Unofficial Portkey Archive

Thank you to those who have braved the story thus far. I appreciate the support, and to be honest, I am quite surprised with the positive reaction.

So here is the next chapter, and while this is not the dancing in the tent scene, it was an element I really wanted to capture with that particular song.

Please enjoy. Feel free to comment.

I don't own them.

Hermione's shoulders shake as the chill from the air penetrates her pale skin. Tremors wrack her body as she shivers, trying not to think about the cold, or Harry. His fingers must be comfortably numb, wrung out from the dregs of winter.

A fine vapour of flurry falls upon them, collapsing the rich haze of sanguine that descends upon the familiar horizon. The eve is not far. The day will soon become night and the eternal hourglass will again be turned and she can escape to her dreams.

Harry does not welcome the dusk. Far too often he finds himself awake at night, asking himself where it all went wrong. The night is infinite as it passes by. And every day he has to remind himself that just as the last did, so shall another come, another moonlit sky.

A lone path runs its course between the shrubberies, the forest is quiet, the soothing strains of the creek flow unhindered, overflowing with secrets that cannot be gathered. Hidden messages carved into slate.

As soon as Hermione stops, Harry knows that this is where they will rest for now.

"It's as good as we're going to get."

She speaks without turning to seek his approval. She does not realise just how strong his love is for her.

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose, his frigid glasses like ice against the sensitive pads of his fingertips.

"This is fine, Hermione. Great even. Though I won't go quite as far as saying you've outdone yourself this time."

"It's cold, Harry. You need to get out of those clothes and into something warm."

A flick of his wrist and their tent unfolds like a grand marquis, tall and proud. Inside the lighting is subtle, the lamps burning low, oil licking the wick, the flames flickering, gleaming while they sit in the darkness.

Harry watches Hermione as she draws the damp fabric away from her body; his eyes follow the length of her arms where slender fingers emerge, bending and flexing like his own aching joints. He watches as she places the cable knit jumper carefully across the back of the nearest chair and sighs, turning his back to tend to his own state of dishevelled appearance.

His jeans fresh, the blood beginning to flow steadily through his system again, warming his fingers, he turns to see Hermione, her button up flannel like a patchwork of blushing ruby. Like a precious gem, she yields more than gold.

"How do you feel?" She asks politely, the formalities still dormant between them, conversations left undone on purpose. They've already lost one friend.

"Better. Not so cold now," He answers without hesitation.

"Harry," She hedges, moving closer to where he grips the back of his own folding chair.

"You saved my life back there. I could have ..." Hermione struggles to find the right word.

"No." He speaks out of turn. "No, I would not have let that happen. This is a team effort, Hermione."

"Of course," She nods her head, unsure of what else to say. "Well thank you, Harry."

Harry smiles.

"You'd have done the same for me."

She would have. She'd do anything for Harry.

Folding himself back into his chair, Harry flicks the switch on the old wireless and twists the dial between his thumb and forefinger until a string of audible words becomes a chain of melody.

"I miss listening to Muggle music," Hermione sighs.

"Catchy tune," Harry smirks and taps his toes in time with the beat until the tempo slows and the pitch of the heavy baritone voice drops like a stage curtain, intense in effect, warming his conscience.

Harry rises from his chair and takes the few steps across the space between them; he extends his hand, an invitation to dance.

"Come on Hermione, dance with me."

Hermione rolls her eyes and places her hand into Harry's palm, wrapping her fingers around his; she steps forward, placing her free hand on his shoulder. Harry pulls her into his warmth, clutching her waist as he holds her against the plains of his body.

The song whips around them, like the touch of a lover, and Harry's thumb skims the small of her back, a whisper soft touch, skin on skin.

Hermione exhales and drops her head to Harry's shoulder. The words mill around them as they sway, each in the other's embrace, fading into the background while the chorus croons.

`Lady in red, is dancing with me, cheek to cheek. There's nobody here, it's just you and me. It's where I want to be.'

"You really like to dance, don't you?" Hermione asks. Her warm breath on his neck tickles his ear.

"Yeah."

Hermione can feel the strings of her heart bow, the short answer, the pain in his voice as it waivers, hoarse with the mystery of his life before Hogwarts. She clutches his hand, lacing their fingers, offering support, a pillar of strength to shroud his weary body.

"Sirius taught me to dance like this. He told me once ..." Harry is silent for the moment; he worries his bottom lip between his teeth and forces the emotion to dissipate.

"He told me that my mother taught him how to dance. She taught my father too. My Grandparents, they liked to dance. I wish I could have seen my parents dancing together, Hermione."

Hermione says nothing. There are no words. She stood by his side when he needed her most. Visiting Godric's Hollow had broken his spirit; Hermione had been there to mend it.

The conversation conjures thoughts of her own parents, protected for their own good, so impossibly far away, across the great rolling ocean, seas between them; distance the likes of which she cannot even fathom.

"Wherever your parents are, they'll be fine, Hermione."

Harry stoops to press his lips against her cheek and Hermione turns her face up to him, mouths meeting with a clash of teeth, bruising as she crushes her lips to his.

Of course he knows what she's thinking. He always knows.

His tongue duels with hers before following the roof of her mouth back down to trace the line of her bottom lip.

Harry backs himself into the chair with Hermione curled onto his lap. One leg each side of his body, they rest upon his thighs, her knees making contact with the underside of the gaunt arm rest.

He lowers her zipper, inch by inch, the rough denim of his own jeans straining against Hermione's belly. Through her knickers he can feel the heat of her core, hot flesh, sopping with moisture. His index finger skims the band of elastic around one leg, scorching his senses; he slips his hand beneath the sodden fabric.

"Hermione," He breathes aloud. What she does to him.

She throws her head back as his knuckles come into contact with her swollen hood. He swallows thickly.

Hermione clutches his shoulder firmly with one hand, trying to lower Harry's zipper, rasping it down in her desperation. He is hard and firm against her hand, and she can feel him swell with her tentative touch.

The position is awkward, Harry keeps her anchored and Hermione daren't let go of his solid frame.

Just like the first time, the aroma of musk fills the air and Harry's nostrils flare with arousal. Merlin, how is it that she knows not, what she does to him.

Hermione is captivated by his charm, summoning to mind the feelings of euphoria the last time they were intimate. The way he felt between her thighs, the way he moved inside her, no barrier between them.

No barrier between them. No barrier between them.

"No," Hermione pants as she pulls herself away from Harry's grasp.

"Harry, no. Stop."

His hand stills, his body rigid. He extracts his hand without question and holds them both in front of him, an astute sign of surrender.

"No contraceptive, Harry. I hadn't thought about it, not last time we did this I'm afraid."

"Oh," Harry draws a shaky hand through his thick, inky locks. "And magic is out of the question."

It's a statement, not a question.

"... I mean I know the consequences, of course, and I suppose anything is possible, though you are my first ... and only ..." She adds as an afterthought, her face flushed a deep hue of rouge, emphasising her cheeks, as she recalls the instance in which she gave her most treasured to her very best friend.

"Hermione," Harry cuts her off, his sentiment genuine. "Hermione, it's okay. It will be okay."

"Well, I suppose you're not being held here under any certain act of duress. You're in no way obligated to deal with the aftermath, Harry."

Try as he might, Harry fails to stifle the chuckle that slips from his lips.

"Do you want to talk about it Hermione?"

"I don't really see what's so entertaining."

Hermione carefully extracts one leg and then the other, holding the two halves of her jeans together as she moves from her place in Harry's lap.

Harry shakes his head.

"No, let's talk about this Hermione. We've been skipping around it for long enough."

He grips her arm and pulls her back into his body where she falls astride his hips, her hair falling across her face like a veil of densely spun sugar, thick and glossy, still shiny, despite their living conditions.

"I don't think you realise how much I care about you, Hermione."

Hermione furrows her brow and exhales deeply, the knot in her throat constricting tightly like a rubber band, the tension wound resolutely, no resistance in sight.

"You didn't really think it was over when you left Ginny behind, did you?"

He strokes her arm, sweeping his hand up and down the length of her sleeve, pausing at her shoulder before he repeats the motion again.

"There's a reason I left her behind, Hermione, a reason I did not bed her, why I will never be intimate with Gin."

Hermione is speechless as she waits for Harry's explanation.

"She has loved me for as long as I can remember. That much I can't deny. But I think, after I saved her life, it became much more. Maybe she has a hero complex, growing up with a family of older brothers, always having things her way. I don't really think she understands her own behaviour."

Harry pauses for a breath.

"But the main reason I was able to leave her behind is because I really didn't need her. I already had you, Hermione. My best friend. I can do this without Ginny by my side, but I can't do it without you."

Hermione smiles, and just as soon as the corner of her mouth turns up, it disappears again and Hermione frowns.

"And what about us, Harry? What about what happened between us, what could happen between us?" She wonders.

"I know that you think it's terribly irresponsible, but we can't really take it back now, can we?"

Harry shrugs and folds his arm around Hermione's shoulder, his chin resting on her clavicle as he speaks.

"We deal with it, Hermione, just like we have to deal with everything else."

"I have to admit," Hermione says, rather sheepishly, pushing the stray filaments of tousled hair from her forehead, "It was rather nice."

"Yeah," Harry matches her grin. "It was."

Harry yawns, trying, and failing to stretch his limbs while he holds Hermione. Hermione thinks life is too short to be wasting time that can never be regained by yawning, so she ushers him over to the portable cot. She helps him to undress, pulling off his boots and divesting him of jeans, before she does the same herself.

Harry pulls back the thin blanket, making room for Hermione who slips beneath the cover, her back pressed against his chest where his heart thunders and she can feel his pulse rush through her body.

He pulls her flush against his body, his knee tucked in between her thighs; their feet tangled together, the ball of her foot stroking his calf while his hand grips her waist, resting on her hip. His fingers dance over the skin that prickles beneath his touch, like sensuous torture.

"You should sleep," Hermione tells him. How he managed to stave off hypothermia, she will never know.

Her wand is nestled beneath the pillow they share, safely guarded against the evil that roams after sundown.

But Harry doesn't answer. It's the first time he's closed his eyes since their journey for the light began.

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