A/N: Where did this come from? I'm not sure, but I'm not complaining! As usual, it's Harmony all the way. It's a tiny bit angsty, but sometimes you just need that. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own zilch. (Hm. Now I'm tempted to get a parrot or a fish or a guinea pig, and name it that, just so that I can say "I own Zilch." HA! Okay, I'm done.)

It started innocently enough.

When Ron left, Hermione was—to put it mildly—a basket case. She cried so hard and so often, she was surprised she hadn't shriveled up like a raisin from lack of fluids inside her. Harry pretended not to hear her, for her sake more than his own, but she knew he did. How could he not? When she wasn't planning or searching or studying, she was lying on her bed, or sitting outside the tent, sobbing, and waiting.

Then, one day, it seemed he'd had enough.

Hermione sniffled quietly as she tried, futilely, to fall asleep. Harry was just a few feet away, in his own bunk, but she felt a million miles away from everything and everyone. She was lost in her grief, trapped in her misery.

She grew very still and quiet at the telltale sound of rustling sheets. Even quieter when she heard the soft, padded footfalls of Harry's stocking-clad feet across the wood floor. Hermione closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep, even though she knew he knew better. A moment later, she was alerted to the added weight on her mattress, and an arm came around her waist. Her eyes flew open, and she stiffened, ready to turn around and tell Harry to go back to bed.

"Go to sleep, 'Mione," he whispered, his breath rustling the hair just behind her ear. He didn't say anything else, and soon, his breathing became deep and slow.

When she was certain he was, in fact, asleep, Hermione turned in his arms, gazing at him through the thick darkness. Her mind was buzzing with questions and curiosity, but she knew she wouldn't be able to find the answers tonight. So she just curled up against him, and eventually drifted off to sleep.

She awoke, sometime later, to Harry's fitful movements and plaintive moans, and she knew he must be having a nightmare. He had them often, but he was usually on the opposite end of the tent, and Ron would eventually cast a Muffliato around his bed, so that the rest of them could get some sleep. It never worked, of course. Once Hermione was awake, she would worry about him, and eventually lift the charm, and cast one over Ron's bed. Then she'd wake Harry gently, so they could talk about the dream, should he wish to. He usually didn't, but she was there, all the same.

But this was different. Now, he was in her bed, and he was so close that she could hear each panted breath with perfect clarity; could feel his elevated temperature, even through the sweaters and mass of blankets that separated them; could see every bead of sweat, dripping across his forehead, down the side of his face, into his hair, and dampening her pillow. Not that she minded. At the moment, her mind was so preoccupied with concern for him that all else seemed to vanish.

"Harry," she whispered. He didn't seem to hear her, so she tried again, a bit louder this time, touching his hand gently. He started, and his eyes flew open. When he seemed to regain his bearings, those eyes met hers, and suddenly, he began to sob. In an instant, Hermione shifted closer to him, wrapping her arms around him, letting him cling to her, and literally cry on her shoulder. Her hands moved methodically through his matted, black hair, while she gently shushed him and whispered words of comfort. She couldn't fight back the tears of her own that silently fell, but for the first time, they weren't for Ron.

Hermione didn't know how long they stayed like that, crying in one another's arms. But at length, his tormented sobs ceased, and he moved away from her. "Sorry," he mumbled, and she could almost see the embarrassed blush.

She shrugged. "Want to talk?"

His eyes darkened. "Er... not really."

"Okay."

No more words were spoken for the remainder of the night. Eventually, they both fell into a dreamless, relatively peaceful slumber.

This pattern continued for the next several weeks. Hermione would cry, Harry would dream, and they would hold each other through the night. Before long, she stopped crying, and his nightmares became less frequent.

They adopted some new habits, as well. Though they didn't talk much, they would sit outside the tent together, around a small fire. Hermione read and researched; Harry helped on occasion, but mostly just sat, lost in his thoughts. Without really thinking about it, Hermione's hand would find Harry's. The first time this happened, they were both surprised, but Harry just gave her a warm smile, squeezed her hand, and went back to staring vacantly into space. After that, it just... happened.

And every night, just before they cuddled into Hermione's bed (Harry argued that his wasn't as comfortable), he made it a habit to lightly kiss her—on the cheek, on the forehead, or on the tip of her nose. She, in turn, would give his hand another quick squeeze, and they'd curl up together, soon falling asleep.

Neither of them gave these affectionate gestures, or their sleeping situation a second thought. It was perfectly normal. They were being good friends, nothing more. There was nothing unusual about the way he kissed her forehead, the way she held his hand, or the nights spent together...

Right?

"Hermione?" Harry whispered.

They'd just gone through their nightly routine—taking turns brushing their teeth, a peck on the cheek, a squeeze of the hand, and now they were in bed. Hermione felt herself being pulled back into consciousness; she'd been so close to escaping into the warm, colorful world of her dreams, when Harry said her name.

She suppressed a sigh. "Yes, Harry?"

"Do you... I mean... are you in love with Ron?"

Hermione stiffened at the abrupt question. Slowly, she turned around, until she was facing him. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "I thought I was, but... I don't know if I can love him now."

"Because he left," he guessed.

"That's part of it."

"What's the other part?"

Hermione racked her brains for some sort of excuse. She wasn't ready to tell him the truth, a truth which she'd only just been able to admit to herself. And the truth was, she had developed some rather interesting feelings for her green-eyed best friend. In every kiss, every touch, every shared breath, she felt an undeniable spark, and she could no longer write it off as typical teenage hormones. Though she was still upset over Ron's leaving, she wasn't as upset. Her broken heart had been mended, and the hole had been filled with someone else's presence. Harry's presence. But how could she tell him that? How could she admit, aloud, that Ron's fears had become reality?

She was saved (or not) when Harry spoke again. "You feel it too, don't you?"

"F-feel what?" she stammered, her cheeks burning.

"The spark, the... connection," he explained. "Like... like everything's right."

Hermione sighed. "You haven't been practicing Legilimency behind my back, have you, Harry?"

He chuckled softly. "No, I haven't."

"Oh, good."

"But then... you do feel it?" he asked cautiously, warily. "It's not just me?"

"Yes," she said. "I do feel it."

Harry nodded once, an action which she felt, more than saw, as it was pitch black, and his head was resting on the pillow just inches from hers. "Er... Hermione?" His voice was barely more than a whisper. "Can I... try something?"

Her brow furrowed, but she gave a shrug. "Sure, go ahead."

For a moment, he was silent, and motionless. Hermione was ready to say his name, and prompt him to get on with it, when a pair of soft lips came over hers.

Merlin...

It was everything she'd dreamed a kiss should be, and more. His lips were gentle, neither asking too much, nor holding too much back. They moved together in tender synchronization, pulling and caressing with just the right amount of softness, and a deep, suppressed passion that ached to come out. But not yet.

After a few seconds, they parted, both taking slow, shaky breaths. Hermione was the first to speak. "Wow," she sighed.

Harry chuckled. "Yeah," he agreed. "I've always wondered what that would feel like."

She bit her lip. "What's the verdict?" she asked anxiously.

"It was better than I ever could have imagined."

Still chewing on that lip, Hermione felt herself smile. "Likewise," she murmured.

In a moment, his lips found hers again, this kiss more urgent than the last. Harry's hands splayed out across her back, pulling her closer, while hers worked their way into his hair. Hermione stiffened a little as something wet and spongy grazed her upper lip, pleading entrance. She quickly succumbed, though, allowing his tongue to gently probe and massage against her own. That hidden passion leaked out into the kiss, causing both their bodies to flush with pleasure. The sudden increase in body temperature surprised Hermione, and she gently drew back, her breathing ragged, as was Harry's.

"We shouldn't move too fast," she said quietly.

"You're right," he nodded. "Let's go slow."

Hermione smiled her thanks, though she knew Harry wouldn't see it. Still, he seemed to understand, and pulled her closer, his forehead resting on hers. They stayed like that, wrapped up in one another's embrace, occasionally leaning in for a kiss. And it was the most comfortable Hermione had ever felt.

Later, just before she surrendered to the blissful oblivion of sleep, a thought struck her: there was nothing normal about the way he held her, kissed her, touched her... loved her. Yes, she did believe he loved her. And she loved him. And it was in no way normal. But, she decided, normal was rather overrated, anyway. She decided that this subtle perfection was much better.

A/N: Aww! Sweetness! I think I'll just end the story here, and leave the rest to your imagination. Sometimes it's more fun that way. ;) Hope you liked it! Review, please!