Chapter Text
“Harry, how many times have I told you?” Hermione huffed from her side of the burgundy sofa, “You need to actually study to get good marks.”
“I can study all I like, Hermione, it won’t make a difference.”
“It will, I promise you.”
“Tell that to Snape,” Harry growled, his hands gripping the sides of his book until his knuckles whitened. “He wouldn’t give me a good mark if I brewed a Draught of the Living Dead that could put the sun to sleep.”
“But still, Snape won’t be examining you, it’ll be someone completely different.”
“No, but it is him who’s refusing to teach me the right things. He just writes the instructions on the board and then waits for me to mess up. That’s what he does to everyone who isn’t a Slytherin. Just ask Neville.”
Hermione sighed, her hands wrestling in her lap. As much as she cared about Harry, perhaps more than anyone else in her life who wasn’t family, even she had to admit he was an infuriatingly stubborn individual. Every time she tried to prompt him into striving just a little further in his studies, he’d put on the brakes and dig his heels in. Suddenly he was happy to just be above average when Hermione knew he had the potential to rival even her. If only he’d push himself a bit more.
“Well, why don’t we practise in our free time, then?” she offered. “We could easily ask the Room to make us a potions lab and we can go over what we’ve learned, together.”
“Hermione,” Harry sighed as he closed his potions textbook and let it slide into his bag, “as much as spending time with you is always a joy, I really don’t want to have to ration all of my free time to studying. I want a life, you know. I’ve missed that feeling, having a life.”
“Fine then,” Hermione frowned. “If you’re not willing to put in what it takes then so be it.”
“I’m putting in a hell of a lot at the moment. I’m teaching a class-load of students every week, in case you forgot, which I doubt considering you talked me into it.”
“But I just think you could do more. Imagine if you put that kind of effort into the rest of your subjects. You’d be amazing.”
“I’d be dead.” Harry stood from the sofa and began his walk to the staircase. “Besides, it’s not like Herbology is going to help me protect myself against—“
It happened without warning.
Every muscle in his body collapsed. Harry fell to the floor like a puppet cut from its strings. Hermione’s eyes widened, her heart jumping out of her chest. She leapt from the sofa with nary a moment’s thought.
“Harry?!” she cried, falling to her knees beside his limp body. “Harry, are you alright?!” She shook him lightly, only for his limbs to lull around. “Harry?!”
She held her hand in front of his mouth, hoping to feel his breath. Her fingers sought his neck, trying to press for a pulse. Both times, she felt nothing. His eyes were staring outwards, shining like mirrors, with nothing behind them. It was as if his body had been switched off. Like he had just… stopped.
“No,” Hermione choked. “No, no, no...” Frantically, she put both palms on his chest and began pushing rhythmically, as hard as she could. “Come on, Harry, please.”
Again and again, she pushed down on his chest, just as she had read to do in her first aid books at the scouts. Reaching down, pinching his nose, Hermione put her lips to his mouth and breathed as hard as she could into his lungs. She reared and continued pressing against his torso.
“Don't you dare give up on me!”
One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. And so it went for minutes on end, until her wrists arched and her palms reddened and her head spun from the exertion. Every so often, every few sets, she would reach down and blow into his mouth, checking his pulse. Still nothing. No response, not even a whisper of air from his mouth, not an echo of a pulse in his veins.
The initial wave of shock was passing now. A slow, creepy sense of dread was crawling up her spine. The reality of the situation was crashing down on her, crushing her. But still, Hermione carried on, refusing to believe it. She couldn't give up. She couldn't just let him go.
The body lay unmoving. His arms were loosely sprawled around him, his fingers perfectly still. His eyes - once bursting with mischief, remorse, glee, anger, kindness - were gazing upwards but seeing nothing. Hermione carefully took two fingers and closed them. He almost looked asleep now, perfectly at peace. She could pretend for a moment that all was fine, that he was resting. What she wouldn't give for that to be so...
Harry was dead. He had just died. He…
Before Hermione knew it, she was crying.
“Harry... please wake up...” she bawled. No other options left, she slowly leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and bringing his body closer. Burying him in her jumper, shielding him from the world, she began to rock back and forth. “Please, Harry… Please don't leave me...”
She was speaking to no one now, Hermione knew that. Some rational part of her brain was still working, telling her to let him go, to go to Madam Pomfrey right away and tell her the news. The awful, awful news that made her inside burns and her heart crack like an egg.
Harry's dead... Harry's dead...
It felt wrong to even think about it. It felt like a lie
Harry shouldn't have gone like this. He didn't deserve this. Not her Harry, the one who cared so much about the innocent. Her sweet, kind Harry, who would never know how much she cared. She never took the time to let him know how much she appreciated him. All those times Hermione had badgered him, all those times they’d talked and yet he had died never knowing that he was loved. How she loved him, more than he ever realised - more than she ever realised.
I love him... I love you, Harry... Please come back... Please wake up...
A loud gasp erupted from below her. Hermione jumped. She looked down and saw Harry with his eyes wide, his mouth wide open and drawing in shallow, ragged breaths. He looked terrified.
“Harry!” she cried, releasing him from her embrace, holding him upright. “It’s okay, Harry. It’s okay. Just breathe, I’ve got you.” Eventually, he calmed, wilting into her shoulder. Hermione caught him, allowing him to rest in her arms until his breathing steadied. “It’s okay.”
Hermione felt his hand tentatively grip the fabric of her jumper, rubbing it between his fingers. He shifted slightly, turning his head as he glanced up at her, squinting at her.
“H… Mione?” he breathed.
“Yes,” Hermione replied. “Yes, it’s me. Harry, are you alright?”
She watched his eyes flicker around the room, taking in every detail as the uncertainty was replaced with dawning recognition.
“Yes, I think-”
He paused, his brow furrowed.
“Yes…” He repeated, as if in astonishment at his own voice. “Yes, I’m fine. Sorry, just… Must be more tired than I thought. What were we talking about?”
“Harry, listen to me. You have to go see Madam Pomfrey right away.”
“No, nonsense,” he waved away. “I only fainted. That’s all. Must have stood up too quickly. You know how it is, being tall and all. Well, maybe you don’t. Actually, you never… I’ll be fine. I promise.”
And then he reached up, cupping her cheek and stroking it softly with his thumb. Hermione froze. It felt like pure electricity radiated through the tips of his fingers, causing heat to rise in her cheeks. The intimacy of it, so quick and yet so natural, like a reflex he had performed a thousand times. And the way he looked at her wasn’t like he usually did, the typical hint of fondness mixed with familiarity. This was something else entirely.
Realising too late what he was doing, like a habit he was trying to curb, he removed his hand, his own face flushing in turn.
“Sorry,” he apologised quickly. “Sorry… What time is it again?”
“Quarter-to-twelve,” Hermione squeaked as she attempted to regain some composure. “I think.”
His eyes searched past her to the open window, to the bright, blue sky outside, quickly deducing that it was, in fact, coming up on midday.
“Right,” he nodded. “I think I need a lie-down.”
He stood up, swaying slightly on his feet, his hands out like a trapeze artist on a tightrope. He took his first few tentative steps forward, like a stranger in his own body, Hermione thought to herself. Finally, his stride evened and Hermione immediately noticed the difference. His posture was far more composed, his back straight, his shoulders broad, his pace slow but purposeful. Overall, he stood several inches taller than usual, and the effect was staggering. He looked like a completely different person, almost, one unburdened by years of neglect, but there was something else. Even his eyes looked different. They used to sparkle. Now they glinted.
“Harry,” Hermione asked, her voice trembling ever so slightly despite herself, “are you sure you’re alright? And please don’t lie to me.”
Harry glanced back at her, and the calculating demeanour was gone, replaced with warmth and care that made her knees weak.
“Of course, I’m alright.”
And with that, he smiled and Hermione couldn’t help but smile back. Tell him, she screamed to herself. Tell him now. But of course, she didn’t. She couldn’t. Even after nearly losing him, she couldn’t drum up the courage to admit what he truly meant to her.
Harry turned and made his way up to the boy’s dormitories, leaving Hermione to wonder what on Earth just happened to her best friend - and, subsequently, what on Earth to do about her own confused state.
Something was wrong with Harry.
Well, in fairness, maybe wrong wasn’t the correct word. Harry wasn’t doing anything overtly detrimental to his health, nor was he showing signs of being sick. He just wasn’t his usual self anymore, and perhaps that was far more disconcerting than any regular illness.
It turned out the changes in her best friend didn't stop with his posture - albeit his newfound gait was undoubtedly symptomatic. The new body language that Harry had adopted had stuck. He walked taller, faster, with purpose. Slowly he evolved from walking past people in the corridors to walking through them until soon they would commonly move for him. And Harry hardly noticed. In fact, he rarely paid attention to anyone other his immediate friend circle anymore. Not even Malfoy or Umbridge could get much more than a bored expression from him, no matter how hard they tried, and they did try. Even their best attempts to get a rise from him were met with a wall of indifference.
The rest of the time he was jovial, confident and overall far more enthused than he used to be. Hermione saw it most clearly in the DA meetings. Whereas Harry used to struggle to project himself in the past, relying on the group to pay attention to him, now he effortlessly commanded the room like a conductor in an orchestra.
To anyone else, these changes were negligible, but to someone like Hermione - someone who knew Harry better than he knew himself - the transformation was staggering. He was like a completely new person, and yet at the core, he was still her Harry. She recognised those eyes, coloured with the same pine-green that reminded her of winter. However, something was just off, Hermione could tell. They didn't look different but they certainly looked differently.
The Harry she knew- Rather, Harry as he normally was had this tired look to him, like he had been inured to the pain that had seeped into his bones. Not accepting, just too worn out to fight back. This Harry, this new version of her friend… Whenever they spoke - or even when he noticed her staring at him out of the corner of her eye - he looked fine. He looked better than fine, in fact. He appeared composed, he was calm, and he acted secure in himself. It was when he thought no one could see him that the mask came down. Hermione had only caught it a couple of times, but she had never forgotten. He looked like he was ready to burst into tears at any moment.
That wasn’t all. The way Harry approached her, the slight touches, the nudges, the smiles he sent her way. He wasn’t just looking at her, he was marvelling her like a priceless artwork. He was cherishing her. She could only describe his stares as adoring, loving even. It was enough to render her speechless, unsure of how to respond to that level of affection.
It honestly reminded her of her parents, the subtle glances and touches that spoke of so many years of marriage. But that was ridiculous. She and Harry weren’t married. They weren’t even dating, no matter how much she revelled in the idea.
He was hiding something, Hermione knew it. The question was what?
She had checked the Marauder’s Map multiple times, and he still read as ‘Harry Potter’. She knew it couldn’t be the Imperius curse, Harry was far too prescient for that to work. Was it a concussion? No, it couldn't be because Hermione had marched him over to Madam Pomfrey’s the very next day and even the matron couldn’t find anything wrong. So what was it? Why was Harry acting so differently?
It all came to a head a month after the incident. Harry had disappeared again, as he occasionally did every so often. No one knew where or why - no-one had bothered to investigate - except Hermione. Using the Marauder’s Map, she had managed to pinpoint the only place Harry could be, the Room of the Requirement - the only room in the castle to not show up on the map.
She made her way up to the seventh-floor corridor and commanded the room to let her in. 'Show me where Harry's been hiding,' she dictated in her head. 'Show me where Harry's been hiding.' As soon as a door had presented itself, Hermione marched inside. And what met her was enough to make her pause in her step.
All around her, living the walls and circling the expansive chamber, were wooden dummies, the same that they used for DA practice. The line of target naturally led her eyes to the raging inferno of fire and light waiting for her in the middle of the room. Her hands quickly flew upwards to shield her face. She squinted, trying to get a better look at just hat was causing this display. She took a step forward, fighting the winds that threatened to push her off of her feet, only for a flare of pure energy to tear past her, just barely missing her. Another flare fired off to her other side, cutting a particularly tricky target clean in half. It left a scorch mark on the wall behind her, searing the stone like a blowtorch against wood.
Hermione immediately raised a shield, pushing forward against the power that pulsed from the epicentre. As she fought closer, Hermione could just make out, in the midst of it, a person, moving with the speed and grace of a dancer. He - for it was undoubtedly a he - commanded the destruction as if it were a part of him. The shapes of the inferno moved in tandem with his limbs, bending and lashing out to his whim. Everything that found itself in his path was torn to ashes.
The final spell was cast, the final dummy collapsed into pieces, revealing none other than Harry a the centre, gleaming with exhaustion. A stunned silence settled and in the few moments before Harry turned around, Hermione thought of running away. That was until she saw his face, and brown met green, and she was transfixed to the spot.
Their eyes widened in turn. Neither spoke for a while, merely taking each other in. Hermione could only stare at him, not sure whether she was more awed or horrified at what her friend had just performed. This was so far beyond anything that Harry could do before.
“H-Hermione?” he gasped, his brow furrowed. “What are you—”
He glanced around, realising what she had seen, the evidence of the carnage he had just wrought. Hermione could read in his face that whatever game he had been playing up until now had just had its table unceremoniously flipped. By the time his eyes met hers again, her wand was ready.
“Who are you?” she growled. “Tell me, right now!”
“Hermione, it’s me,” he replied, putting his hands high above his head. “It’s Harry, I promise.”
“Don't lie to me. Don't you dare use his name-”
“I'd never lie to you! I never have and I never will!”
“Prove it! Tell me something only Harry would know! Now!”
Harry - the one who looked so much like her Harry, and yet so alien - nodded.
“Our first year,” he began after some deliberation. “The potions room, the final room before the Philosopher’s Stone, and only one of us could go through. One of the things you said to me, you told me how there were more important things than books and cleverness. Like friendship and bravery and…”
“And what else,” Hermione prompted. “What else was there?”
“There wasn’t,” he replied. “That’s all you said.”
“What would I have said?”
Harry paused, frowning.
“I… I don’t know.”
Of course, he wouldn't, would he? Harry could never see anything so simple, not when it came to him.
Seemingly satisfied, Hermione pocketed her wand. Summoning whatever courage she had left, she took a pace closer.
“Harry,” she whispered, taking a good, long look at him. “What’s happened to you?”
“Nothing good,” he replied, trying and failing to smile.
Those sad eyes again, calling out for any kind of affection. It was a call that Hermione answered despite herself. Hesitantly, she reached up, cupping his cheek in the same way he had a month before. The moment their skin touched, his eyes fluttered closed. He leaned into her palm, his free hand coming up to rest lightly against her’s. He clung to her, like a man starved of her touch. A couple of silent tears trailed down his face, whether in happiness or the most profound sadness Hermione couldn’t tell.
As for her, she couldn’t help but give in to the sensation. It was like falling into a habit of her own design, a footprint left in the years that lay ahead of her, yet unmistakably her’s. Steps that she had yet to take, but this person in front of her knew them like second nature.
“You’re not my Harry, are you?” she eventually asked. Harry’s eyes opened, fearful, expecting reluctance and yet seeing only her kind smile.
“No, I…” He choked on his own words. “I’m… this is going to sound ridiculous, but it’s true. All of it.”
“No more ridiculous than magic,” Hermione shrugged, trying to lighten the mood. She was rewarded with a small smile for her efforts, only for his face to turn serious once again.
“I’m not the Harry you know,” he admitted. “I’m from the future.”
Hermione stared at him, her face set in a moment of bemused shock. Realising he was earnest, she blinked.
“Oh.” She would usually have a far more sophisticated response but this? Hermione thought she had prepared herself for the worst, but this? Hermione was simply stumped. Time travel- well, she herself had time-travelled before, granted - but not like this. “Does that mean… How old are you? How far did you travel back?”
“17. I was only 17 when I came back,” Harry quickly explained. “Maybe 18 at a push but I’m not sure. It all happened so fast.”
Hermione breathed, trying to take it all in. A 17— maybe 18-year-old Harry in a 15-year-old’s body. Somehow, only his consciousness had been sent back in time. How that was possible, Hermione didn’t even attempt to ponder. It had to have happened that day Harry fainted, in those few moments when Harry simply ceased to be. That must have been the transitioning point between the old and the new. What else could it have been?
“So the Harry I know… is he gone?”
“No,” he quickly replied, “not really. When I came back, when I fainted, the two of us… we kind of merged into one person. I am your Harry, the one you grew up with, but with a bunch of new memories. I’m me but with… more, if you can wrap your head around that.”
Maybe in a few days she could, but for now, Hermione had more important questions.
“What happened? Why do this?”
“Where I come from Voldemort’s dead,” Harry explained. “I killed him. There was a war, and I fought in it. And you fought with me every step of the way. But I was careless.” His eyes fell to the stone floor, his face losing colour by the second. “I lost… too many good people who I could have saved. I came back to make amends, to do better.”
“Who did you lose?”
Harry shook his head desperately.
“Dumbledore. Sirius. Lupin. Tonks. Fred. Colin…. and….”
By now, his face was streaked with tears, his hands were shaking. He was barely keeping it together.
“Who else? … Harry?”
At last, he looked up at her, his eyes raw and angry. Hermione could feel her heart cracking in her chest. The amount of pain so written so clearly in his features. What had he seen? How much had he had suffered in a but a few short years?
“It doesn’t matter, because now I can save them,” he insisted, trying to push through the pain. “I can save all of them. I know what to do this time, and I can put things right. I won’t make the same mistakes again. I won’t…”
“Harry…” Hermione whispered, cupping his face once again, forcing him to look at her.
“I won’t…” He cried and the floodgates were torn wide open. “I can’t lose you again...”
It all snapped into place. It was her. She was the final straw, the loss that made Harry desperate enough to throw himself back into war. She was the pain that made all other pain so minuscule in comparison. The reason why he couldn’t help but stare at her with barely concealed adoration. Why Harry had been so willing to give in to her touch.
“How much did I mean to you in your time?” She had to ask. She had to know for certain. “Did we love each other?”
“I did, but I never knew until…” Until it was too late, Hermione realised. And the pain had made him sure, just like with her. “I never told her. I never had the chance.”
“Tell me what I would have said, Harry,” Hermione smiled, wiping away his tears. “All those years ago, in the potions room.”
“I don’t know,” he replied, but Hermione nodded.
“Yes, you do. I know you do. Friendship, bravery and…”
His eye widened a fraction before they flooded once again—this time with what Hermione clearly see was relief.
“Love...”
She nodded and with that Harry finally allowed himself to bawl. Hermione pulled him into her embrace, planting a soft kiss on his opposite cheek, stroking the other as she did.
“I love you, Harry,” she whispered into his ear, so softly that he was the only person in the world that could possibly hear her. “Just like how your Hermione loved you. How she and I will always love you because we always have.”
And with that, his legs gave way. He collapsed to his knees. He was sobbing now, unable to contain himself any longer. The one that had fought for far too long and had seen too much, finally coming home.
“I love you too. Oh, god, I love you,” Harry gasped, clinging on for dear life. “Please don’t leave me,” he begged. “Please don’t leave me.”
Hermione kissed him once again, right on his crown, holding him just as tightly.
“Never, Harry. I promise.”
And Hermione knew she meant it. For Harry’s sake and for the Hermione that she was sure would have promised the exact same.