“It’s a bit strange,” said Harry, looking at everything around him, at this strange, new place. “In my mind, I’m still eleven, but physically, in reality, I’m practically eighteen. In my mind, I’m still unaware of what’s to come, of who I am.” He turned towards Hermione, who was looking at the quickly setting sun, her face devoid of any emotion. “So how did it go? My life here?”
Hermione thought for a while, her frown deepening. “Well, it was you, me, and Ron. Always, actually. It was always the three of us. We’re best friends—but you obviously don’t remember.”
“And what about us?” He asked, watching her carefully.
“I’ve told you. The three of us were best friends.”
“No,” replied Harry, shaking his head. “What about you and I? I mean, was there ever anything—?”
“Oh, no,” she answered hastily, a slight blush staining her cheeks. “I mean, we were just friends. We helped one another, and—” she paused, “—and protected each other—”
“And did I?” he interrupted. “Did I protect you, I mean?”
Hermione turned away from those absently curious eyes, and grasped his cold hand, giving it a light squeeze. “Of course, you did. You always did.”