Tented
The next morning Harry sat outside the tent, a small fire in front of him. His steaming mug of black coffee had woken him up some. He hadn't slept well, listening intently for most of the night for footsteps.
Now he worriedly listened to Hermione's near frantic pacing and mumbling in the tent instead.
He didn't regret it, not one bit. At least he didn't think so.
For the first time in months and months and months, Harry had felt clear headed and relaxed.
He had needed to burn off that energy, not to mention he had liked (okay….loved) the way Hermione's body had felt in his arms. He was attracted to her in ways he'd never felt before.
When did she become what Harry imagined a forest nymph would look like? Wild untamed beauty wrapped in blushing sweetness.
He almost sighed aloud.
He didn't regret it. But if she did - that changed everything.
Harry had a feeling in his stomach like battery acid. Had he...molested his best friend, his final connection to the world?
She had been…seemed willing and excited and she'd wanted him, right?
Trying the shake the sick feeling off, Harry continued to stare blankly into the fire and began thinking of ways to apologise.
"Harry?" Hermione's head poked out of the tent entry flap, hair wet and fresh faced.
He swallowed heavily, anxiety eating his courage. The apology he'd been imagining up died as he stared at her.
"Mm?" He said, the most faux-casual response he could manage.
"Can you come inside please?" She stared around at the snow, a look of mild disdain on her face.
Harry just nodded and rose, pouring the dregs of his coffee out in the fire.
Hermione popped inside, and was waiting expectantly at the kitchen table for him, her knee bouncing agitatedly.
It was toasty warm inside the khaki tent, Hermione's conjured light globes offering a stark, glowing contrast to the wintery wonderland outside.
Harry approached like a man about to be given a dementor's kiss, and lowered himself down.
She bit her lip and shifted, her own mug of coffee steaming in front of her.
Harry set his empty mug down and decided to try and wait her out.
She opened her mouth several times, like a gasping fish.
"Sorry about last night Hermione." Harry sighed, breaking the silence for her, and her mouth snapped shut. "I didn't mean to overstep any boundaries."
She seemed shocked, before leaning back and exhaling shakily.
"You didn't." She mumbled, shrugging her shoulders weakly, "At least not mine. But you have Ginny and I have...had Ron. It's not right Harry. It can't happen again."
Her cheeks were flaming by the end and Harry was secretly pleased to see it. She was adorable when she was nervous.
"It was nice, but it can't...I can't do that to the Weasley's." Her voice was small and hurt and Harry felt a pang of guilt ripple through him.
"I don't have Ginny, 'Mione." Harry shrugged back, and Hermione's gaze locked onto his, carefully watchful. "We broke up before I left. I...didn't want her waiting if I never came home."
"Oh." She looked down at the wooden table top, and didn't seem to know what to say. Her brow had creased, and her mind was clearly racing.
"But I'm still sorry I crossed a line for you." Harry said. She didn't seem to have a response.
He rose to his feet, and unable to help himself, he gently grabbed her chin, directing her gaze to his own.
"I don't regret it though. I'd do it again."
Her mouth popped open in a little "o" and Harry desperately wanted to kiss her. His fingers tingled where they touched her.
Turning, he made his way back outside, chain clinking around his neck.
They could be dead tomorrow. You have to take the good wherever you can get it.
Harry hoped she'd come around.
"It's starting to snow really heavy." Hermione slipped through the tent flap, dusting the snow from her jacket.
The cold had been sneaking through his warming charms all afternoon, and he'd told Hermione to come inside 5 times already.
She had stubbornly continued to sit outside, until now.
"No snatchers are going to be out in this, it'll be fine." He said, trying sooth her. Harry was lying on the small lounge they had, re-reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard.
She sighed, nodding as she began unwrapping her scarf.
Harry covertly watched, enchanted as snowflakes fell from her hair.
She efficiently removed her outer layers, almost scientific in her precision as she folded each item. First her scarf, then gloves, coat, sweater, and boots. When she was left in only jeans, fluffy blue socks and a black long-sleeved tee, she effortlessly twisted her hair up, shoving her wand through it.
"I'm going to start dinner." She said, glancing up and going slightly pink when she caught Harry watching her.
This was the game they'd been playing all week. Hermione would do pointless busy work, Harry would give her longing glances, she'd pretend she couldn't see, rinse, spin, repeat.
"I can give you a hand?" Harry offered, smiling bravely at her.
"Oh no really, please; it's fine." Hermione giggled, a jumpy sound.
She quickly walked past him, into the kitchen part of their tent, sticking her head into the pantry, then the chest freezer. "Do you like the sound of cottage pie?"
Harry was admiring the way her ass looked as he answered in the affirmative.
She turned around and began preparing the food, and Harry looked back at his book, trying to give her a break from his near-constant perusal. In his defence, there wasn't much else to look at around here.
They hadn't spoken again about what Harry was now mentally referring to as the wet-patch incident. It had been days now, and Hermione didn't seem like she wanted to do anything more.
Which was a shame, because Harry could think of nothing else. When he closed his eyes all he could see was Hermione calling his name as she came, in a wide variety of positions.
He was very frustrated and starting to get a little snappy. She had given him a crumb, and he wanted the whole slice.
Thinking of sentient pots and missing fountain of youths was low on his priorities.
"Ow!" Hermione's startled yelp jolted Harry out of his day dreaming, and he quickly shot to his feet.
"What, what happened?" He ran into the kitchen, wand out and on high alert.
She had one of her hands wrapped tightly around the other. Harry watched as bright red blood began to seep between her fingers.
"Just a cut." She said, grimacing, rushing to the sink. She began to run it under the water, and Harry glanced at her uncertainly.
The water was running bright red, and Harry thought he could see white, glinting bone.
"That's not just a cut Hermione."
She was pale, and glanced up at him with wet eyes.
"My bag. The dittany." She squeezed her eyes shut and Harry pulled his wand from its holster.
One Accio bottomless bag, accio essence of dittany later, Harry was carefully holding Hermione's hand as blood continued to flow from her finger.
Three sizzling drops of dittany and a murmured incantation sealed the wound. And though there was a small scar, Harry was quite impressed with his efforts. He was a rubbish healer usually.
Glancing down at Hermione though, the witch looked ill.
"Are you alright?" He asked, unsure what to do.
"I...just need...to sit down." Her face was green and Harry thought she might spew.
Helping her into the lounge room, he laid her on the couch with a delicacy he didn't know he was capable of.
"Do you have any blood replenishing potion?"
She shook her head.
"What do you need? Please Hermione, you don't look well."
She grimaced in response, eyes squeezed tightly shut.
"Just a glass of water please?" She opened one eye wearily, "and maybe some Advil?"
After she'd taken the two blue pain killers and had two big gulps of water, a little colour had returned to her cheeks.
She looked so...damsel-in-distress-y, and something in Harry's chest was screaming at him to slip in behind her, and whisper sweet nothings into her ears til she fell asleep.
Something she said could never happen.
"Still want dinner?" Harry asked, walking back to the kitchen, needing the distance more than ever. He felt out of control around her.
He'd never felt this...this before. Not with Ginny, or Cho. His other crushes had been slow burns, feelings realised slowly and sweetly.
This was like being hit by a never-ending stampede of dragons. Sudden, intense and unrelenting.
"Harry?" she called meekly and he ran back like a flea-ridden dog being told he was a good boy for the first time.
"What's wrong?" He begged, eyes scanning her person. Her finger wasn't bleeding though, and she shifted, sitting up.
"Can you sit with me...please?" She was usually so strong, so the tears in her eyes made him worry.
"Yeah of course." Harry flicked his wand and turned the stove top off in the kitchen before easing down next to Hermione.
"Does it still hurt?" He gently grabbed her wrist, inspecting her finger.
She slid closer, resting her head against his shoulder, shaking her head no.
"Are you okay?" Harry asked, as he slipped his arm around her, gently rubbing her arm as he felt her begin to shake.
She didn't reply for a long time, and Harry felt his chest ache as he listened to her little wet sobs.
"I'm...so confused." She said, and Harry could hear how snotty she was. "I don't know who...morals...I never thought I'd…"
This is so not about your finger…
"What are you confused about 'Mione?"
"This." She inhaled a deep, shuddering breath, hiccuping. "You. Us. I want to...do stuff, you know? But Ron…"
Harry inhaled deeply, his own anger and irritability flaring. Fuck Ron. Metaphorically. Not literally.
"He left us Hermione." Harry tried to keep his tone even and failed completely. "Not to mention we are in the middle of war. No one could really hold it against us, getting comfort when we need it."
"Ron could. Would." She said, her crying abating a bit, replaced by a tone that spoke of frustration.
"Then he's not worth your stress." Harry shrugged, trying to be honest, but also knowing he was being a little self-serving.
"Ginny probably would be mad too." He added a little more quietly, the thought upsetting him. She felt so distant and far away, almost not real. It was hard to keep people present when you hadn't seen them for over six months. For a moment Harry wondered how being isolated like this was messing with him, with Hermione.
Some days, nothing felt real.
"We could die tonight, tomorrow, a week or years from now. We might see them again, we might not. I hope we do."
Harry stopped, his heart aching a little for his red-headed teenaged crush. He hoped she was okay. But for the first time, he didn't wish she was here.
"When...if we do see them, we don't owe them an explanation for anything we did when we were fighting to save them."
She was staring up at him, and her eyes were riveted to his. She was leaning close, close enough that Harry could smell the artificial cherry in her lip balm.
"I want you Hermione." Harry said, staring trying to convey every piece of passion he had. "And when you're ready, I'll make you feel things you've never felt before. But that's a decision you have to make in the cold, harsh reality of day." And not after a crying jag about uncertainty. Definitely a mood killer.
He squeezed her shoulder gently and she nodded, face carefully guarded as he got up.
She was red-cheeked, splotchy and flushed and bright eyed. Beautiful.
She glanced at his groin and looked away, blushing. Harry was near strutting as he made his way back to sorting out dinner.
Back in the kitchen, the hot plate turned back on and filled with sizzling mince, her voice startled him out of his focussed dinner preparation. He'd been cooking for her for months but suddenly he wanted to prove he could do it well.
"I want you too." She was facing away, only the back of her head visible as she read a book in her lap. "Just so you know."
Swallowing heavily, Harry smiled. With giddiness in his heart, he poured the potatoes into a strainer.
She wanted him too. Praise Godric, Merlin, Jesus and Zeus!