That evening after dinner (Harry's rather tragic attempt at meatloaf was only salvageable by magic) Harry went to the broom closet and got out his Firebolt.

'Come outside,' He said to Hermione, who followed somewhat dubiously.

'You know I'm terrified of flying, Harry. You can't expect me to get on that - that - thing?' Harry laughed at her ridiculous fear.

'Hermione, I could fly in my sleep (have, too, once or twice)." She looked unimpressed.

'However good you are at flying makes no difference to me, I simply don't – woah, woah, seriously Harry!' Hermione dived out of Harry's reach as he tried to grab her. He backed off and tried a different tactic, his voice soft and wheedling.

'It's only to get down the cliff. If we don't fly we'll have to climb down, and the path is really steep and long...' He trailed off, hoping to lure her into agreeing to the broom; he was successful.

'Oh, alright.

'Harry, sometimes I wonder how you do that,' She mused while he situated her in front of him on the broomstick.

'Do what? (Hold the handle tight, here under my hands),' he asked, and gently lifted off the ground with a nudge of his feet.

'Change my mind about things, without arguing or anything at all,' She answered, holding the broomstick with white-knuckled hands, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. 'Say, are we going to stand here all day?'

'Open your eyes! We're in the air already,' Harry grinned, unable to resist the amazing feeling he got whenever he flew; it had been months since he got the Firebolt out, and it was exhilarating.

He could hear Hermione's gasp and feel her body seize up; she was silent, although out of fear or acceptance Harry was unsure. He made sure to keep the Firebolt parallel to the ground as they flew to the edge of the cliff and slowly circled down, down, down, to a gentle landing on a particularly flat boulder. Hermione gratefully swung her leg over the broom, happy to be on solid ground again; in her haste to be off the Firebolt however, she had moved too close to the edge. Harry saw, as if in slow motion, Hermione tip backwards, her feet slipping on the ages-old rock face, her eyes widening in surprise and fear, her arms reaching out, suspended on the wind. Six years of quidditch training for speed, eight of doing battle with dark wizards for clear-headedness, twelve of a fast and true friendship – these conjured a magic more powerful than any he could produce with a wand. The world was back up to tempo, but Hermione was still falling in slow motion, as if through water, and she came to rest on the pebbled beach below. Harry blinked, and realized he was gasping for breath. He jumped on his broom and flew down to where Hermione was lying.

'Oh my god, Hermione. Are you okay?' He knelt by her and she stirred and pushed herself up on her elbows.

'Harry?'

'Yeah, it's me, you're okay, right? I mean, you fell really slowly, and you're not injured,' He was quickly scanning her for any indication of a problem, a technique acquired during the War.

'Harry?' He paused, as if only then noticing her query. 'Harry, how did you do that?'

'I - well, I think - I mean, I wasn't trying to do any magic. I should have just summoned you or something.' He instantly felt stupid. He hadn't even tried to save her, he had just watched dumbfounded.

'That was incredible!' Hermione now sat up, and her face was glowing in the first genuine smile he had seen on her in weeks – no, months.

'What? How? What are you talking about?' Harry was still slightly dumbfounded.

'As I was falling. I felt completely safe, as though I was being held in great arms. And there was music, wonderful, haunting – now I can hardly remember it, but I heard it,' She looked lost in a dream, and Harry marveled at what had occurred. Had he really conjured all that? She seemed to see the disbelief in his face.

'But it was certainly you who did it. It was so, I don't know, so Harry, I could just feel you in it.' He turned to stare out to sea; the horizon glowed red and gold, purple and silver, orange and pink.

'Look,' he murmured. 'It's what I brought you here to see. Ireland gives us beautiful sunsets.'

They watched as the glowing orb sank into the water, the colours intensifying and then gradually fading to a grey-blue twilight.

Harry flew them right to the back door, and only let her get off after he had; but his worries were scoffed at by Hermione: she now had complete confidence in him, and had even enjoyed the flight back to the top of the cliff. He wondered at the difference in her, palpable in the air, in her expression. Inspired by her levity, Harry pulled out his favorite book of stories, Tales of King Arthur, a battered and very old edition, and offered to read aloud.

'I love Arthur! What a lovely idea, Harry.'

They settled into opposite wingback chairs in front of the empty hearth and Harry opened the book to a well worn place.

'"The doomed Tristan and his love, La Belle Isolde, they who met in humble honesty and who loved with the greatest passion in all time,"' Harry began...

'"...And so it came to pass that Isolde heard of her Tristan's death, and so she buried him in a Roman ruin and planted two trees, hazel and honeysuckle, on his grave. Then Isolde of the White Hands forever disappeared."'

Hermione's face was streaked with tears, a mournful smile playing at her lips. Harry's eyes prickled and felt damp.

'How beautifully tragic,' She whispered, as though the story still hung on the air and she might disturb it else wise.

Harry looked up at her sniffling. 'Hermione! I didn't mean to make you sad,'

She waved off his concern. 'That was pure poetry and I wouldn't have it any other way. Thank you for reading: you really make it come alive,' Hermione sounded almost bashful as she said this. Harry blushed (cursing his obvious pale skin), pleased but embarrassed at the compliment.

They sat in amicable silence for a few long minutes, and then, as friends are wont to do, got up simultaneously and walked to the hall. Harry stopped with Hermione at her bedroom door and hugged her goodnight. She returned the embrace, resting comfortably against his lithe frame; both were remembering the strange magic at sunset.

Then they released each other and Harry continued to his room.

A few minutes later, the candle lights in the two west windows flickered out, and all was still.

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This is not the end! I'll be writing more soon (hopefully) and I promise more will happen.

Again, I would appreciate reviews more than I can rightly say. It's not hard to do and it means loads to me!

Thanks, Victoria