This is where I once again remind readers that some canon events still take place/are referenced, but supporting circumstances (dialogue, events leading up to/surrounding key canon plot moments) will be different.

Chapter Four

Over the weeks that followed, Hermione and Charlie conversed nearly every night via their spelled notebooks. The passing days were becoming harder and harder to manage, the bulk of her daylight hours spent keeping—or at least trying to keep—Harry and Ron's tempers in check, never mind that still neither of them saw fit to check in with her about how her emotions were faring during all this.

It was just as Charlie'd said, she supposed. They took for granted that she was always strong for them, even when she was a mess of tears. There was a very real chance his understanding was the sole thing keeping her from losing it just as much as Harry and Ron were.

Her nights? Those were definitely easier to bear. Once darkness fell, her time was split between writing to Charlie, sleeping, standing watch when it was her turn, and—every so often—slipping away to meet him in that park where they'd shared their first kiss. It was never more than a handful of minutes at a time, sometime ten or fifteen at the most, only long enough that her absence from the campsite wouldn't be noticed, or compromise Harry and Ron's safety.

It was time enough for each of them to see that the other was doing all right, time enough to assure one another they were not being reckless—well, no more reckless than was typical for either of them, at least—and, of course, time enough for snogging. She was ignoring that sometimes she spent so many of their stolen minutes snogging Charlie Weasley senseless that there left no time for talking between her arrival and departure.

It didn't take him long to realize that those where the nights she was the most emotionally wrung out from her mission. Not that he was complaining very much about her chosen coping mechanism, but those were also the nights when he left the park hurting, his heart absolutely aching so that he thought if he opened his robes, he might actually glimpse his chest raw and bleeding.

Those were the nights when his own, self-assigned, mission felt the most like betrayal. If any of the true Death Eaters—or worse, the Dark Lord, himself—became suspicious, that could put her in danger. He still wasn't at all certain what he'd do if the time came that his duplicity was discovered.

It gnawed at him that if that ever happened, and he was caught fraternizing with 'Potter's Mudblood'—dear God how his stomach roiled to even think that horrid word—he would have to do some things to protect her for which she might never forgive him. Once or twice, he'd contemplated telling her, at least then she could be braced if anything of the sort happened; he could be secure in the knowledge that whatever darker side of himself he might be forced to let Hermione see in his attempt to protect her, at least she would know it was only a farce.

But he was fully cognizant that would only put them both in greater danger if his ruse was discovered, or if she, Harry, and Ron were captured.

Yet, he couldn't seem to stop her in the moments when she appeared before him and threw herself into his arms, her brown eyes full of miserable tears. He didn't want to stop her.

In those moments, when her fingers curled into the fabric of his robes, as they played with his hair and raked his scalp, when she sighed into him and nipped at his tongue, he didn't care what the future might bring. When he held her against him, eagerly returning her hungry, demanding kisses, he knew he didn't care that he might later suffer for this.

Tonight, as she appeared in their usual meeting place—they'd discovered a little alcove hidden from view of passersby after their third secret rendezvous—he noticed she wore that look. The one that said they'd get little talking done tonight.

She closed the distance between them at a run, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling his mouth down over hers. His reaction was automatic, instantaneous, as his hands settled over her hips, his fingers gripping into her clothes and holding her close as his tongue plunged between her lips.

Unlike those other nights she wore this look, however, she broke the kiss after a few breathless moments. Gasping, she dropped her head down, resting her forehead against his chest.

"I missed you," she whispered, her voice thick.

"I can tell," he answered, a low snicker edging his words. But he didn't like the way she sounded. Pulling her away enough to look into her face, he frowned at the sight of dampness on her cheeks. This must be worse than usual if she'd stopped mid-kiss.

"Oh, Hermione." Charlie wiped her cheeks dry with the gentle brush of his calloused fingertips. Settling cross-legged on the grassy earth, he pulled her to sit in his lap. "What's happened? Talk to me."

She curled up against him, her hands idly toying with the coarse dark leather of his robes. "The usual, mostly. It's just . . . ." Hermione sighed, tipping back her head as she sniffled. "It's just so hard. I feel like we're fracturing and I don't know what to do anymore."

His ginger brows pinched together in question. "You and me?"

Meeting his gaze in something like shock, a quiet little gasp tore out of her. "No, no, of course not. You and I?" A small smile curved her lips in spite of herself as she snuggled more firmly against his lap to prove her point. "You and I are perfect. You think I'd have greeted you like that if something were wrong between us?"

He shrugged, smirking. "Maybe," he said, truly enjoying that he could make her smile when she'd been so upset just a few heartbeats ago. "You could've just wanted one last good snog for the road."

The bridge of her nose crinkled with her grin as she playfully swatted his shoulder. "Idiot."

Charlie laughed, winking at her. "Yeah, but I'm your idiot."

Hermione took a moment with that, her heart warm, full near to bursting at his comment—at his acknowledgment that he was hers. They'd never really discussed what they were now. Given everything going on in her life, in his, labeling their dynamic seemed like some unnecessary detail.

"That you are," she replied, her tone a little wistful before it dropped back to a darkly edged whisper. "I meant Harry and Ron and me."

"What's happened?"

"Nothing, really, but I think that's sort of the problem." She shook her head, hurrying on to clarify. "Harry doesn't have as much to go on as we'd originally believed with . . . with what we've been tasked to do. I didn't expect it to be easy, and I have total faith in him that we'll sort it all, somehow—that we'll manage. Your brother, however? He's not quite so positive about our chances of succeeding. Worse, still? They won't talk to each other directly about it. So, Harry will talk to me, Ron will talk to me, and both of them hush up when the other one comes near, so of course it ends up looking like we're all conspiring against each other. I'd thought when Ron's arm started healing up, he'd be less . . . surly, more agreeable, more understanding of the fact that he can't just keep expecting Harry, or me for that matter, to have answers just because he's sick of not knowing what we're doing."

He uttered a sympathetic chuckle and pulled her head back down against his chest. "You've got a lot on your plate, dealing with teenage male egos."

"Should be a mission unto itself," she agreed, snorting a giggle.

Charlie sighed. "I know my brother's not the easiest person to handle when he's . . . in a dark mood? Is that a good way to put it?"

Wincing, she cuddled more tightly into his hold. Oh, if only she could tell him what they were really up to. If he knew about Salazar Slytherin' locket, understood how it's loathsome influence was affecting Ron and Harry—she had to wonder why it had less affect on her, perhaps because she was a Muggleborn? That was always a possibility, she'd have to look into that in the future—he'd be better equipped to understand just how 'dark' their moods could swing.

Gods, she wanted to confide in him, but she knew any knowledge he had about their Horcrux hunting would only endanger him if he were captured by Voldemort's forces.

"Yes," she finally answered, after what she hoped was not a noticeable length of time. "That's definitely a good way to put it, probably the only way to put it, really, because he doesn't seem to realize it, but the way he's getting when he's all . . . dark, it's just not him and it hurts to watch. Then, to make matters worse, if he catches you looking at him like you're sad because he's not being himself—"

"Never lets you hear the end of it, does he?"

She felt a strange relief at Charlie's question, a small laugh bubbling out of her. It was good to remember that even if Ron's personality was occasionally rougher than usual due to the Horcrux's influences, he was still—deep down—acting like himself in some respects.

"You do know your brother," she conceded, nodding.

Sighing, he returned her nod. They lapsed into silence and he let himself get lost for a few precious breaths in how peaceful and perfect these stolen moments between them felt.

For so many minutes they both knew it bordered on dangerous, they simply sat on the grass in that Muggle park holding to one another.

Hermione knew it was illogical, that she couldn't stay without risking her instances of slipping away from camp being discovered by Harry and Ron. Without having to worry how she'd explain it to them, given their increasingly irrational states, in a way that would make them understand. Charlie knew it was right bloody stupid to remain like this, as if time didn't matter. Especially since that disgusting creature he was pretending to serve might summon him whenever, especially since he couldn't be certain there was no suspicion that his servitude wasn't a wholly honest endeavor.

Yet still neither of them seemed inclined to move.

The only thing that finally broke through Hermione's desire to remain with Charlie was the heaviness in her heart as the notion of Harry and Ron getting caught while she was away drifted through her mind. Oh, it wasn't likely with the wards she had personally put up, but if her time in the Wizarding world had taught her anything, it was that unforeseen circumstances could cock up even the most careful and absolute of precautions.

Just as heavy was the thought of what the Death Eaters would do to 'blood-traitor' Charlie Weasley if they caught him. They'd probably use her—his 'Mudblood girlfriend'—to torture him for information on the Order's movements.

Hermione lifted her head and leaned back in his arms, lifting her gaze to his.

Charlie's mouth dropped open a little, his worried expression softening. "You're crying again," he noted, his voice barely a whisper as he wiped beneath her eyes, just like earlier.

"I'm sorry." She shook her head, the apology reflexive. "No, no, I'm not. I just can't help it. I'm so scared for you."

For a moment, he grappled with her words. Could she know? No, that wasn't possible. Chances were if Hermione had any idea of his infiltration of Voldemort's ranks, she'd pin his limbs with a binding spell to keep him from going back.

No, of course she didn't have any idea of that. She was scared because she didn't know what his missions were, she hadn't the foggiest notion of what he faced, just as he didn't know what she faced when they were apart.

Smiling sadly, he took her hands in his, bending his head to brush his lips over her knuckles. "I know. I'm scared for you, too. All the time."

She sniffled, nodding. "God, I should go. We've been here entirely too long." Kissing him quick, she grudgingly climbed to her feet.

"Be careful," she said—their usual parting words.

"You too, and remember to take care of those two fools you're saddled with." He grinned. "Harry and Ron are having a tough time with whatever you three are dealing with, that's obvious. They need you."

They don't bloody act like it, she thought, her inner tone a mix of sour and remorseful. She needed to not think along such lines right now, or she'd start crying again, her anger and frustration and sorrow with their situation mingling together to boil over.

"I know. I'll watch out for them."

"Good." He stood, dropping another kiss on her lips. "Go."

Hermione Disapparated, reappearing at the edge of their campsite. It was just starting to rain, a drizzle kicking up fast to a downpour. Frowning, she held her arms over her head and ran for the tent.

She thought maybe she should've sensed all hell breaking loose from a distance, because as she entered, she heard the one thing the increasingly loud rain had blocked when she'd been outside.

Harry and Ron were hollering at each other, their voices angrier than she'd ever heard them.

"We thought Dumbledore gave you more to go on! Something, but you don't know what you're doing!" Ron was screaming the words through clenched teeth.

They both looked over as she stepped into their lines of sight.

Harry opened his mouth, seeming bewildered, but Ron snapped. "Where the bloody hell have you been?"

"I was patrolling the perimeter of the wards," she said thoughtlessly, the response automatic by now. "After overhearing Griphook and Dean and Ted Tonks earlier, I didn't like how close they got, so I thought—"

"Could've told someone," Harry said in hissed whisper.

Hermione frowned at him, but at least it wasn't getting her head ripped off. She could deal with an unhappy murmur any time of day over their vicious shouts.

She turned her attention to Ron, trying to reason with him, but he wasn't having it. He turned on her efforts, telling Harry about their private conversations when they'd commiserated about their lack of progress.

Her head swam as she tried to explain to Harry that wasn't what she'd said—and certainly not what she'd meant—she didn't blame him. She could be disappointed without blaming him, couldn't she? But Harry wasn't listening either, he was too busy being angry with Ron for expecting this would be easy, that things would fall into their laps.

And then it happened.

Ron declared he was leaving. She felt the world go a little sideways. He couldn't go. The only reason they'd gotten this far was because it was the three of them working together—as they always eventually did, no matter what might splinter them along the way. Well, no, actually, it was usually Ron who did the splintering along the way, now that she was thinking on it. Usually Ron who had to come around and remember how important they all were to each other.

She'd never left Harry's side, and she wouldn't start now.

Even as Harry told Ron, "Leave the Horcux. If you plan on going then go, but that stays!"

Even as Ron angrily ripped the chain from his neck and moved to draw his wand.

Her reaction—casting a shield between them and Ron—was instantaneous. Ron's glare through the charm was baleful and wounding.

"You choose him?" He grinned mirthlessly. "Of course, you always do."

"Ron, it's not like that, please listen—"

How abruptly he pivoted away to face the tent's entrance cut off her protest. As he stomped out into the night on fast, angry footfalls, Hermione tried to follow, but was hampered by the shield. Dispelling it, she ran after him.

The rain was coming down heavier even now, dowsing her like bucketfuls as she tried to catch up to him. The downpour swallowed up her voice as she shouted his name, the heavy drops got in her eyes obscuring her vision.

And then, Ron Weasley was just gone.

The realization crashed down on her. One of her best friends and he'd just . . . stormed away from them and vanished. That he was the brother of the man she was falling in love with seemed only another weight added on.

She'd been wrong, she reflected as she sloshed her way back to the tent defeated, unable to control the sorrow and anger and frustration now. Her infuriated misery had her sobbing by the time she stepped in from the rain.

They hadn't been fracturing, they were fractured, long before this moment. She just hadn't wanted to see it. Neither had Harry, he watched in silence as she curled up in the chair and let herself cry.

She was aware of him pulling some blankets over her before he went to bed, himself.

What she hadn't been wrong about when she'd spoken to Charlie was that she had no idea what to do about it.