December, 1997

So... Godric's Hollow wasn't the solution to all their problems, after all. Not in the slightest.

Here she sat, now, covered in dirt and a small amount of blood and even some spilled essence of Ditany, gently rubbing a wet cloth against Harry Potter's overheated, scarred forehead, and desperately trying to hold it all together. Just... all of it. Hold it all together, Hermione. The whole world, if you must.

The tension of their situation, the massive pressure to find some sort of clue, and the utter fear and frustration that months and months of hunger and cold had provided, had lead the two of them, Harry and Hermione, right into a trap. Much less weeks and weeks without him at their sides, too...

But he was not something she could allow herself to think about when Harry was sick, and needed tending to.

Not that he was someone she really allowed herself to consciously think about all that often, anyway. But the locket seemed to find ways to make her do it. Or maybe the locket was a fitting excuse for doing so. Whatever.

It was Christmas, she suddenly remembered, as tears crawled behind her tired, bloodshot eyelids. It was Christmas, and she was shivering and hopeless and hungry and she might have just destroyed Harry's wand. Right before coming back here and watching him twist and turn in unconscious pain, as well as vomit. Even now, when he was quiet and lay still in front of her again, and when all the blood was gone, Hermione couldn't help but feel terribly anxious. What if he didn't, couldn't recover? What if it took days, weeks, for him to wake up? She was no professional healer, and she needed sleep at some point, too.

For the millionth time Hermione palms balled into fists, exhaustion and grief hitting so deep that she just wanted to rip a whole book into shreds. No, really. She would stare at all these dark, graphic books about the most hurtful and disgusting types of magic, and she'd seriously wish to rip the whole bunch of nonsense into parts. Sometimes, Hermione would even look at the lighter, normal books she'd brought here with them, and think that she'd like to destroy them. Just because it would feel so nice to rip something apart, right now. To destroy something in an exhausting way. He had made her feel this. He had made her want to destroy books. Books! Wasn't this insane?

Not as insane as leaving her and Harry all alone out here, though. Not after promising and after... everything.

And she'd really, truly thought...

But it didn't matter what she'd thought. What she'd thought before.

He was gone and she was here with Harry and the whole bloody weight of the world was crashing down on her with all its damned snakes and broken wands and colds and fears of starvation. The whole bloody world was out there somewhere, waiting for her and Harry to do the right thing, and he - the only one among them who'd ever really had an option - had chosen to do the wrong thing.

Bloody asshole.

"You're an asshole, Ron Weasley," Hermione whispered into the quiet tent, her gaze never leaving the wet spot where she pressed the cool cloth against her other best friend's head.

She wasn't sure how she felt about saying such words. She'd really just wanted to try out how they'd feel on her tongue, for once.

But they didn't really feel like anything helpful, in that instant, sitting here on the floor with shivering limbs and a knot of fear in her stomach.

Maybe she'd say them again, some day, when all of this was over. If she somehow survived, that was. If she could figure all this mess out, and for some reason see him again. Ron.

"You're an asshole," she repeated. And then to herself she added: "Merry Christmas, Hermione."

And, really, those words didn't feel much more helpful than the stuff she'd quietly said about Ron, or anything.

But it was still nice to hear someone say it.