"Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much a heart can hold." -Zelda Fitzgerald
i. Andrew Granger
There were smart children, and then there was his daughter.
She was in a league all her own. She learned to tie her shoes when she was only three. She could sing the alphabet by four. She was reading chapter books by the time she was six. She had memorised her multiplication tables by seven.
He had great ambitions for his little girl. At night he would sit on her bed, her in his lap, and read her the great works: the Russian classics and some of Dickens's best and, her favourite, Shakespeare's plays. She loved Shakespeare's works, and considering he had chosen her name from one, it was only fitting.
Emily would roll her eyes and tell him that Hermione had no idea what was happening in the books he read her every night, but he knew Hermione enjoyed it, and one day she would understand everything she'd been read. (And it would be sooner than other kids learned, because not only was his daughter smarter than other kids, but he had been preparing her as no other father ever had.)
He told her about dentistry, too, of course, but if she chose another field, perhaps becoming a doctor or a lawyer or working in business, that was perfectly fine. He wanted her to be happy. No matter what she did, as long as enjoyed it — and was brilliant at it, as she was at everything she put her mind to — he would encourage her.
Walking down the street with her small hand in his, her bushy hair barely contained behind a hair clip, and the sweater Emily's mother had knit swallowing her up, Andrew Granger felt pride swell to new found heights inside him.
And then she turned eleven, and the summer came and brought a letter with it. She was a witch. His sweet, perfect, brilliant Hermione was a witch. She had magical powers and had been accepted into a school to train her magic. He could barely grasp the concept that magic existed let alone that his daughter possessed it. Then he realised something.
If magic existed, then of course his daughter had it.
She was going to take the world by storm one day, his daughter, and his pride tripled as he and his wife worked their way blindly through the magical world, buying Hermione her books and her robes and a wand. He was terrified to see her go off without him, but she was going to do great things, he knew, and it wasn't as if he would never see her again.
In the kitchen of their bungalow on the Australian coast, his memory newly restored, Andrew listened in dumbfounded awe as his daughter explained how she had wiped his and Emily's memory in order to protect them. She had explained — surely leaving out many details — what she had done the last year and how she had helped see the downfall of Voldemort.
When she finally finished, it was quiet. "You're — you're not mad, are you?" she asked timidly. Emily assured her they were not. Andrew stared at his only daughter, a grown woman now, with her hair neatly clipped up and her eyes bright and an air of confidence in herself and her mind and her magical powers subtly clinging to her posture.
"You helped to defeat this evil dark lord, then, one that has been terrorising the wizarding world for years?" Andrew asked. She nodded. He grinned.
He had known she would do great things.
ii. Viktor Krum
He supposed it was a cliché.
After all, didn't the celebrity always fall for the one girl who was unfazed by his fame? She was certainly that girl. He could still remember the exact first mument he really noticed her: she was studying outside in the warm, breezy fall weather, and her hair had come undone. Without taking her eyes off her book, she reached up, her quill in her mouth, and tied her hair back up with a ribbon.
She missed a lock of it, but it didn't seem to faze her. She let it blow in the wind as she took the quill from her mouth and wrote something on her parchment. The entire time she had kept her eyes on her work. He was fascinated by the idea of a teenage girl so focused on something that wasn't clothing or make-up or boys or him.
The more he watched her, the more he grew attached to her. She was friends with Harry Potter, and Viktor had to admit he wasn't sure how he felt about that. But it was clear she didn't spend so much time with Potter because she was his fan. No, she was his friend, a true and loyal friend who exposed her neck when her head tilted back and she laughed at something Potter or his red-haired friend said.
And he wanted her to be his friend, too . . . or more than that. He imagined spending time with her, simply talking, or perhaps studying, or making her laugh like that, or pressing his lips to hers. It made him smile.
He had never talked to her once, never even felt her eyes on his, yet he found himself falling for her. It didn't make any sense. He tried to get her alone in the library, but while as she was often alone when she studied, he never was. It was easy to tell how annoyed she was by the gaggle of girls that followed him around.
He was secretly delighted by her annoyance. She knew how famous he was, and it didn't matter one whit to her. When he finally spoke to her, slightly nervous, she was nice. Quiet, yes, perhaps very shy, but nice, too. He made her blush and found his own heart pounding a little faster. He asked her to the Yule Ball. She said yes.
She looked beautiful. He had known she would. She didn't spend her time obsessing over her appearance, and perhaps others overlooked her for that, but not him. He knew how she would look in a dress with high heels and her hair up. His pride burst within him as he walked with her on his arm, her eyes excited and her giggles contagious.
She wasn't his first kiss. But he was hers. They stood outside the Great Hall, the night air thick and cool around them, and she almost looked a little terrified as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and told her softly how very much he liked her. She could barely string a sentence together. But she didn't draw away from him. She was trembling a little as he placed his lips on hers, but she smiled shyly, obviously pleased, when they broke apart. He had never felt this way before. He had never felt like a normal teenage boy. But with her, he did. And he became addicted to that feeling quickly, too quickly.
Before he knew what was happening, he had lost her. It occurred to him later that maybe he had never really had her. Sure, she liked him. He knew that. And he took comfort in the idea that they would remain friends, and he would have someone in his life to whom his fame meant nothing. But her heart wasn't his.
For a little while, he had thought it belonged to Potter. It made sense, really. But he had been wrong. Potter wasn't the one he should have been keeping an eye on. Potter hadn't been his rival.
It really was a cliché. The celebrity fell for the shy, nerdy girl, and she chose her awkward, dorky friend over him without even realising it. Oh, well. He only hoped someday when he felt that way about a girl again, he would have the chance to fall in love with her, the way he could have fallen in love with Hermione Granger.
iii. Neville Longbottom
He didn't understand how there could possibly be someone in the world who didn't like Hermione Granger.
By the end of first year, he considered her one of his best friends. He spent the whole summer after first year telling his Gran about his friends, about Seamus and Dean and Harry and Ron, and about Hermione Granger, and how she was the smartest girl in the whole school.
"You could be the smartest wizard in the whole school if you put your mind to it," she always replied. She was never much interested in his friends.
Neville was so furious when he heard that Draco Malfoy had called her a Mudblood. She didn't deserve that. Malfoy was a big bully, and Hermione was much better with a wand than he would ever be. And she was good in Potions, too. She always helped him, and she tried as hard as she could to do it without Snape finding out. He always did, and he always yelled at Hermione for it, but she never stopped helping.
In third year, he thought he might be in love with her. She was always so busy, but she made time to help him when his assignments were getting to be too much, and she told him that he and Harry and Ron were probably her best friends in the school. He knew she liked Harry and Ron more, but she was too nice to say that, and he didn't mind, not really.
He thought about asking her to the Yule Ball in fourth year, but he knew she secretly wanted to go with Ron. People might not realise it, but Neville wasn't that stupid. He asked Ginny instead, and she was so nice the whole night that he realised something: Hermione wasn't the only nice girl out there.
But he always had a soft spot for her. He let her ramble about S.P.E.W. because she let him ramble about Herbology, and when she found out about his parents, she didn't treat him differently. She had a way of reading people, Hermione did, and knowing what they needed most in a friend. He thought that was a pretty rare quality.
In seventh year, as he learned what it meant to be a Gryffindor, he wondered if this was how Ron, Harry, and Hermione had spent all of their time at Hogwarts. It blew him away, but it made him admire them more, and he hoped he was doing their legacy justice. He could imagine them there, with Ron making flippant comments that lightened the mood and Hermione demanding reason and Harry ready to charge in and get the job done.
He wondered if Ginny imagined them, too, when they were working to get Gryffindor's sword and simply to undermine the Carrows. He knew she was the only person who missed them more than he did. He couldn't wait to tell them of what they'd missed, to tell them that they had inspired others to take up arms and fight for what was right. They had inspired him, at least.
Hermione went with him to see his parents after the battle for Hogwarts. They had been eating breakfast at the same time the morning after and he had mentioned how he was going to see his parents that day. She had volunteered to go with him if he wanted. She probably hadn't expected him to accept — he had never taken anyone to see his parents — but he had, and she willingly went.
She talked with his mum for an hour. It was mainly a one-sided conversation, but Hermione didn't seem to mind. When they had left, his mum had given Hermione a sweet wrapper, too. "That's nice of her," Hermione had observed, tucking the wrapper into her pocket.
It was definitely impossible not to like Hermione.
iv. Harry Potter
He hadn't imagined — couldn't possibly have imagined — when he first met her in all her bushy-haired, buck-toothed glory, that she would end up becoming so much to him.
He had still been so afraid back then, so worried about what was to come and whether or not he would make friends. And he had started to become friends with Ron and was so thrilled at the idea that it didn't matter if Ron was the only friend he made. After all, one friend was better than he'd ever had before.
But it turned out that first day on the Hogwarts Express had introduced him to two friends, not one, and Hermione Granger would be with him until the end.
He knew that sometimes she annoyed Ron. Sometimes she annoyed everybody, even him. But usually he didn't mind her antics. After all, she was his friend, and that was reason enough to be fiercely loyal to her. (And even if it took him forever to admit it, he knew Ron felt the same, felt more.) He never had a crush on her. He'd thought about her once, about what it would be like . . . it hadn't been a very lasting thought.
It just seemed wrong to see her as anything other than, well, his friend Hermione. She was a sister to him in every possible way, as if they had been raised that way and the very idea of snogging Hermione was incestuous.
In the end, what really endeared him to Hermione was something he would never tell another soul. Well, he eventually told Ginny, but when it came down to it she was his soul, so she didn't count. What really endured him to Hermione was the simple fact that she was the first person who ever took care of him.
Hagrid was his first friend, yes, and Ron the best mate a bloke could ever ask for, and Molly Weasley became the mother he had never known, and Albus Dumbledore turned out to be more than a mentor, and then there was Remus and Sirius and his Ginny. But Hermione was in a class all her own. She was the first person who wanted to know how he was feeling and what he was thinking and if, when the going got tough, he was okay. Her interest never waned as the years passed.
Sometimes it backfired. Sometimes he couldn't stand her doting. But usually, that was because he couldn't stand the world. And when he was sitting in the woods, tired and hungry and angry and abandoned by his supposed best friend, and she sat beside him, silent but refusing to leave him, to make him face the evils chasing him all on his own, that's when he really realised it for the first time.
He didn't deserve her, really. He never had.
She stuck around anyway.
She kept talking to him, kept asking him about his feelings and what he was thinking, and she learned over time when it was better not to ask and when she had to ask, even if he didn't want her to. That's how he learned what family was. He was pretty sure family would stick around, too, even if he did act like a prat.
And he definitely spent a hefty chunk of time when he was young being a right prat. She still cared. She still hugged him. She did that a lot, hugged him, probably the most of anyone in his life, at least when he was younger.
She hugged him when he had to go back to the Dursleys and she hugged him when Cedric Diggory was dead and she hugged him after he left the Hospital Wing when he was eleven years old and she hugged him when Voldemort was finally gone and she hugged him before he married Ginny and she hugged him when he told her that he was terrified of Ginny's pregnancy.
"What if I do something wrong?" he asked her. Hermione always had an answer to everything.
"You won't," she assured. "You'll be a great father. I know." She smiled encouragingly. He wasn't convinced. Ginny said the same thing, but — but what did he, the boy raised by Vernon Dursley, know about fatherhood? Could he really give the kid all the things he'd never had?
"But what if I do?" he whispered.
"Ginny will help you."
"Well, say Ginny's out shopping, and —"
She stared at him and slowly put down her quill. "Harry, listen to me. You. Will. Be. A. Good. Father. And if you ever need help, I'll be here. And I'll make sure you don't do anything wrong."
Yes, that sounded right. It occurred to him that night — and made Ginny laugh when he told her — that perhaps he would be a good father, not because he had been raised by Vernon Dursley, but because he'd been raised by a bushy-haired, buck-toothed girl.
v. Arthur Weasley
He loved Muggles . . . a lot. It was never something he tried to deny.
It made perfect sense, then, that he was thrilled his youngest son had grown so close to a Muggle-born girl. The things he learned from the Grangers, honestly — it literally made him smile to think about. More importantly, it seemed Hermione gave his son something Arthur was never quite capable of giving him.
He knew it was tough being raised as yet another son in a family of many — Arthur himself hadn't exactly been an only child — but there was no way he could really impart to Ron how he was just as loved as all his brothers, both to Arthur and Molly. And sometimes he worried that maybe his youngest son would never really realise his worth.
Hermione took care of that for Arthur. Ron was certainly better off for having her in his life. She was smart, probably smarter than most adults Arthur had met, and she was always patient in her long, repeated explanations of the Muggle world that he asked of her. Harry, God bless him, was never very good at explaining things, but Hermione was excellent. And when Fred died, well, Hermione did right by Arthur's family then, too.
If Harry was Arthur's seventh son, then Hermione Granger was his second daughter. His wife had decided when Harry was twelve years old that she would be the mother he didn't have, and that was that. Arthur couldn't say the same applied to Hermione, either for him or his wife. That was probably because Hermione had her own family and didn't quite need the Weasleys the way Harry did. And, well, Molly just adored that boy.
But Arthur still got to watch Hermione grow up. He still saw her go from bright and curious and only able to hide her insecurity from her two best friends, both utterly clueless boys, to smart and confident and still very much in charge of Harry and Ron both.
Arthur liked all his daughters-in-law, of course, but he couldn't deny that Hermione was probably his favourite. Fleur was fiercely loyal to Bill, Audrey was exactly what Percy needed, Angelina had a humour to match George and successfully brought the boy out of his depression, but Hermione, well, she was something else.
Perhaps he liked her best because she was his only daughter-in-law to come to call him Dad. He wasn't sure why he liked it so much. But he did. She was a good girl, Hermione, and he liked to think he had somehow contributed to that. He danced with her at her wedding, while Ron danced with Mrs. Granger, and she looked so happy that it doubled his own happiness at his youngest son's marriage.
It was also his favourite wedding, because for her parents she had planned an almost entirely Muggle wedding, complete with Muggle apparel and food and ceremony (although there were a few magical aspects thrown in here and there). He told her as much as they danced. "I've always wanted to go to a Muggle wedding," he told her. "Just brilliant."
She smiled. "I'm glad you're enjoying it."
"And how do you like my tuxedo?" he asked eagerly.
"Oh, it looks very good. You could pass for a Muggle any day."
He beamed. Yes, Hermione was a good girl, and he loved her as much as he loved Muggles.
vi. Hugo Weasley
It wasn't even one of their better pranks.
But they both got detention and twenty house points taken each, and the worst: letters home to their parents. When Aunt Ginny heard, she wrote James a letter telling him not to be stupid and lose house points over stupid pranks. She also sent a box of cookies with instructions that he better share with Al and Lily.
When Hugo's mum heard, she sent a Howler. James laughed. Hugo failed to find it at all funny.
When he was little, his mum would play with him for hours. She never grew tired or bored or impatient, and that made her an invaluable companion. Any silly game he could devise, she would play. When he was five, she taught him how to tie his shoes. She tied laces through a box for him to practice with, and she went over it with him again and again every night for a week until he could do it.
She taught him how to read and how to count to one hundred and what the Deathly Hallows were. When he was six, she took him on a train for the first time, and at his request, they rode around for hours until he fell asleep in her lap. When he was eight she let him paint his own room. When he was ten she bought him his own Muggle computer and taught him how to use it. The older he got, though, the less fun his mother became.
By the time he was fifteen, most things she did annoyed him. And she never let him get away with anything. Ever.
Aunt Ginny thought everything her children did was funny. Only the worst infractions could make her angry (and then she was scary . . . really, really scary). And Uncle Harry, well, he seemed physically incapable of punishing his children. When Lily dyed purple streaks in her hair and turned to Uncle Harry at the train station and said, "Don't you think my hair looks pretty, Daddy?" her father replied that he thought she always looked pretty and then kissed the top of her red and purple head. Aunt Ginny only shook her head, bemused.
Hugo's mum would probably have throttled Rosie if she'd come home for Christmas with even a single streak of her hair another colour. How was that fair? And why did he care whether or not Rosie was allowed to dye her hair? He didn't. He and Rosie weren't exactly the best of friends.
But he did care when Rosie's boyfriend hit her.
He had never been so furious than when that arse-faced Muggle boy she'd begun dating at the start summer actually left bruises on his older sister. Who the hell did he think he was? Hugo had been playing Quidditch in the backyard of the Potter house and had gone inside to get a glass of water when he found Rosie, having just returned from the awful date with the cad, crying to Lily.
Apparently they had gotten in a fight and he had just — Hugo saw red. His sister might have left immediately, and she might have sworn to Lily that she would never go near her now ex-boyfriend again, but she was still crying and the bruise on her face was even nastier than the one on her arm, and he stormed out of the house before either Rosie or Lily even knew he was listening.
He broke the guy's nose. And two ribs. And left two black eyes. His own knuckles were beaten and bruised by the time Al and James yanked him off of the jackass. And then Hugo told Al and James what had happened.
It took Uncle Harry, Dad, and Uncle George to get both the Potter brothers away from the bloke stupid enough to hit Rosie. Together, Hugo and his cousins succeeded in sending him to the hospital. All hell really broke loose after that. Nearly every adult in the Potter and Weasley family was called to the hospital, and Rosie was so mortified she wouldn't take her face out of her dad's shirt, which was probably best for everyone involved — who knew what damage a furious Ron Weasley would have caused if he hadn't been preoccupied cradling his seventeen-year-old daughter.
The boy's mother was furious at what had happened. She started shouting right in the middle of the hospital, and before anyone else could say anything, Hugo's mother stepped forward and tried to reason with her, to tell that her that while her son and nephew shouldn't have acted so violently, they couldn't be held entirely responsible considering what her son had done. The woman hadn't cared. He wasn't sure exactly what she said, but it involved something about Rosie being a hussy who deserve what she got.
And Hugo loved his mother more than he ever had before when she slapped the woman across the face.
Later that night, after the storm had finally calmed, Hugo sat on the porch of his house staring out into the darkness. Rosie was a force to be reckoned with. How could someone ever hurt her? He barely noticed when his mum sat down beside him. But he knew what was coming — no matter what, he never should have attacked someone like that and there were better ways to handle such situations and blah, blah, blah.
She wrapped her arm around his shoulder. She smelt like the mince pies she had made a few hours ago because they were Rosie's favourite. "You're a good boy," she said, and she kissed his head. He hadn't hugged his mum in years, not really, not beyond the obligatory off-to-Hogwarts-won't-see-my-family-for-months hug.
He hugged her then.
The stupid wind made his eyes water. She didn't say anything, but she kissed his head again, and repeated softly, "Such a good boy."
Aunt Ginny was a cool mum, but Hugo wouldn't trade his for her or anyone else. She was his mum, and there was no room for argument.
vii. Ron Weasley
He couldn't pinpoint the day he fell in love with Hermione.
It was probably before he even knew what it meant to feel that way about someone. It was probably before he even knew he liked her very much at all. Somehow, out of no where, he found himself so enamoured with one of his best friends, and that was that. The when didn't really matter. He tried first to deny it, then to ignore it, and then to wait for it to go away.
His efforts on every count were fruitless. He loved how blatantly honest she was. He loved how she expected so much of him when most every one else didn't. He loved how she could care so much about House Elves and a Hippogriff and people like moony Luna Lovegood and dorky Neville Longbottom for reasons he never really understood until she taught them to him. He loved how she she made him feel like he was worth something. He loved how she could actually hold a conversation that wasn't about make-up or clothing or how her hair looked.
He loved the feel of her fingers brushing his as they walked, just begging to be held. And he loved when, after they'd skirted around it for years and fought a war together, he finally could grab her hand and hold it proudly.
He still held her hand years later, when they would lie on a blanket in the backyard and stare up at the black sky and play what became their favourite game. "Do you remember," Hermione said, "that time you made it snow on me —?"
"— and it looked like dandruff?" he said, grinning a little at the memory. He had been so utterly happy those days, finally free of Lavender and with a fighting chance at someday winning Hermione.
"You always remember everything," she said.
"About us, of course," he replied. "I'm a champion at this game."
She chuckled. "Your turn."
"Do you remember . . . when Rosie asked me to marry her?"
"You said you gave your heart a way a long time ago, but you'd take care of hers until she was ready to give it away, too," Hermione murmured softly. "You certainly have your romantic moments."
He scoffed. "I don't understand how that can still astound you." She playfully smacked his chest. "And for the record, I would have been perfectly happy to keep protecting Rosie's heart instead of having to hand her off to that oaf —"
"Funny how an oaf can be the father of the smartest grandchildren in the world," Hermione observed.
"I maintain he had absolutely nothing do to with their brilliance," he said stubbornly.
"My turn again," she said. She paused. "Do you remember . . . the first time?"
He remembered. He remembered hovering over her, their hands linked and his kisses on her sweaty face sloppy as they both moved uncertainly beneath the sheets. Neither one had known what they were doing, but they had been doing it together, and that was all that had mattered.
"Ready?" he'd whispered.
"Yes," she'd breathed.
For a few minutes after, he had done nothing but stare at her, their faces so close their breath mingled and it was impossible to determine where he ended and she began. He had been in a kind of awe at what they'd done, at what they'd shared, as if they were the first two people ever to discover such a thing.
"Yes," he said. "I remember." It was quiet. He shifted a little closer to her, so the length of his body touched with hers. She turned her face slightly and it pressed into his neck.
"Do you remember —?"
"Hey, it's my turn!"
"— when the Healer told me I was going blind?"
"I think you should pay that Healer a visit and prove that your vision is fine. You only run into a few things a day. And I promise, love, that lamp definitely had it coming." She smacked him again. "But yes," he went on quietly, "I remember."
"I was so upset," she said. "And you told me that it didn't matter. You would see for me."
"And haven't I done a good job?"
"Yes, you've done a good job. And — and do you remember a few years ago, when the Healer said you were losing your hearing?"
"Bah. Different Healer, just as stupid. My hearing's fine! I don't even need to take that potion you shove down my throat every morning."
Hermione laughed softly. "I remember how Ginny wouldn't stop laughing at the idea that I'd be blind and you'd be deaf and what a funny pair we'd make."
"We make the perfect pair."
"I remember you told her that."
"I remember, too."
It went quiet. Hermione curled closer to him. Her brown hair was a dark grey now, but it was still as curly as ever. He wound his fingers through it. He loved her hair. He always had. It was almost as if bushy hair defined her. Of course, he'd love her if she were as bald as a new born baby, but that didn't mean he couldn't revere that wild tangle of hair, whether brown or grey.
He couldn't pinpoint the day he fell in love with Hermione, but he could say with absolute certainty that the day he fell out of love with her would never come.
Fin.
How Much a Heart Can Hold by MagEd
Chapter Notes: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe; I promise not to step on any toes as I cross through. No infringement on her rights is intended by this story.
Chapter Endnotes: This is something that's been playing around in my head for a while. I don't know what you would call it -- a character study, maybe? I've been toying with the idea of doing this for all the major characters (Ron, Harry, Ginny, maybe Lily Evans, too). What do you think? Worth it?