CHAPTER ONE.
"Yeah, I get it. I saw you two the other night," he grasps his rucksack over his shoulder and stares coldly between Hermione Granger and Harry Potter.
"Ron—what?" Hermione's eyes widen, her voice betrays panic. "That's—that's nothing, it's—"
He turns and walks out of the tent before she can finish her sentence.
She races after him. "Ron!" she shrieks, ignoring the desperation in her voice, and running to catch him.
"Stop!" she yells again, tears streaming down her face now. "Please! Ro-on!"
He doesn't look back, and by the time she manages to reach the spot in which he'd paused, he's gone.
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When Harry reaches her minutes later, she's collapsed into a pile, her knees pulled into her chest as she sobs into her arms. She shoves him off when he reaches for her.
"Hermione," he says gently. "It's freezing out here."
"Go away," she sniffles. "Please."
"I'm really sorry."
"Don't," Hermione lifts her face from her arms and glares at him, her face wet with tears. "Don't you dare apologize for what he did."
Harry sighs and lowers himself onto the ground next to her. "'Mione, I'm. . . ." he trails off. He puts his hand on her arm again.
Again, she shakes him off. "Please don't touch me," she whispers.
He swallows and nods. He readjusts his glasses—hands trembling—and blinks, staring ahead into the darkness. He listens to the sound of her muffled tears, glancing over at her occasionally to watch her shoulders rise and fall as her crying eventually calms and then stops altogether.
It's a good twenty minutes before she finally lifts her head from her knees. Her face is puffy and tear-streaked. Her eyes are red. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and stares out into the darkness.
"It's too cold to be out here, Hermione," Harry says quietly.
"What if he comes"—her voice breaks but she wills herself not to cry again—"back and can't—can't—"
"He'll find us," Harry says gently, rising to his feet and wiping the dirt off the back of his jeans. He reaches out a hand to her. This time she accepts it, and lets him pull her to her feet.
He puts an arm around her shoulder and squeezes it as he guides her back to the tent.
"Why did he. . . . why did he. . . .?" Hermione whispers, more to herself than to Harry.
Harry doesn't respond. He pushes her gently into the tent and secures the flaps behind them. He rubs his frozen hands together and heads to the kettle to boil some water.
Hermione walks slowly—in a fog—to Ron's now-abandoned bed. A lone tee shirt—Chudley Cannons, old and worn—is thrown carelessly on his bed, tangled into the quilt that Ron slept under last night. She reaches out a hand and touches it, closing her hand around the soft cotton and bringing it to her face. She sits down on his bed slowly, breathing in the scent of the shirt.
Harry turns to watch her and holds his breath as she curls up in Ron's bed with the shirt and starts to cry again. He sighs and walks over to her, watching her for a minute. She doesn't notice him.
Finally, he covers her with Ron's quilt and walks back to the kitchenette, sliding onto the wooden bench by their table and staring at the kettle blankly, listening to her sniffles as she quietly cries herself to sleep.