Harry felt boneless, as if he were floating around aimlessly without a body to keep him tethered. He slipped into nonexistence, meandering about, begging and pleading for the pain in his mind to cease.

The man who was more than a man paced calmly through the quaint hamlet of Godric's Hollow, the brisk autumn air billowing his cloak. He reveled in the ambient magic of the area, faintly aware of the presence of wards and other pitiful protections. But he did not fret, for he had been given the Secret. He knew where to find his quarry. Tightening his skeletal fingers around the slim stick of yew that had served him so well for many years, he strode onward, toward the small two-story cottage that held his prey…

Harry watched the memory of Voldemort murdering his parents in abysmal horror, forced to feel everything that Voldemort felt: the calm, the joy, the pleasure of the kill, the fury. Voldemort's thoughts were his thoughts. His horror turned to nausea as he watched his father die, witnessed his mother begging for her son's life, and felt the pleasure that Voldemort took in murder. And when the curse rebounded, the agony in his head intensified a hundredfold. He pleaded for death, for release.

"Please," he begged.

Nagini was gone, her head severed. Did the boy know? No, no he couldn't. He had merely fought back, fought for his life. He would not simply kill the boy for this. He would make it slow, savor it.

"Please, no…"

He stood at the threshold of the broken home, absorbed by memories of his greatest failure. He looked down and saw a vaguely familiar face… The boy! The boy from Gregorovitch's memory…

"He's found him…"

"Harry, Harry please. You're alright!"

There he was: the thief. The night would not be a total loss, then…

"Harry, please wake up! Wake up!"

And then he was awake. He was Harry again; just Harry. His body weighed him down. Hermione was hovering over him, her eyes bloodshot and puffy. He was lying in his bunk, drenched in sweat. He looked around the tent cautiously, as if he expected Voldemort to jump out around a corner and kill him where he lay.

"H-Harry," Hermione whispered, "Do you – are you okay?"

"No, not really," he said with a small smile. "Feel like shite, to be honest."

She chuckled throatily, her voice thick with emotion. She had purple bruises under her eyes and her hair was wild and unkempt. The sponge in her hand was stained a glaring dark red. She had been cleaning the blood off him while he was unconscious.

"We escaped."

"We did," she said, giving him a tired smile. "You killed the snake! Dumbledore thought she might be one, right?"

"He did, and she was. I saw him – his mind, he thought we might know about the horcruxes. But then he discounted it. He – he's too arrogant to think we might've figured it out. I – how long have I been out?"

"A few hours. It's nearly morning."

"Were you hurt?"

She chuckled ruefully at him.

"What?" he demanded.

"'Were you hurt?' he asks. No, you selfless prat, I'm fine. You on the other hand… I couldn't get the locket off you. It was stuck to your chest. I had to use a Severing Charm to get it away. The snake bit you, too. Twice. The bites took forever to stop bleeding; I think it was her venom. I had to clean the wounds and put some dittany on them dozens of times. I don't know how effective her venom is, so you may feel peaky for a bit."

He glanced down at his bare chest and saw an angry red oval on his sternum. He felt it burn as he turned his head to look at his arm and leg. The puncture wounds were already nearly healed, but Hermione was right: he did feel quite weak.

"Where's the locket?"

She pointed to her bag. "We should keep it there for a while. I don't fancy risking it getting stuck again."

He sighed deeply and lay back on the bed. Hermione's eyes glimmered with tears again and she started to shake. Harry reached out and slipped his hand into hers, rubbing small circles with his thumb.

"Hey," he said softly, "What's wrong, Hermione?"

"We shouldn't have g-gone," she croaked between sobs. "You almost died, and it would've been for n-nothing. We were wrong. I was wrong. I was so stupid."

"Oi!" he cried. "You, Hermione Granger, are the furthest thing from stupid as it's possible to be. We took a risk, that's all. It worked out. We got rid of a horcrux, right? What's a couple scars in exchange for that?"

"Harry, she was – the snake was inside her," Hermione said. She looked queasy, disgusted.

"Yeah," he said. "I don't – Moony said there would be magic we'd never imagined, remember? That's why she didn't say anything, why she tried to get me alone. If she'd spoken in front of you, you'd have recognized Parseltongue. Once we decided to leave, she must've written it off as a bad job and tried to hold us there. She called him, Hermione… He showed up right as we Disapparated."

She nodded slowly. "I know, I saw him. I had to use the Hovering Charm when we landed to carry you. I Apparated around four times to throw off the magical signature before I set up here. I didn't want him to follow us."

Harry's stomach grumbled and he sat up slowly, throwing the covers back. But Hermione placed a hand on his chest and shook her head.

"Harry, you need to rest. I'll get something for us to eat." He nodded idly and lay back down. He grabbed his wand from his pocket and scoured his body and the bed of sweat and grime. It was a poor substitute for an actual cleaning, but he had no energy and couldn't be fussed.

Hermione returned moments later with some bread and cheese and made a big fuss about feeding Harry. Twice he glanced at her as she was shoving the food into his mouth and saw her giggling silently, eyes alight with mirth. Even covered in mud and wet, her hair a bird's nest of tangles and curls, Harry realized that Hermione was beautiful. And that thought made his brain short circuit.

Of course, Harry had always thought she was pretty. There was no doubt about it. Hermione was short in stature, but not stocky. Thin but not scrawny, as he himself had often been labeled. Unlike Draco, or even Ron, who had mocked her bushy chestnut hair, Harry had always quite liked it. It reminded him of his own unruly tresses, and he sympathized. The understanding of Hermione's attractiveness was not in and of itself shocking at all; it was the want that came with it that startled him.

Harry had told multiple people in the past that he saw Hermione as something of a sister, which of course was ridiculous because Harry had no idea what it was like to have a sister. However, he was sure that most normal people didn't think their sisters were beautiful, much less carried the desire to kiss them.

Bloody hell, he wanted to kiss Hermione.

When his thoughts returned to his surroundings a moment later, Hermione was staring at him, face flushed a brilliant scarlet and mouth gaping. He felt uncomfortably hot under her scrutiny and raised his eyebrows.

"What is it?" he asked, startling her.

"You – you said…" she trailed off.

His stomach dropped painfully. Had he done something wrong?

"What did I say? I was…thinking. Kind of spaced out for a moment."

"Well," she began quietly, "I was laughing, and you just stared at me for a while and wouldn't say anything. I tried to get your attention. And then you said you…" she mumbled the last few words out of earshot, and Harry rolled his eyes.

"Out with it, 'Mione, come on."

"You said you wanted to kiss me!" she blurted out, the blush in her cheeks returning in full force.

"Oh," said Harry, equally as flustered. For a split second, he deliberated making some kind of excuse. He could blame it on delirium, that he was tired from the attack. Or he could say that he just needed the comfort and she was there. But deep down, he felt that those were all lies. And Harry, for all his faults, was not a liar. Maybe on some subconscious level he had always wanted Hermione and had refused to do or say anything about it, or maybe he hadn't, and it was a recent development. At the moment, though, it didn't matter. So, he rustled up a bit of that infamous Gryffindor courage and told the truth.

"Yeah," he admitted. "I do."

Hermione's breath hitched. She spluttered for a moment, clearly caught off guard. "W-why?"

"What d'you mean, why? Why does any bloke want to kiss a girl?"

"I j-just – you've never said – this all very sudden, you know – "

"Hermione," he said softly. "It's alright. I didn't expect you to feel the same. Honestly, I didn't realize I had said until I saw you staring. I wouldn't have said anything at all, preferably. It doesn't have to change anything."

"Why?"

"Why what?" he asked, starting to get annoyed.

"Why wouldn't you have said anything?"

"Because – well, because you're not interested, right? You – well, until a few weeks ago, I thought – Well, obviously not, but you know. And it's not the time for any of that anyway, right? We're in the middle of a war and all. And you shouldn't feel pressured to – "

"You're an idiot," said Hermione. And then she kissed him.

She kissed him. And it was glorious. Harry was sweaty and lying at an awkward angle, Hermione was still covered in grime and her hair kept falling onto his face, and he didn't care at all. Her lips were soft - so soft - and they carried no hint of hesitation whatsoever. Any notions that Harry held of Hermione not wanting this were disregarded entirely. She kissed him like she was saying goodbye to him forever and wanted to imprint his lips on hers. Harry, to his credit, reciprocated with just as much enthusiasm. He lifted a hand to her cheek and held her there, breathing her in, reveling in her. Feeling terribly bold, he flicked his tongue on her lips, and she whimpered into his mouth, immediately parting her lips to give him admittance, and they entangled themselves in one another.

When they finally broke apart, after what must have been dozens of minutes later, their breathing uneven and laborious, Hermione purred into his neck and giggled.

"Thanks for making me wait six years for that," she said glibly.

"You wot?" he asked, bewildered. Had she said six years?

"Harry, what did you think would happen when you saved a little girl from a troll? Are you really that surprised?"

"Well, yes, obviously. I am a bit thick, you know."

"I'm well aware."

"So, you've been – since first year? Why did you never say anything?"

"I did. Do you remember me telling you last year about the whole Chosen One, love potion debacle?"

He nodded.

"Do you remember exactly what I said?"

He racked his brain for the memory. "You said… You said I'd never been more fanciable. You count that as telling me you were interested?" he asked incredulously.

"I'm no better at this sort of thing than you are!" she barked. "I-I was sure that you'd never see me in that way, anyway. I was always looking for some sort of sign, some hint that you might be – but you didn't, and I could only carry a torch for so long. So, when I realized that Ron was, I thought maybe I'd just call it a loss."

"That…makes sense," he admitted. "To be fair, I didn't even really start noticing girls until fifth year, not in any way that mattered. It wasn't you, if that's what you're worried about. By the time I really noticed, I thought you and Ron – so I didn't even consider it. I think growing up with the Dursleys really did a number on my social skills."

"So, it was all just bad timing then?" she asked hopefully.

"Yeah," he answered happily, "Yeah, I reckon so."

"So… I'm assuming the timing is better now?"

"Er, well. I mean, if you'd like – Yes, I'd – Blimey, this is hard. Yes, I want to be with you. For us to be – you know – together. If that's something you're at all interested in."

"Well, it certainly would make us sharing a bed less awkward."

Harry narrowed his eyes at her. "You're taking the piss, aren't you?"

"Don't be crass, Potter. We still need to think about our next move."

They lied there, wrapped up in each other, and discussed plans and possible hiding places for the remaining two horcruxes. By the time the sun had fully risen over them, their exhaustion was bone deep and overwhelming. However, even the realization that their talk had given them no reputable leads in the hunt wasn't enough to discourage Harry. When the scorching sensation in his chest dulled to a manageable tingle, he allowed himself to drift into a dreamless slumber.