1949

"Let me show you."

She hesitates, looks back at the castle, and then at him again, because they really shouldn't be here. They are no longer students, and so the forest is doubly forbidden to them, but

She nods.

Yes, okay. Show me.

And he smiles and he takes her hand with hardly a second glance before leading her into the darkness of the woods and she tries to ignore the pleasant warmth that his coolness brings.

It's evening, the remnants of light from the sun still illuminating the sky in a battle of black and white, the ever-changing blue the stage and forced participant.

There's hardly a word spoken between them as they walk, their steps muted by the mud and the matted dirt and the soggy leaves, but she can see him smiling whenever he turns his head, making sure they're headed in the right direction or that no one is following them, or that they're safe (or that whatever trap he's placed to kill her is still intact).

Something. Something with wings lands on her nose and she sputters and he turns, the creature flittering away from her immediately and his laughter flittering to her a second later.

She used to hate being laughed at, used to try to convince herself that they were just jealous because she was smarter than they were, knew more than they did, but she could never reach the point of believing, she could never think herself better than the kids with friends and smirks and laughs all around, because she loved her books and learning, but she wanted company and joy. And she had it. And this boy, this man, for his crimes should not be lessened by his age, had taken it, had taken it all, but yet, here she was, laughing alongside him in a place where she might die, where he might easily kill her, where she might easily want to die and be killed and end this immortal torture, and, maybe, just maybe, it was partially because of this that she allows herself to close her eyes and allows her mouth to open and tears to spring. But, she can live with these decisions, she can allow herself to laugh, she can even survive the hysterics, but the breaking point, the last drop needed for the dam to spill, to crush the town with the weight of its water, occurs now, because Hermione, in her own body, in her own mind, in her own sense, is happy, heatedly, blisteringly happy. She is happy as she laughs, as she breathes, as she smiles, as she lives, and this pains her more than anything else and she allows her joyous tears become those that accompany sobs and allows the horrible sounds to escape her, just two, just two desperate breaths searching to cease feeling, but it is enough. He straightens immediately and doesn't take hold of her hand again, whether from anger or desperation or disappointment or sadness or fondness, she does not know, but he holds his coldness to himself, nevertheless, and in some far reach of herself, she's grateful. At least for a few minutes, at least for a second, she doesn't have to hate herself for how she feels, she doesn't have to hate herself for forgetting what he's done and what he will do, for just a moment, she can just exist and breathe and not have to think about him and what he does to her.

He doesn't look back at her and continues walking deeper into the forest, and she follows, mutely, without thought or qualm of him, only trying to control her tears, quietly wiping at her cheeks and clenching her fists to try to will them away, and wiping again when that doesn't work.

He stops, abruptly, and she would have run into his back if she hadn't stumbled on a branch, her vision blurry from tears that affect neither her voice nor her mind, but affect his, the disgust on his face at her weakness mild but true.

He looks at her blankly for a second longer, she on the dirty floor they had stepped through so easily not long ago, tears still streaming, their tracks lit by the pale moonlight rising, before he extends his hand to her and she rushes forward to grasp it and feels all the weaker for it, the desperation of a person deprived of food and having a morsel offered, miserable and awake and pained. He doesn't comment on it, but doesn't look at her for a second longer and she can almost feel his disappointment. Because she is weak. Because she is dumb. Because she is too emotional and too hurt and too broken.

But, he doesn't let go of her hand and he doesn't pull her roughly, or look her in the eyes.

He tugs on her, gently and slowly, watching her feet grace the ground, making sure she doesn't fall again and, if she does, he's there, ready for her to fall for him or let his own descent begin.

He reaches for her other hand and she lets him take it and he leads her up, slowly, letting her feet find their place before reaching again, and the moves pull at her like a dance and she's reminded of happier times, not of the images or the words or the people, but of the feelings, of the love and relief and joy, and this she tells herself until she reaches the height he stands on, the small rise of the Earth, and looks into his eyes and he smiles and his eyes release the smallest amount of tension and she sees the deepest parts of the ocean and his coolness warms her once more, and the realization grips her, desperately, angrily, despairingly: his grimace of disgust was concern, his disappointment care, his anger love, his sadness hope, and the joy was not remembered from a dance not yet here but long gone and done, but new and just born and cherished by her and by him and all.

She smiles back at him, can't bring herself to care about what this might mean, at least not for now, and the action is light and airy and completely real, and she's so glad to have a moment of truth.

And then they hear hooves. An arrow is shot at the trunk of the tree right by her head, millimeters from her skull, the air winding her hair along the arrow's path, and she knows it's a warning shot, she knows they would have killed her if they aimed to. There is a shout to leave the centaurs' land or prepare for death and suddenly, his grin turns wide and he's pulling at her again, and they're running and laughing and arrows are pouring around them and their happiness rings out between the shower of death.

They run and run, the pretty meadow and its flowers and light and dewy ground forgotten, replaced by their laughter and their feet and their wind and their touch. And the hooves fade away and their footsteps stumble and stop and their wind lightens and their laughter quiets and their touch deepens. Their souls meet, watching each other through the colored panes of their eyes and the tips of each strand of their hair meet in a wiry mess and their hearts beat in a violent struggle and their breaths mingle, fighting and succumbing to each other, becoming one as they get closer and closer and closer and closer and then

There's a moment of about to be, a moment of hesitation, tilting on the edge of infinity, awaiting the what if, the velvet and softness and delight, the risk and anticipation of a

They meet.

Lips chapped and words broken, breaths one and frozen noses touching, hands trembling forward and hair floating apart. Words leaving from her mind as breaths are stolen from her lips, as garments fall from her body and iced petals fall from her heart, peeling away to reach the wretched stone beneath.

And they're kissing. And they're touching and holding and loving and it's all so, so very beautiful. She knows he must have meant to show her the meadow, with the pretty flowers and the evening sky, but they ran and now they stand in mud and now they lay in mud and still they kiss and touch and love in mud and it's all the more beautiful, all the more real, all the more perfect, all the more them.

Somehow, she can't think of Harry now, she can't make herself hate this creature in front of her, this man, this boy tracing her outline ever so softly and then tracing the colors in between the lines and any thought of leaving him, of being disgusted by him, of hating him right now and right here flees her mind, shoots out of her like an arrow and all she can do is gasp and laugh and begin again.

She tells Alphard what happened, to explain her crumpled clothes, the muddy streaks in her hair, the bright blush on her face, the hickeys in between her thighs. She tells him all of the truth and tries to ignore how his face crumples, like a white rose crushed jn a child's pocket because she was too young or too dumb to realize what would happen to the beautiful thing she had seen if she put it in herself, because all she wanted to do was keep it eternally, to own its beauty and be able to gaze upon it whenever and forever. Tom loves her, he has to, or he must at least care for her, care for her deeply because, in between all the things she knows about him, she knows that he didn't do that, never had any interest in anything like that. But he had. They had. And it had been beautiful and kind and infinitely ending and beginning and starting and resolving and revolving and being again.

But, she tells Alphard, shares it with him because she has to share it with someone, can't keep this thing, this evil, glistening thing to herself, and she can't tell Dumbledore because she knows, even as she would have shared her worries, quivered with her fears, shook at the truths and implications of all that she had done, he would only encourage it. His hands stilling in crazed delight, his eyes alighting with glee. He would encourage it and she does not want to be encouraged, she does not want to believe that this thing that pulls at Alphard's breaking, the tearing of his seams, is a good thing, that she is doing a good thing by hurting him and herself.

But even she must admit that she's doing something. Because this is not the Tom Riddle she remembers, not the Tom Riddle she knows that was, that must have been, that would have been.

But that doesn't matter. Not here, not now, because it is Alphard in front of her, his smile dropped, his shoulders drooped, his eyes unfocused. She's hurt him, again, she knows she has, even as he asks her if she's hungry, casually, trying to hide the strain in his voice as he walks away from her, so she can't see his eyes, can't feel his pain.

But they talk, as they must, as they always have, as they know keeps them sane.

He is upset, quiet, distant, avoiding her eyes and her hands and her words,

But,

He's okay.

He knows duty comes first. Duty always comes first and they must do what they can.

And she's sorry. He deserves better than she could ever hope to offer and she's sorry.

And he's shrugging and smiling and dragging her to the dining room, willing them both to forget, to enjoy, to live in their just-for-now moments.