Unofficial Portkey Archive

AN - So obviously I have continued on with the story. Thank you for those continuing on with me, it means a lot.

You'll notice I don't write very big chapters, I believe content is more important, and I strive for a well rounded chapter rather than a load of waffle. I am also dealing with significant health issues that make it hard to produce tens of thousands of words per sitting.

Hopefully this chapter answers some of the questions that were left in comments for the last chapter. Enjoy, and please feel free to review.

I don't own them.

When Ron returns, they're gone.

The embers of the campfire smoulder, still glowing. He stirs the ashes, noting how the wind picks up. They have not been gone long, but he knows that wherever Harry and Hermione are, it's enough of a head start and he'll struggle to catch them. He clenches his fists in rage. Selfish. The two of them are selfish, self righteous gits. If they want to think only of themselves, then he has a family who need him.

Twigs tremble and snap beneath the weight of his boots as he turns on his heel. And then he is gone again.

"Maybe we should have waited, Harry …"

Hermione pulls at the hem of her jumper, her nervous fiddling relieving her of the conversation that will just as surely come in time.

"We don't need him, Hermione," Harry says absently, his voice hard and cold, his emotion secure as he digests his intimacy with this woman. He experiences thoughts and feelings conjured by a heart of longing. Passion so sensual, he had never expected, a moment of joy that has left him exhausted, his soul strengthened.

He watches her shoulders slump and finds himself irritated. Had it been purely physical? A careful inventory of the past few hours does not disclose the fact that she had simply taken what was at hand. Would Hermione lie to him? Could she?

Sex without love is a meaningless experience, He thinks bitterly.

Holding a grudge is pointless. There is nothing in the world that he can change. There is no cure for jealousy.

He lets her wear the locket. He can't say no to her. Of the three of them, she has always been the strongest, her disciplined mind guarding against misfortunes. She is shaped by her thoughts, and in the back of his own mind, he struggles with the possibility that he has tainted her purity.

Harry watches her nimble fingers shift the locks of wayward hair into the collar of the thick-weave knit coat that covers her shoulders. He swallows thickly. What he wouldn't give for one more breath, one more kiss, just to touch. A misplaced wisp that moves with the motion of the nippy breeze triggers a memory that makes him smile.

"Has anyone seen a toad? A boy named Neville's lost one."

He'd been stunned, the ferocity of this young girl. His breath caught in the back of his throat, he'd been in no fit state to open his mouth. He could barely concentrate. Not even the sweets he had purchased had heralded such merriment. A taste of the rainbow on offer, the seats were adorned with gleefully bound treats, gold leaf etched into the card that he gripped in the palm of his sweaty hand. But they had paled in comparison to Hermione …

His fingers twitch and his whole body aches as he comes to the sobering realisation that Hermione has grown up, she has grown into her skin, luscious skin, smooth like velvet. Hermione has become a woman, the very essence of the word.

His blood courses, a delicate flame within his veins. She calls to him like a Siren's song, and a wet sweat bathes him, a quivering seizes control of his body. He looks on her with veiled eyes. Life is waiting for him.

"Hermione," He calls after her. "Wait up, Hermione."

Hermione pauses briefly, turning to question Harry. She finds herself surprised instead when he takes up her hand and skips his thumb over the length of her knuckles. His actions have always spoken to her.

Hermione sighs and they walk together in silence.

The river winds, and the ice beneath their feet is slippery, but it's restful. The silvery haze plays in the reflection of his glasses, and from the corner of his eye, he senses movement. His footsteps slow and he tugs Hermione's arm, hoping that she too will cease her movements.

"What is it, Harry?"

Hermione furrows her brow and steps closer to Harry. She opens her mouth to enquire again, but is halted when he raises his index finger and covers his lips, a request for the absence of sound. She nods, and watches as he extends his hand, his arm pointing across the space between them, beyond the clearing, into the tree line. Hermione's eyes follow his gaze.

"A doe," She gasps," And then covers her mouth with both hands, her woollen mittens muffling the audible resonance.

"A Patronus," He whispers, and his skin begins to prickle. He believes that it's little more than coincidence.

"We have to follow it, Hermione."

Hermione shakes her head, she is defiant. Calculating the risk associated detracts from the idea. It goes against every single one of her instincts. It's not practical. It's not safe.

"What if it's a trap, Harry? What if we are walking right into a trap?"

He turns back to Hermione.

"Do you trust me?"

She knows that she has been defeated.

"Of course I do. You know that."

His finger traces the line of her jaw, his hand captures her chin and he tips her face up to his gaze. He is adamant.

"I won't leave you behind, so you'll have to come with me."

Hermione wills her knees not to buckle as she feels herself falling. Determined not to surrender, she simply nods her acquiesce, albeit, reluctantly. Her heart thunders beneath her ribcage. Some emotions don't make a lot of noise, but when he looks at her through his mother's eyes, her heartbeat echoes through her body for a fleeting moment.

Her wand is extended before them, like an olive branch, from the uppermost bough. Harry keeps Hermione tucked firmly behind him with his free arm. They move with synchronised steps, slowly and deliberately, before the magic evaporates and they're left with nothing.

They find themselves huddled together upon the banks of the great frozen pond that stretches before them. Relinquishing her touch, Harry is drawn to the ice, absorbed in the pleasures of long held promise.

Hermione utters a silent prayer beneath her breath and waits with nervous anticipation. She watches her wand circle the surface, Harry's lips move, but she cannot decipher the words, not until the ice chaps and splits to form a ledge wide enough for Harry to submerge himself. She swallows thickly, feeling stifled by the rush of emotion.

"I've found the sword," Harry informs her upon his return. "I have to go in. I have to get it, Hermione. It's the only way."

Hermione folds her arms around herself, wraps herself in her own embrace, but she still feels numb, like she can't breathe. Harry removes his jumper, his thermal long-sleeve t-shirt, and fiddles with the clasp of his belt while she watches. She is breathless; she struggles to find words, spellbound and aghast, feeling helpless. When he's down to his shorts, Harry lays the tips of his fingers against Hermione's cheek and smiles at her.

"Be back soon. Promise."

He lowers himself into the frigid water and Hermione's lungs feel heavy and she struggles to inhale, like she's swallowing water, her chest burns. Her shoulders shake and invisible hands claw at her throat, wrapped around her neck, choking the life from her. She thrashes, gasping for breath, her face turning blue despite the cold. She tries to focus on Harry, tries to make a sound, but it's hopeless.

Harry clutches the Sword of Gryffindor in his hand as he breaks the surface and pulls himself and the heavy, bevelled weapon back onto the ice. He inhales deeply, trying to infuse his lungs with the air that he craves after holding his breath to retrieve the sword. He makes a fist and pounds the ice, pleased with him efforts, he affords himself a simple smile. Rising to his knees, he identifies Hermione in the distance, but she is far too distracted to notice his animated enthusiasm.

"Hermione," He calls, taking the sword in his hand and pushing himself back up to his feet. He moves across the solid shield that keeps him from plummeting to the depths below. The left foot and then the right, a clumsy shuffle becomes a frantic race against time and he hastens his pace, picking up his heels.

"Hermione," He cries, stumbling over the ice as he makes his way back to her. She is on her knees, her face clenched in agony as she tries to free the locket that adorns her décolletage. Her nails scrape away the pale skin as she chokes, the harder she struggles, the more fatigued she becomes. Her body slumps as Harry reaches her side, his fingers tremble as he foregoes the catch and tries to tear the chain with his bare hands.

"You promised," He reminds her, his fingers around her neck while she wheezes, her sternum failing to rise and fall with the force of her breathing.

"You promised to come with me, Hermione. You promised not to leave me. I have loved you for the longest time. Don't give up on me; do not abandon me like everybody else."

The realisation startles him. This reckless behaviour, she is the reason.

Harry breaks the chain and clutches it between his fingers. Moving toward a fallen trunk, he sets the locket down and turns on his heel to tend to Hermione. She feels cold, her lips are blue and she struggles to keep her eyes open. She is close to death. Harry throws his body over hers, unconcerned with modesty. His own body temperature is low, his pulse is racing, but she needs his warmth. He rubs her arms and pushes the hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. He presses his lips against Hermione's and offers every last reserve he has. He can't use magic; he does not know what else to do.

"You crept up on my heart, Hermione. I am the man who loves you disguised as your best friend. You were always there, just within my reach. You can't leave me now. I needed to feel, I had to know."

Hermione's lids flutter, her chest expands and she convulses as she coughs, but it's the prettiest sound Harry thinks he has ever heard. It sounds like life, like death conquered. He has always known that Hermione is clever; he did not doubt her for a minute.

He shuts his eyes.

"Thank Merlin."

Thank you Mum. Thank you dad.

Stars dance behind her eyes, her vision is blurry, but she can make out the silhouette slouched over her prone frame, his still-wet body covering her clothed form.

"Harry," She rasps, sucking in air, the pain in her voice, evidence of her trial.

"I'm right here, Hermione. Right here."

Harry pulls Hermione up into a sitting position, settling her in the space of his lap, her legs falling across his hip as he cradles her shoulders against the bulk of his frame.

"You gave me a scare. Are you alright?"

Hermione nods, her hands clutching his shoulders fiercely, his arm slung around her back protectively, his fingers grazing the small of her back. He placed his lips against her temple and presses his face into her hair. She does not know that his feelings have changed, everything can stay the same.

"Horcrux," Hermione manages, rubbing her throat.

She shifts from his lap and he stands, stepping into his jeans, he leaves them unfastened and pulls his shirt back over his head. Destroying a part of the Dark Lord's soul does not deserve dignity, but Harry knows that as soon as he takes action, he can move himself and Hermione to safer ground. They can set up camp; he can keep vigil over her until he's completely sure she is well enough to travel.

Harry grips the sword with both hands, lifting it high above his head; he takes his position, ready to strike. With precision he was unsure he possessed, the blade descends upon the locket. With one swift blow, the honour of the warrior in possession, his shoulders feel lighter. The connection is severed; the pendant erupts in a shower of vapour that throws Harry to the ground. Such an emotional tirade, now decay.

Harry picks up the sword and his jumper. He offers Hermione his hand, and together, they set off back into the clearing.

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