and leaned his head towards where Hermione spoke from. They couldn't see each other, but the moment held far more closeness than had they been face to face.
"I'm here," Harry said. But I won't be for long.
"How are you feeling?"
"Good." Harry said that far too quickly. He slowed down his next words. "I've got the Hungarian Horntail to face."
"But that's the worst of the lot. That can't be fair, surely, Harry. Why would they give the youngest champion—three years younger than the rest mind you—the hardest dragon to face?"
Harry sighed. "It was bad luck, that's all."
"Are you still scared?" Hermione asked, her own fear lacing her tone so strongly her voice shook.
"Yes," Harry said.
"I want you to imagine something for me, okay Harry."
A pause. A pregnant pause that held the potential to birth something almost otherworldly if only Harry broke it.
He did.
"Okay," he said, closing his eyes.
"Good. I want you to imagine it's after the task. We're all in the Gryffindor common room for the after party of the first task. Everyone is cheering for your victory, and they all believe you now Harry—every single one of them. Fred and George have somehow got firewhisky and they are handing it out like clowns hand out smiles—oh, and don't forget Ron speaking with you once he gets over himself. The fireplace is warm, Harry, warmer than it's ever been."
Harry could almost feel that warmth envelope him now, eyes still closed. "I have something to tell you, Hermione," he said through the lump in his throat. "Something I should've said a long time ago."
"What is it?" her soft voice asked.
"I—I haven't ever, really…uh told you—"
"Mr Potter," an officiator's voice interrupted, shattering the stillness that had descended over him and Hermione. "You may not communicate with anyone until after the task, if you will."
"I have to go," Harry told Hermione.
"Oh, Harry," she said in a muffled tone, before turning over the tent flap and engulfing him in a crushing hug.
He held her back just as tightly, hoping the message beamed from his heart to hers, as if love could communicate with touches and looks, rather than words. Her vanilla scent masked the tent's pangs of death, and Harry held on for as long as he could, wishing all the while to hold on forever.
And then she was gone, the vanilla smell a remnant of the air, her warmth a distant memory almost, space empty without her occupying it. And yet she'd filled him with a newfound hope.
The first task lay ahead of him, and Harry clenched his jaw, fists, and his mind in determination.
Dumbledore had said that to fear was fearing the loss of something dear. But it also meant the opposite.
That Harry, all along, had something to live for, something to fight for, and that fuelled him more than anything ever could.
The Gryffindor after party was in full swing, Hermione's earlier descriptions flaring to life as accurately as a bow and arrow piercing the red bullseye.
Speaking of accurate, the plan of using accio on his broom worked stunningly well. For a scary second that felt like ten lifetimes temporally smashed together, Harry's wand brandished the air, the Hungarian Horntail eying him carefully amidst the crowd's incessant shouting.
Then, in one swoop, his Firebolt burst into the clearing and sped towards him and latched onto his palm. And Harry was up in the air, wind spinning his hair, back into the care-free bliss that was flight.
And the rest was fearless history.
Now, the crowd's shouts had seemingly teleported to the Gryffindor common room, Fred and George (or was it Gred and Forge?) indeed drinking themselves into a frenzy, much to the simultaneous wonder and disgust of the younger years.
Harry bundled through the congratulations and pats on the back and shakes of the hand to find Ron on the other side. Ron's eyes were downcast, hands shoved into pockets, his solemn expression out of sync with the rest of the party.
"I reckon you didn't put your name in, mate," Ron said. He let his hands out, then his gaze met Harry's. "I thought this whole—this whole thing was about you trying to get some glory. I always wanted that you know, my whole life, but then your name came out."
"It was never about glory," Harry said, blocking out the ruckus of the party to focus on his friend. "And you know that."
"I know that…now I definitely know that. That dragon was bloody…bloody scary mate, and I thought there's no way Harry's daft enough to put himself there on purpose. I just…couldn't see the forest for the trees, I guess. For what it's worth, I'm sorry mate."
Harry leaned over to one side and grabbed a flask of butterbeer the twins snuck in from Hogsmeade, since firewhisky wasn't exactly permissible drinking for younger years.
"I heard they've got a new formula for butterbeer," Harry said in an airy tone.
Ron chuckled, looking to the flask and then Harry. "Yeah, what's that?"
"Tastes a lot warmer and sweeter." Harry thrust it towards him. "Here, try it."
Ron raised an eyebrow, took the butterbeer, and then took a swig. His eyes immediately crossed as if they'd switched places, and he stumbled to his left and right, grabbed onto a table and held himself still. Gasping for air, wondering what on earth had just happened.
"What the hell's in that?" he boomed, one hand still gripping the flask.
"I said there was a new formula for butterbeer. Never said who made the formula." Harry grabbed the flask again and set it down before Ron, in his crossed world that would last for a few more minutes, flung it to the ground. "Twins have been experimenting with new pranks, and this is one of them. Looking at you, I think it worked quite well."
"I'll get back at them, just wait and see," Ron said, shaking a fist and lumbering to his left, before almost falling onto a chair behind him. But he did laugh, and Harry shared the chuckle, and he knew his old friend was back, knew that the cracks in their friendship had been covered with the seal of humour.
But Harry's other friend—his best friend—couldn't be found anywhere in the party. Harry searched every corner and every piece of furniture, but Hermione had almost disappeared into thin air.
And then she came down the stairs from the girl's dormitory, tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, and marched towards Harry like a woman on a mission.
"Did he speak to you, then?" Hermione said, leading Harry to a quiet corner of the party where they couldn't be disturbed, and settling them both on a Gryffindor-red couch.
"He's back to being friends and talking to me, which is good."
"He told me he wanted to make amends—that's why I was reading in the dormitory for so long, to give you two the space to…hash things out whatever way you wanted."
Harry sent her a glance. "You're sure it wasn't because there's a new edition of Hogwarts: A History that just came out and you wanted to get caught up quickly."
Hermione jumped in her seat. "There's a new edition. Where?"
"Relax, Hermione," Harry laughed. "I'm sure there's a new edition somewhere. Maybe after this tournament, who knows?"
"That was cruel, Harry." There was a twinkle in her eyes, however. "You know how much of a bookworm I am. A new edition of anything is like…oh, I don't know—the Quidditch World Cup Final for Ron."
"Well, at least you're here now," Harry said. "I don't know how I'd survive the night without the life of the party with me."
"I am certainly not the life of the party—I am a well-behaved woman, thank you very much."
"A well-behaved woman who snuck into a trapdoor to find the Philosopher's Stone, illegally made the polyjuice potion in second year, used a time turner in third year? Only question I have is what the thing for this year's going to be."
"Nothing if you don't get yourself into trouble," Hermione replied. "Honestly Harry, you have a way of finding trouble like an owl finds the address for a letter."
"At least an owl's looking for the address. Trouble finds me more like."
Hermione sighed. "Well, at least we're over the first hurdle. Only two more tasks to help you with, and then we can kiss this tournament goodbye." She turned to him. "Any luck with the golden egg?"
Harry leaned back and crossed his legs. "Let's just forget about the tournament for now. We have all the time in the world to worry and be scared about it later." At his own words, Harry remembered Dumbledore's, and remembered what he'd meant to tell Hermione just before the second task.
"You know…I was scared before the task, right?" Harry began, knowing where he wished to go but not the path there. "I—well, Dumbledore told me…"
Hermione merely smirked at his sudden nervousness. "I was scared as well, Harry, but do go on. What did Dumbledore tell you that is getting you all stuttery?"
Harry swiped his forehead, cheeks feeling hotter than a dragon's fire. When did it get so bloody scorching in here?
"Dumbledore told me that, well, courage is action whilst being scared, not…the absence of fear itself."
Hermione just nodded, prompting Harry to continue.
"But…he also said that—that to fear is to feel, and then said to fear is to love."
Harry's face got hotter, and a quick glance revealed a pink tinge overtaking Hermione too. Harry's gaze burrowed into the couch's red cross-hatched lines, and his own fingers playing with each other.
"He said that…the only reason we fear things is because we're afraid of losing something—something close to us. And…you know I've never really cared for myself much…but then I thought, 'Why am I scared? What am I afraid of losing?'"
Harry was rambling now, words rushing out in a torrent of syllables that he wasn't even sure Hermione would grasp, let alone comprehend the depths of.
"It's you, Hermione—you're the…the thing I was afraid to lose, that I am afraid to lose. It was always you, this entire time, for all these years…and only when Dumbledore said it did I realise. Only then did it really click."
"Oh Harry," Hermione said, and Harry spied tears gathering in her eyes, ready to drop once enough of them collected to burst open the emotional dam. "It's the same for me—I was scared of losing you too, my best friend, to a tournament you didn't even want to be in. Every time the dragon almost burned you…it was like I felt what you were feeling, that heat, the racing heart. I couldn't…I couldn't bear to see—"
She turned fully and pulled him into a hug, then squeezed as hard as she could, as though he were a spirit about to dissipate into nothingness unless she held onto him and rooted him in reality.
Harry sighed a ragged sigh, hearing her sniffles into his shoulder, and wrapped his arms over her once more. The strange stirrings in his chest returned, and he knew what they were—fragments of love, perhaps only of a friendly kind, but likely much deeper than Harry had explored. And, with their hearts almost merging from the hug, Harry could've sworn each of his heartbeats matched with one of hers.
Instinctively, Harry turned his head and kissed her forehead through her bushy hair, softly, the touch almost imperceptible had it not been for every sense in that hug being supercharged beyond anything they had ever felt.
He felt Hermione's smile cushion his shoulder, and hugged her tighter, and though the party raged on like wildfire in the background, and though the Daily Prophet would have a field day over his every move, and though more cuts of fear would pierce him regarding his best friends, he was sure of one thing—
That this moment, and more moments like this, were what he lived for, what he fought for. His fear was merely a prelude to his humanity, a proof that a loveless child could love, and he didn't want this moment with Hermione to ever, ever, end.
A/N: This is my first ever fic, so hopefully everyone enjoyed it. Do let me know your thoughts, I'd love to hear them. I always thought, after reading HHr fics for years and years, as well as general fics in the HP fandom, that I should try my own hand at them, and finally I've got around to doing so. After writing this, I definitely have that burst of inspo to write more and more, and I've got a few ideas. Although, since I'd like to finish an entire story before posting to make sure it's complete, it may be a few months before the next fic in my mind (a longfic hopefully) is up and running.
However, there may be a few one-shots here and there if the muse strikes me right.
Stay tuned, and again, I hope you all enjoyed!