It was all his fault.
Harry ran through the forest, unmindful of the thin branches that whipped back and snapped at him as he barreled through the underbrush. He paid no attention to the stitch in his side, or the painful burning in his lungs as he gasped for air. He pushed his body beyond its limits, trying to cover as much ground as quickly as possible. He didn't know how long Hermione had to live.
And that was his fault.
He was fast, but he couldn't outrun the feelings of guilt that chased him. He ignored the warning signs his body sent him, telling him he was overexerting himself, but he couldn't escape the fear that the result of his actions would be the death of one of his best friends.
Able to see only the look of shock in Hermione's eyes after she'd been bitten, Harry didn't notice the exposed root until he'd tripped over it. Gravity and speed took him down, and they took him down hard. Harry's breath exploded out of him in a painful WHOOSH! This was most unfortunate, as he was pretty sure he'd just cracked a rib, too, and he really could have used the air for an agonized gasp.
When he could breathe again, Harry remained on the forest floor, sucking in oxygen. He squeezed his eyes closed, spasmodically clenching a handful of dirt in his fist. He didn't see the trees around him; he didn't hear the creatures of the forest, or the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves. All he could hear was his own voice informing Hermione that he didn't want to learn about the Lotus Lepus. He heard her warning him and Ron to stay away from the hare, because it was dangerous, and remembered not heeding her as he leaped forward to catch it.
Heart still pounding, he faced the truth, lying there on the ground. He was the reason Hermione was dying. It was his fault. He may as well have poisoned her himself. Even though a small voice in the back of his mind – sounding suspiciously like Hermione herself – told him that assuming culpability would change nothing, he knew that if he'd acted differently, more responsibly, she'd be all right, now.
His self-blame and heavy thoughts reminded him uncomfortably of the two long, dark years before Voldemort had finally been defeated. It had seemed as if he'd dwelled all that time in a mire of self-doubt, self-pity, and perpetual guilt, brought on in large part by the overwhelming responsibility that had been placed on his shoulders when he was merely an infant. In the wake of the dark lord's death, Harry supposed he'd gone a little bit in the other direction…happy for once to be unmindful of the consequences of his actions and feeling blissfully free of the stifling cloak of responsibility.
And now, Hermione was in danger as a result of his actions. Now, if she died, he would be responsible. It brought it all back…all of the fear and anger and balefulness of that dark period in his life. But this wasn't Voldemort…it wasn't some destiny thrust upon him against his will. This was Hermione.
It's all right, she'd said. I love you, Harry. Two simple sentences, completely at odds with each other. The first was a reassurance…she'd seen the guilt on his face, and tried to absolve him of it while simultaneously attempting to convince him that she'd be all right. And then she'd told him she loved him…only it had sounded a lot more like 'goodbye' to Harry. No matter how she tried to convince him she'd be all right, she would have had no reason to say goodbye to him if she truly thought she'd live till their next meeting.
And knowing that, he thought, how are you going to feel if she dies, and you never got your arse up off the ground to get help for her!
Turning the rage he felt toward himself outward, Harry furiously pushed himself up from the ground and scanned the forest floor for his glasses. He found them a meter away; one of the lenses was cracked.
Harry kneeled, pulling out his wand. "Occulus Repaire," he chanted. Magically, the crack in the lens healed itself, and he replaced his glasses and his wand. It wasn't lost on him that Hermione was the one who'd taught him that spell in the first place. It was only fair that he return the favor now, by saving her life.
With newfound determination, Harry got up and kept running.
……….
Evening arrived, and it brought darkness to the clearing. Though they didn't really need it for heat – the spring spell kept the clearing dry and warm – Ron built a fire at dusk, for illumination and to give himself something to do other than kissing Hermione.
Not that he'd wanted to stop. Grinning to himself now, Ron remembered that she hadn't seemed very keen on stopping, either. He thought they'd both gone a little mad with the revelation of their true feelings, and when they'd finally came up for air they discovered that night had nearly fallen around them, unnoticed.
Dizzy with excitement, lost in the taste and feel of her, Ron had reluctantly pulled away to begin building the fire. With Ron's help, Hermione had gotten to her feet and assisted him in collecting tinder.
It was better for her to be up and moving around, anyway, Ron thought. Though – his mind continued, bringing a self-satisfied smile to his face – she didn't seem to be in any danger of falling asleep when I was kissing her.
He cracked another dead branch in half and tossed it onto the now-blazing fire, causing fiery sparks to flurry madly about like angry fairies, vanishing up into the night with the slip of smoke. Satisfied with the progress of the blaze, Ron returned to Hermione and sat down beside her. He wasn't quite confident enough yet to put his arm around her, as he really wanted to, and so forced himself to settle for sitting as close to her as he could, so that their bodies were touching. He turned his head, looking down at her.
Hermione smiled back at him sleepily. The inactivity was making it harder to stay alert, but she couldn't – and didn't really want to – think beyond the warm, fuzzy feelings she was experiencing in the aftermath of their kissing. She was still awed and ecstatic that he returned her feelings, and didn't want to come down from that cloud long enough to dwell upon the uglier possibilities that could be the result from this evening.
Going with that flow of thinking, Hermione did what she most wanted to do in the world, right then, and rested her head on Ron's shoulder…just wanting to be near him.
Her action emboldened Ron, who pulled away just long enough to wrap his arm around her shoulders and pull her into him. She fit snugly against his side; he could feel wisps of her hair tickling at his neck, and he'd never felt so content. They sat there together for a moment in comfortable silence, before Ron asked, "Are you feeling all right?"
Hermione hesitated before answering. She couldn't pretend that she didn't feel the Siren's song of sleep pulling at her. Though she'd been able to ignore it for a time while distracted by…certain other activities…she felt the full force of it again, now. But telling Ron that would only worry him, and accomplish nothing. Determinedly, Hermione shoved all thoughts of it away, wanting only to enjoy the moment. It was all she could do. She placed a hand on his knee, squeezing gently, and selected her words carefully. "I couldn't be happier."
Ron smiled and ducked his head, blushing. Hermione wasn't sure if it was because of her hand on his knee, or because of her words, but it was pretty darn cute, in any case.
A moment later she had her answer when he worked up the nerve to look at her, shy again. "Me too," he confessed.
Hermione was suddenly overcome by a wave of tenderness for him. She reached up with her other hand and ran her fingers along the line of his jaw, from the base of the ear to his chin. He was very still, held immobile by her touch. His blue eyes were a stormy violet in the firelight, and dark with passion as they watched her.
"You know, Ron," she said a little huskily. "The last time you looked at me that way, we somehow lost the rest of the day."
"No danger of that now, I guess, since it's already dark," Ron grinned, looking around. "Besides, I was just doing my part to keep you from falling asleep."
Hermione arched an eyebrow, amused. "Oh, I see," she said. "You kissed me for over an hour because you were trying to keep me awake."
Ron placed his free hand over his heart, affecting an earnest expression. "Sometimes, certain sacrifices must be made. And far be it from me to shirk my responsibilities," he declared.
Hermione giggled, then realized with horror that she was actually giggling. What was wrong with her? She felt dreamy, like she was floating, and fought down a pang of alarm. You're drifting. Merlin…mustn't let Ron know how close you are. Play along, for his sake.
Keeping her voice light, and aiming for a playful, coy tone, she said "Well, if you want to keep me awake some more, you're welcome to kiss me again."
Ron certainly looked tempted. "I don't think my ego could take it if you nodded off in the middle of a snog, though," he said.
Hermione looked up at him, quiet, but sincere. "I can honestly say that when we kiss, sleep is the farthest thing from my mind."
They both blushed at her honesty, and she buried her face in his shoulder to hide her flaming cheeks.
Ron cleared his throat. After a moment, surprised by his own boldness, he said, "Well maybe I should just kiss you all night, then, until Harry gets back." Which he thought was a brilliant idea, honestly, even if he couldn't believe he'd just said it.
Hermione sighed. "I could live with that."
Ron blinked, peering down at her. There had been a long pause before she'd answered him, and when she did, her voice had been decidedly sleepy. Now, all he could see was the top of her head, where it rested on his shoulder. "Hermione," he prompted.
When she didn't answer, he shifted, alarm shooting through him. "Hermione? Wake up!"
He looked down into her face; her eyes opened slightly in response to his command. Immediately his light-hearted mood vanished and knife-edged worry took its place. Merlin, she was slipping away…fading right in front of him, while he sat there flirting!
Ron jumped to his feet, hoisting Hermione up with him. "No," she protested weakly.
"Yes," Ron countered. "Let's go, we're walking."
"Back and forth," Hermione answered tiredly. It was another routine they'd developed between them just that day. And so – knowing his need to keep trying – she allowed him to drag her across the clearing, although she had a strong, foreboding feeling that this time it wouldn't make a difference. That this time he wouldn't be able to haul her back from the brink, and she'd slip over.
She hated the fear he was living with. She hated knowing what he'd go through if she couldn't fight this off for long enough. But she was tired beyond reason of fighting it.
"Come on, Hermione," Ron said, sensing that he was losing her. "Stay with me. Stay awake. Fight it."
"I can't," she said.
"Yes you can," Ron said forcefully, as if he could win this battle for her through his will alone.
"It's beating me," Hermione said, her voice already saturated with defeat. "And we both know it."
Shaken, angry now, Ron stopped. Shook her. "Is that what you want? Is it?" he demanded, when she didn't answer him. "Do you want to leave me here alone, now that we finally know how we feel about each other? All these years, afraid to tell you, getting jealous over Viktor bleeding Krum and every other bloke who ever looked at you, because I wanted you for myself; always so close and never able to touch you. And now I can hold you, and kiss you, and believe that finally – after all this time – we can really have some sort of future together, and you're just going to give up?"
"I don't want to," Hermione whispered miserably, feeling hot tears burning in her eyes.
"Then fight it," Ron said sharply, hating himself for being harsh to her, but desperate not to let her go. "Unless you want to die."
"I don't," Hermione sobbed. "I don't want to die, Ron." She sagged, her dead weight pulling him down. He shifted and held her up by the waist; her hands rested flat against his chest. She looked up into his face, imploring. "I don't want to," she repeated forlornly. "Not now. Especially not now."
She kissed him gently, and he tasted the salt of her tears. "You won't," he swore. "I won't let you die."
Loving him, wanting to live, to feel alive, Hermione pressed her lips against his passionately, sliding her arms up around his neck.
Ron's head was swimming; there were too many emotions roiling in him. He remembered Hermione – back in fifth year, he thought it was – once describing all of the things that were contributing at that time to Cho Chang's state of mind. Ron had said that one person couldn't feel all of that at once, but now he knew he was wrong. He was still awed that she loved him; he was afraid he would lose her. He felt protective of her, and self-pitying because this was so ironically unfair. He was hopeful and nervous and loving and worried. And hateful…hateful toward the poison that coursed through her veins. It was killing her, and it was killing him to watch it.
And now, desire grew within him as she pressed her body against his, kissing him as if there were no tomorrow. For her, there might not be. She was drowning, and Ron was all she had to hold on to in an entire ocean that was dragging her under. She poured herself into him, becoming bolder by the moment, and he knew if it went on much longer, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from accepting what she so freely offered to him.
Reluctantly, he pushed her away. "Hermione, no. Not like…this isn't the right time."
"There is no time, if not now," she disagreed, the heat in her eyes unmistakable.
Ron's heart was breaking. He touched her hair softly. "I…I can't do this. It's got to be wrong to feel all of…this…" Here he waved his hand vaguely between them, indicating their relationship, and continued, "…when you're in such danger."
Hermione shook her head. "It's not wrong," she said. "I understand what you mean, because I'm happy, too. I love you; I only wish I'd told you sooner. We…we could have had more time."
Her voice was breaking; it was difficult for her to speak clearly through the tears, but she pressed on, her face a portrait of tragedy. "I don't want to die, Ron. But if I'm going to, I don't want to have never…really lived."
She stopped and took a deep breath to steady herself. "I want to be with you," she said, and looked him in the eyes, begging him silently to understand.
Ron was torn, torn in so many directions. But he knew this…he couldn't deny her. He couldn't, and he didn't want to. So the next time she kissed him, instead of pushing her away, he pulled her closer.
.