The Fragile Blossom That Opens In The Snow.

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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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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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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Thank you again, for the display of support. I appreciate it immensely. I have been unwell this week, so writing had to take a bit of a back seat. So if you'll forgive me that, I am back off to bed and I hope you enjoy the next chapter.

Harry Potter. Do you dare to defy your destiny?

Hermione sighs, snuggling back into Harry's embrace. Her breath is even, her skin is warm, and the scent of her perfume infuses his nostrils as he stirs from his slumber, his lanky frame twisted in the lumpy bed.

The night has passed, but outside, the world is still dark.

The words of his dream world linger, ringing in his ears. Unlike shadows that fade, the idiom of illusion remains.

If he's honest with himself, he's living for something he can no longer define.

He has to decide if he'll toss aside the utterance of his most grievous nemesis, face the inevitable, or be content just to stay where he is, trading his trial for safe harbour.

Opportunity knocks but once. Success is measured by the standard of his accomplishments, the success of his proficiency, the courage that he will maintain in the face of his enemy.

Harry holds the palm of his hand over the scar that embellishes his forehead. He has been driven to his knees before, the memory of his time with the Dursleys, losing Sirius, Dumbledore, Cedric Diggory, agonizing, the untold stories inside of him.

Anything, anything would be better than the pain that gnaws at his gut. But right here, with Hermione in his arms, her suffering, the sorrow, this is the inspiration for his survival.

His sanity slips a little more each day and he finds that he is not exempt from the grip of insipid madness. And though his mind screams, through it all, his heart demands that he do the impossible; preserve his life, defend his love, his family.

Many things have changed over his lifetime, but Harry is sure of one thing. You begin and end with family.

Harry closes his eyes, his nose pressed against Hermione's placid curls. He counts back from ten and makes it to four when his consciousness drifts and joins Hermione in sleep.

The time will soon come to pass, Harry.

“No,” Harry whimpers defiantly, pathetically.

The one known to me as Hermione Granger, she hinders my progress, she disrupts my course. This shall no longer be the case. Your death is imminent. Your destiny is calling.

“No,” Harry shifts; his body thrashes and grips his chest in pain, white-hot searing that burns a hole in his armour. His teeth gnash and he curses. His vision is clouded, his hand in front of him as he shuffles towards the light where he is engulfed by a freeze-frame of images.

Hermione Granger, twelve years old, together in the Gryffindor tower. His saviour, wrapped up in a tiny package, so infinitely perfect, so unique, so brilliant. Hogwarts and potions, horcruxes and howlers. The curious sensation of making love to the woman he loves and the beat of her heart beneath his skin.

A young boy with eyes of green his dark hair shines in the splendour of the midday sun. He laughs and he cries, he takes his first steps. He wears his fathers face; he has inherited his mother's brilliance. He squeals. Harry smiles.

Radiant burning that flares like wildfire, flames that lick, flames that destroy with a flash and a spark. Harry watches his family burn. His son cries and screams, vulnerable, his human qualities denying him his existence. Hermione holds their child as they are ravished. She hums a lullaby. Even in the face of death, she is steadfast until the end.

Harry cannot move. He is frozen in time, suspended in lights. Like dead weight, he watches helplessly, struggling against his trappings, Voldemort sneers. Harry tries in vain to rescue them, time and time again, but a part of him dies with them and a cold rain turns his heart frigid as it extinguishes the blaze.

“No, please, no.”

Harry's sentiment echoes that of his son.

“Harry, wake up.”

Hermione tries to shake him from his blind torment.

“Harry, it's me. Wake up.”

Something in Hermione's tone catches and Harry stirs in her arms, his eyes wide and his body shaking.

“He's going to do it,” Harry says to himself. “He's going to take them.”

Hermione holds him and watches Harry, so utterly desperate. His voice is hoarse, his throat is dry and he pleads with her to help him. The look in his eyes breaks her heart, reminds her of that graveyard where his mother and father found their rest.

“Harry, you have to calm down. Look at you, you're shaking.”

“Voldemort, he's going to do it. He's going to take them,” He says again.

“Who? Harry, you're not making any sense. Who is he going to take? Is it Ron? His family?”

“Hermione and the baby,” Harry mutters, trying to release himself from Hermione's embrace.

“Harry, what are you talking about? It was just a dream. I'm right here. Everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

Harry inhales a ragged breath that seems to slow his breathing. He looks at Hermione, watches the rise and fall of her breast as she too breathes.

“Harry,” She holds him at arms length, two hands, one each, on his shoulder.

He shakes his head.

“A dream. It was just a dream, Hermione.”

Hermione is sceptical, but she does not question his acknowledgement. She is aware of the fact that he has experienced enough heartache of loss from the wand of dear Voldermort himself. The consequences speak for themselves.

Harry will not let this prophecy come to pass. He won't allow Hermione to become the subject of assassination.

“I'm sorry, Harry. I know how much it hurts. I miss my parents terribly.”

“You're so special, Hermione. I don't think you know how special you really are.”

He delights in her presence, even though she is still unaware of the feelings he holds, of the depth of emotion captured in his heart for her.

“It's going to be okay, Harry. We've come this far, we can't turn back now.”

Harry smiles and nods. He listens to Hermione because he knows that she is right. Even if she had fudged it all, he'd still let her lead him like a lamb to the slaughter.

****

Harry leans the bulk of his frame against the old trunk of a Downy Birch that is perched upon the river ledge. The bulbous roots span out across the dewy land and spread their buds along the length of the stream, absorbing water and mineral salts for sustenance.

Harry's shoulders slump against the weathered exterior of the tree. His hands are pushed deeply into his pockets and the collar of his jumper is turned up towards the heavens. It tickles the back of his neck when he turns his head to watch the strolling waters.

The dusting of snow beneath Hermione's feet belays her approach, it's not until the touch of her breath warms his cheek that he realises she has come to join him.

“It's beautiful out here, Harry.”

Her words tickle his nose as they become a frosty veil of obscured fog that surrounds them, sweeping away the light of day. The marvellous richness of their surroundings renews his energy, despite his lack of sleep the previous eve.

Just stay here. Grow old.

Together.

“Reality is what you make of life, Hermione.”

Harry wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her into his side, tucking her head beneath his chin, he rests his weary body upon her, and they bask in the muted tones of common light heralded from the sun as it pours freely, impartially, over the valley, kindling the morning.

Hermione prods the soil with the toe of her shoe, shifting it beneath her foot while she tries to compound the consonants and vowels that will form the sentence that could help them with their quest for knowledge.

“Harry, I've been thinking,” She speaks with her face turned towards the ground. “The symbol that Luna's father wore at the wedding, I think we need to find out more about it. There's something so seemingly familiar that I just can't put my finger on.”

Harry's fingers scrunch the locks of hair that they're wrapped around and then his hand relaxes again. He's locked in a bout of concentration, his head cocked to one side as he considers her proposition, the inherent dangers that come with eloping.

“Do you think he can tell us more about the Peverell lineage?”

“Whatever he can tell us might be able to explain the connection between Ignotus and the symbol that was on his gravestone.”

“Blimey, Hermione.”

His mind screams. Logically, he knows that they're here for the sake of others, for countless unknown souls, connected by the ties of enchantment, supernatural presence, their birth right, but for once in lifetime, he aches for selfishness. His veins are fuelled with the very notion, chasing away the chill of the season.

“Harry, I know we're throwing ourselves at things we can't possibly even begin to understand, but I think it's worth the trouble.”

He expels the breath he hadn't realised he was holding. So many questions, he's unsure of where to start.

“Just … give me a moment, Hermione.”

“Okay. I'll be waiting.”

Albus once told him that the true joy of life is being used for a purpose recognised as mighty, being thoroughly worn out before you come to find your time of rest, being a force of nature. Do your duties to the best of your abilities, all life demands struggle.

He hopes his parents are proud.

Harry turns back to Hermione and she smiles.

That's how he knows that the world is okay, that when the stars fall from the sky, she'll be in the dirt designing more. That's how he knows that he can make it through anything, with Hermione by his side.

“You might want to start packing. It's quite possible that we have a date with a madman.”

Hermione is in his arms before he can blink, and he thinks to himself - the more she does that, the more he likes it.

He refuses to let her out of his sight. Even as they wander the path that will lead them to the whereabouts of Xenophilius Lovegood, she does not leave his sight.

Harry knows that the Burrow is close by, even if he closes his eyes, he can feel the terror that leaches from every fibre of the humble Weasley abode, the pleasant connotations of family ties replaced with something else, something he can't quite put his finger on … Pity?

He wonders if Ron is there, back at home with his family under his wing. Briefly, he finds himself wondering where Ginny is and what she's doing. He's surprised that in his haste, he does not feel the gnawing guilt that he probably should, that he's earned by right.

Still, he knows that they must not pass on over the hill. Nothing good will come of it. That much he is sure of.

Harry is weary as he ascends the front steps that taper up to the ramshackle building. Gaudy orange globules hang like a string of crudely strung fairy lights and thick thatches of tall grass stoically guard the entrance to the great gnarled cavern.

He clutches Hermione's hand in his as he uses his free hand to knock at the door. His thumb grazes her knuckles, but he cannot shake the foreboding feeling that ruffles the hairs on the back of his neck.

Luna's father answers promptly.

“What is it? Who are you?”

Harry shifts the pack that clings to his shoulder.

“I … I'm Harry Potter. We met a few months ago. At the wedding?”

The man with platinum hair remains silent.

Harry exhales and takes a step towards the threshold.

“Could we come in?”

Hermione eyes the dark, damp house littered with papers. The smell of grease and ink makes her nostrils flare, but Harry ushers her inside with his hand pressed firmly into the small of her back and she can't say no.

She accepts the steaming mug that is set down before her as she eases herself into the lumpy chair by Harry's side. Her fingers curl around the pottery and she stifles a sob as she thinks about sipping tea at home with her mother in front of the hearth.

“So,” A third voice pulls Hermione from her musings and she eyes the man carefully as he speaks to Harry.

“How can I help you, Mister Potter?”

“Actually,” Hermione's eyes are drawn to Harry. “It was about something you were wearing around your neck at the wedding. A symbol.”

Hermione does not flinch but narrows her eyes as Xenophilius draws the chain from beneath the hem of his shirt and holds the silver pendant to show the two teens seated together in his common room.

“You mean this?”

“Yes, that's it,” Hermione almost chokes on the mouthful of tea as she swallows.

“What we wondered is,” Harry asks politely, “What is it?”

“What is it?”

Harry nods.

“Well it's the sign of the Deathly Hallows, of course.”

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So, the next instalment. It's coming along nicely. Thank you for your support. This chapter we start to really deviate from canon as you'll see. The next chapter heralds a showdown with Ron and the Weasleys and we'll find out more about Hermione's condition. Time to put my thinking cap on and get stuck into the plot now. I'm not sure what I've got myself into. It's times like this I wish I had a beta! Please, enjoy, and feel free to comment.

I don't own them.

The stone. The wand. The cloak. Together they make the Deathly Hallows.

The words echo. The stone. The wand. The cloak. Together they make the Deathly Hallows.

Harry repeats them again, determined to comprehend the magnitude of such a statement.

Reiterate something often enough and it will start to make sense. The words become as much a habit as breathing and the action that follows becomes instinct, like the blinking of eyelids.

He tries to condition his mind to perform every action necessary for success.

The cloak of invisibility he has within his possession. A family heirloom, probably passed down to his father, passed on to himself. He can't even fathom. The lace that binds them all, blood, sweat and tears forged painstakingly.

Harry shakes his head. From the corner of his eye, Luna's father grips his quill, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, not overly suspicious. He returns his attention to the parchment, the symbol denoting the master of death.

Harry ponders the development some more. Will they still have to hunt down horcruxes? Perhaps they can use this to their advantage. Certainly, there is advantage, the wand and the stone versus a multitude of other antique items. They're as allusive as any, but focusing their energies into finding just the two … It's certainly very, actually quite plausible.

Harry smiles for the first time in a long time. He turns to Hermione ready to seek her approval, like a giddy child tempted with lashings of Christmas trim and brightly coloured bows beneath the tree. But the room becomes chaos.

Xenophilius Lovegood raises his arms to the heavens and bids the death eaters entry to his humble palace. The ceiling explodes, debris rains down around them as he cries out, his lungs at full capacity, his voice booming. They are focused on one thing, and one thing only - elimination.

Harry clutches Hermione's wand in the palm of his hand. His heart thunders. Curses fly, a shower of sparks shed light upon the dank surroundings, they pop and hiss, blazing and sputtering.

The intruders laugh at Harry, their wands drawn, extended in front of them. They mock his name; they seek to surrender his dreams, unrelenting. They scream in his face, circling him where he stands.

His first reaction is one of anger. His senses startled, he purses his lips and cries out, his words crisp and clear.

“Hermione, get out of here. Run. Now.”

Hermione does not respond.

Harry sidesteps a blast that rips through the front door, dislodging it from the crumpled frame. He looks back over his shoulder, calling for Hermione, begging her to move, to follow him as he descends two steps at a time.

“Hermione, right now. Come on.”

He ducks at a curse thrown from behind. Falling to his knees, he continues to call out to Hermione, desperate to feel her hand wrapped in his. He claws at the earth, dislodging gangly clumps of sod in an attempt to pull himself up. For a fleeting moment, the shadow of Hermione's face obscures his view of anything other than the expression of sorrow that she wears. And then she's gone.

So he runs. A fire starting in his heart, he doesn't look back.

He knows she deserves more than that, but he's lost without her.

Running across fields, lurching in between trees where he can, he lifts his heels. He knows he must run faster. He doesn't stop to think about what he's running from, or to, or why. He's so anxious he'll do whatever it takes, like a thread lost in an endless labyrinth, his anguish spurs him forth.

Harry hikes his pack higher on his shoulder and curses as he stumbles over an exposed stump. The momentum propels him forward and he falls to his knees, scrambling for cover beneath the closest veil of foliage he can lay his eyes on.

And then he breathes. His lungs burn, he inhales sharply, his chest aching when he exhales, trying to infuse his body with fresh air, his heart working overtime. For a moment he fears hyperventilation, shock taking root in the depths of his bones, but gradually, he calms himself. It's what's best for Hermione. It's what she would expect of him.

Truth be told, he's just numb. He makes himself as small as he possibly can, tucking his knees up under his chin, he leans against the tree at his back. He's not going anywhere if he can help it, not right now.

He fingers Hermione's wand, the vine wood tickling his calloused digits as he commits the slope of the grain to memory, ridges carved from her hand.

Harry sighs and stuffs the wand into his pocket. His hand meets the frigid nip of alloy, and he withdraws the golden Snitch bequeathed to him by Albus Dumbledore. He knows it's important, of some significance to his life, to himself … to others …

I open at the close.

“What does that mean?”

Harry shifts his glasses to the tip of his nose and rubs his tired eyes.

Hermione would have known.

“Hermione,” He chokes on her name, his mouth dry, his spirit broken. He cradles his heavy head in his hands, the Snitch cold against his bare skin as it rests against the corner of his lip. It's not much, but it's comforting all the same.

Harry exhales again, his shoulders slumping as fatigue sets in.

“I swear,” He whispers. “If anything happens to her, I won't be able to go on. I'll have failed her. If Hermione dies …” He pauses for a moment to consider his words.

Harry's hand trembles. He unfurls each finger, one at a time, and marvels as the layers of the tiny sphere retract; the surface metamorphosing. Perfectly perpendicular compartments retreat to reveal a small, smoky prism, etched with the sign of the Deathly Hallows.

Harry squints behind his glasses, his brow creased as he concentrates on the stone now in the palm of his hand.

Marvolo Gaunt, the ministry representative, the ring he'd used as proof of his heritage, his ancestry, the ring that bore the Peverell symbol.

“The Resurrection Stone.”

Harry can't believe it. The battle has just become interesting. He closes his eyes and settles in for the journey to come. He hopes that wherever she is, Hermione is thinking of him too.

****

It's been weeks since he's seen Hermione, since he lost her. Harry is waiting for sleep to claim him. In the time that she has been gone, night has melded into day, the minutes become hours and the twilight can not come quickly enough. His eyelids seep, his chest begins the rhythmic rise and fall that signals slumber, offering up the deep with both hands. Without warning, he is engulfed by a vortex of dark energy. Visions of the ultimate prophecy, he's being transported toward hell, this truly diabolical torture that the inquisitor wants.

His limbs are heavy, his soul dwells outside of his physical body, his mind strong and clear. The night is his companion, solitude his guide.

Grindelwald.

“I've been expecting you. I knew you would come.”

Voldemort slinks into the room, the allurement flamed by his corrupt desires. Black robes flail in the night, lined with obstinacy, the systematic organisation of blind hatred.

Grindelwald.

“Surely you must know, I no longer have what you seek.”

Grindelwald.

“Tell me Grindelwald, tell me where it is. Tell me who has it, who has it, Grindelwald?”

The old man begins to laugh. Desire is the root of all evil. Blinking without remark, he cackles.

Grindelwald.

“He has the Elder wand. It is gone. Buried beneath the earth … Dumbledore.”

Into the wrong hands. The master shall retrieve his bounty.

“Dumbledore.”

“Dumbledore.”

“Dumbledore.”

Harry's body trembles, shaking. He cannot sleep forever.

With excess of light surrounding him, the universe calls to him, his consciousness assisting. Inspired by some great purpose, his mind transcends the limitations, and Harry awakes to the strains of a tortured soul.

Hermione.

“She has been screaming for hours. Poor, poor little Hermione.”

Luna Lovegood lingers in front of his face.

His heart breaks. It makes him vulnerable. It eats him out and leaves him crying in the darkness.

“Take heart, Mister Potter.”

A second voice approaches and Harry squints, trying to make out the persona of the silhouette, hoping to be able to place the face.

“Miss Granger is resourceful,” The man continues.

Ollivander.

“We have to help her,” Harry stumbles to his feet, unsteady on the concrete cobblestone floor.”

“Well? What are you waiting for, don't just stand there. Help me. We have to help her.”

“Harry, the room is enchanted” Luna tries, but Ollivander holds his hand up, a gesture of calm and quiet.

Harry pats his pockets looking for Hermione's wand. He thrusts his hands into his pockets, deep into the recesses, scrounging for the lifeline.

“They have the wand, Mister Potter. I sense it.”

Harry furrows his brow and gives the man a sideward glance.

“You doubt that I know my wands, Mister Potter? Let me assure you I know the materials and attributes of every wand I have ever sold. I have always endeavoured to give a little of myself, to each and every wand that I have ever made. Mark my words, they have the wand.”

Harry thinks about the Moke-skin pouch around his next, the one that rests next to his heard, filled with his most treasured possessions. He inhales and withdraws the broken Holly and Phoenix feather monstrosity, offering it to Ollivander for closer inspection.

The elderly man simply shakes his head.

Harry replaces the wand and retrieves the golden Snitch. He curls his fingers around the tiny luminous orb and raises it to his lips. He closes his eyes and whispers.

“Open up. Please. Help me.”

Nothing.

Again he whispers.

“For Hermione. Please.”

Nothing.

Harry lowers the Snitch back into his satchel and startles when his finger grazes the jagged edge of the two way mirror. Having nothing to lose and the hope that she will return to his embrace, Harry chokes on his words.

“Please, somebody help me.”

Luna watches with fascination.

“Do you know that whenever I'm feeling alone, I look into my mirror and smile,” She tells Mister Ollivander with all the innocence of a fledgling infant.

“Help me,” Harry screams into the portion of seeing glass he had retained after the loss of his father figure, Sirius.

His palms sweat and the steady staccato beat of his heart accelerates as anxious fears take their toll. If he blinks, he'll miss the quiver of azure that flares to life for a brief interlude.

When he does blink, there's a pop and a flash and Dobby is standing by his side.

“Dobby,” He gasps aloud. “What are you doing here?”

“Dobby has come to rescue Harry Potter. Dobby will always help Harry Potter.”

“Can you apparate with others Dobby?”

His desperation is on his sleeve, his heart in his mouth as he waits for confirmation.

“Well, yes. Dobby is an elf.”

“Dobby, we have to help Hermione. She's in trouble.”

Off the top of his head there is no place sacred, no place that he can think of to seek refuge, where the resistance will welcome him with open arms. It's a rabbits den of underground movements, hidden from the clutches of the dark Lord and his henchmen. Harry swallows thickly. He is about to swallow his pride. He has to do it, for Hermione.

“Dobby, take Luna and Mister Ollivander to Shell Cottage right away. When you get back, follow my lead. It's me they really want.”

Another Cruciatus curse is cast and Dobby jumps closer to Harry as the two are forced to listen to Hermione stifle her whimpers. The pain in her voice cuts at his heart like splinters of glass absently working their way through his body, tearing him apart inside.

“Dobby will be right with you, Harry Potter.”

Dobby takes the hands of his passengers and smiles at Harry before he delivers the pair to safety.

Harry sighs.

“Hey,” He yells with absolute abandon, rattling the heavy cast iron bars as he tries to rouse a response from above.

“I'm down here. Remember me? Harry Potter? Come and get me. I'm the one you really want.”

Silence.

Harry steps back from the dungeon door as it opens without warning. Warily, he follows the stairs that lead to the main parlour of Malfoy Manor. He spies Dobby at the top of the stairwell, tucked in behind the majestic balustrade that spans the length of the walk of shame.

Malfoy. I should have known.

“Look at that, Mudblood. There's Harry Potter. He thinks he's come to save you.”

Draco sniggers.

Bellatrix Lestrange sneers at Hermione, her body pulled rigidly to attention, a dagger resting as the base of her throat. If she swallows, the slightest movement could pierce her pale skin.

Harry is unarmed, faced with undeniable odds. The strongest soldier, daring to die with his hands tied. For better or worse, he is determined to front his assailant. Resolve and strength are the virtues that the great know how to use.

“So, Potter. You think you're the one that I really want? But I'm having so much fun with this little treasure, the one who has stolen the sword from my vault. She must be punished.”

“No.”

Harry lunges forward and watches as Bellatrix drops Hermione to the floor while she grapples in her linen for her wand. Harry is on his knees, stretching to reach Hermione, to touch her skin. She is his focus. Come on Dobby. Don't fail me now.

Time stands still as Bellatrix extends her hand, gnarled fingers wrapped around her grotesque wand. She opens her mouth, the vile words on the tip of her tongue.

“Dobby will save Harry Potter now.”

Harry closes his eyes, prepared to take the hit for Hermione.

The rolling waves sooth his soul. The salt is sweet on his lips, a gentle breeze sweeps his fringe from his face, but behind his glasses, his eyes remain closed.

His senses pick up the season in the air; it's unusually cool for this time of year.

One eye opens, and then the other, and he scales the span of coast in front of him.

Wildflowers border the mounds like a fringe of colourful cheer. The tide is coming in, and he can hear the waves breaking around him, he can count the seconds before the next wave rolls up to the shore. A sprinkling of dark pebbles litters the sand, sand tainted with the crimson lifeblood of Hermione Granger.

“Hermione,” He is on his feet and running.

“Hermione,” He screams, ignoring Luna who descends the high standing dunes after him.

He kneels beside her and his jeans are wet, his knees saturated by the damp sand. But he doesn't care. He can't.

“Hermione,” He says again. Dobby watching the two with anxious eyes, wringing his hands as Luna makes it to his side at a dash.

Her pants are stained as she bleeds from her lower extremities. Harry's hands are smeared as he lifts her into his arms and strides towards the cottage like a man scorned. Fleur will help him. Fleur will help him.

He's too wound up to notice the tiny spark that prickles his conscience.

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Wow. I was moved by all of the kind words and well wishes, so overwhelmed that I felt I owed it to my readers to continue on. It had not been my intention to leave you all hanging; rather, I recognise the importance of a story that flows without hindrance. I honestly felt uneasy about publishing this next chapter, but if you're willing to give it a chance, that's good enough for me. Thank you.

To clear up confusion, Yes, Hermione was snatched up by Death Eaters. Harry spiralled into a world where night and day became one and he himself was not even aware of his capture until he awoke at Malfoy Manor. It would have been so easy for me just to write that, but it's a cop out, hence some of the confusion.

Please enjoy this chapter. I have tried to simplify it without compromising the story.

I don't own them.

The soles of Harry's shoes squelch as he trudges across the fringed mounds that surround the nearby cottage. His legs ache as he climbs the dunes of powdered sand. His body thrums; heavy with fatigue, but his precious cargo does not encumber.

His entourage fall into step behind him. Their footsteps are consumed by tiny grains, like sands through the hourglass that fill the void created by a man with ten pounds in his back pocket and a dream about to be shattered.

The opulent dwelling kept by Bill Weasley and his wife comes into view and Harry picks up his speed. Hermione's head lolls against his shoulder, but he tells himself that she'll be alright. The fact that the sour stench of fresh blood tickles his olfactory senses is insignificant. Insignificant.

“You're okay, Hermione. See, we're almost there. Open your eyes, Hermione. Look at the cottage.”

Over the final hurdle just to be dealt another. Harry stumbles upon the obstruction, his teeth gnashed together, his brow turned in, his face a mask, the complex and obscure expression of a poker player, in a pitch dark room, with blank cards, playing for infinite stakes with a dealer who does not know the rules.

Ron's looming frame is undeniable.

“Go home, Harry. You're not welcome here.”

Hit me.

“Don't do this, Ron. It's Hermione.”

Ron's body language screams at the crowd - defy me at your own risk.

The husband and wife appear behind the man's baby brother. Her hand is wrapped tightly in his. United they stand, divided they will fall as loyalties begin to crumble. She'll smile at him, he'll smile at her and then, then his nerve will be extracted.

“Hermione is bleeding to death. Don't do this, Ron.”

Fleur, a Weasley by name, stares at her husband. It is clear that they understand each other. He steps around Ron to observe the commotion and gasps. He certainly had not expected this kind of reception. He speaks with a heavy heart, his words tinged with sadness.

“Dobby, there is a healer the next village over. Maplethorn, ask for Healer Maplethorn.”

Harry's faithful companion will not fail.

“Dobby will do it for Harry Potter.”

Ron blocks the entry to the front parlour. He's not willing to give. He folds his arms across his chest and leans his bulk against the doorframe.

“Stand down, Ronnie.”

“What?”

Ron turns on his heel, the look of betrayal, rife across his face.

“You heard me. Stand down. Hermione needs our help. Put your grievances aside and help her mate.”

“Why the bloody hell should I?” Ron spits, furious with his brother, furious at his own misery, bitter in the face of unjust.

“Because she's one of us … Because … You love her.” Bill turns back to his wife.

The words shatter his resolve. Ron knows this is not about winning, or losing. Harry always had her. No, it's not about being number one, in Ron's mind, its all about how you play the game, courage under fire and honour amongst men. But Harry had shafted him, played his hand for all it's worth, and nobody, not even his own flesh and blood will assert the role of the voice of reason.

“Let him through, Ron. If you want to be a hero, let Harry through.”

“Pleeze, Ron,” Fleur interjects. “Do zees fer us.”

Ron relents. Whatever it takes. He won't survive the next fifty years without her.

Dejected, he moves aside, but his eyes daren't leave Harry, or the hope that he carries.

****

Hermione is tucked neatly between crisp, cotton sheets. Clementine Maplethorn is diligent in her assessment of Hermione's ailments; Ron, Bill and Fleur linger by the foot of the bed apprehensively, and Harry. Harry stands idly by the furthest window. To the untrained eye, he is seemingly passive, observing the sweeping lull of the ocean's too and fro.

His white knuckled grip on the windowsill speaks for itself.

“I'm afraid it's not terribly good news,” The healer concludes.

“Miss Granger's body is trying to expel the products of conception. She is malnourished, physically exhausted. To be frank, I am surprised that she made it as far as she has.”

Harry's fingers claw at the timber, but he remains otherwise unengaged.

“The foetus was most likely four, possibly five weeks old. It's not an exact science; my wand has been trained to assure me the finer details. I am terribly sorry. Do you know where the father is?”

Ron's head whips up and he turns on Harry, his hands balled into tight fists, clenching, unclenching. His body quivers, anger chasing through his veins.

“You bloody bastard. You did this to her.”

Harry remains silent. Still.

“I knew it, I bloody knew it. It's your fault, isn't it? Well? Cat got your tongue, Harry?”

His words drip malice.

“We're in the middle of a bloody war, you're the one that You-Know-Who wants, and Hermione has to suffer because you're just a bloody selfish bastard.”

Harry turns to face his dismayed audience. A lone tear carves a blazing trail upon his skin and he swipes it away. He clears his throat.

“You don't get to talk about this.”

His eyes burn through Ron with a sickening glare, and then he excuses himself and abandons his post, his legs giving way as he barely crosses the threshold and falls to his knees.

“I … I …” The healer stutters.

“I have ordered blood replenishing potion, something for nutrition, for pain, she will need bed rest, a sleeping draught might be best, the longer the better.”

Fleur throws herself into her husband's arms. She buries her face in the crook of his neck and hiccups tiny sobs that are muffled by Bill's stature.

“We'll make sure of it,” He assures the kindly woman.

“So …” He adds,“Fire whiskey?”

Three heads nod simultaneously.

Stepping into the hall, they leave Hermione to rest. Harry, however, is quite another story.

“I'll kill him,” Ron seethes as they make their way towards the sitting room where the crystal decanter is stowed in the fine china cabinet.

He tips his glass and tilts his head and the amber liquor burns his gullet. There's plenty more where that one came from.

“Calm down, Ron. Hermione will be alright. She's strong.”

Ron laughs at his brother's pitiful attempt to reassure him.

He swallows thickly, the bitter aftertaste lingering on his palate.

There is no fucking sunshine.

He seems to forget his own strength as he hurls the glass across the room. It spirals towards the far wall of the kitchenette, colliding with the rich timber paneling. Fragments litter the floor, the tumbler lays destroyed, but still, Ron doesn't blink.

Luna pokes her head through the alcove archway and frowns.

“It's bad, isn't it?” She asks the group, Mister Ollivander by her side.

“No, Luna. It's not good. Hermione has had … She, uh,” Bill struggles to find the right words.

“I can feel Harry's pain,” She says simply.

“Pain,” Ron turns on his heel. “What would he know about pain? All he does is hurt other people, causes them pain and suffering. How would he know what that feels like? He's Harry Potter.”

“Ron …” Fleur chastises, “Zat eez enough.”

“I don't think Harry should be sad at all,” Luna mutters beneath her breath. “I think this is a blessing. I can feel it,” She all but whispers.

****

Out on the front step, Harry sits with his back against the chiseled stone. His knees are drawn up to his chest and he watches the breeze pick up around the thatch of dune grass. The stems bend and bow with the force of the elements. It's peaceful. It's painful. He is reminded of the cycle of life. For every living creature, there must come death, no yesterday and no tomorrow.

To lose someone you love is to alter your life forever. No father should outlive his son. There is a hole in his heart, nothing; nobody will ever fit the mould carved out by his unborn child.

Hermione. Hermione.

What she has sacrificed for him.

Her pale face still haunts him; her gaunt figure sprawled upon the soiled sand. Her scars, he'll only ever remember the scars that marred her beautiful skin. Snatches of time replay over and over again, her cold cheek, her lips of blue.

In his grief, he can almost feel the tiny consciousness that was his son. Almost like a trace of recognition that flickers deep within his mind. It can't be that. It's merely little more than a father's unbridled misery stabbing his heart and piercing that niche.

He shakes his head to brandish the clouds. Uncle Vernon said it best - Don't fool yourself, Boy.

“I don't think you should ignore your feelings, Harry.”

Harry looks up at Luna.

“Your son lives on you know. We're all spirit in essence,” Luna tries to tell him, tries to make him understand.

“He's gone,” Harry argues.

“No, but he's not. Don't you see? Listen to that voice inside of you …”

“Luna,” Harry cuts her off. “I appreciate what you're trying to do. Really, I do. But I need to be alone right now.”

He'll figure it out one day. She thinks.

“Alright, Harry. Is there anything I can get for you? Anything you need?”

Harry sighs.

“I need for my son and Hermione to be alright. Can you do that for me, Luna?”

Luna smiles brightly.

“Oh, but they are, Harry. They're both bright shining lights. Surely you know that.”

Harry has had enough.

“Luna,” He snaps. “Get Ollivander. I need to know more about the Elder Wand.”

Luna can barely see Harry's aura, and that bothers her. Though he radiates blue, different shades rippling like gossamer from turquoise through midnight - his sadness, there's no mistaking the haze of grey that represents Hermione and her ailments or the sliver of white - something new, pure spirit.

“You'll be alright, Harry,” She says before she leaves to collect the man most highly regarded in the art of wands. She doesn't have to move too far. He's standing at the top of the stairs.

“Thank you Miss Lovegood. Mister Potter and I will take it from here.”

Luna nods curtly, leaving the two to their conversation.

“So,” Mister Ollivander says, taking his place on the bottom step beside Harry. “You want to know more about the Elder Wand, do you? Let me see then. Ah, well, obviously it is made from Elder wood, the most powerful of all wand woods because it symbolizes regeneration. If memory serves me correctly, it was fashioned by Death himself. They say that only he who has mastered death can ultimately master the Elder Wand.”

Harry contemplates his words carefully; curiosity has its own reason for existing.

He who has mastered death.

If only his son had.

“I am sorry for your loss, Harry. I hope that in time, Miss Granger will come back to full health. I too know the pain of the loss of a child.”

Harry hangs his head; it is simply beyond all comprehension.

“Thank you. I … Ron was right. It's my fault.”

“Everything happens for a reason, Mister Potter. Do you think it mere coincidence that the wand that chose you held the twin core of The Dark Lord's wand also?”

“She's going to be devastated.”

“Likely,” Ollivander tells him. “Very likely.”

Harry waivers with his next question, wanting to swallow that give way to acknowledgement.

“Does it ever get better?”

“It's not something you will ever forget.”

Tears sting Harry's eyes, but he forces them back, determined not to let his loss defeat him.

“You are not finished when defeated, Mister Potter. You are finished when you quit. Think about what you're giving up on; think about what Miss Granger will need. Do not live to regret your reaction, do not allow your son to have died in vain.”

Harry chokes back a sob.

“You're right. It's time to think about Hermione now.”

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So, the next chapter, in which Hermione wakes, Ron and Harry come to blows, and Harry makes his decision. I tried to resolve the issue of speech that somebody had with the story, I hope it helps. Thank you for all the support. The response has been truly amazing. I have been sick again, thus the delay in posting. I will reply to reviews as soon as possible, right now I lack the energy.

Enjoy.

I don't own them.

Harry waits for Ron to leave before he enters Hermione's dimly lit room. He counts the heavy footsteps as they echo down the hall, and only when he's entirely certain that Ron has locked the bedroom door behind him, does Harry take his place by Hermione's side.

He keeps vigil over her broken body, and his soul aches. It breaks him too, because if he squints, just enough, he can see her body swollen with the signs of life, his flesh and blood moving towards excellence as his son grows, pursuant to the miracle that is life. The birth of a new hope, cause for celebration.

But his good deeds have been erased, like wands at dawn, a round of unmentionables aimed at his chest, like the killing curse straight through his heart. It is irrevocable and irreversible.

He stops hoping to see the world through the eyes of his child, instead he wonders about the purpose of life. Nobody wants to suffer, to experience pain or loss so infinite that it leaves you dying inside, a hermit existing in a derelict shell because of the great gaping chasm that mars the soul.

Harry is immobilized by the gravity of his grief, but the fact that it was his fault, that he was unable to prevent the inevitable from happening, that is the noose that cinches tightly around his neck, that constricts slowly, like agony, because he knows that there is nothing that he can do to stop it, the situation is hopeless and the world still slips into darkness.

He must have presented himself with the scenario a thousand times. They hadn't known that Hermione was pregnant. Of course, the possibility had presented as an option, but reality affected them all. He cannot be what he is destined to be until she is what she is destined to be, but even the world of actuality has its limits.

The what-ifs are varied. What if he had died with his parents? What if Hermione had decided to stay behind? What if Ron had never left? What if their child had survived?

What if she will never forgive him?

They grate on his nerves sometimes. So he closes his eyes.

Maddening.

Still her chest continues to rise and fall, a snort of contempt in the face of fear. Externally, the scars are healing. He examines her face carefully, his finger tracing the flaws for emphasis. The ripple that mars her face has faded, but he finds beauty in the twisted patch of tainted flesh. It means she is alive, even though she is likely devoid on the inside.

Suffering makes for a strong soul, to that he can attest.

Her wounds have closed, but the revival of her soul remains to be seen. Her womb will forever bear the deepest damage. There is always the danger of a relapse.

“He looked just like me. I am sure of it,” Harry whispers to the wind that raps on the windowpane.

“And brilliant too I'm sure, Hermione.”

As she exhales, her breath remains even and she continues to slumber. It tickles his hand as he cups her cheek.

“I'm surrounded by death,” He continues, his thumb stroking her impossibly smooth skin.

“My parents were taken, and then there was Sirius, Dumbledore, the list got longer as I got older.”

He swallows thickly, checking names off on the fingers of his free hand.

“James, I think we would have agreed to call him James. In fact, I think you would have insisted.”

Harry extends his pinkie and the lump in his throat inflates.

“And James was taken too soon, Hermione.”

His words are cold and flat.

“What if it's me, Hermione? What if I am the Master of Death? What if I can bring him back? If I can find the Elder wand, I'd do it you know.”

He misses the twinge of Hermione's brow as it furrows.

“You've always believed in me, Hermione. I think I can do this. I can find the wand, I can defeat him. I can defeat Voldemort.”

His next sentence is unexpected, but it has been gnawing at him for some time now.

“I have to continue on alone though. Do you understand what I'm saying Hermione? Of course you don't. You'll chastise me for my hero complex and I'm really not looking forward to the slap you'll be wielding.”

Unconsciously, he cradles the side of his face.

“But it's up to me. We all know that I am the only one who can do this. Too many people have had to die at my expense, and I've made up my mind. I'm going to end this; I'm going to make it better.”

“No … Harry. No.” Hermione rasps, trying desperately to push herself into a sitting position, but her abdomen burns as the pain tears through her being. Her eyes are wide now and Harry struggles to console her. He is defiant.

“It's okay. I'm right here, just calm down Hermione.”

“James. Who is James, Harry? Your father?”

Harry remains silent. He cannot lie to her.

“Who is James?” She repeats the question.

“Our child. He is the boy you lost, Hermione,” He seethes, throwing back the heavy timber seat that he has just vacated and standing to his full height. The despair in her eyes breaks his heart. She's going to ask him to tell her that it's not at all true. He knows that she is going to declare him insane and that the two are merely dreaming, she will blame the Horcrux, even though it has already met an untimely demise. And then she will find clarity, she will calm, and she will hold it all inside.

He knows her. He knows Hermione.

But she can't escape the tears that fall. The conversation is worthless, pointless, but he will have it for her.

“Hermione, you are … so beautiful. I … It wasn't meant to happen like this.”

“Harry?”

She's not confused, she understands, she's far too bright not to, she just does. But she needs him to speak the words that will ignite the her heart, that will fuel her collective sigh, the inner exuberance that erupts through her skin and joins the energy that created the world, that created her son.

“Hermione … He … I …”

The words are interrupted by the squeak of shoes as they round the corner at a hasty pace and Ron bursts forth through the door like a rescue squad on twenty-four-hour call to anywhere dispute and conflict may erupt.

“Hermione,” Ron pants. “I heard voices. What's going on?”

“Hermione just woke up,” Harry endeavours to explain the current predicament. “I was telling her what happened. I was trying to tell her that she was pregnant, that she lost the baby, her son. That's what's happening Ron. I was trying to tell Hermione that I have to leave and that she can't come with me this time. This is my trial and mine alone.”

Hermione stifles a sob and Ron lunges at Harry, his fist making contact with the corner of Harry's lip.

“What? You're just going to leave her? After everything that has happened? You bloody selfish bastard,” Ron continues to yell at Harry.

Harry swipes at the trickle of crimson that spills over his lip.

“You were just waiting for me to leave, weren't you, Ron? Let's be honest,” Harry taunts him with his wicked words. “You've just been waiting to pick up the pieces since we got here.”

“Like you care, Harry? Like you put Hermione's wellbeing before your own selfish needs?”

Hermione watches the back and forth between the two. Her eyes do not leave Harry's face and his features do not move, his eyes, his jaw set, his shoulders pushed back as he takes up his fighting stance.

His nostrils flare and his anger is evident. But when Harry turns back to Hermione, he speaks calmly, with tenderness, the repose of passion, he repents. And that when Hermione knows, when she realises that if Harry can change the rules, then so can she.

She will sleep soundly in his arms again.

Taking up a knee, Harry kneels down beside the bed. He takes Hermione's hand and brushes the stray locks of fringe from her forehead, tucking them safely away behind her ear before he speaks.

“Hermione, I know that my timing is bad. Really, really, really bad. There is so much I need to say to you, but please, if you trust me then trust me right now. Trust me when I tell you that I have to do this alone.”

Ron folds his arms across his chest, but he does not move.

“You need to rest,” Harry continues, bothered by the fact that Ron will hear his declaration when it should be Hermione, solely Hermione.

“You need to rest, and I can't ask you to put yourself in a position where you could be hurt again. I know you understand. You're the smartest Witch I know. Hermione,” He inhales and tries to ignore the way that Ron glares at him. “Hermione, I love you and I need you to do this for me. Can you do this for me? Please?”

Hermione nods and Harry chokes on his words.

“I will miss him. So much, Hermione. He wasn't even here and I miss him already so much.”

Ron turns his eyes to the floor beneath his feet, decent enough to divert his attention elsewhere for the sake of the other two.

“And when I get back, after I defeat Voldemort, we will be okay, because I need you, Hermione. You are what I've been missing in my life.”

If Harry realises that Hermione's mind is plotting, that she too plans to move forward without looking back, he says nothing.

Hermione has always insisted that productivity is never an accident, that it is the result of commitment to excellence, intelligent planning and focused effort. This time, they're both taking a page out of her book.

“I will be here waiting,” She makes her promise, if only so that she can manipulate it to serve her own purpose after the fact.

Harry leans forward and his lips brush gently against Hermione's. There is no urgency, no hesitance. He clings to her, for now.

“I need to shower and change,” Harry says reluctantly and sighs. “I will have to leave soon, the journey is challenging, but I will not leave you just yet.”

“I understand,” She assures him. “It's fine, Harry. I am okay. It's just going to take time.”

Time I don't have, He does not tell her.

“I'll be back,” Harry speaks softly, inaudible to anybody but the occupants of the small room.

“I'll be here,” Hermione replies in kind.

Harry does not acknowledge the presence of Ron as he leaves the room with his head hung and his grief evident, his loss like a choke hold, starving the life from his weary body.

Hermione does.

“Ron, do you really love me?”

“Cripes, Hermione,” Ron starts. “Is now really the time to get into that? If it bothers you I can take it back. I can take it back and pretend that my dolt of a brother never even mentioned it. I'm cool like that you know.”

“Ron, this is important. I really need to know if you love me.”

He throws his hands into the air.

“Of course I do, Hermione. Of course I love you, how could I not?”

“Good,” Hermione frowns, trying to shake off the worry that gnaws away at the back of her mind. “That's good, because you're going with Harry.”

“I'm what now?” He asks.

“Ron Weasley, if you love me, then you have to go with Harry. He needs you, he needs somebody.”

“Cripes,” Ron exhales the first word that spills from his mouth.

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Thank you for your support and patience. Here is the next chapter, in which Ron comes to a realisation, Hermione and Harry clear the air and Luna is caught peeping at the bedroom door. Fairly self explanatory, I shouldn't need to clear up much with this chapter. Enjoy.

I don't own them.

“He needs you, Ron. You have to go. You know him better than anyone, you know the real Harry, not the hero, not the `boy who lived,' you know Harry. Harry Potter.”

“Hermione,” Ron protests, though he knows that his words make little difference. She has made up her mind.

“Look at what he has done to you. Open your eyes, you just expect me to pick up where Harry and I left off? Cup of tea and ring around the blasted rosy? He got you … you know,” He motions,” And now he's going to up and leave you. Have you lost your mind?”

Hermione's clenched fist unfurls to cover her abdomen.

“Don't blame Harry. I knew of the consequences too.”

Ron can't help but think that Hermione would have been a good mother. Kissing every skinned knee placed before her, advice at the ready, knowledge, her greatest gift. Patience, the way she puts up with him and with Harry, the greatest influence in moulding her children, forgiving and tolerant, a good example. Respectful, conveying clarity, she is the mother who spoils her child, who takes her child by the hand and introduces them to the wonders of the wizarding world. Harry would have her on the highest pedestal.

The realisation seems to startle Ron. It does little to mend his heart, the ache so profound that his knees become weak and his body buckles, the weight of his knowledge both comforting and confounding.

“You're in love with Harry,” He mumbles, wincing as he gives life to the notion.

Hermione will not sugar-coat the truth anymore.

“Yes,” She nods, acknowledging the truth in his words.

“It's not like you to take risks,” Ron continues, fumbling for the seat that Harry had vacated earlier. “Not unless you're prepared, not unless …” He looks up at Hermione. “Not unless you're sure.”

“Please don't blame Harry,” Is all that Hermione can say.

How did I miss this? He wonders. What about Ginny? When did things change?

As if she is able to read his mind, Hermione tries to offer some closure.

“I think it's always been this way for us, certainly for me, I suppose I can't speak for Harry … But he's has so much on his shoulders, so much to think about without having to think about me,” Hermione muses, derailing her train of thought, the look on Ron's face like a sickening blow.

“None of the other things matter without you,” Harry says from the doorframe where he leans into the room. He pushes his hands into his pockets and steps forward, crossing the threshold. He shakes his head as he approaches the two.

“I'm sorry, Ron. But it has always been Hermione. I am in love with Hermione. I know you wanted it to be Ginny,” He hangs his head, the guilt silently, irrevocably berating, “… I know you wanted it to be Ginny, but it's not. It's Hermione.”

Harry meets Hermione's eyes, gaze upon gaze, acknowledging that it's all alright, that they'll make it through this and he will come back to her.

Ron's back is stiff, anger seeps like a silent assassin, cherished resentment long harboured, burns his soul like a white-hot coal grasped in the palm of his hand.

Harry knows all of the signs. The way that Ron's face scrunches at the corner of his eyes, crows' feet, the Muggles call them. His nose turns red, the very tip, a natural reaction, and his body's way of reacting to the unfortunate misfortune he finds himself facing. Harry notices the way that Ron's feet are braced, for such a sturdy frame, Harry knows that Ron can be nimble when the need arises.

“I don't like what you did,” Ron states calmly, his jaw flexing as his self resolve crumbles. “I don't like what you did to Hermione, what you have done to my sister, I don't like it. Am I making myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” Harry assures him, his foot inching closer to the bed, closer to Hermione, closer to breeching the gap between the too, fiercely protective, his paternal instincts coming into their own, the charm of his ill fated parental bond not forsaking him.

“Ronald,” Hermione tries. “Ron, please.”

Silently, Ron rises. His fists balled up, his thumbs tucked in tight. He raises his arm, Harry has already braced himself and he does not flinch, he remains stoic as Ron's hand makes contact with the corner of Harry's mouth.

“Shit,” Harry spits, his hand working his chin in circles, testing his jaw, trying to rub away not only the physical pain, but the ache that manifests in his heart.

Ron shakes his hand, but there is no satisfaction in the act of violence, he will claim the sole act as a knee-jerk reaction, nothing more, nothing less. A final warning of sorts, too many have already suffered.

“Ron,” Hermione cries, trying to push herself up, trying to throw her legs over the side of the bed, trying desperately to find a wand so that she can fix Harry with a conjured cure-all.

“I'm fine. I'm fine,” Harry raises his hand to placate Hermione.

“What?” Ron shrugs, suitably amused. “We all knew that it was coming.”

“You're a brute,” Hermione offers. “That's what,” She says with a huff and folds her arms across her tender breasts.

“Right, well,” Ron looks at Harry who glares at him from the corner of his eye. “I've done what I wanted to do. I'll let you two talk now.”

****

“You're really going to leave, aren't you, Harry?”

Harry paces the length of the room and then turns, coming back to the head of the bed where he began his incessant march of speculative doom. He pulls his glasses from the bridge of his nose and rubs his tired eyes.

“Yes,” He sighs.

“And there is nothing I can do to convince you otherwise?” Hermione asks.

“No,” Harry confirms her suspicions.

“Then I guess you are going to have to promise that you will come back in one piece, aren't you, Harry?”

“I know that you need me right now,” Harry replies. “I know that you need my support, and that losing our son is one of the hardest things that we have had to deal with, and we have had to deal with a lot of really bad things, Hermione. But if I don't do this now, if I don't beat Voldemort to the Elder Wand, then there will be no second chance.”

Hermione is stunned, she audibly gasps. Harry's hard glare becomes soft, his expression wholesome. He shrugs.

“I was hoping maybe one day, you and me …”

Hermione smiles, her lips are turned up and despite the fact that she is deathly pale; she manages the most beautiful smile, one that soothes the hate around his heart in an instant.

“I just wasn't sure,” He says sheepishly. “After everything that has happened, I know what I want, and I want it with you, Hermione.”

Hermione shakes her head vehemently.

“You don't have to wait, Harry. You're already a father. Our son may not be here right now, but you are definitely already a father. Take strength from that, hold onto that when you need it most.”

“I don't cry often,” Harry sniffs, dragging the rough cuff of his woollen sleeve across his damp cheek. “See what you do to me, Hermione?”

“You have sacrificed enough already, Harry. You must be strong now. You must not give up.”

“We can do this, Hermione. We can win this war, and when I come home, we an have baby James, we can have James Junior, James Harry, we can even have James Ronald if it means the rest of my life with you.”

Hermione pats the mattress beside her and makes space for Harry to hop in next to her. He does so reverently, ever cautious of her ailments, he handles her like the finest china, one hand around her waist while he manoeuvres them into a spooning position with his chest pressed up against her back. She can feel his heartbeat; they beat in tandem, syncopated like the rhythm of the night. It builds that which is broken, and finds its way into the secret places of the soul.

Harry's fingers brush across the cool cloth of her nightgown and he presses the palm of his trembling hand against her belly, almost as if he can reach his child. He wonders if he tries a little harder, it he does a little better, that maybe, just maybe, baby James is still there and this sickening reality is nothing more than a terror concocted by the fragments of the Dark Lord, the ones that abundantly haunt him.

“Does it hurt?” He wonders, his thumb grazing the place where the child that he has fathered will no longer take rest.

Hermione shakes her head. “No. It doesn't hurt. It's just tender.”

“I'm sorry, Hermione. I'm so sorry.”

Hermione's shoulders shake and Harry can hear the whimpers that she tries to stifle. He will not deny her this right.

“Better to have loved, and lost,” She chokes on the words that are stuck like a lump in her throat.

“That doesn't make it right, Hermione. Nothing can make it right. I just hope that he has found peace with my parents.”

Hermione is hopeful. She still likes to believe that there is light at the end of the tunnel.

“I have to go,” Harry whispers into the wisps of her thick, downy hair.

“You'll be back,” Hermione replies. She knows that he will return, and that once again, she will stand at his side. Right now, her life depends on it.

“I will be back, Hermione.”

Hermione keeps her back turned as she feels the mattress dip once again. She can feel Harry's eyes upon her, raking the length of her body, committing this final image of her to memory. But she cannot bear to watch him leave.

“I love you, Hermione.” Harry's voice is quiet, solemn. There is no hesitation in his tone, no doubt, his words are poignant, and heart felt.

The last hurdle has come, like the final hour of reckoning.

“I love you, Harry. I love you too.”

****

Harry makes his way up to the highest dune. The sun is climbing upon the horizon, and brilliant shades litter the early morning sky. Dawn in upon them, and with it, the journey of a lonely boy.

Harry watches the waves, he watches the ocean and wonders if he can bottle it up, take the sea with him. If he can't take Hermione, it might just be the next best thing.

“Shouldn't you be gone by now?”

Ron's voice startles Harry and his feet sink into the soft sand. The tiny, infinite grains infiltrate his shoes and irritate his toes - but it's nothing compared to the pain of having to leave somebody behind. His heart is raw with regret.

“I'm going,” Harry scoffs. “You won't have to worry about me anymore. So just let me have this moment to myself.”

“I wish I could,” Ron sighs, resigned to the fact that he is willing putting himself in harms way, that despite everything, this is still Harry.

Harry turns to see Ron with his backpack resting at his feet. “What are you doing with that?” He asks sceptically.

“I'm coming with you.”

Harry shakes his head. “No.”

“I don't like this any more than you do, but I gave Hermione my word. Do you want me to go back inside and break her heart? Would you really have me do that to her, Harry?”

“Fine,” Harry relents, albeit, reluctantly. “But keep your mouth shut. The last thing I want to hear is your voice.”

“As if I'd want to talk to you. I'm doing this for Hermione.”

Harry should have known that Hermione would pull this on him. He really should have known better.

Harry stalks off, following the trail of blooms that will take him away from his love.

Ron shakes his head. “Well,” He says to the morn. “This ought to be exciting.”

****

Gingerly, Hermione shuffles around the ample guest room. She holds her side and leans heavily on the furniture as she tries to negotiate her way from the bed to the rest room.

“Hello, Luna,” Hermione directs her words at the door that is distinctly ajar. “I know you're there, so you'd better come and help me up.”

The door creaks and Luna ascends looking quite a bit sheepish. Her cheeks are flushed, but she does not try to hide the embarrassment that comes with being caught at the door.

“Hermione, should you be up and about already? You need your rest. Here,” Luna gestures. “Let me help you back into bed.”

Hermione halts Luna with a flick of her wrist. Her hand stands at attention, as does Luna, her arms braced by her side, she knows what is coming, had anticipated it ever since they all arrived.

“You know, don't you, Luna?” Hermione asks.

“I'm not sure what you're talking about, Hermione.”

Hermione wavers on her feet, swaying as her body betrays her and she falls heavily into Luna's arms as the two struggle to make it back to the bed in the corner.

“Please, Luna. You have to tell me. You know, don't you? I'm not sure how, but you know.”

Luna looks down at her shoes and lines up her feet, heel to heel, her toes splayed outwards. She nods her head, and then looks at Hermione.

“I'm still pregnant, aren't I? I didn't lose the baby, did I, Luna?”

Luna wrings her hands together before adding - “I tried to tell Harry, I promise, I did. But he would not listen, he was broken, and I could not fix him, Hermione.”

“I can't explain it, Luna. I feel like I have had the wind knocked out of me, but somehow, I can sense this tiny little spark inside me. Snug and warm and strangely content.”

“Oh yes,” Luna beams. “He certainly is.”

“Then what happened to me? What really transpired over the past few days?”

“You really should rest, Hermione. Rest until we figure out what to do next.”

Hermione disagrees. She shakes her head. The mirth in her voice gives her away and Luna can do nothing but watch as the wheels turn in motion.

“Don't worry about that, Luna. Yes. Harry has gone, and we're on our own. But I have my own plan. This time, we won't fail.”

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Hello there, just me, your trusty neighbourhood author here. I've come to bring you the very next chapter. There are some interesting revelations in this one, a bit of understanding between Harry and Ron, Lovely Luna and a Horcrux. Thank you again for the encouragement.

I was listening to a song whilst writing this instalment; it was rather poignant, particularly when it came to penning the Harry scene at the end of the chapter. If you get the chance, go and have a listen.

- `All this fighting over who is anointed, how can people be so blind? There's a hole in the world tonight, there's a cloud of fear and sorrow. There's a hole in the world tonight, don't let there be a hole in the world tomorrow.' (Hole In the World - Eagles.)

I don't own them.

Enjoy.

Hermione sighs and wipes her mouth with the cuff of her sleeve again. Next to her, Luna holds the thick knot of hair up out of her face like a puppeteer. The nausea always hits when she least expects it, though she suspects that it has something to do with Harry, that by the miracle of magic, her child has become positively fruitful, a tool for creation.

“That really doesn't seem very nice, Hermione. I don't know how you can stand it,” Luna comments after a minute.

Hermione waves Luna off as her enthusiastic aide offers a hand so that

Hermione can stand.

“It's honest to God, awful, Luna. It's just awful.”

Hermione pokes around the basin looking for her toothbrush. She steadies herself on the edge of the vanity and then nudges the tap that controls the cold water pressure. The steady drizzle soon saturates the artificial bristles and Hermione raises the brush to her lips.

“Accio double mint,” Luna whispers. She grips a crudely sculpted shaft of Cornish heath in the palm of her hand. Mister Ollivander has been working with materials sourced locally. A core of native Dragonet scale completes the ensemble. Highly colourful with cryptic pattern's the old man had told her as he'd handed her the brand new wand, and she had blushed profusely.

“They certainly came in handy today,” Hermione mumbles through a mouthful of water.

“I do believe that my wand is simply enchanting,” Luna adds with a smile.

Hermione's body heaves again, the continual repetition of the same gagging motion forcing the bile to the top of her throat as she dry retches. The constant rigmarole tires her while the bitter taste left in her mouth just disgusts her.

“It really is a curious thing, morning sickness. Why would one call it that? It's clearly not morning at all,” Luna muses.

The night is dark and the stars shine brightly. Shadows bathe the earth and calm settles upon them as the day is done.

Hermione sighs and displays the barest hint of a smile as she thinks about the connotations associated with the Muggle phrase for the pregnancy ailment. In spite of its name, Hermione knows that the nausea can occur at any time of the day or night, often without warning and usually when she least expects it. It's nice to be able to dwell on her roots, a Muggle-born, just as Harry's mother before her.

Hermione's face falls, the reality of the existence of the next few months suddenly dawns and a pang of guilt stabs at her heart. Every day that Harry is away creates a divide that aches in the depths of her bosom, like a silent curse, the distance confounds their feelings of despair, an extra mile, like the hand that closes around her throat and crushes her oesophagus.

The frown does not go unnoticed by Luna.

“Why don't I get you a draught for your tummy,” Luna asks Hermione with a jovial smile despite the solemn sense of sadness that settles upon the two.

Hermione nods her head once and sighs again, her shoulders sagging.

“You should be pleased, Hermione. We've had such a successful day; we've acquired another Horcrux thanks to you and your brilliant mind.”

“You're right, Luna. You're right, and I am happy, I am,” Hermione forces herself to smile for Luna, to smile until her mouth hurts and her teeth pierce her bottom lip as she bites down on it.

When Luna finally leaves, Hermione allows herself to reminisce about their triumph. She likes to believe that Harry was with her, that she carries that part of Harry that will forever be her guiding light. She's sure that Harry is proud of her.

“There must be another Horcrux in the Lestrange vault at Gringotts,” Hermione spoke to the people assembled around the mahogany dining table. One hand cupped her abdomen fondly while the other gripped the textured timber, her fingers curled over the edge of the buffet.

“Bellatrix,” She continued her explanation, “I saw the look in her eyes. It was murderous. She was scared, she was furious, trying to figure out who had been inside the vault. She accused me … I had no choice but to lie to her,” Hermione closed her eyes, the memory of the tip of the Death Eaters wand pressed into her forearm as plain as day.

“So what are we going to do?” Bill asked Hermione. “It's not like we can impersonate her and break into the vault ourselves.”

“Actually,” Hermione sat tall in her seat, her body flush against the backrest. “That's exactly what I was hoping we could do. Just think about it, it's the only way to find the Horcrux and destroy it.”

“Are you feeling alright, Miss Granger? You have been through quite a lot in past few days.” It was Mister Ollivander's turn to reason with the young woman. “The idea is inconceivable. It would be impossible to infiltrate the vault in question.”

Hermione thrust her hand into her pocket and pulled out a wad of thick, dark hair.

“I managed to yank it from Bellatrix in the scuffle at Malfoy Mansion. I could brew some Polyjuice Potion. And Mister Ollivander,” She turned to the man on her right, “You could help us find a wand. They'll ask for a wand for identification, do you think you can do it?”

Hermione held her breath as the wand maker contemplated the task thrust upon him by a determined teen and her band of merry fellows, she actually held her breath, her jaw clenched tightly, her hands shaking with the force of her fear.

Ollivander looked at Luna, the two sharing a brief glance at the other. And then he smiled.

“If you are able to conjure the materials I will need, then I am sure that I can craft you the finest imitation.”

“I'll do it,” Said Luna suddenly, and she turned to address Hermione.. “I'll take the potion, Hermione. If you think it will work.”

Bill Weasley stood from his seat at the head of the table. “Wait a minute,” He raised his hands and threw his gaze across the table to his wife. “Let's just say that we manage to break into the Lestrange vault. How do we know what we're looking for? There must be pile upon pile of fancy gem encrusted riches inside that vault.”

“It's Helga Hufflepuff's Cup.”

Fleur gasped and cupped her clasped hands over her mouth. All eyes turned to Hermione who shook her head. She needed Harry now more than ever. Reliving the moment would hurt.

“She told Draco Malfoy. She ordered him to check on the cup. I struggled, that was when Draco pointed his wand at me. I didn't have time to get out of the way, but for some reason, I was able to deflect his curse and disarm him. I was very lucky … We were very lucky,” She amended her sentence to include the child now blooming inside her belly.

“Oh, `Ermione,” Fleur was stunned as she breathed a sigh of relief. “Your child truly eez zee little mas-ter of death.”

The audience remained deathly silent as Fleur's statement echoed amongst the guests in the room. The son of Harry Potter - The Master of Death? It was all too much for Hermione to accept.

“Call for Healer Maplethorne right away,” Bill gave the order to his wife as he moved forward to catch Hermione's tired body.

Those seated around her could only watch helplessly as Hermione Granger slumped ungraciously to the floor, and began to wonder if maybe, the tale of Death had not been so greatly exaggerated after all. Could it be that the fate of the world rested in the hands of a mere babe?

****

“I'm sorry about Hermione and the baby,” Ron tells Harry as they sit together, huddled around the small fire lit up in the thick of forest shrubbery that surrounds the outskirts of the dusty one-horse town now in ruins.

Harry folds his arms against his chest and settles back into his makeshift cot, ignoring Ron's attempt at small talk between the two. He rolls onto his side and stares at the dirt under his nose, whishing he could hold Hermione.

“My mum's had lots of babies,” Ron continues. “I remember when she was pregnant with Ginny, went through a rough patch she did, probably lucky that Ginny was a stubborn one.”

Despair smothers Harry like a sprinkling of confectioner's sugar. Time is too long for those who grieve; his reactions are modelled on fear, and some sense of inner self preservation. Harry can think of three descriptions that summarise his life - Could have, might have, should have. His is afraid, not for himself; fear makes strangers of people who would be friends.

“Why would you care? According to you I stole Hermione,” Harry tries to reason.

His cowardice is confounding, but the fear is his comfort.

“Hermione is my friend, Harry. I might have been angry but I'd never wish her harm.”

The two young men struggle to see eye to eye. Ron's attempt to offer up the proverbial olive branch is floundering and he's losing Harry. Keeping Hermione in mind, their history, Hogwarts and the fact that Harry has always had his best interests at heart, Ron tries in vain to reach Harry.

Harry chuckles an inaudible amusement that bubbles from deep within his fractured essence. His lip trembles and he sniggers loudly, his enthusiasm catching Ron by surprise. Harry throws his head back, he has had to learn the hard lessons in life, every single day of his life, laughing is not always the proof of a mind at ease.

“But she didn't die, did she? Ginny didn't die, did she? You don't know what its like, do you Ron? You don't know how it feels, do you? Because I do. I know how it feels to lose everything. I know.”

Ron furrows his brow.

“Excuse me, do you mind? Everywhere else is full.”

“Is it dead?”

“I don't think so, just knocked out.”

“If Harry and Ron hadn't come and found me … I'd probably be dead.

“Hiya Harry.”

“Ron, Fred, George. What are you all doing here?”

“Rescuing you of course.”

“You think I don't know how this feels?”

“No, you don't know how this feels. Your parents are dead. You have no family.”

“And you? Are you coming or you're staying?”

“Fine. I get it.”

And he does. He does get it now.

A friendship can weather most things and thrive in thin soil, but it needs a little something to save it from dying out completely. Harry can't save himself from himself. He has always had to keep his nose to the grindstone. There is no defeat, except from within.

Ron sucks in a deep breath and crumples his pride; his father had always maintained that the biggest failure is not to learn from ones mistakes.

“No, I don't know what it feels like. But Harry, I don't think I want to find out anytime soon. You're my best friend, and I don't think I ever really appreciated just how important you are. You're my best friend,” Ron reiterates, standing so that he's next to Harry.

Harry blinks up at Ron and the two friends hold each others gaze. He remains silent; the guilt of his action has just been affirmed. Emotional occasions are extremely potent in precipitating mental rearrangements. In the back of Harry's mind, guilt is all that he has left.

“It's okay, Mate. I know it's been rough on you …”

Harry cuts him off.

“No. That's no excuse, Ron. I've done things, things that I'm not proud of, but I'm doing them my way, the way I want to do them.”

Ron remembers the day that Fred and George left Hogwarts and the freedom that came from finally being in charge of himself. Who is he to deny Harry that?

“I've done things too, Harry. I'm not really much better. Not what my mum and dad raised me to be.”

Harry opens his mouth to offer Ron an apology, but he recoils in pain, images flashing in front of his face, clawing at his chest, gnawing at his heartstrings. Harry holds his head in agony, his eyes closed against the pain that invades his consciousness.

“Harry?” Ron kneels down closer to Harry. “What's the matter?”

“Hermione,” Harry pants. “It's Hermione.”

****

Luna teased out her feral hair with her fingers as she looked into the floor length mirror in front of her.

“Are you sure you want us to do this right now, Hermione?” She snarled in the body of Bellatrix Lestrange. “It's alright to wait until you're feeling better.”

Hermione chuckled and shook her head.

“No. The healer says that I am alright, Luna. It was shock, just a little shock, that's all. The sooner we do this, the sooner we can take down, well, you,” She looked Luna up and down, vaguely impressed by the transformation of the meek, blonde teenager standing in front of her.

“I'm glad you're feeling better, Hermione.”

A shiver invaded Hermione's bones and her body trembled. She watched as Luna frowned and then felt ashamed.

“I'm sorry,” She apologised. “It just brings back the bad memories. Logically, I know that it's still you, Luna, but emotionally, it's still too soon.”

Luna understood. Living inside another woman's skin was not at the top of her list of life achievements, but she knew that it was for the benefit of many. She could not be selfish, not if she wanted to find her father.

“So …” Hermione interrupted Luna's thoughts with a slip of parchment and a list of instructions printed in ink that followed the length of the page.

“Mister Ollivander will accompany me, I know,” Said Luna. “He looks very dashing in his disguise, don't you think?”

“Very smart,” Hermione assured her.

“Have faith,” Luna said as she slipped on her shoes, the pointy toes gnarled up like a crooked finger. “We can do this.”

Hermione watched as Luna, Mister Ollivander and Bill left through the front archway. Fleur clutched her hand tightly, squeezing her fingers every now and then for comfort, Hermione held her belly and thought of Harry.

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