Rhythms

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter… yet.

A/N: This is the beginning of a novel-length story; a reworking of DH that deviates completely from it, if that makes any sense. Some of it will be confusing, but all will become clear in the next chapter. Bear with me: This is one of my first true novel-length fan fictions, so I'm still working out the mechanics of it. Enjoy!

~*~

Two drenched figures struggle up out of a roaring river in the deep darkness of the woods. An owl hooted half-heartedly in the distance as a slight breeze caught the treetops, matching the fierce hiss of the river's waters.

She felt her arms burning from the strenuous exercise, but she sank her teeth into her bottom lip, ignoring the searing stitch in her side and the sharp pain in her temple. She gripped his arms, and doggedly dragged him further inland, away from the river into the shelter of the trees. She could see him struggling to stand, but she shook her head, jaw clamped. She felt her stomach threatening to reject all the water she'd swallowed, and she hoped desperately she had enough control over herself to keep from retching.

A few yards into the trees, she let go, gasping and dropping helplessly to her knees, taking only a few seconds to catch her breath. He managed to sit up, spitting up water and coughing.

“Are you all right?” she panted finally, “Are you all right?”

He coughed and gulped several deep breaths down before nodding, his face ghostly pale. She reached into the sopping pocket of her sweater and handed him his glasses.

“Are you sure?”

Harry barely heard her speak. He took in a shaky breath, then reached up and touched her temple, from where a flood of blood and water was streaking down her pale cheek. She sucked in a breath, flinching.

“Take care of that first,” he told her hoarsely, “don't bother with me.”

“Don't be silly,” she whispered, “I didn't know you couldn't swim.”

He sat up slowly, staring at her and shaking his hair out of his eyes. “It was you who pushed me, then?”

She lowered her eyes, biting her lip and nodding once.

“I'm so sorry,” she said in a shaken, agonized voice. “I… I'm sorry.”

He shook his head.

“It's okay,” he said hollowly, although he could not think of anything less `okay' than the situation they were in. “Hermione, you're bleeding a lot—it'll make you dizzy—“

He reached out and placed a hand on her wound, dying to demand what had happened to Ron and Ginny, and yet not quite willing. Part of him knew that Hermione was far worse off than she would like him to believe.

“How--?” he asked instead, and she closed her eyes, her face tightening.

“That rock that Malfoy had… Ron insulted him and—he missed.”

“He didn't try to curse you?”

Hermione shook her head. “I don't think he had a wand. The others had closed us off; I suppose they thought that we didn't pose much of a threat anyway.”

Harry lowered his hand and began to tear a bit of cloth off of his sweater.

“Here,” he said shortly, pressing the cloth to her head and motioning for her to lie down. “We lost the tent and our supplies. I suppose we'll just have to…”

He could feel her gaze on his face, and he managed to choke out, “… make do before—Ron and Ginny get back.”

He could see her resolve dissolve in the tears brimming over in her eyes. With a quiet sob, she crawled forward and, in an uncharacteristically childlike gesture, buried her face in his sweater.

Her hands clutched his sweater desperately as she wildly repeated over and over, “Harry—Harry, oh, Harry…”

He could feel her trembling against him, her shoulders heaving with her fast breathing; he could almost feel her heart fluttering frantically against him. And he was suddenly aware, in the solemn, domineering silence of the wood, that those frightened rhythms, precious and familiar, might have been lost tonight. His arms wound around her then, instinctively and roughly. He leaned down and rested his chin on her shoulder, barely managing to breathe shakily, “I'm here, Hermione.”

For he found that was he could assure with now. He could not promise anything in the future, and even the past seemed murky and blurred. There was only the present, and in this present, they only had each other, and the fragile rhythms of breath, heart, and the river that had brought them here.