Harmione One Shots

A Real Friend

Summary: Hermione throws a tantrum and Harry heals her hurt feelings with shenanigans in a tent.

Ship: HarryPotterxHermioneGranger

All credit goes to its_nott_me on Ao3

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Harry cursed as Hermione stormed out of the tent.

It was rather dramatic, the way she'd stood so abruptly her chair had tipped back and crashed to the floor before she fled through the canvas opening. She was gone before Harry could get a glance at her expression. He wasn't completely sure if she was angry, or sad, or a painful mix of the two.

That bothered him.

The action was equally as shocking, because Harry hadn't seen her react so emotionally since...well, since she'd caught Ron kissing Lavender the night of the Yule Ball. Their troubles then—just over three years ago now—seemed as serious as pygmy puffs compared to the monsters they were fighting now.

Ron had abandoned them and their mission three nights ago now and Hermione didn't throw a tantrum then. But tonight, as they'd sat down for dinner—which consisted of the last twinkie they'd purchased at a petrol station a couple weeks ago, halved and shared between the two of them—they tuned into the Potterwatch broadcast and everything came to a stand still. Lee's voice crackling across the soundwaves had just finished reciting a long list of names. Names of people they knew—went to class with, had crushes on, played Quidditch against—who had lost their lives in this senseless war.

So Hermione ran and Harry wished he had beaten her to it.

Harry shoved his head down into his hands. His calloused fingers twisted into his hair and he pulled at the roots of the wild strands to help him focus.

Hermione was slipping through his fingers and he was just sitting here alone like a dullard feeling completely useless.

He felt like he was being pulled in hundreds of directions. Be the saviour of the magical world, be selfish and abandon this seemingly hopeless fight, be a good friend, be a good person. Regardless of which one he picked, people would get hurt. He would lose no matter what.

When was it his turn to lash out? To lose his head?

Hermione had always been strong, always rational and thoughtful, preparing and planning every move, each next step. She seemed to know who she was and what she wanted. There was no question. She was the best of them all. Harry knew he wouldn't be here without her, literally and figuratively.

He slammed his hand down on the radio's dial, so the gloomy static of the concluded transmission would stop, and then stood, shoving the edge of his chair seat with the back of his knees so it fell alongside Hermione's.

Good, that felt good, but he was so far from finished.

He stalked out of the tent's wilted entrance, shoving the canvas aside in a surge of violence to barrel out into the clear, night air. It felt good to be angry and sad and everything he shouldn't be. It was relieving to shed the burden of expectation for just a moment and let rage flood his senses.

He couldn't wait to find Hermione and spiral with her, letting their poisonous feeling pull them down deep where no one would find them. They could simmer together, boil over if they had to. Who or what would stop them?

The Forest of Dean was eerily quiet this time of night. Besides the shuffling rustle of leaves overhead as a breeze ripped through the canopy, there wasn't a sound to be heard. No birds calling or crickets chirping, no rushing flow of water, or the soft tread of animals through the underbrush. And unfortunately for Harry, there were also no sounds or signs to guide him towards the direction Hermione had disappeared, so he trudged forward blindly into the dark ignoring the chill creeping over his exposed skin.