Chapter X
Survivors
Disclaimer: Are these still necessary? Really? All right. I own nothing.
Author's Note: This one was a real bitch to write, hence the reason I've strayed from my chapter-every-day-or-so schedule the last few updates, I've been trying not to deplete my supply of reserve chapters. Sorry for the doozy of a chapter; I debated splitting it in half, but figured I would just put it all out there and put you guys out of your misery. I don't know if the update schedule'll go back to what it was, but I've already written ahead and the next chapters are coming much easier than this one. I'd love to see your reviews, guys, especially on this one—has it been worth the near-toxic amounts of angst to get to this point?
Also, say goodbye to the one-section chapter. It's just not doing it for me. I much prefer the good old-fashioned two-section chapter we've been working with for most of the fic, so that's what we'll be following for the rest of the story, with one or two special exceptions yet to come.
Alright, enough of my rambling, let's get to the fic! Or, at least, the soundtrack note.
Soundtrack Note: Fawkes the Phoenix from the Chamber of Secrets soundtrack, and Leaving Hogwarts from the Sorcerer's Stone soundtrack (or the Philosopher's Stone soundtrack, for my readers in other parts of the English speaking world—you have my heartfelt apologies for putting what I'm sure are Americanisms in Harry and Hermione's mouths, and for butchering the Briticisms that I do try to incorporate into the dialogue.)
"Come out of the circle of time, and into the circle of love."
-Jalal al-Din Rumi
There came a sound like a thunderclap and the two fell to the ground with a heavy thump. The mousy-looking middle aged woman had landed on top, and for a moment she lay there, the wind knocked out of her.
But the moment she regained her breath she was off him in a flash, kneeling by his side, shaking the bald man that had just saved her life.
"Oh, oh no—Harry! Harry!"
He was writhing in pain, as though he was having some sort of seizure. And the locket… its chain was stretched taut around his neck, pulled tight as if it were trying to suffocate him, and no amount of her tugging or yanking on it would loosen its grip…
She yelped, snatching her hands back painfully. It had burned her… and a searing sound was coming from where it made contact with his flesh…
"Diffindo!" she cried, jamming her wand into the space between his chest and the locket. With a jolt it came loose, as did plenty of the man's skin—blood began to freely spread across his shirt.
The woman sucked in a breath and lunged for her pockets, yanking out a small brown bottle and sprinkling its liquid contents liberally onto his wound. Greenish smoke began to rise from the pierced skin, but as it faded it was clear that the bleeding had stopped. She repeated the treatment on the twin puncture wounds she saw on his forearm, where the snake had bit him...
"Please wake up," she whispered to him.
But he did not. He'd stopped seizing, now, but he was sneering at whatever it was he was seeing in his trance.
She lay at his side for a long while, monitoring him, shushing him when he cried out or snarled. The expression on her face was one of utmost fear. She could do nothing for him more than she already had.
Eventually, she tried to move him to the bed, but realized that she could not carry him, limp and unresponsive as he was. With a flick and a swish of her wand, she levitated him there, her posture lengthening as she strode slowly across the tent, gaining several inches of height, her hair lengthening from a rather plain, short style to a bushy, unkempt mane. So too was the man beginning to transform as she laid him down into his bunk, thick black curls sprouting from his bald head, a lightning shaped scar carving itself into his forehead…
He groaned and hissed, uttering vile, sibilant sounds that she knew were in Parseltongue. She put her hand to his forehead, and conjured cold water and a sponge; he was burning up. Softly, she pressed the sponge to his face, wiping him gently.
She stayed with him like that for hours. He would have brief periods of relative peace, and then he would writhe again, calling out in rage, his voice high and cold and sinister. Sometimes he would whimper, and she knew that in those moments he was himself again, and it was in those moments that she would grip him the tightest, pressing her lips firmly to the space between his eyes, whispering to him how much she loved him, begging him to come back to her.
The sun just beginning to bring the earliest light of dawn into the sky, he began to speak, his voice shrill and afraid.
"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"
He gave no pause, continuing on right away, but now his voice was harsh and cold, and with a start she realized exactly what it was he was dreaming: "Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now."
"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—" he moaned in reply.
"This is my last warning—"
"Not Harry! Please... have mercy… have mercy… Not Harry! Not Harry! Please—I'll do anything—" he nearly screamed.
"Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!" snapped Lord Voldemort, in Harry's voice. "Avada Kedavra!"
Tears fell from her eyes and onto his face, and hurriedly she wiped them away with the cold, damp sponge, horrified at what he had been forced to relive.
"No…" he groaned, and this time the voice was neither Voldemort's nor Lily's but his own.
"Harry, Harry, you're only dreaming! You're all right!" she urged him, trying to save him from his visions.
"No…" he called again, stirring in agitation.
"Wake up! Harry, please! You have to wake up!"
"No…" he moaned once more.
"Harry, it's all right, you're all right!"
"No… I dropped it… I dropped it…"
"Harry, it's okay, wake up, wake up!" she begged.
His eyes opened.
"Harry," she whispered. "Do you feel—all right?"
"Yes," he lied, but there was no concealing how deeply rattled he was.
He looked around, staring at her, and then the pile of blankets atop him, and finally the walls of the tent. "We got away."
"Yes," said Hermione. "I had to use a Hover Charm to get you into your bunk, I couldn't lift you. You've been… Well, you haven't been quite…"
His eyes found the small sponge in her hand.
"You've been ill," she finished, her voice taut with unspoken emotion. "Quite ill."
"How long ago did we leave?"
"Hours ago. It's nearly morning."
"And I've been . . . what, unconscious?"
"Not exactly," she said, uncomfortably. "You've been shouting and moaning and… things…"
She began to babble, then, nearly incoherent. "I couldn't get the Horcrux off you. It was stuck, stuck to your chest. You've got a mark; I'm sorry, I had to use a Severing Charm to get it away. The snake bit you too, but I've cleaned the wound and put some dittany on it…"
Shaken, the two filled each other in on what exactly had happened. She brushed off his apologies for dragging them to Godric's Hollow, saying that she had thought it was their only option too. She felt revolted, nauseous, when he told her that the woman they'd thought had been Bathilda Bagshot had actually been her corpse, occupied by the snake, Nagini… But always she was aware of the sudden, incredible tension between them, the sudden urge she had to either leap up from the bed and put as much space between her and him and his shredded shirt as possible, or to throw herself at him and smother him with deep, passionate kisses.
"Harry, no, I'm sure you ought to rest!" she scolded him, when he threw back the covers and started to rise.
"You're the one who needs sleep. No offense, but you look terrible. I'm fine. I'll keep watch for a while. Where's my wand?"
She did not answer, she merely looked at him. It had never even occured to her that they would come to this conversation, so desperate had she been to keep him alive, to see him wake…
"Where's my wand, Hermione?" he asked again.
She bit her lip, and tried to fight the tears that began to swim in her eyes. "Harry…"
"Where's my wand?"
She reached down beside the bed and held it out to him.
A pain went through her soul as she saw the look of panic and fear flash through his eyes as he saw the broken, mangled wand, nearly severed in two, dangling only by a thin thread of phoenix feather.
And when she asked her to repair it, her tears began to flow freely when it was clear that she could not. "Harry," she whispered. "I'm so, so sorry. I think it was me. As we were leaving, you know, the snake was coming for us, and so I cast a Blasting Curse, and it rebounded everywhere, and it must have—must have hit—"
"It was an accident," he said, but his voice was empty, mechanical. "We'll—we'll find a way to repair it."
"Harry, I don't think we're going to be able to," she said, the tears trickling down her face. "Remember… remember Ron? When he broke his wand, crashing the car? It was never the same again, he had to get a new one."
His eyes flared at the mention of the other's name. "Well," he said, in a voice too highly charged to be matter-of-fact, "well, I'll just borrow yours for now, then. While I keep watch."
Her face glazed with tears, she handed over her wand, and he left her sitting beside the bed, his body language making it clear that he wanted nothing more than to get away from her.
She collapsed onto his bunk; she did not cry. She had no more strength for tears, nor the will to do anything but lie there in complete and utter defeat.
She had failed him. She had cost him his wand, deprived him of the weapon that would save him from death at the hands of Lord Voldemort. He had tried to hide it from her, but he had been so angry with her, so full of disgust and aversion that he couldn't bear to even sit next to her. She had become a burden.
She lay there, in utmost despair, for an unknowable length of time. Unable to cry, unable to think, unable to do anything but breathe and hurt. She wished she could cease doing both.
She wished she would just die.
How could it have ever have come to this? How could she fall so deeply in love with a man who would never love her in return? How could Ron, sweet, loyal Ron, have left them like that, to fend for themselves in such an impossible situation? How could the three of them, best friends since first year, survive through so much only to fall apart now? How could she have broken his wand? How could she have failed him?
Her heart was already broken; had been broken for years and irreparably shattered these last few weeks, especially these last few nights. But this… this was a new low, as if the crushed remnants of her heart had been Transfigured into molten lead. She felt as if she could feel nothing at all. No more shame, no more guilt, no more pain or fear… no more longing for Harry…
She was deluding herself with wishful thinking, of course. She could feel all of it, every damned drop of the grief that filled her so to the brim, that threatened to slosh over the top and stain the tent floor…
Vaguely, she was aware of her chest heaving, of slight, nearly inaudible gasping noises escaping from her as she choked back sobs, but that was so far away from her right now… She was a million miles away, the thoughts back with a vengeance now, furiously asking herself the same questions over and over again, entirely incapable of processing her surroundings, which was quite alright, thank you very much, the tent was the last place she wanted to be right now anyway…
She was pulled back, finally, by the fiery sensation of two burning eyes boring into her.
Harry stood in the entrance to the tent, but he did not face outward, keeping the watch. He was staring at her.
She sucked in a breath. His eyes… his eyes…
They were, in a word, terrifying.
Something was wrong, terribly wrong. In all her years of knowing him, she'd always been able to read the face of her best friend. But today… his face was a mask, an intense, unreadable mask. His eyes, those eyes, burning into her with such force, as if he were seeing her for the first time, and trying to make sense of what it was that was before him…
She didn't have the strength to speak, didn't have enough energy to sit up and ask him what was wrong. At least, she didn't think she did.
He took a single step towards her, a wooden motion that abruptly ceased, and she could see him, as if he was restraining himself, holding himself back, away from her.
She did sit up now, dragged herself back to the headboard of the bed, as far away from him as she could manage. Her head snapped around, looking for the locket. Was it still in her bag? No, it had to be, he definitely wasn't wearing it.
Then why…
A chill went down her spine as she saw how he looked at her again. Surely he wasn't possessed…
He lurched forward, and then suddenly he was hurrying across the space between them, quickly sitting himself next to her on the bed. She pulled away, afraid, and she saw a flash of pain in his eyes as she did so, and then he looked down at the floor.
"Harry?"
He did not reply, but slowly he brought his eyes up to hers again and she could see that they were as watery as her own had been when she'd revealed the broken wand to him. The molten lead at the bottom of what had once been her heart boiled and bubbled… despite her best efforts, her most fervent efforts, each time she saw him in pain her own suffering deepened, a pattern that had held up far past what she had believed herself capable of enduring.
There was something else in his eyes, though, and he opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again. He did not speak for a long moment, but when he did, he said, "Hermione?"
In one word, he had encapsulated all the regret and confusion and fear that she felt, and instantly she knew that he felt it all too.
She stared at him breathlessly now, her eyes locked on him, and she knew that if she were somehow to see her own reflection in that moment, her eyes would be the same as his. Too many whirlwind thoughts, whirlwind feelings, too much love and guilt and heartache and apprehension…
The fear she thought she had felt, mere moments ago when she had first seen him watching her like that, was made as nothing by the sheer terror she felt exploding all over her right now. Terror, at the thought of him being about to do what she wanted him to do, about what that would mean for their friendship; even greater terror, at what it would mean if he did not do what she wanted him to do.
He leaned into her, close, so that he was almost laying atop her, his face mere inches away from hers.
"Please," she breathed, her voice pleading with him, begging. The message could not have been any clearer. Don't you dare kiss me and leave me again.
He kissed her. She kissed him back.
He didn't leave her.
He felt like he'd lost a piece of himself.
Only this time it wasn't the bones in his arm that had been vanished by Gilderoy Lockhart, but his wand. It had been the only one he'd ever owned, the source of the first real magic he'd ever performed (setting a boa constrictor on Dudley at the zoo suddenly didn't seem to count, standing there in the tent entrance). He could still see the red and gold sparks that had shot out of its tip the first time he'd ever held it in his hand and given it a good wave… even back then it had been a part of him, a part of him that knew him better than he knew himself… Red and gold sparks… Gryffindor red, Gryffindor gold.
It had been the wand he'd jammed up the troll's nose when it had gone after Hermione in the girl's toilet. It had been the wand that had knocked Draco Malfoy on his arse in Lockhart's Dueling Club second year. It had been the wand he'd cast his first Patronus with.
And it had been the wand which had saved his life, the link between the twin phoenix feather cores overpowering Voldemort's attempt to murder him, the wand that had conjured up for a brief moment the souls of his parents, allowing him to make it to the Triwizard Cup and back to safety…
He held it now in his hand, broken and dangling uselessly. He had Hermione's wand in his other hand, but it felt cold to the touch; cold and unwelcoming, unreceptive to his possession of it. That was what Ollivander had told him, of course, on his eleventh birthday, the day he'd first gotten his wand…
"No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."
It was as if the best part of his magical power had been torn from him. He felt raw, and exposed, and like he'd lost a piece of himself.
How was he supposed to continue onward, crippled as he was like this? How was he supposed to duel Death Eaters? Find Horcruxes? Defeat Voldemort?
He fought the urge to give in to his despair and cackle madly at the absurdity of it all, the hopelessness. He had been left with nothing.
No. He hadn't been left with nothing.
He still had her.
He still had her, and he had done everything, everything, in his power to drive her away from him. He had betrayed her trust, abused her friendship, said terrible, horrible things to her, things he hadn't meant…
He had taken advantage of her.
That was the worst thing he had ever done. Worse even than ripping Malfoy open last year with Snape's Sectumsempra spell. It was the same thing, really, only this time he had done it to Hermione's heart.
Outside the winter wind was howling and the noise bothered him immensely. He couldn't understand why, the sound was the same as it had always been, there wasn't anything different about it; but it made him feel uneasy all the same.
He had kissed her, something he would never forgive himself for, and still she hadn't left him. He realized now that she would never leave him, because that was the kind of woman, the kind of friend Hermione was. She would always be there for him, always had been there for him, unlike Ron— it had been her who had saved Sirius' life by using her Time Turner to break the law, it had been her who had stood by him when everyone else thought he'd put his name in the Goblet of Fire… it had been her who'd decked Draco across the nose third year…. that last one had been for Hagrid's sake rather than his, but the thought of it always made him smile, nonetheless…
God, she was amazing.
He knew now that the fear that had been gnawing at his insides for weeks had been all over nothing. She wasn't going to leave him like Ron had. She would never leave. No matter how badly he treated her, no matter how badly he hurt her feelings—hell, he had kissed her, the one possible thing that could make things between them worse than they already were—no matter how much danger he put her in, she would never leave.
He realized this, and as impossible as it should have been, he loved her even more for it.
Loved her for it, and hated himself. He didn't deserve such a good friend. And he would never deserve to have anything more than that with her.
How could he have caused her so much pain?
As he stared out into the snowy plain, filled with self-loathing, the wind picked up briefly, roaring, then died down entirely, leaving nothing but empty silence. That is what had sounded so odd, so unsettling to him earlier, about the wind—the fact that that was the only sound there was.
For the first time he could remember since Ron had left them, she was not crying herself to sleep.
He listened, his eyes closed, his head tilted, searching for the faintest of sounds. But he heard nothing. Good, he thought. Perhaps she'd just gone to sleep… maybe without the Horcrux's influence, she wouldn't feel so much pain, just for one day… maybe she'd feel better in the morning, just a drop better than the misery that he'd consigned her to live in…
He hated the thought of her in pain.
Everything was just so wrong. He'd ruined it all, messed things up, gotten his priorities entirely backwards. He'd been so focused on what he had to do, on how he would find the sword, find the next Horcrux, defeat Voldemort once and for all. He'd completely ignored his friends, been short with them, let his temper erupt far too many times…
He'd driven away Ron. He'd driven him away, breaking Hermione's heart in the process, and he hadn't let up on the abuse since then. It was a testament to the kind of person she was, infinitely better than himself, that she remained, true to her word that she would stay with him until the end, until every last Horcrux had been destroyed and Voldemort was gone. She would live up to her vow, even when surely she must be hating him more and more with each and every passing day.
And then, just as he'd been about to relax, and resign himself to keeping a decent watch for once, trying not to berate himself any more than he already had…
He heard it. Finally, from somewhere behind him came soft gasping sounds, grief-stricken and in distress. The sound of Hermione, desperately trying not to hyperventilate.
For a moment, he was glad his wand had already been broken. If he could have, he would have snapped it in two in his hands, just then.
He turned, slowly, haltingly. He knew he shouldn't. Looking at her, seeing her… it would only crumple his already shattered resolve even further, make him do some other stupid, cruel thing to her. If he loved her at all, he'd turn his back on her, ignore her so that he wouldn't make her hurt even worse by trying to 'fix' it all…
It horrified him, what he saw. She looked as though there were a Dementor standing over her, draining her dry of every happy memory, every cheerful thought she had ever had. She looked pale, and cold, and as though she knew nothing but despair.
She looked eerily like Cedric Diggory, the way he'd looked when he'd fallen in Little Hangleton's graveyard, like a puppet whose strings have been suddenly, viciously severed…
He didn't want to think about her like that. Merlin, he didn't want to think about her like that…
If he ever lost her, he didn't know what he'd do. He knew now she'd never leave his side voluntarily, but that still didn't mean he wouldn't get her killed. Hell, he'd almost gotten her killed tonight. If it hadn't been for her own quick rescue of him, he would have arrived, gotten there in time to kill them both…
He didn't give a damn about dying himself; his own death meant nothing to him, not when her life was at risk as well.
He just stood there, staring at her, the two halves of himself warring within. One wanted to go to her, hold her in his arms again, tell her how much he loved her, kiss her, make everything better… the other half, the sane half, knew better, knew that he could never, ever, do that, it would destroy her, destroy him, knowing that he had done that to her…
She was beautiful, and it tore him up inside, to see such beauty look so cold, so pained. Her face was not red; she did not cry. Rather she looked like she had been carved from pale marble, still as a Muggle statue. The only sign she was even alive was the rising and falling of her chest, and the occasional gasping breath.
For all of it, she looked only more stunning, more lovely.
There was beauty, intense, earth-shattering beauty, in her sorrow. And he would have given anything to free her from it.
Once again he told himself that he should turn his back, wait until she finally did fall asleep, then pack his bags and take the locket and leave. He'd go wandless, he couldn't leave her out here without a wand… and somehow he'd figure out a way to carry on without her, to go it alone… to spare her from it all…
But he knew that he would never do such a thing. Never be able to leave her, the same as she would never leave him.
And he knew that he was entirely incapable of turning his back on her as well, having seen her like this.
For what seemed like the thousandth time since the night he had kissed her, he wondered what it would have been like, had he not been singled out by destiny. This time, however, there was no anger, no resentment, only sad, quiet curiosity. If he'd never been "The Chosen One"… would Hermione and him still be friends? Would he have had the guts to tell her how he felt before it was too late? Would she still have chosen Ron over him?
He had no idea how long he'd stared at her for, but finally she opened her eyes and looked up at him. She let out a shocked breath, her gaze wild, meeting his eyes in bewilderment.
He was frightening her, he realized. Her eyes were wide, her mouth opened into a perfect little 'o'… he couldn't look away, couldn't drag his eyes off of her. Merlin, she was beautiful.
Of its own accord, his body lurched forward a half-step, trying to close the gap between them. She scurried back, pressed up against the headboard, afraid of him, and he reeled.
No! he screamed at himself. Turn around and walk out of the tent right now, Potter!
But she was like a magnet, pulling him ever closer, and it took all the strength he had not to throw himself at her side, begging her forgiveness.
He was scaring her, he could see it in her face. Why?
He knew why. He had hurt her, and she was terrified he was going to do it again.
And that was exactly what he was about to do, he realized.
No longer able to hold himself back, he quickly made his way to the bed, resolved to make this only an apology, to explain everything to her. He wouldn't hurt her again. Hurting her would be like hurting himself, and he couldn't take any more pain, especially not hers. Her suffering was a thousand times worse to him than his own.
When he sat on the bed, she pulled away, as far as she could get from him. Ouch. He finally looked away, ashamed, staring down at the floor, fighting the tears that began welling up in his eyes.
"Harry?" Her voice was like an angel's, and instead of the revulsion or fear he'd expected to hear from her, he heard only concern.
Slowly, haltingly, he brought his eyes back up to hers. Those eyes… he could spend a lifetime staring into her eyes.
He opened his mouth, trying to get it all out, to confess everything, tell her how he felt, tell her how sorry he was, tell her he already knew she would never feel the same way, to ask if she could ever forgive him for the way he'd treated her… but the words piled up, jammed together on their way to his mouth, and nothing could get out…
After a time though, he was finally able to say, "Hermione?"
It was all he could do to force out that one word, and he tried, he tried desperately, to pour his soul out into those four syllables, to make her understand, to bare all of his regret and confusion and fear to her. He felt like an idiot. How could anyone make him so thoroughly speechless, like a first year rendered tongue-tied by a pretty prefect? How could anyone make him feel like this?
Of course, if anyone could, it would be her, alright.
She stared at him, breathlessly, and the look she was giving him…
It was downright unnerving.
She was staring at him, her eyes dark and intense, consuming him, and his heart surged into his throat. That was not the look a girl gave to a boy she was disgusted with.
Had he been staring at her like this the whole time? No wonder she'd been afraid of him.
His pulse felt like it was pounding a thousand times per second. Surely she couldn't…
Of its own accord, his body once again began to move towards her. And this time, he was in complete agreement with it. And for the record, from what he saw of her, Hermione seemed to approve of the decision too.
He leaned into her, close, so that he was almost laying atop her, his face mere inches away from hers.
"Please," she breathed, her voice pleading with him, begging. And his heart leapt for joy, because finally, finally, she'd made a request of him that he could fulfill, eagerly, keenly fulfill…
He kissed her. And again, she kissed him back.
And this time, he did not pull away. And neither did she.
He kissed her, poured out his love for her, for what seemed like hours… and she returned it all in kind.
How was that even possible? He was Harry Potter, for Merlin's sake. Nothing ever went so thoroughly his way.
Her lips pressed up tightly against his, her hands snaking around his neck and clinging to him, and together they worked out their feelings for one another, expressed themselves beyond words, through impassioned, amorous snogging.
It was she who slipped her tongue through his parted lips, she who was the aggressive one, kissing him frenziedly, full of need, as if she were afraid he'd leave her again.
He broke the kiss, only for a moment, to lean his forehead against her and stare into her eyes. Silently, urgently, he tried to make her understand, to show her that they were the same, that he was no different than her.
I will never leave you.
Her eyes widened, and now the tears began to mist them up, and then he was kissing her again, and nothing had ever felt so good to him as her body, pressed up and snuggled against him. She was shaking, slightly, and he could hear her gasp in between breaks for air, feel the hot tears that slid down her cheeks…
In his time with Ginny, he'd grown accustomed to having the girl not burst into tears when he kissed them, but he knew he would gladly give up on that progress if it meant getting to snog Hermione Granger.
And to his amazement, when she finally broke the kiss, she did so because she could no longer hold in her laughter.
She snorted, outright guffawed, and when he saw that her tears were of deep, hysterical delight at the absurdity of it all, he began to giggle as well.
Still clinging to one another, they both laughed their arses off, and just when one of them would begin winding down the other would laugh even harder, and that would set them both off again. By the time they'd finished, his sides ached. And the pain in his heart was gone.
"Harry, there's—"
He cut her off with a quick kiss. The pain in his heart was gone, but the guilt remained. He needed to come clean, tell her everything, get it all off of his chest.
"Hermione Jean Granger, I love you. I've loved you for years. I'm sorry I never told you, it just seemed like things were so—you were hurt, that night, at the Department of Mysteries, and I couldn't let that happen to you again—I'm so sorry that I pushed you away…"
She looked then like she wanted to say something, but he kept on, needing to clear the air. "That's why it killed me so much, to see you so upset, since Ron left—I was jealous, it hurt to see you feel that way about someone else—and I know that he's the one you chose, I do, it's just that… I can't keep it from you anymore, I don't want to keep it from you anymore… you're the only one who's always been there for me… not Ron, not even Dumbledore, just you… only you… and I can't keep any more secrets from you anymore…"
"Harry, I—"
He carried on, rambling now, and he knew it, but couldn't bring himself to stop. "…I can't keep any more secrets from you… third year, when Scabbers disappeared, before we knew what he really was, that he'd faked his own death—I never said anything, but I'd agreed with Ron, I totally thought Crookshanks ate him…"
She dropped her jaw, but he didn't give her time to respond. "And that one summer, before sixth year, when the four of us played Quidditch… I was glad you weren't on my team, you were absolutely terrible…"
She laughed again, and the sound was like nectar to him. "Harry, I—"
Again he cut her off. No more secrets. He had to tell her everything, needed to tell her. "And it shouldn't have been Ron at the bottom of the lake, for the Triwizard Tournament… I think they only picked him for me because Krum fancied you, I thought it was you they'd taken when I saw you… you were the one I'd sorely miss, it was always you, who were nearest and dearest to me… I'm sorry, Hermione, I am, so sorry, but I love you, I've always loved you, and I know that its crazy, that I shouldn't, but I don't want to not feel this way… Please, forgive me, I've tried to fight it, tried to get over it, but I can't, I won't, I'll never be able to stop loving you—"
"Harry, I love you."
She said it quickly, before he was able to go off on another wild tangent.
"Y—you do?" he asked, and his voice sounded so stupid in his ears that it made him cringe, just a little.
"Always," she said breathlessly. "Since the night you saved the Stone."
He looked at her, astounded. A second later, his face twisted up in exasperation. "You loved me all this time, and you never said anything? Merlin, Hermione, you could have put us both out of our misery!"
"Why didn't you tell me?How was I supposed to know you felt the same way? If I told you when I first knew it, you would've looked at me like I'd sprouted antlers. When did you first feel it?"
"I think it was the night of the Yule Ball, honestly," he told her, a little guiltily for berating her when he never had given her any signs of his true feelings for her. "But I don't think I realized exactly how head over heels I was for you until this last summer, and by then it was too late…"
"Yeah, well, it's even later, now, and things seemed to turn out alright, haven't they?" she said, a sly grin splitting her face for what seemed like the first time in months.
He was unable to share in it, though. "What about Ron?" he asked her, solemnly.
"I loved him," she told him, sincerely. "I still do, I think, but…"—she took his hand in hers and squeezed it tightly—"It's always been you, Harry. And even if he'd never left, even if we'd gotten together after all this is over, made things work…"
She leaned in and whispered into his ear. "I would still belong to you."
It sent shivers down his spine, and they both knew the time for talking was over.
The snogging recommenced.
Oh Merlin, why hadn't they done this before? She made the softest, most irresistible noises, as he kissed her… her teeth nibbled seductively at his bottom lip, and he did his best to block out wondering where she'd learned to do that—they had Horcruxes to find, making a detour to Bulgaria to cast the Bat-Bogey Hex on Krum would be an inexcusable waste of time, no matter how emotionally satisfying it might be…
He was just kissing his way up her neck, enjoying feeling her squirm as he pressed his lips to her earlobe, when she suddenly pushed him away from her. He looked at her, hurt and bewildered—she hadn't changed her mind, had she?
She looked like she'd just realized something brilliant. "It's Christmas day!" she exclaimed excitedly.
"So?" he asked her, unimpressed. The only present he wanted to unwrap was lying right in front of him…
"I just think we ought to be doing something more in the spirit of the holiday," she said cheekily, and took her wand back from him to give it a swift flick and a jab at the top bunk above them.
Hanging right where she'd conjured it stood a small sprig of what could only be mistletoe. He looked at her in amusement, then adoration.
He knew then that he would always be hers, no matter what lay ahead.
And when she tugged her down atop her again, claiming his mouth with hers assertively, he knew that he really, really wouldn't have it any other way.
