Chances Are

For the fourth time in the past week, Hermione found herself awake at exactly two fifty-three in the morning, not at all tired and feeling more refreshed than she ought to for having gotten so little sleep. She was also boiling, as they were having a strange heat spell that summer, and sleeping with the windows open was decidedly unappealing because even the breeze was hot.

Far too uncomfortable to fall back asleep, she slipped quietly out of her bed, careful not to disturb Ginny, who was fully unconscious in the bed beside her. For possibly the first time in all the summers she had spent with the Weasley's at the Burrow, Hermione had the fleeting desire to be back at her home, in her bed. Of course, this wasn't because she was homesick, but she wanted the Muggle comforts of air conditioning.

There had been one day when Mr. Weasley brought home a ceiling fan, and though it couldn't have come at a better time temperature-wise, the twins had just invented a new weight-lightening pill just that previous night. Thus, taking turns swallowing two of these tablets, George and Fred would hang onto one of the fan blades and go spinning around and around with glee. It was not until they decided to share their concoction with Harry and Ron, who also wanted to participate in the game, that the accumulated weight was far too much and pulled the entire fan from the ceiling.

Mrs. Weasley had not been pleased to discover a gaping hole in her room, along with plaster and dust covering her bed covers.

Two steps from the door, the floor beneath Hermione's feet emitted a loud creak, and she froze where she was. Ginny stirred slightly, but only flopped over onto her back. With far too much experience at escaping in these sorts of situations, Hermione didn't bother waiting for her friend's breathing to deepen before wrenching the door open and darting into the black hallway. Nearly tripping over a rug, she stopped the door just in time from slamming, and instead closed it with an inaudible click.

Exhaling in relief, she turned slightly and began walking forward with calculated steps. Through her previous nights of restlessness, Hermione had wandered downstairs each time and now knew that it required her exactly ten and a half paces to reach the top of the stairs. Upon reaching the top rung, she jogged down the rest without much hesitation, silently thanking the twin for casting a charm on them to prevent them from squeaking.

When she entered the kitchen, Hermione poured herself a glass of cold water, although in the heat everything felt lukewarm at best. The room was boiling, with every window open; the curtains remained perfectly still, for which she was grateful. Taking her time to drink, she sat down at the tale and enjoyed the dark tranquility around her.

It was a relief to be back in the Burrow after their catastrophic fifth year, what with Professor Umbridge and Hagrid's half-brother and Dumbledore's departure and the scrutiny Hogwarts was forced to endured by the Ministry of Magic. In all truths, 'catastrophic' was not nearly powerful enough of a word to describe the events of the past few months, especially not after - after - Hermione sighed. If Harry refused to talk about it, she reflected, then she really didn't have the right to broach the subject.

Just thinking about that night created a sharp stab in the area right below her ribcage, one that caused to her bend over to squeeze out the pain. Hermione pressed her fingers against the sting; although she had been declared recovered by Madame Pomfrey after several days in the infirmary wing, the pain had never completely disappeared. She doubted it ever would.

To her surprise - although she was not amazed as she should have been, considering the time - a frustrated shout emerged from the backyard. Curious, she stood, wincing as her chest constricted, and slunk quietly to the porch door. Opening it, she glanced down and saw the silhouette of a person hopping about - on one foot, she soon noticed.

When she made it down to the lawn, glass still in hand, she tentatively touched the person on the shoulder. He whirled around, clearly more startled to see me than she him, and paused in his agitation.

"Hermione!" he gasped. "What are you doing here?"

She raised an eyebrow, though she knew he could not see her do so, and let him take her arm in order to regain his balance. "Hello Harry. I was minding my own business when I was distracted by a noise from down here. I came to investigate."

"Alone?"

"Do you see anyone else with me?"

"You shouldn't do that," he said severely. "It was a great assumption to think that it was me down here and approach me without your wand."

"I don't see how it could have been anyone else," she retorted. "You've been pacing around here for the past week, and I didn't imagine tonight would have been any different."

"How did you know that?" he asked, startled.

"I live in this house too. Besides, you're not the only one who's been kept awake. It's been too hot this week." Hermione looked at him curiously. "What were you yelling about, anyway?"

"A bloody gnome," Harry laughed. For the first time in perhaps the past year, there was no trace of bitterness, which she was glad to see. "I was kicking at the ground."

"Angry at the world again?"

She could almost feel him beginning to smile.

"Always. I guess in my irritation I hit one of them instead, and before I could react this little thing had popped out of the grass, stamped on my foot, and disappeared. All before I could take my wand out. He had shoes on. I didn't."

"You are such a baby," she teased. "You're a sixth year wizard. He's a gnome. Should there be any question?"

"Almost a sixth year," Harry corrected. "If Hogwarts still wants me, that is."

"Of course they would. Why would you think anything else?"

"Considering how much havoc I have brought to that school since entering, I don't know why they'd invite me back for another year. Considering how much havoc I've brought to the world, I don't know why anyone would want me."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said briskly. "You're needed at Hogwarts. You've become as much of a part of it as McGonagall or Dumbledore or even Nearly Headless Nick." A bit impatient, Hermione looked around her. "Is there a light switch here? I can't see a thing?"

She saw Harry lift his arm, and almost instantly two lights came on. Porch lights, she saw, encased in pretty glass containers. An odd sort of glow appeared around them, as if they were in a bubble of light. Then again, Ginny once told her that she - Hermione, that is - and Harry always had their heads in a bubble, although the latter girl had no idea what her friend could mean by that.

He motioned to the table on the deck. "How about we take a seat?"

Hermione nodded wordlessly, following Harry as he limped across the lawn to sprawl onto a chair. She lowered herself gingerly, fearing that the stick-thin legs beneath her would crack at any moment. When five seconds passed - and the chair was still intact - she relaxed considerably.

"Is there a reason why you've been up all these nights?"

Harry glanced at her then, tilting his head to one side, as if he were blatantly scrutinizing her. Yet she didn't feel at all nervous, and instead returned the look with unblinking eyes.

"Do you admire your parents, Hermione?" he said at last.

Hermione didn't answer immediately, too surprised by the question to think properly. It wasn't that she found the question unusual, but the fact that Harry was asking it was most unexpected. She hadn't believed Harry would voluntarily focus on the subject of parents, because, well, it was such a sensitive topic for him. She and Ron were very careful about not creating a huge fuss over their relationships with their parents, especially not acting as if they took them for granted.

Thus, Hermione was left to blink at him and repeat, "Do I admire my parents?" rather blankly.

He nodded, and seeing her confusion, hastened to explain. "Do you think they're good people, I mean?"

She could tell he had no idea that clarification didn't help her at all, but as she had not considered such a question since she was young and was sure her parents were invincible, she wanted to give a response that she would be comfortable remembering in years to come.

"Of course I do," Hermione said thoughtfully. "I mean, they're not perfect people, nor do they pretend to be. And, as in all relationships, no matter between what kind of two people, we have our differences from time to time. But I believe my parents have the best intentions, especially for me, and I fully trust them with their decisions." She paused, stealing a glance at the boy beside her. "Why do you ask?"

He looked at her then, with his dark eyes - which Lavender liked to call 'brooding' - and took a deep breath. "If I tell you something that someone's sworn me not to tell, could you promise not to tell a soul?"

She felt her eyes narrow. "Harry -"

"It's not something illegal," he was quick to reassure her. "Nothing of the sort. I wasn't even involved, actually. I was more a bystander."

"Is it really your secret to tell?" Though she hated to do this, Hermione was a bit fearful of what Harry so eagerly wanted to tell her. After the events of the past year, the possibilities - and consequences - were endless.

But she saw the desperation in his eyes, and the hurt from her skepticism, and an idea struck her. "Is it about your parents?" she exclaimed.

Harry nodded quickly. "Yes, except it also involves someone else, and that's whom I promised. But, well -" He pulled at his thick black hair, which was an indication that he was clearly ambivalent about choosing between his personal desires and that of another person.

That was something that she admired about him, his sense of decency.

"Hermione?"

She didn't know what she was getting herself into, but she couldn't refuse either.

"Alright, I promise."

The relieved smile that he gave broke her heart, because it obviously meant so much to him. She wondered how long he had been keeping this to himself, and how he had managed to do so.

"During my Occlumency classes with Snape last year, I came across a Pensieve, one of his worst memory. And I couldn't help but look because, well..." Hermione nodded, to reassure him that she understood. "It was of himself at fifteen, along with my father, Lupin, and - and -"

"Sirius?" she finished quietly.

"Sirius," he whispered, as if testing the word. He let his shoulders rise and fall. "My father was awful. They all were to Snape, teasing him, coming up with new nicknames for him, making fun of the way he dressed. My mother came over and chastised my father for what he was doing, and she asked him what Snape had done to deserve his treatment. Do you know what my father said?"

He was staring at her earnestly, naked honesty displayed clearly across his face. Very carefully, she covered his hands with her own and shook her head side to side.

"He said Snape deserved it just for being. For living, Hermione, as if Snape didn't even have the right to share the same space with my father and his friends." Harry shuddered slightly, as if to shake off the thought. "How could he say such a thing?"

"Your father was a good man, Harry."

"Yes, that's what I thought too," he said bitterly.

"Harry," Hermione sighed. "It isn't like that at all. Just because you saw that memory doesn't mean you should dispel the image you've had of him all your life. He was a well-respected man, and he deserves all the admiration he'd received. You ought to be proud of him."

"And the Pensieve?"

"You do strange things when you're fifteen," she said mildly. "Not cruel things, but you get caught up in the moment and all the little voices in the back of your head that are so effective simply seem to disappear."

"What you mean," Harry reiterated, "is that we become thoughtless."

The manner in which he said this statement made her cautious. "What are we talking about now, Harry?"

"What if I am like my father as if everyone says, and it's not a good thing? What if I am that mean and careless, without ever considering my actions?"

"Do you really question what kind of person you are?" she asked, hoping she didn't sound as incredulous as she felt at the moment.

"Sometimes I wonder if you and Ron wouldn't have been better off if you had never met me."

Hermione stared at the face in front of her, speechless. In her shock, she only vaguely felt his hands slip out of hers, but regaining her senses, she snatched at his fingers and held them tightly.

"You can't really mean that?" she exclaimed.

"How can I not?" he cried, clearly frustrated. Remembering what time it was, he lowered his voice considerably, although the tension did not ease. "Do you realize how many times your life has been in danger because of me? Do you realize how often I've kept you from your studies, or forced you to break the rules, or stuck you in threatening situations? How can you not say I've ruined your life?"

"If I hadn't met you," Hermione said pointedly, "I would have become a terrible bookworm, worse than I am now, who never went to any social outings because I'd rather have my nose buried in a textbook. I'd have no one to keep me grounded, to offer me a rebellious streak, or to make me really think how I can put everything I've learned to good use. Knowing you has made me the person that I am right now, and honestly?" She laughed softly. "I like who I am, and I have to thank you for that."

"You were nearly killed this past year. I know you pretend otherwise, but you can still feel every single spark of that curse inside of you. And you would not have been involved if not for me."

Ignoring the pain that had risen in her chest again, she smiled at him wryly and leaned forward slightly. "Harry, everything I have done since meeting you has been my choice, and I take full responsibility for my actions and all the consequences that have followed. I'm not a little girl, and I acknowledge the risks every time we go out. Do not blame yourself for something over which you had no control."

"But I could have stopped you," he protested. "You and Ron both. I could have forced you to stay away -"

"Do you truly think you could have stopped either one of us from joining you?" Hermione interrupted, her words gentle yet strong.

He opened his mouth to answer in the affirmative, but only slumped in his seat. "No."

"Then why do you convince yourself otherwise and let guilt do this to you?"

He extracted his hands then to rub them up and down across his face. With his palms over his eyelids, he began speaking in low tones.

"This past year, in the battle at the Ministry, when I saw you get hit with the curse and fall, I was convinced you were dead. And for those seconds or minutes, because time didn't exist for me anymore, I couldn't think. I didn't know how to think, because I'm really not anything without you. All that consumed my consciousness was the knowledge that you were gone and I didn't even have the chance to - to -"

Her own hands trembling, Hermione intertwined her fingers with his and slowly pulled his hands away from his face. She recognized the misery instantly, and when she saw the wavering brilliancy in his shadowed green, she felt her eyes sting with unshed tears.

"When thoughts finally returned to me," he finished, almost inaudibly, "I had to imagine returning to school and living in a world, without you." Restless, he stood, rocking on his heels before coming to a rest in standing position. "Then Neville insisted that you were still alive, that you still had a pulse, and that was probably one of the happiest moments of my life."

Without any reservation, Hermione rose to her feet and wrapped her arms around his lean frame, one hand sunken in his thick black hair and the other pressed against the warmth of his neck. Her cheek was resting on his temple, and she believed she could detect a faint, quick pulse there.

"Oh Harry," she breathed, her words quavering, "I'm so sorry." She exhaled deeply, allowing her tears to spill down her face and fall silently against his skin. "I'm so sorry," she repeated.

His arms moved around her, in a grip so tight that Hermione gave a sharp gasp. But she held him just as closely, feeling all emotions running through his body.

"Don't ever think that I will ever regret meeting you," she said fiercely, "because it is not and never will be true." She moved back slightly so that she had a full view of his face. "I will remember every moment I have ever spent with you, and I will cherish every lesson I have learned. You have taught me more about myself than you will ever know. You should never have to doubt how truly wonderful a person you are, and I -"

And I love you, she almost said.

She caught herself in time, though it did nothing to quell the tumult that had risen in her chest. There was that pain again, although this time it was for different reasons entirely. A flush rushed to her cheeks, though fortunately she could blame that on the heat.

But this startling revelation - well, she had no one to blame that on except herself. She wondered dimly how this had happened, how he had changed from Harry Potter, her innocent and generous best friend, to Harry Potter, whose one grin could make her heart do somersaults.

Of course she loved him, she scolded herself. She loved Ron as well, and that was why she always remembered their birthdays and wished them good luck before Quidditch matches or allowed them to look over her homework.

And yet, all fairness aside, there was something about Harry.

There had always been something about Harry, from his passion in Quidditch, his loyalty to Hagrid, his unwavering bravery against he-who...well, Voldemort, his steadfastness in Potions class despite Snape, his defense against Draco's antics, his unassuming nature in regards to his fame and wealth, his sharp green eyes full of thoughtfulness and intelligence, and especially their walks around the lake.

Standing in the middle of the Weasley's porch, in the midst of a blistering hot summer, one month from starting their sixth year at Hogwarts, she realized that she loved Harry Potter.

Why had she never recognized it before?

Because, Hermione thought miserably, because he could never return her feelings. He would never know how much she worried whenever he went off alone to fulfill his destiny as a hero, though he had no idea he was already one in everyone's eyes. She could never tell him how listless she became the night before their large Quidditch matches, not because she didn't fret about his safety - though she most certainly did - but because she was always afraid she wouldn't be able to see his joy when he caught the Snitch and won the game for the Gryffindor house.

She knew he cared about her, but why would he notice her above any other girl? His feelings for Cho had been indication enough. Naturally, she had given him completely unbiased advice, but if she were truthful with herself, she had to admit that she had secretly hoped it didn't work out. Not because she didn't want Harry to find that happiness - he deserved it more than anyone she knew - but Cho didn't understand Harry at all.

Not like you do, said her wise little voice.

But it was true, wasn't it? She did understand Harry, just as much as he knew her better than anyone else.

"Hermione? Are you alright?"

She found him peering at her with concern in his eyes, where one of his hands had moved to tilt her chin up to his face. His irises were black in the shadows, his skin dry yet still welcomingly soft; she held her breath, trying not to acknowledge that she was only a few inches from -

She was fighting a losing battle.

"And I just wanted to let you know," Hermione murmured, choosing her words delicately, "how much I care about you. How much I will always care about you."

"Oh Hermione," he sighed, hugging her to him once again. "What did I ever do to deserve you in my life? What would I do without you?"

She breathed into his shoulder, absorbed in the faint condensation and tinge of salt.

"But I don't think you're ugly," he had said to her this past year, sounding almost confused that she would believe otherwise.

Maybe there was hope for her yet.

-end-

July 12, 2003