Chapter Text
As they walked toward the forest side by side, Hermione’s flame lit their way. The only thing breaking the silence between them was the dance of the leaves as raindrops touched them — as though being together, witnessing the beauty of nature around them, was the only thing they needed.
Minutes passed until they finally reached the edge of the forest. They took a left onto the path that led to a small lake nearby.
When they reached the lake, they stopped to take in the view of the lake and its surroundings. It was a relatively small, oval-shaped lake, surrounded by lush green grass. A short distance away, stood the dense trees of the forest. Halfway around the walking path that circled the lake, stood a small cottage with two benches in front of it, which the Weasleys used whenever they fancied a swim.
Although the raindrops were ruining the calm surface of the lake, they had created a beautiful symphony — a symphony that had the two of them gazing at the scene for several minutes. Then without any need for conversation, as if each knew what the other was thinking, they started to stroll around the lake.
They had walked a few laps around the lake in silence, until Harry suggested that they take a rest on the benches next to the cottage.
So, they went to sit on one of the benches over the lake. As they sat and their breaths returned to normal, Hermione swept her wet hair away from her eyes, tucking it behind her ears. She took a deep breath, then smiled.
“I'm glad you asked me to come,” she said softly. “It was beautiful.”
Harry smiled back. It was beyond beautiful. It was everything, having her beside him.
Still, a part of him couldn’t help thinking about the end, about how this couldn’t last.
He pushed the thought away. Not now. Not here, he told himself. She was here, at his side — and for now, that was all that mattered.
For a few minutes, silence had settled again between them and the rain had become softer than before. Hermione was gazing at the lake, her face lit by the blue glow of the flame above their heads.
Harry watched her for a moment. Then, quietly:
“Hermione?”
“Yes?” replied Hermione, turning toward him.
“I’ve been thinking.” said Harry, his voice soft.
“About what?”
He hesitated for a moment.
“Everyone has a book, you know? The one that… I don’t know. The one that feels like them.”
Her eyes were fixed on his, genuinely surprised, but the warmth of her eyes still there.
"That's... not the question I expected," she admitted. "But I like it."
He laughed softly, a little embarrassed. "I can guess Ron's for instance. I guess it would be something about Quidditch. Probably a comic."
She smiled. "Probably."
"But you," he continued, even quieter. "I don't know yours."
"What's your favorite book?" he asked. "The one that... pictures you."
She went quiet for a moment.
"My favorite book?" she repeated, almost to herself. Then, quieter than before: "No one's ever wanted to know that before."
Harry rarely talked about books. He was someone who read the coursebooks when he had to. The one who borrowed her notes before exams. Yes, she had seen him wandering about the library, mostly in the novels section from time to time. But he had never spoken about them like this. And now here he was, asking about her favorite? The one that pictured her?
She stared at him for a second longer than she meant to. He was looking back at her with those beautiful green eyes. Open, curious, earnest in a way that made her chest tighten.
Why now? The thought had arrived before she could stop it.
And then, like water finding its way through cracks, other thoughts followed.
He came outside tonight. He couldn't sleep. Neither could she.
He asked her to walk with him. In the rain.
They’d been outside... how long? Hours?
And suddenly, her memories went back to the past years.
From the moment he came to save her from the troll — to the moment he trusted her without question to save Sirius.
And now he was asking about her favorite book. The one that pictured her?
Why?
Because he wanted to know her? Not perhaps the Hermione who raised her hand in class, who planned everything, who had an answer for everything. Her. The real her.
White Nights.
The title rose in her mind like a breath. She'd found it in the library last year, during one of those late searches with Harry, that eventually led them to the novels section.
"I was a dreamer. I spent whole nights, whole days, lost in dreams. But then she came — and for a few nights, I was not alone."
She'd read the quote three times. It just felt different. She then borrowed the copy. And it just hit differently, unlike anything before.
That's us, not me. But does it matter? The thought arrived quietly, almost shyly. That's what we do. We find each other in the trying times.
She looked at him now. The way the rain had clung to his hair. The way his glasses were slightly fogged. The way he was waiting, patient and gentle, for her to answer a simple question about a book.
Her throat tightened.
He is the picture of hope. He might not know it. But he is. He was the one she always knew would make her see the beauty around her, especially when she could not see it for herself.
She opened her mouth. Her voice softer than she expected:
“White Nights,” she said. “By Dostoevsky.”
Harry searched his memory. He had a feeling that he’d heard the name before; but couldn’t remember when.
“What is it about?” he asked.
Hermione looked back at the lake. The rain had softened to little more than a whisper now. Perhaps just enough to keep the world feeling small, private, theirs.
“It’s about a lonely man,” she began. “He spends his life dreaming, imagining conversations, falling in love with people he’s never met. Because reality is too painful for him, too empty.”
Harry listened without interrupting. She could feel his attention, so she went on:
“Then one night, it all changes. He meets a girl, and for just a few nights, he actually lives. He doesn’t feel alone anymore. He walks with her, talks with her, helps her and falls in love with her. Or perhaps with what she showed him. Hope. A reason to wake up from his dreams.”
She paused, as words became harder now.
“But in the end… she chooses someone else. And he goes back to his lonely life…”
Harry didn’t say anything for a long time. When he finally managed to speak, his voice was low:
“That’s… really sad.”
"It is," she agreed, her voice low. "But it's also beautiful. Because he doesn't stop hoping. Even after she leaves. Even when he knows how it ends. He keeps hoping."
She turned to look at him then. His green eyes were fixed on her, open, listening, seeing her in a way that made her chest ache.
“Why do you love it?” Harry asked, almost whispering.
She didn’t answer right away. The rain filled the silence between them.
“I… I think it mirrors so many of us — the story behind it.” she finally managed to say, glancing at Harry.
“But there is a quote,” she continued. “Near the beginning. He’s talking about how he sees hope and what it means to him.”
She hesitated. She’d never talked about it, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to talk about it anymore — not now.
“Go on.” Harry whispered.
She took a deep breath, and then, she softly quoted:
“It wasn't about keeping hope during the days...”
Her voice trembled, just slightly.
"It was about keeping hope during the nights.”
Her voice became lower, almost whispering.
“The night had something the day didn't…”
She stopped. Swallowed.
“Darkness. Silence. Loneliness…”
She stopped once again, before finishing:
"And he knew that if he kept hope alive through the nights, during the day, hope would keep him alive."
And then there was just silence. For a long time, neither of them talked. As though the words were still hanging in the air between them.
Then Harry spoke, so quietly that she almost didn’t hear him:
“That… was heavy — Maybe because I’ve lived that…”
She turned to face him. But he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were now set on the lake.
“All my life,” he continued. “All the hard times I went through, I made an excuse to hope.”
He paused for a moment.
“For a long time I didn’t have an idea about it. When I was at the Dursleys, my story was the same as the one you told me. I lived in my head for myself…”
He then stopped. Trying to maintain his voice, but it was choked up:
“Until I arrived at Hogwarts. The first place that felt like my home — until… until I met you guys — the ones I could finally call best friends. But still, I was in my head, drowning in the endless sea of thoughts. All those times in front of the mirror, watching my late parents…”
“Oh Harry…” whispered Hermione, her voice trembling.
“Until I found it,” He whispered. “I found hope.”
And then his face turned, looking at her eyes. Eyes that were filled with unfallen tears…
“I found you…” he completed in a lower voice.
The word sat between them like a stone dropped in still water.
“I didn't know how to say it before," he continued, his voice trembling. "Didn't even know if I could say it. But when you said those words just now, about hope, I understood. That's who you are to me. You're the reason I keep hoping. Even when everything feels dark. Even when I can't see the light.”
Her eyes were burning. She didn't try to stop the tears this time. She couldn't have, even if she wanted to…
“Harry, I…”
“You are the picture of my hope Hermione…” he whispered. “You always have been…”
She couldn’t resist it. She didn’t think. All she did, was to throw herself in his arms, crying in his chest. Harry tightened his arms around her, bringing her closer. They held each other for a long time — long enough so that their heartbeats synced and became one, as if she had two hearts. One at her left, one at her right…
Both beating harmoniously, as if they were one. And they were.
They were one soul, in two bodies…
"Thank you Harry — the picture of my hope” she choked “It was the best night of my life…”
“It was the best night of my life as well…” he whispered back, his voice choked up as well.
They stayed like that for a long time. Not speaking. Just breathing together, letting the rain and the night do what words couldn't.
Eventually, slowly, softly, they pulled apart. Just enough to look at each other.
Hermione's cheeks were still wet. Harry reached up, without thinking, and wiped a tear away with his thumb. She caught his hand before he could lower it, holding it between both of hers.
“Your hands are freezing,” she whispered. “Again.”
“Yours aren't much warmer.” he whispered back, smiling.
She tried to smile, but her gaze was at his eyes — distracting her.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Harry glanced up at the sky.
The rain hadn't stopped, but something had changed. The clouds were lighter now. Not bright, not yet, but softer. Grey instead of black.
“It's almost morning,” he said quietly.
Hermione followed his gaze.
“Yeah.”
"We should head back," she said after a pause. But she didn't move. Neither did he.
“The train leaves today.” she added softly.
"Yeah, we probably should." Harry whispered, evidences of sadness in his voice. “We have a train to catch.”
She met his eyes. And in that look, everything was said again, just quieter.
He stood first, offering her his hand. She took it.
They walked back the way they came, past the cottage, along the lake, through the edge of the forest. The path was muddier now, wetter, but neither of them cared.
At some point, Hermione started humming. Softly at first, almost to herself. Then, quietly, Harry joined in.
Hey little train wait for me…
Was held in chains but now I’m free…
Have you left a seat for me?
Is that such a stretch of imagination?
They didn't sing the words. Just the melody — low, gentle, threading through the rain.
By the time they reached the burrow's back door, the sky had once again turned from gray to black. Hints of yet another heavy rain.
Harry stopped before opening the door and turned to her.
"Thank you," he said. "For walking with me."
She smiled, that real smile, the one that was always reserved for him. Her hand reaching to gently stroke his hair.
"Always." she whispered.
And then, together, they went inside.
Hours later, on the Hogwarts Express, Harry sat across from Ron, watching him complain about Pigwidgeon's travel cage without really hearing a word.
His mind was elsewhere. Still on the lake. Still on the rain. Still on her.
He glanced up and found Hermione already looking at him from across the compartment.
She smiled. Just a little. Just enough.
He smiled back.
Neither of them said a word. They didn't need to.
Always, he thought.
And somehow, he knew she heard it.
He turned to the window, watching the countryside blur past. But after a moment, his eyes drifted back, across the compartment, past the luggage, to her.
She was still looking at him.
She was always at his side, she would keep him alive — she would make white nights.