A/N: Thank you so much for giving this story a chance! This is my first foray back into the fanfiction world in many years, so I'm a little bit rusty, but this plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone. I've considered leaving this as a one-shot, but I do have some ideas and drabbles for two or three more installments, so I'll wait to see what the response is like for this piece and move from there. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine and no money is being made. Just playing in JK Rowling's sandbox.

He watches her from the kitchen, the mug of tea in his hands long cold.

It's been three weeks since Ron walked out on them, red and dizzy and furious. Accusatory. But that was Ron's way, sometimes. They both knew what he was like, when this all began. Had always known.

Didn't make it hurt any less when he left.

It's Hermione's watch shift. She sits just outside the flap of the tent, her thick gray puffer jacket wrapped around her body — a body which Harry is noticing with increasing concern is growing much too thin. Her arms are wrapped around her shins, her head resting atop knobby knees. Eyes open but seeing nothing.

He's hungry, but then again, that seems to be a permanent state of being these days. Their food stores are low again (weren't they always?) but Harry Potter is nothing if not impulsive. He pulls out their last loaf of oat bread, toasts two slices with his wand, scrapes some butter over them, to the edges.

When he brings them out to her, her eyes narrow. She is Hermione, so she is worried. Her expression is troubled and it interrogates him. How much bread is left? Is this really necessary? When should we head to a market and steal more food? She communicates the questions with her eyes as she looks at him standing above her. He answers in kind, raising an eyebrow. Challenging her to say all of it, any of it out loud.

"You need to eat, Hermione." He gestures to her vaguely with his hands. "I mean…look at you. Christ."

He places one of the slices in his mouth, bites down, chews loudly. Another challenge.

She huffs but her heart isn't in it. "You always did have a way with words."

"Ooh lovely, sarcasm. My favorite defense mechanism." His tone is flat but his eyes dance in the moonlight playfully. "I'm…I'm serious. You look pinched. Like your skin can't hold you or something."

Her expression is hard to read. Her cheek is still resting on her knees as she looks up at him. When had the circles under her eyes become so dark, he wonders. What am I doing to you? He holds the piece of toast directly in front of her mouth. She seems at war with herself for a long moment, then releases a soft sigh, and tilts her head up, pulling the toast out of his hands with her teeth.

For a moment she simply chews begrudgingly, thoughtfully. Stares off into an endless forest. He waits for her to speak, because he's not sure what to say.

"Maybe it can't," comes her reply, and she says it so softly he almost doesn't hear it.

"Maybe what can't..what?"

"Maybe my skin can't hold me."

She pauses. For a moment it seems like the forest has held its breath at her response. Even the wind dies down and absolute silence follows. She shudders involuntarily before she takes another bite of her toast and her eyes fill with tears. It's clearly against her better judgment. She angrily wipes them away with the back of her free hand before they can fall.

"It seems to be doing a well enough job so far. Give it some credit, would you?" His expression is warm as he crouches to sit beside her, mirroring her body language, pulling his knees up to his chin and gazing at the witch to his left. Their eyes meet in the darkness.

"I'm so sorry he left you, Harry," she whispers suddenly, and her voice sounds tired.

He starts at that, lifting his head slightly, frowning.

"What—why would you say that to me? I was going to say that to you. I know that you…that you guys…you were…" he clears his throat awkwardly, puts his face back between his knees. "You know."

And then her tiny hand is on the back of his head, moving softly through his hair, reverent and soft.

"We weren't. Not in the way…not in the way you think. For him, perhaps. But not…not for me. Never for me. Not really."

For reasons he cannot even begin to understand or contemplate, Harry feels a surge of relief deep in his gut. There is surprise there, and some sympathy for Ron's unrequited feelings, too, but mostly, it is relief. Sweet, searing relief. That maybe things wouldn't change so much after all, between the three of them, when all of this was finished. That perhaps later, they could go back to Something Like Normal.

"Could've fooled me." He turns to look at her again. Her fingers feel so wonderful on his scalp. Soothing. Like being held. He leans into it subconsciously, afraid she'll stop. "I mean, it's not like it was super discreet, Hermione. Between the two of you, all this time."

She pauses to gather her reply. A knot forms on her forehead. She is thinking very, very hard how to word this.

"You know better than anyone that it was a childish, silly thing. Hormonal, maybe? All that jealousy, and arguing. It was awful for a stretch. I didn't like myself very much back then."

Something large and heavy sits between them at that comment, an awful understanding. Ron had made her feel terribly about herself frequently, always putting Harry in the middle, forcing him to choose a side. Perhaps to isolate her. To wear her down.

"We were kids. He had a crush. And I….well, I've never had someone have a crush on me before. I suppose it's just the nature of the thing, that…for a bit I responded, I played along. Thought that we could be…be something. Because, it was… it was nice to feel desirable for once. To feel wanted, instead of needed. And for the record, I regret it now. I feel like I led him on a bit. And God Harry, I love him. I truly do. He means the world to me, but…" And she has to pause to wipe the tears away again. "Just not like that."

Harry lets out a long, pained sigh, her revelation settling over them like shadows. "Shit." And then he laughs, but it's dry, humorless. It's not funny and they both know it. She bites her bottom lip, squirms under the weight of the truth, heavy between them.

She takes the last bite of her toast, chews slowly before swallowing. Her voice is distant, contemplative.

"I know it wasn't actually that long ago. But it feels like it was. Feels like a lifetime ago, now."

Something clicks into place in Harry's head at that, and weariness fills him. "I get that."

Hermione's eyes convey a sort of acceptance. It Is What It Is. A mutual understanding hovers between them now, filling the empty space of Ron's absence. The knowledge that the people they are and the people they were, before this began, are simply not the same. Time doesn't flow in a straight line for them. It flows both faster, and slower, here in this tent among the trees. But always, always taking.

"You've been pretty messed up over it since he left."

At this, her hand abruptly stops stroking his head. She pulls it back into the safety of her jacket sleeve and he immediately mourns the loss.

"That's because he didn't choose you. And it breaks my heart."

He doesn't know what to say to that. His stomach churns with discomfort. He presses his lips together and waits.

Hermione's eyes are locked on a spot on the frost-covered ground just beyond her feet and she doesn't blink. Her voice is soft and thick with emotion. "He's your best friend. He never should have said those things. Never should have walked away. Never should have used me as an excuse, of all things." At this she puts her palms against her eyes, and her body tightens against itself further, folding inward like origami. Like it's trying to hold something vital in, to stop it tumbling out.

"You deserved better from him, Harry. And I feel responsible for…for all of it. For coming between you both. I chose you, he was right. But he should have chosen you too."

Harry's heart lurches. He had come out here to comfort her, not for this, and now he wonders how she kept it all in for so long, and how she's not blowing away in the wind. She looks so small and pale next to him right now that he worries she actually might. He reaches over and places a hand on her knee. She removes a fist from her eye to grasp his with her own. Her grip is tight, shockingly so.

"I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, Harry. It's my fault," she breathes as an afterthought. There is a distinct note of panic in her voice, and it fizzles into the air around them. He decides he doesn't like it.

Before she realizes he's moved, Harry is kneeling in front of her and his long fingers are around her cheeks. They are cold and they are too hollow, he notes. She raises her eyes almost dutifully.

"Don't you dare. Don't you dare say that, Hermione," he says to her, more force in his tone than even he was expecting. Her eyes glimmer with tears that haven't fallen. Her lips tremble and his chest aches for her.

"Ron leaving was his own decision. He's the only one at fault for that, you hear me? And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't pissed off, or hurt. But this isn't the bloody Triwizard Tournament. The stakes are real now and he knew that when he came along." His voice is passionate but his hands are soft on her face as it grips her jawline (too sharp). He knows that he is solidifying these feelings for himself, out loud, for the first time. For her. And now that they have solid shape, he can't take them back.

He pauses, and when he continues his tone is lower. "When we see him again, I expect we'll have to deal with it. But for now, I'm alright. Don't mourn on my account, if that's what you're doing. Besides, I'm not alone. I have you, don't I?"

Her expression softens and she closes her eyes, her shoulders almost sagging with relief. She leans forward slightly, resting her forehead against his. "Oh, Harry. Of course you do. Always. You'll always have me."

Harry moves to place a lingering kiss on her cheek, like a thank you, before returning his forehead to hers. He brushes their noses together, and hers is frigid but her breath is hot against his jaw. Her eyes are open wide, so wide, gazing at him. Suddenly the air around them seems charged with electricity and ozone.

It would just take a little shift, just there, and Merlin, he doesn't know what comes over him in that moment. He tilts his face forward, slowly, as if giving her time to pull away or clear her throat or slap him.

She doesn't.

And all at once his lips are on hers, and they are velvety and delicate and they are kissing him back. She makes a small sound like a moan, and it sends lightning through his body and he wishes he could bottle that sound. He thinks that her mouth tastes like wheat and like the cold. Her breath hitches, and then her hands are grabbing the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

Harry realizes with an astounding clarity that he is kissing his best friend, Hermione Granger, and he likes it. He supposes there will be time for logic later.

He pulls away abruptly and she almost topples forward without him leaning against her for balance. He stands up, and she is looking through him, and she raises her fingers to her mouth in surprise.

He holds out his hand. An invitation. She accepts.

Pulling her up to stand before him (when did I get so much taller than her?), he snakes one arm around her waist, the other behind her head, and he leans down to kiss her again before either of them has a chance to think about What This Means.

Her arms are around his neck and her tongue is on his bottom lip and her mouth is soft and welcoming and it needs, it needs so much that Harry cannot help but give. So he gives, and his hands feel shackled around her bum and in her hair, and if he never gets them back he's okay with that. He lifts her easily and then her legs are wrapping around his middle until he can't breathe, so tight.

Harry thinks this is the fullest he has been in weeks.

Her kisses are hungry, almost desperate, and they are begging.

"God, I want you," she keens into his mouth.

Almost instantly he feels himself growing hard beneath her body. Though there are many reasons to, he knows, it doesn't even occur to him to stop. And then he is moving, charging forward into the tent toward his bed. He falls forward, depositing her there, her legs still wrapped around him, bringing him closer.

He pulls away only to lift her shirt. Ribs protruding softly above a sunken belly. He kisses each one, devouring her, and glances up at her to see her fist in her mouth. Her breath comes in great heaving gasps and her cheeks are pink with desire. He frantically unbuttons her jeans, tugging them roughly down her legs, and reaches behind him to pull his own shirt off.

Pauses to look at her, a question hanging in the air.

The moment feels so fragile. If he talks out loud he might break it.

Are you sure?

"Please, Harry," she cries.

And he kisses her, everywhere, leaves nothing out. Breathes her in. And then he is moving desperately inside her and they are one person, writhing.

Harry thinks that for the rest of his life (however long or short that may be) he will never, ever forget the look on Hermione's face as she comes undone around him.

When he reaches his own climax, she looks dizzyingly into his eyes, her hands clenched almost painfully into his back, watching him, so eager. She is panting and mewling, as he jerks into her and cries her name.

Later, they lay together, a tangled mass of limbs. He thought it would be awkward, after, but somehow, it isn't. Her palm rests on his chest, her head in the crook of his neck. He kisses her forehead and traces circles on her back.

"Should one of us…take watch?" she mumbles, sounding almost afraid of his answer.

Logically he knows that one of them should, but right now, he simply can't bring himself to care. Can't even entertain the possibility of physical separation. If this is the night they're caught, if this is the night they die, then so be it. He is so, very tired, and the thought is close to comforting.

"Not tonight."

He tightens his grip around her. Tomorrow, there will be much to do.

But right now, there is only the feeling of Hermione in his arms, soft skin and coarse hair, wrapped around him like a blanket. There is only the feeling, small and quiet in his chest, that he is painfully aware of how terribly right this seems.

He falls asleep counting her inhales and exhales in the darkness.