A fic for your Friday
“Hermione?”
She turned her head to look at him. “Hi, Harry.”
“Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” he returned, deflecting the question automatically.
She gave him a look that told him she’d noticed his deflection but was going to let him get away with it-this time. But then, too, she knew better than anyone just why he had trouble sleeping these days. So instead, she sighed, turning her gaze back out to the night around them. “I was just thinking…”
She trailed off and he waited for a moment but when she didn’t continue, gave her a verbal nudge. “About?”
“Geoffrey McCann.”
He blinked, trying to remember-and then he did and he felt a swift pang of guilt that it had taken him a moment to place the name. Geoffrey McCann had just been killed by a Death Eater, not deliberately-that was, not intentionally targeted for who he was- but as collateral damage of a sort, a Muggle who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was typical of the callous indifference to human life shown by the Death Eaters. Worse, as a Muggle, the wizarding press had been predictably less interested and barely mentioned McCann’s name in the article about the attempted attack on Ministry officials.
“What about him?”
Hermione sighed again. “It’s just… he had a family. One of the articles mentioned briefly that he was married with children and I was just thinking about how his wife will be alone now and his kids… his kids will grow up without their father and… And it just bothers me that no one seems to remember or care that much about what happened to him.”
“He’s… a Muggle…”
“That doesn’t mean his life is worth less than anyone else’s or that his family’s loss is any less,” she retorted.
He only sighed. From anyone else, at any other time, he might have been annoyed at the biting tone but he knew Hermione’s anger hadn’t been directed at him. She knew him well enough to know that he hadn’t been trying to defend the press in its relative indifference to Muggles.
“Hermione?”
“Hmm?”
“How old are the kids?”
“I don’t know; the article didn’t mention it. But McCann himself wasn’t all that old so I would guess his kids are still pretty young.”
“I hope…” he began and then stopped, his usual reticence blocking the words from coming out. But then-this was Hermione and his trust in her outweighed his automatic reticence, at least at this moment. “I hope his kids are old enough to remember him.”
“Oh, Harry, I didn’t mean-”
“It’s okay, Hermione,” he interrupted her quickly and sincerely. “I know. It’s just that it’s… a little… easier in a weird way when you can remember someone…”
“Oh, Harry…” she sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder in silent understanding.
He didn’t say anything more, thinking about his own parents and Sirius and Geoffrey McCann and his widow and the poor kids who had just lost their father because of someone no one could have predicted…
His musings were not happy ones but he found, in an odd way, it felt almost… refreshing, for lack of a better word, to be thinking about a human tragedy. For once, he wasn’t brooding over the fate of the wizarding world or about having to face Voldemort; he was thinking about a family, one grieving family. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he got from the constant weight of the world on his shoulders until now but it was exhausting. This-terrible and heart-wrenching as it was-was better…
For a few minutes, he allowed himself to be not the Hero everyone was looking to but simply himself, just Harry, empathizing for some children who had just lost their father as only someone who had also lost a parent could.
And it was so like Hermione to be thinking about it too.
On a half-formed impulse, he put his arm around her shoulders and she glanced at him. He stiffened a little. It was too dark to see much of anything but he thought-he suspected-he could see a tell-tale sheen in her eyes. Tears. Hermione had tears in her eyes.
She so rarely cried that Hermione’s tears always moved him but now, it suddenly occurred to him that for the most part, when Hermione cried, it was for someone else’s pain, not her own. He felt a sudden wave of affection for her.
He tightened his arm around her almost reflexively. “I like you,” he blurted out inanely.
She turned to stare at him, frowning a little. “You-what? I don’t-Harry, we’re friends. Of course you like me.”
“No, I meant… you’re a nice person, Hermione. And I like that about you. I like how you care so much about other people, even people like the McCanns who you’ve never met. It’s… nice.”
“Anyone would care about them because of what they’re going through.”
“No, not everyone. You said yourself that no one else seems to care that much, but you do. Even with everything else we have to be thinking about, you remembered to be concerned for his family.”
She blinked rapidly and looked away. “I hope I always do remember,” she said very softly. “I feel like… I feel like it’s so easy these days not to care that much when strangers, Muggles, die. There’s so much danger and so much death and we’re so preoccupied and it’s like we’re becoming desensitized to all the terrible things happening. I don’t want that. I don’t want to become that kind of person who doesn’t care…”
“I don’t think you could become that kind of person,” he responded quickly, almost automatically-because it was true, so true he didn’t need to think about it. “You’re too nice a person. And I like that about you. I like your…” he trailed off, mentally floundering for how to describe the way Hermione cared about people and then finished, “your effortless compassion.”
“My-what? Compassion isn’t hard.”
“Yes, it is. Most people manage to be compassionate for people they know. You’re different. You feel compassion for everyone. I like that. It-you remind me about why we’re doing all this, that it’s not about winning or even saving our lives but about people and how, wizard or Muggle, their lives matter just the same.”
“Oh, Harry…”
She didn’t say anything else, just his name, and he was silent now, having run out of words and feeling oddly vulnerable at having said so much.
Effortless compassion? Had he really said that? It was true but he still couldn’t believe he’d said it, had been able to put his vague thoughts about Hermione’s kindness into words like that.
Even in his discomfort, he spared a fleeting second to be thankful that Ron was sleeping and had not heard it.
And if Ron had been around, he knew he would never have said it or anything similar. Only to Hermione… Only with Hermione could he lay himself bare like that.
“Harry?” Hermione finally said quietly.
“What?”
“I like you too.”
He didn’t smile or say anything in response; nothing about this night made it a time to smile. But he rested his cheek against her hair as they sat there, side by side. And he knew that nothing more needed to be said.
It was a perfect moment, a perfect moment of peace and of friendship. And just for a little while, it was all he needed.
The End
A/N: I was thinking about making the fic more overtly romantic but decided not to because sometimes, it's nice to just write about H/Hr as best friends because they had such a lovely friendship, entirely aside from anything else.
She turned her head to look at him. “Hi, Harry.”
“Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” he returned, deflecting the question automatically.
She gave him a look that told him she’d noticed his deflection but was going to let him get away with it-this time. But then, too, she knew better than anyone just why he had trouble sleeping these days. So instead, she sighed, turning her gaze back out to the night around them. “I was just thinking…”
She trailed off and he waited for a moment but when she didn’t continue, gave her a verbal nudge. “About?”
“Geoffrey McCann.”
He blinked, trying to remember-and then he did and he felt a swift pang of guilt that it had taken him a moment to place the name. Geoffrey McCann had just been killed by a Death Eater, not deliberately-that was, not intentionally targeted for who he was- but as collateral damage of a sort, a Muggle who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was typical of the callous indifference to human life shown by the Death Eaters. Worse, as a Muggle, the wizarding press had been predictably less interested and barely mentioned McCann’s name in the article about the attempted attack on Ministry officials.
“What about him?”
Hermione sighed again. “It’s just… he had a family. One of the articles mentioned briefly that he was married with children and I was just thinking about how his wife will be alone now and his kids… his kids will grow up without their father and… And it just bothers me that no one seems to remember or care that much about what happened to him.”
“He’s… a Muggle…”
“That doesn’t mean his life is worth less than anyone else’s or that his family’s loss is any less,” she retorted.
He only sighed. From anyone else, at any other time, he might have been annoyed at the biting tone but he knew Hermione’s anger hadn’t been directed at him. She knew him well enough to know that he hadn’t been trying to defend the press in its relative indifference to Muggles.
“Hermione?”
“Hmm?”
“How old are the kids?”
“I don’t know; the article didn’t mention it. But McCann himself wasn’t all that old so I would guess his kids are still pretty young.”
“I hope…” he began and then stopped, his usual reticence blocking the words from coming out. But then-this was Hermione and his trust in her outweighed his automatic reticence, at least at this moment. “I hope his kids are old enough to remember him.”
“Oh, Harry, I didn’t mean-”
“It’s okay, Hermione,” he interrupted her quickly and sincerely. “I know. It’s just that it’s… a little… easier in a weird way when you can remember someone…”
“Oh, Harry…” she sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder in silent understanding.
He didn’t say anything more, thinking about his own parents and Sirius and Geoffrey McCann and his widow and the poor kids who had just lost their father because of someone no one could have predicted…
His musings were not happy ones but he found, in an odd way, it felt almost… refreshing, for lack of a better word, to be thinking about a human tragedy. For once, he wasn’t brooding over the fate of the wizarding world or about having to face Voldemort; he was thinking about a family, one grieving family. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he got from the constant weight of the world on his shoulders until now but it was exhausting. This-terrible and heart-wrenching as it was-was better…
For a few minutes, he allowed himself to be not the Hero everyone was looking to but simply himself, just Harry, empathizing for some children who had just lost their father as only someone who had also lost a parent could.
And it was so like Hermione to be thinking about it too.
On a half-formed impulse, he put his arm around her shoulders and she glanced at him. He stiffened a little. It was too dark to see much of anything but he thought-he suspected-he could see a tell-tale sheen in her eyes. Tears. Hermione had tears in her eyes.
She so rarely cried that Hermione’s tears always moved him but now, it suddenly occurred to him that for the most part, when Hermione cried, it was for someone else’s pain, not her own. He felt a sudden wave of affection for her.
He tightened his arm around her almost reflexively. “I like you,” he blurted out inanely.
She turned to stare at him, frowning a little. “You-what? I don’t-Harry, we’re friends. Of course you like me.”
“No, I meant… you’re a nice person, Hermione. And I like that about you. I like how you care so much about other people, even people like the McCanns who you’ve never met. It’s… nice.”
“Anyone would care about them because of what they’re going through.”
“No, not everyone. You said yourself that no one else seems to care that much, but you do. Even with everything else we have to be thinking about, you remembered to be concerned for his family.”
She blinked rapidly and looked away. “I hope I always do remember,” she said very softly. “I feel like… I feel like it’s so easy these days not to care that much when strangers, Muggles, die. There’s so much danger and so much death and we’re so preoccupied and it’s like we’re becoming desensitized to all the terrible things happening. I don’t want that. I don’t want to become that kind of person who doesn’t care…”
“I don’t think you could become that kind of person,” he responded quickly, almost automatically-because it was true, so true he didn’t need to think about it. “You’re too nice a person. And I like that about you. I like your…” he trailed off, mentally floundering for how to describe the way Hermione cared about people and then finished, “your effortless compassion.”
“My-what? Compassion isn’t hard.”
“Yes, it is. Most people manage to be compassionate for people they know. You’re different. You feel compassion for everyone. I like that. It-you remind me about why we’re doing all this, that it’s not about winning or even saving our lives but about people and how, wizard or Muggle, their lives matter just the same.”
“Oh, Harry…”
She didn’t say anything else, just his name, and he was silent now, having run out of words and feeling oddly vulnerable at having said so much.
Effortless compassion? Had he really said that? It was true but he still couldn’t believe he’d said it, had been able to put his vague thoughts about Hermione’s kindness into words like that.
Even in his discomfort, he spared a fleeting second to be thankful that Ron was sleeping and had not heard it.
And if Ron had been around, he knew he would never have said it or anything similar. Only to Hermione… Only with Hermione could he lay himself bare like that.
“Harry?” Hermione finally said quietly.
“What?”
“I like you too.”
He didn’t smile or say anything in response; nothing about this night made it a time to smile. But he rested his cheek against her hair as they sat there, side by side. And he knew that nothing more needed to be said.
It was a perfect moment, a perfect moment of peace and of friendship. And just for a little while, it was all he needed.
The End
A/N: I was thinking about making the fic more overtly romantic but decided not to because sometimes, it's nice to just write about H/Hr as best friends because they had such a lovely friendship, entirely aside from anything else.