Author's Notes: Not mine. Ultimate gratitude to JKR for creating and sharing her world with us.
What she remembers is the scratch of the rough blanket on her shoulders; the way the lumpy old couch sagged under her back; the clenching and unclenching of muscles she didn't know either of them had. She remember feeling like a warrior for the first time; taking the spoils of battle along with the losses. What she also remembers is her determination not to cry.
Hermione made Harry and Ron swear that none of them would leave a duel to save each other. The goal was the Dark Lord and nothing, not even loyalty, not even love, could get in the way of that. She had considered asking them to make an Unbreakable Vow, but the prospect of dying really meant nothing to the boys at that point. "This changes nothing," she told him fiercely, as she stripped off her shirt and jeans. "You have to keep your promise."
What she remembers is that she hadn't wanted it to be that way, like a farewell, like one of them might not survive, but one of them might not survive tomorrow's battle and she needs a farewell. There were noises that she would have been embarrassed about if she had realized they were coming from her and breathing, hard and fast. There was slick skin and need; so much need. She remembers wanting to brand him, to protect him by making him hers, to leave a part of herself in him that would save him when he wouldn't save himself. She was always so careful with what she loved.
Hermione wasn't sure who was in the most danger of throwing down their life for one of the others. She didn't know what plans were being made; she couldn't figure out how they were going to win and she couldn't ask them anything, not tonight. She was sure she was the only one who still held onto the hope they would all be alive tomorrow night.
"It's not the last time, it's not the last time, it's not the last time," is what she remembers thinking in rhythm with the agonizingly slow movement of their bodies, so fervently that she must have said it aloud. Ron answered her with a rueful smile and whispered "It better not be." And then she was laughing with him before that delicious moment when her thoughts spiraled away and her mind was all pleasure-drugged delight. She remembers that.
Sometimes late at night, in the dimly lit bedroom, surrounded by her books, she stops reading and remembers. She stills her mind, something that takes effort for her, and listens. Listens to the ragged snoring and the muffled snorts and thanks the fates for letting them be there to keep her awake. She places her hand softly on Ron's chest. He is used to this by now and reaches up for her without waking. Palm pressed to his heart, his rough hand resting on hers, she remembers. Every beat echoes through her memory. It's not the last time. It's not the last time.
And she is glad.
