An Author's Note:

This chapter is a little more... something. I think you'll find you agree.

PhoenixAeternum

December 11, 2010

Rebellion
(At Night)

Morning came to find Hermione's arms around Harry still, both on their sides and fast asleep in his bed. It had taken awhile, but they both had fallen asleep after a little over an hour of uncontrollable madness.

His eyes recognizing the light outside, Harry woke. There was a peace in him. A peace he would never explain to anyone, not if he could ever help it. He knew what he had to do now. He had made his peace with it, a peace forged in the previous night's madness. He had lost himself, and in losing himself, managed to find his way back, with the help of the woman beside him.

He lay there silently, motionlessly. He needed to think, and he needed to be alone, but without leaving. He didn't want to leave.

He reflected on the events of the previous few days. It had been a roller coaster, that much was for sure.

He thought back to Draco Malfoy... He had been savage against the boy. And he was just a boy – Malfoy had never had to grow up, not like Harry felt he'd had to. And he knew it sounded ridiculous and it sounded presumptuous – like that old line, "I know what it's like to be dead," like no one else knew anything, that only his own experiences were true. But it was what was in his heart; he knew he had been given more than, by rights, he ought to have. And it wasn't that he doubted that there was difficulty in Draco Malfoy's life – but ultimately it came down to someone who chose to commit to the terrible destiny he'd been born into vs someone who chose to follow in his father's footsteps in a venture Harry didn't think Malfoy's heart was truly in. It was the choice between what was right and what was easy, and Harry knew where he stood.

Malfoy had tried to kill Hermione. He'd cast the killing curse at her – or he'd tried to. He'd been the one who cornered and disarmed Dumbledore – Draco Malfoy had as good as killed him. And Harry had been so enraged, seeing Malfoy attempting to kill Hermione. Didn't he know she was all he had now? He'd been forced by circumstance to leave Ginny behind – Ginny, whom he missed more than anything – and he'd been abandoned by Ron. Hermione was all he had in the world now, and Draco Malfoy tried to kill her.

And so Harry had killed him instead. Wasn't that justice? Wasn't that the universe's way? Kill or be killed – kill or watch your friends be killed? Was that not the situation the world presented him now? Ultimately, that was Harry and Voldemort's relationship – one must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives. Harry had to kill Voldemort, or Voldemort would kill Harry, and everyone Harry had ever cared about. What was Draco Malfoy, then? Target practice?

He didn't remember whose spell had struck him before he and Hermione fled. He didn't remember what the spell was, or even how they got away. All he knew is that he woke up a day later in the tent. And his clothes had been changed. He hadn't confronted Hermione about it – he was sure he didn't want to know.

He didn't know when his feelings toward Hermione had begun to change. He wasn't sure when their mutual desolation had changed into... into whatever it was they now shared. And he had no idea how to define what it was they had now. She wasn't his girlfriend, and he wasn't her boyfriend. But their desperation was magnetism. He recalled the kiss at Nurmengard...

She'd just grabbed him, and kissed him right on the mouth. And he didn't remember now if he'd kissed back. He thought he probably did. He knew he wanted to. He knew he'd wanted to kiss her every time he'd seen her since. He craved that. He needed something that amounted to even the least affection. He was starving for its absence. He needed to be reminded that he wasn't alone. He forget it too often.

But what about Hermione? She had initiated everything so far. She had kissed his lips at Nurmengard, and she had been the one who comforted him these last days. When he'd killed Grindelwald, he'd been distraught. And she'd held him, and she'd stroked his hair, and she'd kissed the top of his head, and she'd told him everything would be alright.

But what about her? She hadn't killed anyone, but Ron, whom he knew she loved – was in love with, even – had abandoned them. And Harry could carry on just fine. His attachment to Ron was fraternal, and the pain of losing him was like the pain of losing a brother – it was there, and it might never be gone, but it wasn't what Hermione felt. Hermione hadn't lost a brother. She'd lost the best parts of herself, she'd lost the heart she'd given him and the innocence she'd promised him, if never in words.

She'd lost Ron as Harry had lost Ron; but there was more there. She'd also lost Ron like Harry had lost Ginny. A lover – the only love she'd ever known, as Ginny was the only one he'd ever known – gone, probably forever. They both had given up at this point ever seeing the ones they loved, and Hermione had to deal with worse than he did; Harry believed, knew, even, in his heart of hearts, that if he should survive, that he and Ginny might have a future. But the same was not true of Hermione with Ron. Ron had left; he'd abandoned her, as good as left her to die. If Hermione was to survive this war, it would not be to her redhead to whom she returned. It would be to that emptiness that had filled her since he left; it would be to reconstruct the family she'd broken. It would be to horrible things, things Harry did not envy and which made his heart break for her.

But that sort of speculation was idle; they would both die out here. There could be little question of that. They would be overwhelmed, they would be found, and eventually they would be dead, and they would be buried, if they were buried at all, by bitterest enemies rather than fondest friends.

He owed her more. He owed her so much more. His obligation was more than blood. He owed her the life she ought to have had; he owed her the future of which her association with him had almost certainly robbed her; he owed her the sun, and the moon, and the stars above – every last one that shone in the sky: He owed her everything. She could have left him when Ron did; she could have fled with him, and they could have lived in hiding, and they could have grown old and grey.

But Hermione had said no. She'd had that strength, that loyalty, that love. And he owed her all of that back, and so much more. How easy it would have been to disapparate with Ron into the night and leave Harry behind to fend for himself, to find a way to survive and conquer Voldemort. How easy it would have been to turn away and never look back. But she hadn't. She loved him, and she had stayed. He owed her everything.

She had been such a comfort to him. She had been companion and comrade, through the good times and the bad. Their only true falling out had been at his instigation in their third year; when Ron had turned on him in his fourth year, she was there the whole time. He owed his world to her, and it had taken that world's destruction for him to realize it.

He rolled over onto his other side to face her. He loved her. He knew that. He'd known it for years. But it hadn't been until they were forced into this, until they were isolated and alone, with no one but each other, that things had begun to change. He owed her everything. And that included all the love he could give.

He brushed back a hair that had fallen and obscured a part of her face, and he tucked it behind her ear. He didn't know what this was. But it was something. And maybe it had grown from desperation. But maybe that's what he needed – what they needed. If they were going to die doing this, they deserved whatever happiness they could manage. He didn't know what this relationship was; he didn't know if it was even a relationship. But whatever it was, he loved her. And he didn't love her out of obligation or reciprocation. He loved her because he loved Hermione Jean Granger, who had earned his love and, at every turn, proved herself someone deserving of all the love in the world.

If they managed to survive this, maybe then he would have to give serious consideration of what this meant in the scheme of things. If his love for Ginny preempted his love for Hermione, or if the opposite were true. But absent that expectation, that belief that he might live to see this all one day end, he would not mourn for the love that might have been; he would give her everything he could, because everything he could was already hers. It had just taken him to this point to realize it.

He had always taken for granted how pretty she was. He'd started to notice it, and it had started to appear in his dreams, years ago – as far back as second year, if his memory was right. He used to think she was the nicest girl in Hogwarts, at least to him, and that he was incredibly lucky that he, lowly Harry Potter, could call brilliant Hermione Granger his friend. Within a year or two, Hermione had transitioned from nice and pretty to brilliant and outright cute.

He'd always felt she was, at least that far back, but it had been secondary. Yes, he used to think, she's great, but nothing will ever happen there. He'd never held a romantic interest in her, even as she got steadily prettier and more attractive; that was just a fact of his life. Fourth year and much of fifth year had been spent in infatuation with Cho Chang, sixth year his heart had belonged to Ginny, and this year that had largely been true as well. But left out here with no one else for company had brought him much closer to Hermione.

It had started with touching. When Ron had left, they brushed against each other more often, stood closer to one another, sometimes would go around holding each other's hand, or with one's head resting on the other's shoulder while they spoke or didn't speak. It had started for a need for contact. And maybe that's where it still stemmed from; a desire for contact, a desire to feel like they weren't alone. But it didn't much matter.

This fate they shared was sealed with a kiss the day before. A desperate, life-affirming kiss that was born of one of the most desperate and desolate moments of Harry's life. A kiss that would portend comforting he didn't deserve, least of all from her. She didn't deserve to comfort a weeping man, a falling, crashing, burning man. She deserved better.

He resolved then to be stronger for her. It was what she deserved, and it was a small part of his debt to her. There would be no more disintegration from him; he would no longer need her to pick up the pieces when he just couldn't carry on. He would reverse it all – he would be there for her.

All this time, he had let her make every first move. Almost always, the one who grabbed the other's hand, the first to go, was Hermione. But he'd put a stop to that now; he'd grab her hand, he'd pull her in for a hug, and he'd be the one who kissed her.

Hermione Granger was the most wonderful person in the world, and she deserved the best he could give, and as long as he was living, he would give all he ever had.

He pulled the sheets that covered them up a few inches; Hermione's shoulders had been exposed. He didn't want her to be cold.

Harry tilted his head nearer to hers and gently, softly, but meaningfully pressed his lips to hers. She deserved the best of him. He draped an arm over her hip and rested his hand across her back, and he scooted himself slightly to be closer to her. And he held her closer, held her like he'd never let her go.

X

A/N: Thoughts? Oh, and next chapter won't be up til after New Year's Day; I doubt very much that many people are going to spend New Year's Eve or New Year's Day reading fan fiction. So next chapter will be up 01/03/2010. See you then.

PhoenixAeternum

December 30, 2010