Fic: For The Greater Good
Dec. 10th, 2011 07:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mini_fest_mod posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
mini_festTitle: For The Greater Good
Author: ???
Rating: R
Characters: Harry/Hermione
Prompt(s): Number 144: Harry/Hermione Missing scene from DH.
After their escape from Godric's Hollow on Christmas Eve, Hermione brought the unconscious Harry back to camp. In the morning, she tells him that he hasn't been quite... What happened that night? Why couldn't she tell him? How did she stop his shouting and moaning? What "things" did he do? What did she do?
Warnings: Angst
Summary: "Love is blind, but friendship closes its eyes." source unknown
Word Count: 6400
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters belong to JKRowling. No profit is being made, nor insult intended, from this work of fiction
A/N: When I first saw this prompt, my thought was “Oh, man! Do I want to write that. But I was in the middle of another couple of projects, and feared I wouldn’t have the time to do justice to it. Well, I made the time, and I hope I managed to write the story, or at least a semblance, of what the prompter wanted. Undying thanks to SC, who was with me every step of the way, and to AMP, who is my beta and my most darling best friend. And to JKRowling, who gave us this fabulous playground to begin with and who continues, with extreme grace, to allow a group of horny fangirls and boys to frolic here.
And then his scar burst open and he was Voldemort and he was running across the fetid bedroom, his long white hands clutching at the windowsill as he glimpsed the bald man and the little woman twist and vanish, and he screamed with rage, a scream mingled with the girl’s, that echoed across the dark gardens over the church bells ringing in Christmas Day… Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Chapter Seventeen, Page 342.
For The Greater Good
They burst through the gaping hole where the window had been, and Hermione clutched at Harry as they fell, end over end, through the freezing air. She gripped the back of his jacket, and could feel his hot breath on her cheek and hear his ragged breaths. At one point, she was upside down staring at the expanse of endless black sky when she caught sight of a figure leaning out through the ruined second story wall: A figure with a face as white as death and malevolent eyes glowing like red coals. She screamed in horror and fear even as in her mind she was furiously chanting, the Forest of Dean, the Forest of Dean. Immediately there was a sharp tug behind her navel and she curled her hands into Harry’s jacket and held on for all she was worth as they spun away through a vortex, into darkness.
They landed on icy, leaf strewn ground with a jarring thud and she lay for several seconds attempting to regain her breath. She could feel that the earth beneath her was frozen, and she ached along her side as if she’d been kicked in the ribs. She struggled to take a deep breath and when she was finally able the air was so cold it burned. It was longer still before she was able to push shakily into a sitting position, and she looked around quickly. Lying about ten feet from her was a still, huddled figure, and she pushed painfully to her hands and knees and crawled to him.
“Harry,” she wheezed as she arrived next to him. He was lying on his side and she rolled him to his back carefully. “Harry, are you…” The sentence died on a sharp inhalation when she saw shiny black liquid soaking his sleeve from his elbow down, and the streaks on the back of his pale hand. The snake, she thought with horror. The snake had bitten him. “Oh, no,” she murmured, frantically searching around them for the beaded bag. “Hang on, Harry,” she said, even though to all appearances he wasn’t in any condition to hear her. “Hang on, just a moment…”
The futility of attempting to treat his injuries in the open in the dark finally occurred to her, logic overpowering panic, and she was able to yank the tent from the bag and erect it with a few muttered spells. Need overcoming emotion, she carefully cast the protective charms as she circled the perimeter, one eye on Harry’s still form the entire time. He hadn’t moved, and her fear grew. When she was done, she went back to him and quickly knelt at his side.
“Harry, can you hear me?”
He muttered, his dark head moving on the frozen leaves, but his eyes didn’t open. He was going to be no help, then. “Think, Hermione,” she told herself firmly. “What spell… oh, of course!” Lifting her wand, she muttered the incantation for a hovering spell, moved her wand is a series of graceful, if somewhat shaky loops, and watched as he lifted from the ground. Keeping him in front of her, she directed him through the open flaps of the tent. He floated gracefully, one hand across his chest but the other hanging limply beneath him. The Polyjuice had worn off, and his gaunt face looked deathly pale in the darkness.
“Incendio,” she muttered, tossing an absent spell toward the jar on a nearby table once Harry was settled on the lower bunk. A flame appeared inside the old Mason jar, not enough to truly light the interior of the tent but enough to chase the worst of the shadows into the corners. She quickly unwound the scarf from about her throat and tossed it aside, sitting near his hip on the sway-backed cot, and tried to figure out the simplest way to remove his jacket. His head was moving slightly on the dingy pillow case, and he was muttering unintelligibly. She saw the skin on his face slicked with sweat and immediately feared some sort of venom. Reaching for the buttons down his chest, she attempted to open his jacket.
“Oh, bloody hell,” she muttered finally when the buttons wouldn’t slip through the damp button holes. “Sorry.” She vanished the battered jacket. “We’ll just have to find you another. Oh… Harry…” Her voice trailed off into silence as she took in the ragged edges of his sleeve and the rent skin beneath. There were at least two bites, but she wasn’t sure how much more damage there was. The sleeve was soaked with blood and it was running down his arm and pooling on the ground next to the cot. Digging quickly into the beaded bag, she found a pair of scissors and the small bronze bottle of dittany. She felt a moment’s pang, remembering that the last time she’d held it had been when she was helping Ron, but she shoved the memory of him as far from her as she could. He’d abandoned them, and right at the moment she could really use his help. Her lip stiffening, she cut away Harry’s sodden sleeve and surveyed the damage beneath. Wincing, she counted four deep puncture wounds on the back of his arm and several smaller ones on the underside. The skin around them was already turning purple and bruising and she quickly uncorked the bottle, allowing a few drops to fall into each bleeding gash.
The dittany made a hissing sound when it connected with each wound and steam rose from his arm. Harry groaned, trying to pull away. She held on tight. “I know,” she murmured, attempting to sooth him. “I know it hurts. But it will be better in a moment, you’ll see.” In spite of his weak efforts to pull free, Hermione was able to treat each open sore and she watched as they slowly closed, filling in, new skin growing to cover the wounds. When they were reduced to scars on his smooth skin, Hermione stoppered the bottle and dropped it back into the bag.
There was an odd crunching sound from inside of it, and Hermione frowned. She felt around gingerly, and when her fingers encountered splintered wood, she gasped. Digging in earnest, her hand finally emerged holding what had once been Harry’s wand. It was broken in two, shattered ends held together by a brilliant red core. The Phoenix feather, she thought, her heart dropping. Fawke’s feather.
“Oh, God,” she gasped. “Oh, no, no…”
Quickly grabbing up her own wand, she tried every spell she knew for mending things that were broken. After ten minutes passed, and nothing worked, Hermione felt tears fill her eyes. She held the wand pieces clutched in one hand, and rubbed her forehead with the other. Harry had lost the broomstick Sirius had given him. And Hedwig, whose loss he suffered still no matter how he tried to deny it. Hedwig had been his first friend. And now his wand was gone too, the wand that had chosen him when he was eleven, and she could only imagine that the break had occurred when the spell she’d cast on the snake had bounced around that hideous bedroom. She didn’t even remember dropping the pieces into the bag, but she must have done so instinctively. Staring at the mangled wand, Hermione ‘s throat began to ache. Harry’s wand was gone, and it was her fault. Suddenly it was all just too much, and she lowered her head as tears slipped down her cheeks. She was alone, in the middle of nowhere with her best friend badly hurt, and there was no one to help her. And in Australia, her parents wouldn’t even know they had a daughter to miss as Christmas Day Dawned. She pressed her hand over her mouth to muffle her sobs.
Harry made a sound, and Hermione was reminded abruptly where she was and what still needed doing. She didn’t have time to feel sorry for herself. Returning the shattered wand to the bag before putting it on the nearby table, she turned back to Harry, brushing away her tears and studying his face. He was flushed and stirring fitfully, his brow creased in a frown she thought looked pained.
“It’s all right,” she whispered, leaning over him and brushing his fringe back from his damp forehead. “You’re all right, Harry.”
His eyes still closed, he bared his teeth in a sneer, and she jerked back at the uncharacteristic expression. “Stand aside, you silly girl,” he hissed from between clenched teeth. “Stand aside, now.”
Hermione blinked, frowning. “Harry,” she ventured, leaning forward again, her hand going to his shoulder. “Harry, it’s me. Wake up.”
“This is my last warning,” he growled, and Hermione gasped. It didn’t even sound like Harry. “Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!”
His eyes shot open, fixed on her, and Hermione recoiled with a startled shriek. His eyes, which were usually so wide and open, green as holly leaves, were glowing a dark, angry red. Stunned, Hermione fell off of the cot and scuttled backwards on her hands and feet. It wasn’t Harry. That wasn’t Harry. He rose slowly onto his elbows, his eyes fixed on her as he lifted a wandless hand and pointed it at her.
“Avada Kedavra!” he shouted, and Hermione gasped, half expecting the words to be the last she ever heard. Instead, Harry clutched at his face and collapsed back against the cot, screaming in agony. The sound sent a chill through her.
“Harry!” she cried, rushing to him. He had his hands pressed over his forehead, and he was writhing. “Harry, let me see!” She forced his hands away, and gasped again. His scar was an angry, fierce red, as if it had just occurred. When she tentatively touched it, it was hot beneath her fingers. In fact, he was hot, his body radiating an unhealthy heat. “Oh, God,” she whispered desperately. “What do I do?”
As if in answer, she could hear her mother speaking to her, her calm voice soft and reassuring. “Tepid bath, Hermione,” she heard echo through her thoughts. “Tepid bath for a high fever.”
She scrabbled quickly to her feet, reaching for a bucket that hung on the bench they laughingly referred to as their ‘kitchen’. Harry was still thrashing on the narrow cot, but now he was sobbing brokenly and she hesitated for a moment. She was afraid to leave him, but he was so hot… Not allowing herself to hesitate even a moment longer, she turned and ran from the tent. If she was where she’d envisioned when she’d Apparated them, there was a stream nearby that, hopefully, wouldn’t be frozen over.
She sent up a small prayer of gratitude when she found the stream and another when the ice on top was thin enough she could break through it with the bucket. Filling it, she drenched her gloves and her hands immediately began to sting. She could hear Harry’s cries, and she rushed back, slopping ice water on her legs, ignoring the rush of cold pain that resulted.
When she re-entered the tent, Harry was rocking on the cot, his arms wrapped around his torso. She quickly found a small sponge and dropped down next him on her knees, reaching out her hand and touching Harry’s arm. She could feel the hard bunched muscles beneath her fingers and the heat radiating off of him in waves. He was still crying, a lost, hitching sound that made her chest ache. She dipped the sponge into the icy water, wringing it out before lifting it.
He gasped when the cold sponge connected with his face, and tried to pull away.
“No, Harry, please,” she begged him, stroking it down his face. “This will help. Let me help.”
Still, he strained away from her touch. He began to babble amidst his sobs, and at first she didn’t understand what he was saying, wasn’t sure she wanted to. But then she heard mumma and dada, whispered in a thin, broken little voice and her eyes welled again.
“Oh, don’t,” she whispered gently, blinking. “Don’t go back there, Harry. Don’t.” Her voice broke and tears slid down her cheeks even as she continued to gently bathe his face, and his neck. He was still so hot. If anything, it was worse, not better.
He cried for a long time. Finally he silenced and lay mostly still but for occasional twitches and hiccoughs, and she wondered if he’d worn himself out and gone to sleep. She was exhausted, too, but he was still so feverish. It frightened her.
She wasn’t sure how long she continued to bathe his face and neck. She was so weary the motion of her arm became robotic, until it was leaden and so heavy she had no choice but to stop for a while. Her arm fell limp at her side, and the blood returning to her fingers caused a rush of unpleasant tingling. She pressed her forehead against the rough sheets on the cot and closed her eyes. If she could rest, just for a moment…
She was awakened by a vibration against her cheek and an odd clicking sound. Opening her eyes, she blinked several times, looking around the dim interior of the tent. Her legs were cramped beneath her and she straightened them with a grimace, trying to discern where the odd vibrating and the weird noise were coming from. Lifting her head she looked down blearily, and realized the shaking was coming from the cot, and the source of it was Harry. He was trembling violently, and the sound was his teeth, tightly clenched but still clicking together.
“Oh, God,” she gasped, reaching out reflexively and touching him. Where he’d been like a furnace before, now he was freezing cold. She drew her hand back with a startled gasp, then grabbed the upper bunk to haul herself laboriously to her feet. Feeling was still returning to her feet and the resulting shock of putting weight on them made her hiss, but she yanked all of the blankets off of the top bunk and dumped them onto Harry before kneeling once again and tucking them in tightly around his body. Using her wand, she cast a warming charm and waited.
It didn’t work. He remained as cold as before, even though his face and neck were wet with perspiration. Terrified there had been some sort of cursed venom in the snake’s fangs, she grabbed for her bag and rummaged though it for her books.
There was nothing but the usual remedies for snake bites, most of which she’d made impossible by healing the wounds while they were still open. Horrified she might have sealed the poison inside of Harry’s body, she followed shakily read instructions in an old wizarding first aid book and ran a quick scan of his body. Nothing showed up, which made her sigh in relief, but still the unnatural cold and shaking went on. Wondering if it was a delayed reaction to the shock, she searched on, turning to a Muggle first aid book she’d taken from her parents. Near the bottom of a page she found a section on hypothermia, and her brow furrowed. The symptoms certainly sounded similar. She’d moved him out of the cold and covered him with blankets, and he wasn’t lying on the cold ground. There was another section beneath that, and she read the words: Share body heat. To warm the person's body, remove your clothing and lie next to the person, making skin-to-skin contact. Then cover both of your bodies with blankets.
Hermione gnawed on her lower lip, her eyes drifting to Harry’s ashen face. The book also suggested giving the person something warm to drink, but that was impossible if they were unconscious, which he still was. She continued to tug at her lip until she noticed his were beginning to turn faintly blue, and she shoved to her feet with a muttered curse.
“Don’t be a ninny,” she said under her breath, pulling back the blankets and reaching for the buttons down the center of Harry’s chest. It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen him without his shirt before, and it was Harry, for heaven’s sake. He was her best friend, but she certainly had no romantic illusions about him. She was in… well, she had been fond of Ronald. And so what if she’d noticed recently Harry had more hair on his chest, and it curled between mounds of well-defined muscle? They were no longer children, she was human, and he wasn’t hard on the eyes. But it didn’t mean anything. And right now, she was all he had.
She yanked the shirt from his shoulders slightly more roughly than necessary and threw it aside, then without allowing herself to pause and think, pulled off her jacket and drew her thick jumper off over her head. “This will just have to do,” she murmured, the cold air raising gooseflesh on her arms and shoulders. She wasn’t stripping to her panties and she doubted Harry would appreciate her divesting him of his jeans. Grabbing the blankets and lifting them, she paused when she saw the heavy gold locket lying in the middle of his chest.
She reached for the chain, to unhook it and take it off of him, but he was shaking so hard, his muscles so tight, she couldn’t reach beneath him to remove it. Sighing explosively, she ignored the niggling impulse that told her to make the time, and slipped into the cot beside him, pulling the blankets up over her shoulder.
“The things you get yourself into,” she said beneath her breath. “The things you get me into.” She knew he couldn’t hear her, but it made the whole thing seem less awkward, somehow, if she babbled. She rubbed his back and sides briskly, hoping he’d warm quickly. Holding him, his pale skin like ice and his body rigid, gave her the disconcerting thought that it must be something like embracing a corpse. Shaken by the mental image, she redoubled her efforts, rubbing her hands briskly over his back.
“Come on, Harry,” she urged, pressing her cheek to his and speaking directly into his ear. He smelled of wood smoke and shampoo and sweat, his damp hair brushed her forehead. “Please.” Her voice hitched when he remained unresponsive. “I need you. I can’t do this without you. None of us can do this without you.”
She wondered if she’d ever been so cold. He seemed to be leaching the heat from her body, but it didn’t appear to be making any difference to the iciness of his skin. She pulled the blankets up higher, until they were covered to their eyes, and wrapped her legs around his hips, bringing him flush against her from chin to groin. More frightened than she could ever remember being, she rocked him as she rubbed up and down the muscles on either side of his spine. As desperate as she was, she tried to take her rapidly careening emotions in hand. It wouldn’t do either of them any good if she got hysterical.
“I’m sure glad Ginny isn’t here to see this,” she muttered, trying to lighten her tone. “The girl is a wicked hand with a bat bogey hex, and I don’t fancy sporting a face full of those.” She grimaced. “More likely she’d hit me with a stunner and throw me off of the Hogwarts ramparts. She’s possessive, that one.” She moved her hands between them and rubbed his chest. She could feel the springy chest hair beneath the pads of her fingers.
“Ron’s possessive, too,” she went on, searching for anything to talk about in an attempt to control her anxiety. “The fuss he made over Viktor; it was ridiculous. If he wanted to take me to the Yule Ball, he simply should have asked me first.”
She wasn’t sure, but she thought she felt some of the icy rigidity leaving Harry’s body. Encouraged, she wrapped her arms once again around his neck. She was sure of it - his teeth weren’t chattering next to her ear anymore.
“He can be so dumb, you know,” she went on, locking her ankles behind his thighs. “Like his little fit before he abandoned us, the prat. What the devil was that all about? The way he said, I get it, you choose him.” She snorted derisively. Eager to feel something, anything but the mind numbing cold and the escalating fear, she clung to Harry and allowed her remembered anger to provide distraction. “He’s so immature, sometimes. Honestly. I only regret I didn’t tell him what I thought of him before he Apparated away.”
A tendril of warmth, very real warmth, curled between their chests, and Hermione caught her breath. Harry moaned softly and stirred, and she clutched him tighter.
“Oh, yes. Harry, yes. Come back. Come back to me.”
The locket began to feel warm against her breast, and the weight of it, the press of it between them was almost reassuring. She felt a soft exhalation stir the curls near her ear and Harry’s body abruptly lost its frightful stiffness, and she closed her eyes in relief. Buoyed as the heat between them continued to grow and cheered by the cleansing anger, she went on.
“He’s jealous of you too, you know,” she said, putting into words things she’d thought more than once. “He’s convinced he isn’t as smart as you are, or as brave. And afraid he’s nowhere near as powerful a wizard.” Her anger continued to grow. “Well, he’s right, about all of it. You’re smart, and braver than anyone I’ve ever known. And the power, Harry…” She exhaled shakily. “The power rolls off of you in waves.”
And it did, she realized as she held him. She could feel it, even now, even as compromised as he was. The power was there, all around her in the cocoon of blankets. It was a heady, heady thing, and she stopped briskly rubbing the skin of his back to smooth her hands up and down gently.
“When did you get all of these muscles, Harry?” she murmured, stroking up to feel the caps near his shoulders, further up to trace the triangular bulges on either side of his neck. “It’s nice.” She giggled, and it sounded intimate beneath the layers of blankets. Her fingers found the heavy chain of the locket, and she traced it with the tips. “Maybe I’m the one who should be jealous,” she teased. “Of Ginny.”
The heat between them continued to climb, and Hermione pressed closer to him, bolstered by the warmth. It felt nice, she thought. He felt nice. He felt like a man in her arms, and she was appreciating it on a purely physical level. For the first time since they’d begun this fruitless journey, she could forget her hunger, forget her fear and disappointment. The cot no longer felt hard, the blankets no longer smelled musty and the sheets weren’t rough against her skin. The heat between their skin, just over their hearts, continued to grow and she noticed only how lovely his hard chest felt pressing into her breasts. The edge of the locket actually slipped beneath the lacey edge of her bra, and it felt good against the soft skin, as if it somehow connected them.
His legs were strong against her inner thighs, and his flat stomach with its ridges of muscle caressed her bare stomach. She thought of the last time she’d seen Ron without his shirt, and smirked derisively. He was so lanky, she thought. So thin and pale. He was nothing, nothing compared to the man she held in her arms. The locket seemed to purr, like a contented kneazle, but it didn’t distract her. It was far too lovely to concentrate on the other things she could feel; the smooth skin on his arms as she traced their length before reaching to wrap them around her body. And the tingling that grew in her belly, and lower. A craving twitch flared between her legs, and she pressed closer to his hard form. He was warm now, and it was lovely. More than lovely.
“Harry,” she whispered, allowing her lips to brush his cheek. She felt his stubble beneath her tongue. “Harry…”
One of his hands moved on the skin of her back. It was a fleeting caress, but she arched into it with a glad sound. He moved, slowly to be sure, sluggishly, but his hand slid up her back and his fingers curled in her hair, and she welcomed it, rejoiced in it. How could she have ever imagined she had feelings for Ron when Harry was so much more desirable?
“Yes,” she whispered when he shifted restlessly, and the movement pressed him against the heavy fullness between her legs. She arched her back and moved her hips, and he made a startled sound in his throat. “Like that?”
He mumbled something incoherent and turned his head, his lips parted as if he was searching for something. They brushed her cheek, then her chin, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to cover his open mouth with hers and kiss him.
Heat flared over her heart, slipped into her bloodstream, spread down her arms and legs and tingled in her fingers and toes. She slipped her tongue into his mouth, sending it on a flirtatious dance along the length of his and he made another sound, welcoming, encouraging. Bolstered, she allowed one of her hands to slide up into his hair and gripped his curls. The locket vibrated between them, and it seemed to echo the rabid beat of her heart.
Having always been shy and reticent where anything sexual was concerned, it was liberating to feel the uncomplicated need. She wanted him, and clearly, he wanted her, too. Why shouldn’t they take this, if they could? Why shouldn’t they know some pleasure, some joy? They were all alone in the middle of nowhere, and they’d had another horrifying experience in a year rife of them. Why shouldn’t they take their comfort where they could find it?
The locket thrummed in agreement and bolstered by it, Hermione opened her mouth further, sought out Harry’s tongue and stroked it in a slow, unmistakable rhythm. She rubbed herself against him and the ache between her legs intensified. What she wanted more than anything, more than her next breath, was to feel him hard and ready against her, even inside of her. Dark longing filled her, and she wasn’t shocked at the unfamiliar desire. Hampered by having her leg caught beneath him, she pushed him to his back and straddled his hips, her mouth never ceasing its voracious capture of his lips. His tongue responded to her prodding, and she pulled it into her mouth, fleetingly reminded of a Dementor. Dark amusement filled her and she sucked hard. I’ll take your soul, Harry Potter. The words rang in her mind, and she wanted to laugh.
She rocked on top of him, grinding her groin against his, and her craving grew. There was a desperate need inside of her, a swelling ache. She’d never had an orgasm with another person before, but she was close; so close. When she felt him harden beneath her, thick and insistent, and she groaned into his mouth.
“Yes, Harry,” she gasped. “You feel so good.” His hands slipped down to grasp her arse and hold her tight against him as he arched up. She released a shuddering sob, gasping.
“Ginny,” he said in a guttural voice. “Ginny, please…”
It was like being doused in ice water. What was she doing? Stunned, aghast, Hermione reared back, her only thought to get off of him. But pain seared through her chest, and she couldn’t pull away. Something was holding her to Harry’s chest, as if their flesh had melted together, and she realized with dawning horror it was the locket.
She heard a voice screeching though her mind as Harry pressed up against her. No! a harsh male voice wailed. Don’t stop! No, no, no! Hermione pulled harder, then let out a pained cry. She couldn’t get up; the locket was searing her flesh, melding it to Harry’s, and she couldn’t pull away. He gasped and cried out in pain too, and his fingers dug into the tender flesh of her arse like talons.
“No, Harry, don’t,” she begged. “I need my wand. I have to get to my wand!”
She opened her eyes and looked around frantically, and spotted it on the floor next to the cot. “I need… Harry let me…”
“I need you too, Gin,” he panted, his eyes still closed, writhing beneath her. “Almost there. So close…”
Hermione shuddered and leaned over as far as she could even though the skin between her breasts felt as if it was being ripped from the flesh beneath it. Her fingers finally closed around the end of her wand, and she grasped it with a grateful sob. She pulled back as much as she could, pointed it awkwardly between them, and shouted Abrumpo!
She flew backwards so abruptly that she tumbled off of the cot and landed on her back on the hard floor. It hurt so badly tears filled her eyes, and her hand flew to her chest, but that only made it worse. She touched raw flesh, and the burn and sting were horrible. Struggling to sit, she looked down at the skin between her breasts. In a perfect replica of the shape of the locket was a fresh, open red wound.
Harry made a gagging sound, and Hermione looked up to find him struggling, trying to pull the locket from his flesh. It looked white hot and made the same sound bacon did in a skillet. Hermione lurched to her knees, rapidly performing the same spell she’d used on herself. Harry cried out in pain as she yanked the locket over his head by the chain and threw it into the far corner of the tent. Panting, she pointed her wand at the beaded bag and shouted, “Essence of dittany!” Her hands were shaking so violently she dropped it on the first effort, but finally managed to pull the stopper and drip some of the liquid onto Harry’s chest. It sizzled, steam rising from the wound as a thin skin formed over the top of it. She performed the same service on herself, tears spilling down her cheeks as the pain increased before finally fading away. Shoving the stopper back into the bottle, she dropped it and flopped onto her back, the heels of her hands pressed into her eyes.
She lay for a long time with her hands over her eyes, horrified, shamed to her soul. What must Harry think of her? How was she ever to face him again? His breathing sounded loud and labored for a while, but it faded and she waited, certain she’d done the unforgivable, that their friendship would be irreparably damaged. How could she look at Ron, or at Ginny, after what she’d done?
Silence settled and cold began to seep into her body through the floor. Unable to put it off any longer, she sat up, her eyes still averted.
“Hermione?”
He sounded tentative but lucid, and she flinched.
“Don’t do that,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Look at me.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze, and found him staring at her, his hands in his lap and his shoulders hunched defensively. His eyes were almost unnaturally wide and vulnerable without his glasses, and the confusion in them was unmistakable. He was shaking again, and she moved quickly to yank a clean t-shirt out of his rucksack. She handed it to him, but he just stared at it in his hands. When he turned his eyes back to her, and they moved over her bare shoulders before skirting away, she felt shame burning in her chest. She quickly yanked on her abandoned shirt and a heavy jumper but she still felt naked, and exposed.
“Put on your shirt,” she ordered softly, pushing to her feet and picking her wand up off of the floor. She stood by the cot until he donned it. Once he was covered, he crossed his arms tight over his chest, his hands gripping his forearms, the whole of him shaking. She pulled blankets up and over his shoulders and tucked them in around his neck. When she started to step back he looked into her eyes, pinning her there.
“Hermione,” he said, clearly struggling. She held up her hand and shook her head. She knew what she had to do.
“I’ll make you some tea.”
He nodded, chewing his lower lip, his face averted.
He didn’t see her add the sleeping draught to the cup, and didn’t taste it as he sipped the strong Oolong. By the time he’d finished, the potion was already doing its job and his eyelids were drooping. But when she went to take the cup from him, he displayed some of the lingering Seeker’s reflexes, reaching out and catching her wrist in his hand. He gripped it, hard, forcing her to look at him.
“Hermione,” he whispered. “I’m in love with Ginny.”
She nodded. “I know.”
“And you’re in love with Ron.”
She nodded again, sighing softly. Harry released her and she straightened, holding the cup, forgotten, in her hand. The silence was the most awkward that had ever passed between them. Finally, Harry cleared his throat.
“What are we supposed to do now?”
She turned away and placed the cup with exaggerated care on the table. “Don’t worry about it right now. You’re ill, and you need your rest.”
She heard the cot creak as he lay down, and she counted to ten, hoping but the time she was done he’d be asleep.
“Hermione?”
She didn’t turn back. “Yes, Harry?”
“How do I ever look Ron in the face again?”
She clenched her eyes shut on a fresh wave of tears. “Don’t worry about it tonight. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
“All right.” There was a pause. “Hermione?”
She flinched involuntarily this time. “Yes?”
His voice when it came was so soft she barely heard him. “I’m in love with Ginny,” he repeated, his words beginning to slur. “But you’re … beautiful.”
Tears slipped from beneath her closed lids. “Thank you,” she managed, then bit her lip. She counted to ten once again before she turned to look at him. He was asleep, one arm over his head, his hand turned up in an unconsciously vulnerable pose, his swollen lips slightly parted. She sighed.
Logically, she knew the locket had been the cause of what happened. She could tell herself that, rationalize it, and knew it was the truth. But she still felt dirty, and used. The evil object had used her, somehow knowing that had it gone any further the guilt would have destroyed them both. As it was, it could still destroy their friendship, make it impossible for Harry and Ron to ever reconcile, and force distrust and shame into his relationship with Ginny.
Hermione placed her hands on the table and leaned forward, closing her eyes and centering herself. When she turned back, she picked up her wand and resolutely returned to Harry’s side, forcing herself to remain calm and be practical. After all, Memory Modification Charms were complicated, and she couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.
It was near dawn before Harry stirred again. His temperature had spiked twice more before breaking in drenching sweats, and she’d remained at his side, calmly bathing his face and throat. When he shifted under the blankets, and Hermione could see his eyes shifting behind his closed lids, she spoke quietly.
“Harry, do you feel all --,” she had to pause to swallow, her throat was so dry, “– all right?”
He blinked his eyes open. “Yes,” he said, his voice rough. She could see he was lying, but she didn’t press. “We got away.”
She nodded. “Yes. I had to use a Hover Charm to get you into your bunk. I couldn’t lift you. You’ve been… Well, you have been quite…” She wasn’t sure how to finish. He stared at her, then at the sponge in her hand. “You’ve been ill,” she finally forced out. “Quite ill.”
“How long ago did we leave?”
“Hours ago. It’s nearly morning.”
He grimaced. “And I’ve been… what, unconscious?”
She swallowed. Here it was, not a lie exactly, but what she hoped would provide an excuse for the blanks in his memory. “Not exactly. You’re been shouting and moaning and… things.” Her composure deserted her at the end, and she hoped he wouldn’t notice and would let it go. She looked away from his probing gaze. “I couldn’t get the Horcrux off you,” she said quickly, filling the awkward pause. “It was stuck, stuck to your chest. You’ve got a mark. I’m sorry, I had to use a Severing Charm to get it away. The snake bit you, too, but I’ve cleaned the wound and put some dittany on it…”
He frowned slightly and pulled the collar of his t-shirt away from his sweaty chest. He looked down, and she watched his face carefully. There was no recognition, no sign he remembered on his face.
She breathed an internal sigh of relief. The Memory Charm had worked perfectly. She’d already begun using a scar removal cream on the matching mark on her own chest and within days, there would be no scar, nothing outward to show anything ever happened. No one would know, and Harry wouldn’t remember.
She’d done what she had to do.
She just wished it was possible to perform a Memory Modification on herself.
Author: ???
Rating: R
Characters: Harry/Hermione
Prompt(s): Number 144: Harry/Hermione Missing scene from DH.
After their escape from Godric's Hollow on Christmas Eve, Hermione brought the unconscious Harry back to camp. In the morning, she tells him that he hasn't been quite... What happened that night? Why couldn't she tell him? How did she stop his shouting and moaning? What "things" did he do? What did she do?
Warnings: Angst
Summary: "Love is blind, but friendship closes its eyes." source unknown
Word Count: 6400
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters belong to JKRowling. No profit is being made, nor insult intended, from this work of fiction
A/N: When I first saw this prompt, my thought was “Oh, man! Do I want to write that. But I was in the middle of another couple of projects, and feared I wouldn’t have the time to do justice to it. Well, I made the time, and I hope I managed to write the story, or at least a semblance, of what the prompter wanted. Undying thanks to SC, who was with me every step of the way, and to AMP, who is my beta and my most darling best friend. And to JKRowling, who gave us this fabulous playground to begin with and who continues, with extreme grace, to allow a group of horny fangirls and boys to frolic here.
And then his scar burst open and he was Voldemort and he was running across the fetid bedroom, his long white hands clutching at the windowsill as he glimpsed the bald man and the little woman twist and vanish, and he screamed with rage, a scream mingled with the girl’s, that echoed across the dark gardens over the church bells ringing in Christmas Day… Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Chapter Seventeen, Page 342.
They burst through the gaping hole where the window had been, and Hermione clutched at Harry as they fell, end over end, through the freezing air. She gripped the back of his jacket, and could feel his hot breath on her cheek and hear his ragged breaths. At one point, she was upside down staring at the expanse of endless black sky when she caught sight of a figure leaning out through the ruined second story wall: A figure with a face as white as death and malevolent eyes glowing like red coals. She screamed in horror and fear even as in her mind she was furiously chanting, the Forest of Dean, the Forest of Dean. Immediately there was a sharp tug behind her navel and she curled her hands into Harry’s jacket and held on for all she was worth as they spun away through a vortex, into darkness.
They landed on icy, leaf strewn ground with a jarring thud and she lay for several seconds attempting to regain her breath. She could feel that the earth beneath her was frozen, and she ached along her side as if she’d been kicked in the ribs. She struggled to take a deep breath and when she was finally able the air was so cold it burned. It was longer still before she was able to push shakily into a sitting position, and she looked around quickly. Lying about ten feet from her was a still, huddled figure, and she pushed painfully to her hands and knees and crawled to him.
“Harry,” she wheezed as she arrived next to him. He was lying on his side and she rolled him to his back carefully. “Harry, are you…” The sentence died on a sharp inhalation when she saw shiny black liquid soaking his sleeve from his elbow down, and the streaks on the back of his pale hand. The snake, she thought with horror. The snake had bitten him. “Oh, no,” she murmured, frantically searching around them for the beaded bag. “Hang on, Harry,” she said, even though to all appearances he wasn’t in any condition to hear her. “Hang on, just a moment…”
The futility of attempting to treat his injuries in the open in the dark finally occurred to her, logic overpowering panic, and she was able to yank the tent from the bag and erect it with a few muttered spells. Need overcoming emotion, she carefully cast the protective charms as she circled the perimeter, one eye on Harry’s still form the entire time. He hadn’t moved, and her fear grew. When she was done, she went back to him and quickly knelt at his side.
“Harry, can you hear me?”
He muttered, his dark head moving on the frozen leaves, but his eyes didn’t open. He was going to be no help, then. “Think, Hermione,” she told herself firmly. “What spell… oh, of course!” Lifting her wand, she muttered the incantation for a hovering spell, moved her wand is a series of graceful, if somewhat shaky loops, and watched as he lifted from the ground. Keeping him in front of her, she directed him through the open flaps of the tent. He floated gracefully, one hand across his chest but the other hanging limply beneath him. The Polyjuice had worn off, and his gaunt face looked deathly pale in the darkness.
“Incendio,” she muttered, tossing an absent spell toward the jar on a nearby table once Harry was settled on the lower bunk. A flame appeared inside the old Mason jar, not enough to truly light the interior of the tent but enough to chase the worst of the shadows into the corners. She quickly unwound the scarf from about her throat and tossed it aside, sitting near his hip on the sway-backed cot, and tried to figure out the simplest way to remove his jacket. His head was moving slightly on the dingy pillow case, and he was muttering unintelligibly. She saw the skin on his face slicked with sweat and immediately feared some sort of venom. Reaching for the buttons down his chest, she attempted to open his jacket.
“Oh, bloody hell,” she muttered finally when the buttons wouldn’t slip through the damp button holes. “Sorry.” She vanished the battered jacket. “We’ll just have to find you another. Oh… Harry…” Her voice trailed off into silence as she took in the ragged edges of his sleeve and the rent skin beneath. There were at least two bites, but she wasn’t sure how much more damage there was. The sleeve was soaked with blood and it was running down his arm and pooling on the ground next to the cot. Digging quickly into the beaded bag, she found a pair of scissors and the small bronze bottle of dittany. She felt a moment’s pang, remembering that the last time she’d held it had been when she was helping Ron, but she shoved the memory of him as far from her as she could. He’d abandoned them, and right at the moment she could really use his help. Her lip stiffening, she cut away Harry’s sodden sleeve and surveyed the damage beneath. Wincing, she counted four deep puncture wounds on the back of his arm and several smaller ones on the underside. The skin around them was already turning purple and bruising and she quickly uncorked the bottle, allowing a few drops to fall into each bleeding gash.
The dittany made a hissing sound when it connected with each wound and steam rose from his arm. Harry groaned, trying to pull away. She held on tight. “I know,” she murmured, attempting to sooth him. “I know it hurts. But it will be better in a moment, you’ll see.” In spite of his weak efforts to pull free, Hermione was able to treat each open sore and she watched as they slowly closed, filling in, new skin growing to cover the wounds. When they were reduced to scars on his smooth skin, Hermione stoppered the bottle and dropped it back into the bag.
There was an odd crunching sound from inside of it, and Hermione frowned. She felt around gingerly, and when her fingers encountered splintered wood, she gasped. Digging in earnest, her hand finally emerged holding what had once been Harry’s wand. It was broken in two, shattered ends held together by a brilliant red core. The Phoenix feather, she thought, her heart dropping. Fawke’s feather.
“Oh, God,” she gasped. “Oh, no, no…”
Quickly grabbing up her own wand, she tried every spell she knew for mending things that were broken. After ten minutes passed, and nothing worked, Hermione felt tears fill her eyes. She held the wand pieces clutched in one hand, and rubbed her forehead with the other. Harry had lost the broomstick Sirius had given him. And Hedwig, whose loss he suffered still no matter how he tried to deny it. Hedwig had been his first friend. And now his wand was gone too, the wand that had chosen him when he was eleven, and she could only imagine that the break had occurred when the spell she’d cast on the snake had bounced around that hideous bedroom. She didn’t even remember dropping the pieces into the bag, but she must have done so instinctively. Staring at the mangled wand, Hermione ‘s throat began to ache. Harry’s wand was gone, and it was her fault. Suddenly it was all just too much, and she lowered her head as tears slipped down her cheeks. She was alone, in the middle of nowhere with her best friend badly hurt, and there was no one to help her. And in Australia, her parents wouldn’t even know they had a daughter to miss as Christmas Day Dawned. She pressed her hand over her mouth to muffle her sobs.
Harry made a sound, and Hermione was reminded abruptly where she was and what still needed doing. She didn’t have time to feel sorry for herself. Returning the shattered wand to the bag before putting it on the nearby table, she turned back to Harry, brushing away her tears and studying his face. He was flushed and stirring fitfully, his brow creased in a frown she thought looked pained.
“It’s all right,” she whispered, leaning over him and brushing his fringe back from his damp forehead. “You’re all right, Harry.”
His eyes still closed, he bared his teeth in a sneer, and she jerked back at the uncharacteristic expression. “Stand aside, you silly girl,” he hissed from between clenched teeth. “Stand aside, now.”
Hermione blinked, frowning. “Harry,” she ventured, leaning forward again, her hand going to his shoulder. “Harry, it’s me. Wake up.”
“This is my last warning,” he growled, and Hermione gasped. It didn’t even sound like Harry. “Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!”
His eyes shot open, fixed on her, and Hermione recoiled with a startled shriek. His eyes, which were usually so wide and open, green as holly leaves, were glowing a dark, angry red. Stunned, Hermione fell off of the cot and scuttled backwards on her hands and feet. It wasn’t Harry. That wasn’t Harry. He rose slowly onto his elbows, his eyes fixed on her as he lifted a wandless hand and pointed it at her.
“Avada Kedavra!” he shouted, and Hermione gasped, half expecting the words to be the last she ever heard. Instead, Harry clutched at his face and collapsed back against the cot, screaming in agony. The sound sent a chill through her.
“Harry!” she cried, rushing to him. He had his hands pressed over his forehead, and he was writhing. “Harry, let me see!” She forced his hands away, and gasped again. His scar was an angry, fierce red, as if it had just occurred. When she tentatively touched it, it was hot beneath her fingers. In fact, he was hot, his body radiating an unhealthy heat. “Oh, God,” she whispered desperately. “What do I do?”
As if in answer, she could hear her mother speaking to her, her calm voice soft and reassuring. “Tepid bath, Hermione,” she heard echo through her thoughts. “Tepid bath for a high fever.”
She scrabbled quickly to her feet, reaching for a bucket that hung on the bench they laughingly referred to as their ‘kitchen’. Harry was still thrashing on the narrow cot, but now he was sobbing brokenly and she hesitated for a moment. She was afraid to leave him, but he was so hot… Not allowing herself to hesitate even a moment longer, she turned and ran from the tent. If she was where she’d envisioned when she’d Apparated them, there was a stream nearby that, hopefully, wouldn’t be frozen over.
She sent up a small prayer of gratitude when she found the stream and another when the ice on top was thin enough she could break through it with the bucket. Filling it, she drenched her gloves and her hands immediately began to sting. She could hear Harry’s cries, and she rushed back, slopping ice water on her legs, ignoring the rush of cold pain that resulted.
When she re-entered the tent, Harry was rocking on the cot, his arms wrapped around his torso. She quickly found a small sponge and dropped down next him on her knees, reaching out her hand and touching Harry’s arm. She could feel the hard bunched muscles beneath her fingers and the heat radiating off of him in waves. He was still crying, a lost, hitching sound that made her chest ache. She dipped the sponge into the icy water, wringing it out before lifting it.
He gasped when the cold sponge connected with his face, and tried to pull away.
“No, Harry, please,” she begged him, stroking it down his face. “This will help. Let me help.”
Still, he strained away from her touch. He began to babble amidst his sobs, and at first she didn’t understand what he was saying, wasn’t sure she wanted to. But then she heard mumma and dada, whispered in a thin, broken little voice and her eyes welled again.
“Oh, don’t,” she whispered gently, blinking. “Don’t go back there, Harry. Don’t.” Her voice broke and tears slid down her cheeks even as she continued to gently bathe his face, and his neck. He was still so hot. If anything, it was worse, not better.
He cried for a long time. Finally he silenced and lay mostly still but for occasional twitches and hiccoughs, and she wondered if he’d worn himself out and gone to sleep. She was exhausted, too, but he was still so feverish. It frightened her.
She wasn’t sure how long she continued to bathe his face and neck. She was so weary the motion of her arm became robotic, until it was leaden and so heavy she had no choice but to stop for a while. Her arm fell limp at her side, and the blood returning to her fingers caused a rush of unpleasant tingling. She pressed her forehead against the rough sheets on the cot and closed her eyes. If she could rest, just for a moment…
She was awakened by a vibration against her cheek and an odd clicking sound. Opening her eyes, she blinked several times, looking around the dim interior of the tent. Her legs were cramped beneath her and she straightened them with a grimace, trying to discern where the odd vibrating and the weird noise were coming from. Lifting her head she looked down blearily, and realized the shaking was coming from the cot, and the source of it was Harry. He was trembling violently, and the sound was his teeth, tightly clenched but still clicking together.
“Oh, God,” she gasped, reaching out reflexively and touching him. Where he’d been like a furnace before, now he was freezing cold. She drew her hand back with a startled gasp, then grabbed the upper bunk to haul herself laboriously to her feet. Feeling was still returning to her feet and the resulting shock of putting weight on them made her hiss, but she yanked all of the blankets off of the top bunk and dumped them onto Harry before kneeling once again and tucking them in tightly around his body. Using her wand, she cast a warming charm and waited.
It didn’t work. He remained as cold as before, even though his face and neck were wet with perspiration. Terrified there had been some sort of cursed venom in the snake’s fangs, she grabbed for her bag and rummaged though it for her books.
There was nothing but the usual remedies for snake bites, most of which she’d made impossible by healing the wounds while they were still open. Horrified she might have sealed the poison inside of Harry’s body, she followed shakily read instructions in an old wizarding first aid book and ran a quick scan of his body. Nothing showed up, which made her sigh in relief, but still the unnatural cold and shaking went on. Wondering if it was a delayed reaction to the shock, she searched on, turning to a Muggle first aid book she’d taken from her parents. Near the bottom of a page she found a section on hypothermia, and her brow furrowed. The symptoms certainly sounded similar. She’d moved him out of the cold and covered him with blankets, and he wasn’t lying on the cold ground. There was another section beneath that, and she read the words: Share body heat. To warm the person's body, remove your clothing and lie next to the person, making skin-to-skin contact. Then cover both of your bodies with blankets.
Hermione gnawed on her lower lip, her eyes drifting to Harry’s ashen face. The book also suggested giving the person something warm to drink, but that was impossible if they were unconscious, which he still was. She continued to tug at her lip until she noticed his were beginning to turn faintly blue, and she shoved to her feet with a muttered curse.
“Don’t be a ninny,” she said under her breath, pulling back the blankets and reaching for the buttons down the center of Harry’s chest. It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen him without his shirt before, and it was Harry, for heaven’s sake. He was her best friend, but she certainly had no romantic illusions about him. She was in… well, she had been fond of Ronald. And so what if she’d noticed recently Harry had more hair on his chest, and it curled between mounds of well-defined muscle? They were no longer children, she was human, and he wasn’t hard on the eyes. But it didn’t mean anything. And right now, she was all he had.
She yanked the shirt from his shoulders slightly more roughly than necessary and threw it aside, then without allowing herself to pause and think, pulled off her jacket and drew her thick jumper off over her head. “This will just have to do,” she murmured, the cold air raising gooseflesh on her arms and shoulders. She wasn’t stripping to her panties and she doubted Harry would appreciate her divesting him of his jeans. Grabbing the blankets and lifting them, she paused when she saw the heavy gold locket lying in the middle of his chest.
She reached for the chain, to unhook it and take it off of him, but he was shaking so hard, his muscles so tight, she couldn’t reach beneath him to remove it. Sighing explosively, she ignored the niggling impulse that told her to make the time, and slipped into the cot beside him, pulling the blankets up over her shoulder.
“The things you get yourself into,” she said beneath her breath. “The things you get me into.” She knew he couldn’t hear her, but it made the whole thing seem less awkward, somehow, if she babbled. She rubbed his back and sides briskly, hoping he’d warm quickly. Holding him, his pale skin like ice and his body rigid, gave her the disconcerting thought that it must be something like embracing a corpse. Shaken by the mental image, she redoubled her efforts, rubbing her hands briskly over his back.
“Come on, Harry,” she urged, pressing her cheek to his and speaking directly into his ear. He smelled of wood smoke and shampoo and sweat, his damp hair brushed her forehead. “Please.” Her voice hitched when he remained unresponsive. “I need you. I can’t do this without you. None of us can do this without you.”
She wondered if she’d ever been so cold. He seemed to be leaching the heat from her body, but it didn’t appear to be making any difference to the iciness of his skin. She pulled the blankets up higher, until they were covered to their eyes, and wrapped her legs around his hips, bringing him flush against her from chin to groin. More frightened than she could ever remember being, she rocked him as she rubbed up and down the muscles on either side of his spine. As desperate as she was, she tried to take her rapidly careening emotions in hand. It wouldn’t do either of them any good if she got hysterical.
“I’m sure glad Ginny isn’t here to see this,” she muttered, trying to lighten her tone. “The girl is a wicked hand with a bat bogey hex, and I don’t fancy sporting a face full of those.” She grimaced. “More likely she’d hit me with a stunner and throw me off of the Hogwarts ramparts. She’s possessive, that one.” She moved her hands between them and rubbed his chest. She could feel the springy chest hair beneath the pads of her fingers.
“Ron’s possessive, too,” she went on, searching for anything to talk about in an attempt to control her anxiety. “The fuss he made over Viktor; it was ridiculous. If he wanted to take me to the Yule Ball, he simply should have asked me first.”
She wasn’t sure, but she thought she felt some of the icy rigidity leaving Harry’s body. Encouraged, she wrapped her arms once again around his neck. She was sure of it - his teeth weren’t chattering next to her ear anymore.
“He can be so dumb, you know,” she went on, locking her ankles behind his thighs. “Like his little fit before he abandoned us, the prat. What the devil was that all about? The way he said, I get it, you choose him.” She snorted derisively. Eager to feel something, anything but the mind numbing cold and the escalating fear, she clung to Harry and allowed her remembered anger to provide distraction. “He’s so immature, sometimes. Honestly. I only regret I didn’t tell him what I thought of him before he Apparated away.”
A tendril of warmth, very real warmth, curled between their chests, and Hermione caught her breath. Harry moaned softly and stirred, and she clutched him tighter.
“Oh, yes. Harry, yes. Come back. Come back to me.”
The locket began to feel warm against her breast, and the weight of it, the press of it between them was almost reassuring. She felt a soft exhalation stir the curls near her ear and Harry’s body abruptly lost its frightful stiffness, and she closed her eyes in relief. Buoyed as the heat between them continued to grow and cheered by the cleansing anger, she went on.
“He’s jealous of you too, you know,” she said, putting into words things she’d thought more than once. “He’s convinced he isn’t as smart as you are, or as brave. And afraid he’s nowhere near as powerful a wizard.” Her anger continued to grow. “Well, he’s right, about all of it. You’re smart, and braver than anyone I’ve ever known. And the power, Harry…” She exhaled shakily. “The power rolls off of you in waves.”
And it did, she realized as she held him. She could feel it, even now, even as compromised as he was. The power was there, all around her in the cocoon of blankets. It was a heady, heady thing, and she stopped briskly rubbing the skin of his back to smooth her hands up and down gently.
“When did you get all of these muscles, Harry?” she murmured, stroking up to feel the caps near his shoulders, further up to trace the triangular bulges on either side of his neck. “It’s nice.” She giggled, and it sounded intimate beneath the layers of blankets. Her fingers found the heavy chain of the locket, and she traced it with the tips. “Maybe I’m the one who should be jealous,” she teased. “Of Ginny.”
The heat between them continued to climb, and Hermione pressed closer to him, bolstered by the warmth. It felt nice, she thought. He felt nice. He felt like a man in her arms, and she was appreciating it on a purely physical level. For the first time since they’d begun this fruitless journey, she could forget her hunger, forget her fear and disappointment. The cot no longer felt hard, the blankets no longer smelled musty and the sheets weren’t rough against her skin. The heat between their skin, just over their hearts, continued to grow and she noticed only how lovely his hard chest felt pressing into her breasts. The edge of the locket actually slipped beneath the lacey edge of her bra, and it felt good against the soft skin, as if it somehow connected them.
His legs were strong against her inner thighs, and his flat stomach with its ridges of muscle caressed her bare stomach. She thought of the last time she’d seen Ron without his shirt, and smirked derisively. He was so lanky, she thought. So thin and pale. He was nothing, nothing compared to the man she held in her arms. The locket seemed to purr, like a contented kneazle, but it didn’t distract her. It was far too lovely to concentrate on the other things she could feel; the smooth skin on his arms as she traced their length before reaching to wrap them around her body. And the tingling that grew in her belly, and lower. A craving twitch flared between her legs, and she pressed closer to his hard form. He was warm now, and it was lovely. More than lovely.
“Harry,” she whispered, allowing her lips to brush his cheek. She felt his stubble beneath her tongue. “Harry…”
One of his hands moved on the skin of her back. It was a fleeting caress, but she arched into it with a glad sound. He moved, slowly to be sure, sluggishly, but his hand slid up her back and his fingers curled in her hair, and she welcomed it, rejoiced in it. How could she have ever imagined she had feelings for Ron when Harry was so much more desirable?
“Yes,” she whispered when he shifted restlessly, and the movement pressed him against the heavy fullness between her legs. She arched her back and moved her hips, and he made a startled sound in his throat. “Like that?”
He mumbled something incoherent and turned his head, his lips parted as if he was searching for something. They brushed her cheek, then her chin, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to cover his open mouth with hers and kiss him.
Heat flared over her heart, slipped into her bloodstream, spread down her arms and legs and tingled in her fingers and toes. She slipped her tongue into his mouth, sending it on a flirtatious dance along the length of his and he made another sound, welcoming, encouraging. Bolstered, she allowed one of her hands to slide up into his hair and gripped his curls. The locket vibrated between them, and it seemed to echo the rabid beat of her heart.
Having always been shy and reticent where anything sexual was concerned, it was liberating to feel the uncomplicated need. She wanted him, and clearly, he wanted her, too. Why shouldn’t they take this, if they could? Why shouldn’t they know some pleasure, some joy? They were all alone in the middle of nowhere, and they’d had another horrifying experience in a year rife of them. Why shouldn’t they take their comfort where they could find it?
The locket thrummed in agreement and bolstered by it, Hermione opened her mouth further, sought out Harry’s tongue and stroked it in a slow, unmistakable rhythm. She rubbed herself against him and the ache between her legs intensified. What she wanted more than anything, more than her next breath, was to feel him hard and ready against her, even inside of her. Dark longing filled her, and she wasn’t shocked at the unfamiliar desire. Hampered by having her leg caught beneath him, she pushed him to his back and straddled his hips, her mouth never ceasing its voracious capture of his lips. His tongue responded to her prodding, and she pulled it into her mouth, fleetingly reminded of a Dementor. Dark amusement filled her and she sucked hard. I’ll take your soul, Harry Potter. The words rang in her mind, and she wanted to laugh.
She rocked on top of him, grinding her groin against his, and her craving grew. There was a desperate need inside of her, a swelling ache. She’d never had an orgasm with another person before, but she was close; so close. When she felt him harden beneath her, thick and insistent, and she groaned into his mouth.
“Yes, Harry,” she gasped. “You feel so good.” His hands slipped down to grasp her arse and hold her tight against him as he arched up. She released a shuddering sob, gasping.
“Ginny,” he said in a guttural voice. “Ginny, please…”
It was like being doused in ice water. What was she doing? Stunned, aghast, Hermione reared back, her only thought to get off of him. But pain seared through her chest, and she couldn’t pull away. Something was holding her to Harry’s chest, as if their flesh had melted together, and she realized with dawning horror it was the locket.
She heard a voice screeching though her mind as Harry pressed up against her. No! a harsh male voice wailed. Don’t stop! No, no, no! Hermione pulled harder, then let out a pained cry. She couldn’t get up; the locket was searing her flesh, melding it to Harry’s, and she couldn’t pull away. He gasped and cried out in pain too, and his fingers dug into the tender flesh of her arse like talons.
“No, Harry, don’t,” she begged. “I need my wand. I have to get to my wand!”
She opened her eyes and looked around frantically, and spotted it on the floor next to the cot. “I need… Harry let me…”
“I need you too, Gin,” he panted, his eyes still closed, writhing beneath her. “Almost there. So close…”
Hermione shuddered and leaned over as far as she could even though the skin between her breasts felt as if it was being ripped from the flesh beneath it. Her fingers finally closed around the end of her wand, and she grasped it with a grateful sob. She pulled back as much as she could, pointed it awkwardly between them, and shouted Abrumpo!
She flew backwards so abruptly that she tumbled off of the cot and landed on her back on the hard floor. It hurt so badly tears filled her eyes, and her hand flew to her chest, but that only made it worse. She touched raw flesh, and the burn and sting were horrible. Struggling to sit, she looked down at the skin between her breasts. In a perfect replica of the shape of the locket was a fresh, open red wound.
Harry made a gagging sound, and Hermione looked up to find him struggling, trying to pull the locket from his flesh. It looked white hot and made the same sound bacon did in a skillet. Hermione lurched to her knees, rapidly performing the same spell she’d used on herself. Harry cried out in pain as she yanked the locket over his head by the chain and threw it into the far corner of the tent. Panting, she pointed her wand at the beaded bag and shouted, “Essence of dittany!” Her hands were shaking so violently she dropped it on the first effort, but finally managed to pull the stopper and drip some of the liquid onto Harry’s chest. It sizzled, steam rising from the wound as a thin skin formed over the top of it. She performed the same service on herself, tears spilling down her cheeks as the pain increased before finally fading away. Shoving the stopper back into the bottle, she dropped it and flopped onto her back, the heels of her hands pressed into her eyes.
She lay for a long time with her hands over her eyes, horrified, shamed to her soul. What must Harry think of her? How was she ever to face him again? His breathing sounded loud and labored for a while, but it faded and she waited, certain she’d done the unforgivable, that their friendship would be irreparably damaged. How could she look at Ron, or at Ginny, after what she’d done?
Silence settled and cold began to seep into her body through the floor. Unable to put it off any longer, she sat up, her eyes still averted.
“Hermione?”
He sounded tentative but lucid, and she flinched.
“Don’t do that,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Look at me.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze, and found him staring at her, his hands in his lap and his shoulders hunched defensively. His eyes were almost unnaturally wide and vulnerable without his glasses, and the confusion in them was unmistakable. He was shaking again, and she moved quickly to yank a clean t-shirt out of his rucksack. She handed it to him, but he just stared at it in his hands. When he turned his eyes back to her, and they moved over her bare shoulders before skirting away, she felt shame burning in her chest. She quickly yanked on her abandoned shirt and a heavy jumper but she still felt naked, and exposed.
“Put on your shirt,” she ordered softly, pushing to her feet and picking her wand up off of the floor. She stood by the cot until he donned it. Once he was covered, he crossed his arms tight over his chest, his hands gripping his forearms, the whole of him shaking. She pulled blankets up and over his shoulders and tucked them in around his neck. When she started to step back he looked into her eyes, pinning her there.
“Hermione,” he said, clearly struggling. She held up her hand and shook her head. She knew what she had to do.
“I’ll make you some tea.”
He nodded, chewing his lower lip, his face averted.
He didn’t see her add the sleeping draught to the cup, and didn’t taste it as he sipped the strong Oolong. By the time he’d finished, the potion was already doing its job and his eyelids were drooping. But when she went to take the cup from him, he displayed some of the lingering Seeker’s reflexes, reaching out and catching her wrist in his hand. He gripped it, hard, forcing her to look at him.
“Hermione,” he whispered. “I’m in love with Ginny.”
She nodded. “I know.”
“And you’re in love with Ron.”
She nodded again, sighing softly. Harry released her and she straightened, holding the cup, forgotten, in her hand. The silence was the most awkward that had ever passed between them. Finally, Harry cleared his throat.
“What are we supposed to do now?”
She turned away and placed the cup with exaggerated care on the table. “Don’t worry about it right now. You’re ill, and you need your rest.”
She heard the cot creak as he lay down, and she counted to ten, hoping but the time she was done he’d be asleep.
“Hermione?”
She didn’t turn back. “Yes, Harry?”
“How do I ever look Ron in the face again?”
She clenched her eyes shut on a fresh wave of tears. “Don’t worry about it tonight. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
“All right.” There was a pause. “Hermione?”
She flinched involuntarily this time. “Yes?”
His voice when it came was so soft she barely heard him. “I’m in love with Ginny,” he repeated, his words beginning to slur. “But you’re … beautiful.”
Tears slipped from beneath her closed lids. “Thank you,” she managed, then bit her lip. She counted to ten once again before she turned to look at him. He was asleep, one arm over his head, his hand turned up in an unconsciously vulnerable pose, his swollen lips slightly parted. She sighed.
Logically, she knew the locket had been the cause of what happened. She could tell herself that, rationalize it, and knew it was the truth. But she still felt dirty, and used. The evil object had used her, somehow knowing that had it gone any further the guilt would have destroyed them both. As it was, it could still destroy their friendship, make it impossible for Harry and Ron to ever reconcile, and force distrust and shame into his relationship with Ginny.
Hermione placed her hands on the table and leaned forward, closing her eyes and centering herself. When she turned back, she picked up her wand and resolutely returned to Harry’s side, forcing herself to remain calm and be practical. After all, Memory Modification Charms were complicated, and she couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.
It was near dawn before Harry stirred again. His temperature had spiked twice more before breaking in drenching sweats, and she’d remained at his side, calmly bathing his face and throat. When he shifted under the blankets, and Hermione could see his eyes shifting behind his closed lids, she spoke quietly.
“Harry, do you feel all --,” she had to pause to swallow, her throat was so dry, “– all right?”
He blinked his eyes open. “Yes,” he said, his voice rough. She could see he was lying, but she didn’t press. “We got away.”
She nodded. “Yes. I had to use a Hover Charm to get you into your bunk. I couldn’t lift you. You’ve been… Well, you have been quite…” She wasn’t sure how to finish. He stared at her, then at the sponge in her hand. “You’ve been ill,” she finally forced out. “Quite ill.”
“How long ago did we leave?”
“Hours ago. It’s nearly morning.”
He grimaced. “And I’ve been… what, unconscious?”
She swallowed. Here it was, not a lie exactly, but what she hoped would provide an excuse for the blanks in his memory. “Not exactly. You’re been shouting and moaning and… things.” Her composure deserted her at the end, and she hoped he wouldn’t notice and would let it go. She looked away from his probing gaze. “I couldn’t get the Horcrux off you,” she said quickly, filling the awkward pause. “It was stuck, stuck to your chest. You’ve got a mark. I’m sorry, I had to use a Severing Charm to get it away. The snake bit you, too, but I’ve cleaned the wound and put some dittany on it…”
He frowned slightly and pulled the collar of his t-shirt away from his sweaty chest. He looked down, and she watched his face carefully. There was no recognition, no sign he remembered on his face.
She breathed an internal sigh of relief. The Memory Charm had worked perfectly. She’d already begun using a scar removal cream on the matching mark on her own chest and within days, there would be no scar, nothing outward to show anything ever happened. No one would know, and Harry wouldn’t remember.
She’d done what she had to do.
She just wished it was possible to perform a Memory Modification on herself.
