Unofficial Portkey Archive

This is my first dip in the Harmony pool! I have read so much awesome Harry and Hermione, I just had to have a go.

I don't own them, I just share.

If there is interest, this might become the prologue for a longer story.

Please enjoy. Let me know what you think. Don't forget to review.

Hermione sits with her knees tucked up under her chin, her weary head rests upon her arm and beyond the stark shapes of trees the snow is bitter. There is nothing more beautiful than the forest clothed in brilliant white, but she knows, that just as her heart thaws, so too will each frail flake dissolve away, crying a river.

Harry's face is stony, his eyes steely. His gaze remains focused on the rough slew of grainy canvas that breaks his line of sight. She watches him, but observes nothing. He does not move, lest he respond to the threat of his emotions.

He won't do that to her. He will not temper the tyrant.

In her mind she whispers, over and over again that she's sorry, that she should have been more careful with their saviours wand.

Every time she tries to open her mouth, she fears retribution. That the only one who understands might turn his face, turn his back upon the setting sun.

She thinks that Ron would have known how to diffuse the situation. He has always been the buffer between the head and the heart, obnoxious to the divine art of subtlety that sustains them.

Harry's posture is tense, his body is stiff and his arms fall to his sides where he stands. His hands are clenched into fists and his nostrils hiss when he exhales. His breath is steady and even, heavy, as he forces the pain from his mind.

She does not blame him; she made a mistake, one that may have cost them everything.

She only hopes that her own wand will suffice.

The cold night air chills her to the bone. The winter is cold. The winds whistle. The knitted jumper that she wears rides up over the small of her back, exposing her skin to the elements, and she trembles. But she refuses the warmth that a charm can provide, she won't indulge herself. She does not deserve the luxury. Not while Harry suffers.

As she swallows the sentiment, Harry falters in her peripheral vision. She understands his need to be prepared, but he has been standing for hours, his legs are heavy with the burden upon his shoulders.

She approaches him with her arm extended. Her fingers brush the fabric that clothes his arm and she speaks before he demands that she revoke her touch.

"Harry, please sit down. Just for a moment."

He knows that he should listen, his body is weary and he could do with the rest. But he has his pride, and his father's penchant for sulking. He ignores her pleas.

"Harry, please," She tries again.

This time he turns on his heel, turns and stares at Hermione.

The silence claws at her heart. Spiteful words might hurt her feelings, but the silence he extends, it breaks her heart.

She steps forward, stifles a sob with the cuff of her sleeve and hiccups a muffled moan before reaching out to touch his face.

He covers her hand with his own. Thick fingers trapping her palm against the heat of his rigid jaw.

Hermione's eyes close and she wills the tears back. Expecting him to push her hand away, she is surprised when his thumb glides slowly across her knuckles, back and forth, a soothing motion that always serves to calm her fragile conscience.

"Hermione."

Her name slips past his lips like a prayer. An admission of weakness, he needs her strength for the journey ahead. He is not afraid of dying. Imagining life without her, without Hermione, scares him to death.

She licks her lips and leans into his embrace.

His breath is warm on her neck; it tickles her ear as he inhales her scent, a musky balm of sugar and spice that arouses him, intoxicates him.

She rises to her toes, her hands braced against the solid expanse of his chest, and his lips push on hers with force, bruising her mouth with desire.

He does not think about Ron. He does not think about Ginny.

His tongue follows the line of her bottom lip, and he walks her backwards, to the cot that beckons over her shoulder. She fumbles with his zipper, rasping it down before she is on her back.

He does not need a wand for this, they were right, he is powerful. With a flick of his wrist her jeans are vanished, his own now pooling at his feet as he hovers above her, holding his weight up on one arm.

Hermione's eyes are wide with surprise, but she does not scare easily. It's going to hurt, but there is pleasure in pain.

He can't find his voice, so he stares down at her; she looks so tiny beneath him. Behind the round rimmed glasses, his eyes ask the question. She has never been able to deny Harry. She reaches up to stroke his face.

"Yes," She breathes.

Though few words are spoken, he understands.

The tips of his fingers graze her abdomen, causing heat to pool at the apex of her thighs. He follows the line down to her swollen flesh, his own arousal aching as his fingers delve into the heat of her delicate folds.

There is no preamble and she cries out when he sheaths himself in her warmth. He has to look away; he cannot bear to see her cry.

He grits his teeth and sets his jaw, but he is deathly still. It's about her too, and he has already taken too much.

She bucks against him. Her hips leave the mattress and she arches her back, holding him between the cradle of her thighs.

He takes a long, steady stroke, thrusting his hips forward, before he withdraws and does it again. The first time will be slow; he will take his time with her, loving her with every little piece of him.

She clutches his jumper, her eyes are watching him and she can see the film of sweat that glistens on his brow. She draws her knees up and allows them to fall open. He goes deeper, inch by inch, she watches him disappear until she is sure that she can feel him at the neck of her cervix.

Harry swallows thickly. The tears burn his lids and he forces them back.

She sacrificed her education to be by his side. Defended him, supported him, saved him.

Harry lowers himself; he covers Hermione, his free hand holding her head in the palm of his hand. His thumb grazes her lip, her nose, her forehead. There's no need for them to talk. Their actions speak louder than words.

He wants this moment to last, he is close to fulfillment and he fears that he will disappoint her. But she clamps down and convulses around him, her fingers cutting into his shoulder, he leans forward, his tongue dipping into the arc between her shoulder and the column of her neck.

Her body quivers and her gaze remains trained solely upon Harry.

She can feel the moment he follows her, his body stills, tense and hard, the rugged plains of his abdomen trapped against her soft curves, hard angles and creamy flesh. He offers his potential for life, losing himself deep inside her pliant body as he comes.

Tears stain his face; they forge a path along his cheek, falling from the tip of his nose.

She was innocent before she met him, before all of this was thrust upon her and she threw caution to the wind with wild abandon.

"It's okay. It's okay." She whispers, her voice rough with the rigors of their coupling.

Experience has destroyed their innocence.

Sadness and despair claims him, but Hermione consumes him, beyond all. She is wholesome and pure. Her courage will be his victory.

He's still inside Hermione when he falls asleep. He has rolled them onto their sides, his arm is slung across her hip and her arms grip his neck, she refuses to let go. Not now, not ever.

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