CHAPTER 1

Harry woke up in a cold sweat, his heart racing, his own futile scream still ringing in his ears. His sheets were a tangled mess, holding him hostage in their folds. As he struggled to free himself, he fell out of bed, smacking his head on the nightstand. Cursing and rubbing the point that hurt, he got to his knees. Images assailed him from every direction. His stomach clenched and he wrapped his arms protectively around himself, trying to block them out: Ginny, always Ginny. Ginny laughing, her head tilted back, her coppery hair fluttering in the wind. Ginny, her brown eyes looking at him with love and determination. Ginny, kissing him, like he'd never been kissed before.

The springs of the twin bed next to his creaked loudly.

Ginny, waving good-bye as Harry took a step back to Disapparate. Ginny, her eyes flicking away from his and her smile faltering in those last seconds as he'd spun away from her into darkness; oblivious, unknowing.

A soft voice echoed in the distance: "Harry?"

He squeezed his eyes shut and fought the all-consuming despair. Yet the images played mercilessly in his mind. Ginny, fear marring her perfect features. Ginny calling his name, perhaps even screaming it...

"Harry," the voice came again, "are you okay?"

A field of gold swam before him, hazy and hot, shafts of wheat swaying lazily in the August breeze. He pulled his limbs in even tighter, almost coiling into a ball. That's where he had found her. Ginny, his Ginny; naked, mutilated, tortured. Dead. His gut clenched and his body convulsed. "Noooooooo," he wailed.

"Harry, please..." the voice begged. Knees cracked as someone squatted on the floor in front of him. A warm hand came to rest on his shoulder.

His sobs broke like a dam finally collapsing under the weight of relentless waves of grief. "It's all my fault," he cried, "all my fault..."

"No, it's not. It's not..." the voice pleaded. He felt another hand, on the back of his head. It was drawing him near. Offering comfort, refuge.

Like a drowning man, he wrapped his arms blindly around her, holding onto her as if she could save him from the despair that threatened to engulf him. He saw Ginny reaching for him across the abyss, an abyss neither could cross.

He felt her touch as she ran her fingers through his hair and held him close. Her voice was soft and soothing, but the litany of words were lost to him. Ginny? Or Hermione? He held onto her, not knowing, not caring, just needing to be held. To be loved.

He felt her grip on him tighten and vaguely registered the sounds of bed springs across the hall creaking ominously, rhythmically.

"Hermione," he whispered, pulling back to look at her.

The creaking from across the hall grew louder, punctuated by grunts and moans. For a moment they both stared at each other, pain etched across every feature of their faces. They had lost so much, yet through it all one thing had remained constant and true: their friendship.

"I'm here," she said in a small voice. She cringed as the noises from across the hall reached a crescendo. Then, finally, there was silence.

Harry looked at her, really looked at her. Her brown hair was matted down with sleep and stuck in places to her wet cheeks. Her face was blotchy and her nose was red. Her lips quivered. She looked as miserable as he felt. And yet her eyes, still swimming with tears, shown with concern for him, the boy who lived, the boy who wished more often than not lately that he hadn't.

As she reached up to wipe his tears away, he placed his hands over hers, holding them against his clammy cheeks. It was not a conscious gesture. Nor was the next, when he closed his eyes and leaned into her. Hermione. Here. Now.

His lips touched hers, slowly, gently. She gasped, clearly surprised. But then, her lips moved against his, a world of wonder growing between them. His hands slid down her arms, coming to rest on her shoulders, as did hers on his. The kiss was fragile and tentative; a phoenix birthed from the ashes.

"What in the blimey hell?!"

Hermione and Harry sprang apart as the door to the room crashed against the wall, echoing Ron's rage.

Harry jumped to his feet, his own anger barely leashed. "Don't even start, Ron," he warned.

"Don't start?" Ron challenged, taking two menacing steps into the room.

Hermione turned her back on the both of them with a sound like an injured rabbit.

"I turn my back for two seconds and you go after my girl?" Ron snarled. The scent of sweat and alcohol filled the small room.

Harry stepped protectively in front of Hermione as he reached for his wand, pointing it directly at his former best friend.

"Your girl," Harry whispered, his anger rising even higher. "Your girl?" he said again, louder.

"Yes, in case you haven't noticed, Hermione is mine."

Harry's laugh was cold. "Oh really? And I thought that blond bimbo you walked in here with was yours. Or was it a brunette tonight?" Harry asked. "I've lost track of them all."

Harry felt Hermione flinch behind him as Ron took a step towards them both.

"You double-crossing bastard," Ron seethed, raising his fists since he didn't have his wand on him.

"Stop!" Hermione shrieked in a shrill voice. "I'm not anyone's property!" She looked over Ron's disheveled appearance, his bloodshot eyes, his swaying stance. A mixture of revulsion and pity crossed her face. "Ron, you better leave."

"Leave!" he shouted, "This is MY room!"

"Was your room," Harry clarified, his wand still trained on Ron, "before you started shacking up with anyone who would have you, and in Hermione's bed no less!" A whimper sounded from behind him. "You'd better go back there before you pass out on the floor again."

Ron's ears were bright red as he puffed up his chest to fight. Harry raised his wand and pointed it at Ron's chest. Ron's resolve to fight wavered for a moment. Then, calling them both every awful name he could think of, Ron turned and staggered out of the room, bouncing off the doorframe as he left.

Harry slashed at the door with his wand, and with a bang it slammed shut and locked. "Muffliato," he murmured for good measure. Then he took Hermione by the shoulders and guided her to the twin bed next to his own, where he sat beside her. Tears streaked her face. He put his arm around her and pulled her close. She laid her head on his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he laid his head atop hers. They sat their together, silent and unmoving but for their measured breathing, until the first vestiges of sunlight graced their grimy window, spreading tiny rainbows of hope around the room.