A/N: this story is not my greatest, i admit it. but i wanted to try and write something from Hermione's POV, which proved to be difficult. Anyway, this is somewhat similar to Ron's POV, which another story i have written on here. This one's not amazing. i wrote it today when i got bored...damn plot bunny.

Disclaimer: consider it done. I own nothing

A Crazy Little Thing

Sometimes, I would wake up late at night, sweating and shaking. Sometimes, I would wake up crying… but I was never alone. Once in a while, he was the one crying and I was stroking his fiery hair, whispering into the darkness that the wounds would heal and the memories would disappear someday. He would always try to stay strong for me, but sometimes things didn't go out the way that we had planned. And of course, sometimes we would cry together, holding each other, protecting one another from the dreams.

He would never hurt anything, except for maybe a spider, but he never planned on killing another person, though I knew the moment would come eventually. I knew that in time, we would both have to kill someone; it was the only way to stay alive. In the battles, he always kept as many people alive as he could. But in the end, he had no choice. I remember his expression, blank and gaunt, his face was pale, and his arm was still outstretched with his wand in his hand. He couldn't move, and he was never really the same. The first time I used the Avada Kadavra curse, I collapsed into a pile on the ground, my face in my hands and my wand lying by my side. He knelt down beside me and told me that it would be alright.

Years later, we have recovered for the most part. Like I said, the dreams keep us awake at night sometimes, but we have each other. He has grown up since the years that seem so far behind us now, since the days when we fought and laughed like children; he has changed, but he is still the same loyal, witty redhead he's always been. He is still in love with the obnoxiously smart bookworm, whose name he quietly whispers in my ear as he rocks me back into my fitful sleep, as if someone else might be listening.

I know everything about him, and he knows everything about me. I know that I love all of him, right down to the last drop of incompetence.

I remember, and sorely miss, those nights with Harry in all our years in school, where the three of us would sit by the fire and they would play chess. I would sit back in a chair and pretend to read, while secretly sneaking glances at his freckled face. I would melt inside at the touch of his hand, even if it had been an accident. I would be tempted to shout my proclamation of this feeling that I have felt for so long I can't even remember when it started. But I knew I mustn't. Not then, maybe never; we had more important things to do.

All of those foolish feelings of despair and young love don't really seem all that foolish now as I feel him shift beside me in his sleep. His face is serene, and I know that he is in a place where nobody can hurt him, or steal his friends and family away like the real world. No evil could follow him in his dreams.

He doesn't sleep with a shirt on; he never has. The first time I had seen him so naked and vulnerable had been an accident, but I suppose that makes sense. In the early hours of the morning at the place where Harry lived, I awoke and crept to the room where the two friends slept. I walked into the room without knocking, only to see the two of them; shirtless and in boxers, fast asleep. Harry was in his bed, and Ron lay sprawled out on the floor. The creaking of the door startled them into waking, and he had gone red in the ears. Harry didn't seem to care, for there was no connection in that way like the one I shared with his friend. I remember my face turning scarlet, and myself trying to act as normal as possible, as if I weren't interested nor intrigued by the sight that had met my eyes. I remember wanting to touch him, and instead spending hours buried in a book, trying to clear the image of him from my mind. Only, my mind was seduced once again.

In the hottest days before Harry came of age, we were forced by his aunt and uncle to do yard work. The man I had feelings for found it too hot to bear any longer, and removed his shirt. I found myself glancing at his torso more than I should have, sweating because of the unbearable heat. And finally, with Harry as our coach, we began to practice everything we knew inside, away from the prying eyes of the neighbors. I never knew that the redhead's torso could be so attractive, even though he did not possess all of the muscle of Harry, or that he could get away with having his shorts so scandalously low on his hips, or that his red hair could look so good plastered to his forehead with sweat. I wanted so much to tell him my thoughts and feelings, spill my heart out to him and be vulnerable, but I knew I mustn't; not when so much was at stake. So I waited, and we slowly became ever closer, spending hours at a time together, often alone, just talking. These times were perhaps my favorite, when he was leaving himself open to me, more so even than those nights by the fire, when I would steal glances of him over the top of my Arithmacy book.

And now, years later, we're married with a new life on the way. I remember everything from the first smile, to the first kiss, to the first fight, but nothing is more important than this, what we have… this crazy little thing I call love.


A/N: And thats all, folks. reviews are appreciated. thanks!