A/N: Going through a phase of writing lil ficlets and one-shots of scenes that might (or should) have happened if logical progression happened in HP canon. I came across a bit during Harry's interrogation of Ollivander in DH where he actually shows a little concern for the wand-making old coot as he was tortured by the Cruciatus Curse and Harry can empathise as he has also been exposed to it. But he fails to recognise that Hermione was also Crucio'd a few hours before and he does fuck all. So this short is an AU scene where this actually happens. I've had to idealise Harry as having a bit more substance here, and taken a few tangent liberties with Canon, but hey, its an AU Harmony fic. Hope you enjoy.

Shell Cottage was quiet, the only sound coming from the gentle lap of the tide against the shore. Soft moonlight rippled amidst the low peaks and shallow troughs of the subdued sea. It was peaceful, serene.

But Harry Potter was oblivious to the beauty he was staring at.

He was restless and he knew full well why. The house was disturbed. He was largely responsible for it, for bringing the Second War right to the door of Ron's eldest brother and his wife. He chastened himself for his self-loathing. Bill and Fleur weren't the sort to be coerced. They knew what they were in for when they offered their home to the service of the Order. Their peaceful abode was already shattered by Fidelius Charms and defence wards. Wrapped in secrecy and locked with a key of subterfuge.

But that had nothing to do with this disturbance.

Harry felt it in his bones, the resonance, that ache. It was chillingly familiar, but this time not his own. It had woken him from his sleepless slumber. He feared it might be Voldemort, plotting, scheming, maybe close by. But it wasn't that. Harry knew that sensation as much as his own heartbeat. That dark flow, like a trickling poison creeping through his veins. Visions and thoughts that were at once his own and not. This deep, unsettled feeling was not Voldemort, but it was not Harry's own, either. Yet there it was, plain and simple, throbbing in his temples, prickling his scar, churning his gut in unfathomable ways.

Harry knew the source. He had felt the connection first back at Malfoy Manor. Cries that cut him like his own physical pain. Agony inside himself, shared with another. It had startled him, shocked him too much to react at first. Had he been more cognizant of the link, he could have taken the pain into himself, saved her from the torment. He felt sure of that now, as he gazed into the darkness of his attic room. And guilty for not knowing it sooner, for not sparing her the beastly agony of Crucio. She was too pure, too good. Such darkness ought not to touch her.

And she was suffering for it now, Harry felt that as surely as he had the pain of her torture a few short hours ago. He had to find her, help her if he could. Ron wouldn't know what to do. His efforts would be futile. He didn't know, not in the way Harry did. He didn't feel it, hadn't felt it when it happened. He'd screamed, he'd pointlessly clawed at walls and ceilings. Harry had been too numb to move, too mindless of being unable to help. He had almost lost consciousness with the desperation.

That meant something. It meant something important. Harry knew that, too. But he had to push it away. He had been doing it for a few weeks, ever since Ron had found them again. And he knew why.

The vision. The Locket-Horcrux. His and Hermione's dark selves, wrapped together, entwined, forbidden love made flesh. The shuddering appeal of it.

Harry couldn't shake it. Voldemort knew Ron's mind. The Horcrux had laid that flat out for them. They had all worn it. The Locket had looked into them all, seen all their hearts. And this was the topic it picked to divide them. It played on Ron's fears, but Harry couldn't quite extinguish the niggle that it had tapped into his own desires, too. The closeness he and Hermione had found in Ron's absence. The understanding, the flare of something deeper. That shot of resentment Harry felt with each piece of it unravelling now. Each hug between his two best friends, each look that he knew but didn't want to see.

It meant something important. Not just for them, but for him.

He would indulge it for one night. One more time that he would help her. This link, this connection, he would give in to it to heal her. He could do that. Then he would close it, lest she became aware of it, too. It would only confuse her. Then he would obey Ron's unspoken command. He would pull away, back away from them both. Leave them to this unspeakable, unmentionable, unreasonable thing they were determined to develop between them. Harry found he didn't want to look that reality in the face. It made him throw up a bit in his mouth.

He dressed quietly and snuck from his room. The steps to the attic room creaked like fuck. Harry didn't want to make a sound. This night was made for two. Anyone else would complicate things. So he cast a non-Verbal Silencing Charm on his feet and struck out for the source of his external-made-internal distress.

The living room was empty, the kitchen, too. Harry became a slave to sensation, feeling the growing potency of his pain as a rising heat, guiding him to his quarry like a game of hide-and-seek. He found her in the conservatory, head tilted towards the crescent moon, unfocused eyes glazed as they pointed towards the moonlit beach. She didn't move as Harry approached.

This close up, Harry felt the searing anguish acutely now. His heart ached with the sensation. He chided himself. Nothing had been done for her. She had been tortured, by The Cruciatus Curse and who knew what else. She had barely spoken, not once let on about her distress. Perhaps she was unable, too broken to even form speech. Harry's heart bled at the thought. He hadn't helped her, too busy interrogating Griphook and Ollivander. Those bastards could have waited.

Hermione had needed him. And he'd left her to Ron.

I'm such a cunt, Harry thought.

He would make up for it now. He slid down onto the reclining sofa where Hermione was curled up. She had a threadbare throw covering her slender shoulders. It was insubstantial for her needs. It was why she was shivering or, at least, it was doing little to stop it. She looked so young, so vulnerable. And so hurt. Harry could barely look at her. The vision sliced through to his very soul and punched it hard. He let it, allowed the punishment his ignorance warranted. It hurt him, but not nearly as much as Hermione was hurting next to him. He felt that just as keenly.

Harry looked around. His eyes fell upon a blanket neatly folded on a lounge chair near the patio doors. Harry could quite clearly see Bill and Fleur, entangled together under the blanket, as they took romantic strolls through the surf. The pang of jealousy he felt ripped through him. Not jealousy of Bill, but of his having that one thing Harry so deeply desired himself. That intimacy, that companionship, that hope of a life beyond the current Darkness.

Harry summoned the blanket. It flew to his hands as deftly as a rune dictionary. He grinned at the memory, the comparison. It warmed him for a moment, but cut to him in the next as he felt his partner in the memory ache pointedly at his side. She was so wounded. It made him want to cry out, to draw her pain into himself if he could.

Harry gently ran the blanket over Hermione's shoulders and tucked her in, before slowly lifting the throw on the side closest to him. She still remained motionless. He cast a Warming Charm over them both, a privacy charm, too, though he wasn't sure why that notion had occurred to him. He took a breath for courage, strangely nervous all of a sudden, placed Draco's wand on the side table next to the sofa, then slid cautiously into the warm cocoon he had created with Hermione.

Harry snaked his arm forward, questing for Hermione's forearm. She was angled slightly away from him and in the dark he couldn't quite make out the position of her body. Her eyes were still glazed and Harry felt slightly foolish for noticing the way the curls of her hair framed her face and fell in soft waves against the pale skin of her exposed neck, all lit by the golden moonlight. His mouth had become unaccountably dry at the sight and a nervous flutter darted like pinpricks across his skin.

Hermione still hadn't moved. Harry wasn't sure if she knew he had slid up so close to her, but he had to think she knew he was there. She was awake, cogent in some capacity. But she was hurting, too. She had gone to a place to try and heal. Harry wished he could join her, to help if he could. His hand found her in her dark, but it came to rest against her waist, not her arm as he'd intended.

Hermione's breathing hitched and she tensed. Harry knew what she was going through. He had been there. That furious war raging inside, the one between the new concept that physical contact was abhorrent, was bound to hurt, and the rational remembrance that the touch of a loved one could help. Hermione was still as stone, torn between the two places. Harry wouldn't let her recoil, wouldn't allow her to physically withdraw, to form that barrier to touch. He wouldn't stand for it.

"It's me," he whispered softly. He kept his hand pressed against her waist. "I'm here. I'm here for you."

Hermione remained as rigid as ever. Harry didn't move either. He would wait, would let her make the move when she was comfortable. He felt that battle within her. That conflict between hating touch, and knowing that Harry would never hurt her. Harry remembered suddenly that Ron had given her several one-armed hugs already. He hadn't known, he hadn't thought. He'd probably done it for himself, needing to have Hermione close by to comfort his own torment, to know she was alive enough to hurt for them both.

Harry could certainly relate to that.

Hermione breathed in sharply again. It was a pained, rattling breath. Harry continued to whisper gently to her, his hand cautiously smoothing her. He knew of no better way to comfort her. He didn't know if it was helping. He only remembered his own post-Crucio experience. The hatred of contact, and the dichotomy of yearning for a comforting touch. The agony of the nerve-searing curse and the deep, marrow-level burning. It had nearly driven him mad.

"Harry?"

Hermione's voice was distant, like she was addressing him down an old telephone line. Her tone crackled, the pain evident in the wobble of her echo.

"Yes, its me," Harry hushed back. "I'm here."

Then, in a moment that came before Harry could register it, Hermione's powerful inner logic won out. She snatched out at his arm almost desperately and dragged it further around her waist, pulling him to her. He went without a moments resistance, sliding closer until their bodies were flush together, her back into his chest. He held her close, as firmly as he dared. He knew the torture of the Cruciatus held her still. He brought his other arm around her shoulders and pulled her tighter to him, resuming his soothing whispers.

"It hurts," Hermione said in that horrific, broken tone she now bore. "It hurts all over. It hurts so much."

"I know, I know," Harry breathed.

"I never thought it was this bad. I don't know if I can stand it. Or how you did. I should have helped you."

"Don't bother yourself about that now," said Harry. He brushed Hermione's hair from her neck as he was practically eating it. It exposed her skin to him. "Just try to relax. It's worse if you fight it."

Hermione whimpered as Harry's hot breath tickled against the skin of her neck. Harry felt her shudder and drew her nearer, thinking she was in the throes of another wave of sickening distress.

"Please...don't leave."

"I'm not going anywhere," Harry whispered. He now noticed how close his lips were to Hermione's skin. It was unnervingly tempting. For all the degrees of terrible Harry felt for them both, there was something oddly pleasing about this too. It was confusing.

"This is helping." Hermione's words were questioning, spoken almost in surprise.

"I'll stay as long as you need."

"Ron...he...he hugged me earlier," said Hermione quietly. "I was too weak to tell him not to. It made me feel worse."

"Oh...sorry."

Harry made to withdraw. The movement was subtle, but enough for Hermione to snatch at him again and hold him fast, to prevent him from leaving.

"No...I - I didn't mean it like that," Hermione said quickly. "I don't want you to go. Please stay."

"But if you didn't like Ron touching you, I must be making you even more uncomfortable," said Harry. "I'm sorry. I didn't think -"

"What does that mean?" said Hermione sharply, cutting him off.

"Just that I've seen how you are with Ron. I'm not blind. I know what's going on. You probably wish it was him comforting you now."

Hermione tensed again. "I'd prefer if it you didn't presume to know what I'd wish, Harry. It only complicates things. Just hold me. I need you to."

"I can do that."

They sat like that for some time. Hermione's breathing was erratic, surges of pain would grip her and Harry would cling tightly to her, helping to ride them out. Tears fell from the both of them. They were bone-wearily tired, months of hiding coming now to the surface, joining the worry and pains of their physical and mental tortures. Harry's head lolled as he felt a rattling breath escape him. His lips pressed inadvertently into the crook of Hermione's neck.

And then, as if on instinct or reflex, Hermione angled her head to give him better access.

Harry hesitated for a breathless moment. Hermione was rigid again, her whole body taut, waiting. Slowly, cautiously, Harry brought his lips back to her skin. She whimpered involuntarily, but she didn't draw away. She leant back as Harry added more testing, tasting kisses along her neck. He could feel the rise of goosebumps against his lips and Hermione's racing heartbeat where it was thudding beneath her skin. Both of them were breathing raggedly. Harry's heart was hammering against his chest, his thoughts a whirling mess. The little moans escaping Hermione's throat were driving him wild.

By now Harry's kisses were more bold, more purposeful. Hermione had snaked a free hand up and was threading it rhythmically through Harry's hair, pressing his head into her and pulling tight fists whenever he kissed a more sensitive spot. He was behind her ear now and the soft brush of his lips against that part of Hermione's skin made her tug hard, not that he would dream of telling her to stop.

"Harry...oh, Merlin...what are we doing?"

Hermione's voice was low and sultry and she was making no effort to stop whatever it was that Harry was doing to her. It sent his mind into a tailspin and that throb of his groin ached harder.

"I don't know," he hummed between kisses. "But I don't really want to stop."

"You'd better not," she said huskily. "But Ron...the others..."

"I'd rather they not join us," said Harry, suckling Hermione's earlobe, grazing his teeth against it.

Hermione gasped. "That's not what I mean...and you know it."

"I know what you mean," Harry agreed. "I don't like it. But I know."

Hermione turned sharply to look at him. In the darkness, her eyes seemed unfathomably deep.

"What don't you like?"

Harry sighed. One night. He would allow the truth for one night.

"You and Ron."

Hermione stared at him, nonplussed. "After all these years, that's a hurtful thing to say."

"That's not what I mean, and you know that."

"Excuse me but I know nothing of the sort."

"You're the cleverest witch I know and I have always valued your intelligence," said Harry lightly. "So I find that remark insulting on your behalf!"

"Stop making jokes, Harry," said Hermione, suddenly serious. She put her hand against his chest as if to emphasise her point. "What are you saying here? What don't you like?"

"You and Ron...your, er, relationship. Frankly, its fucking disgusting."

Hermione gasped aloud again. "Harry - that's an awful thing to say."

"Can I be honest with you? And have it not leave our privacy charm?"

"Of course. Wait...you cast a privacy charm? Why?"

"For something to dance the bolero to," said Harry sardonically. "Honestly. Look, I don't like you and Ron and this direction you are going. He doesn't deserve you. He's not good enough for you. You wont be happy together. And some part of you knows that."

"Ron's a good guy. You know that. He's your best friend."

"No he's not," said harry staunchly. "You are my best friend."

"I - I am?"

"I thought you knew," said Harry. "In any case, Ron isn't the right sort of good. Not for you. You deserve more."

"Ron can make me happy."

"Keep telling yourself that," said Harry. "But don't come crying to me when he upsets you. Which we both know he will. He has a knack for it. He's such a cunt for doing it. Next time I catch him at it I'm going to lay him out, whether you hate me or not."

Hermione giggled slightly. If it hadn't been so dark Harry would have seen how furiously she was blushing. Nobody had ever offered to defend her like that, or spoken so warmly of her. Her eyes betrayed her confusion. Why had Harry waited till now to say these things? What was happening?

"Harry, you know what I'm like. Ron and I will have problems, but he knows me, too. Who else would put up with me?"

She was fishing, Harry knew it. He liked it. He took the bait gladly.

"If I wasn't going to die, I would."

Whatever Hermione was expecting, it didn't seem to be that. Her breathing stopped completely. Harry felt his own heart stutter, too. He wished Hermione would move her hand from his chest, she would feel the moment he died inside.

"You...you would?"

"If you'd have me...and I wasn't going to die."

"Stop saying that, Harry."

"Which part?"

"All of it!" cried Hermione. "You aren't going to die. I wont let you. Not now...unless you're making fun of me."

"How am I making fun of you?"

"By offering me this," said Hermione gesticulating wildly. "Offering me you. If...if that's really what you are doing. Please say it is."

Harry felt his heart beat quickly again. "Would you take me then?"

Hermione answered by closing the gap between them in the dark and pressing her lips firmly to his. Her hand came up and cupped the back of his head as he returned her kiss as passionately as he dared, his own hands finding her waist again. She moved on her knees to him, letting the blanket fall away. When she flagged and moved back Harry followed, breaking the kiss but keeping their foreheads pressed together.

"What is this, Harry?" asked Hermione breathlessly. "Where has this come from? What's happening?"

"I don't know, and maybe it isn't the right time to find out," Harry whispered back. "I was only going to give into this for one night."

"Give into what?"

"The truth," said Harry. "I think I've fallen in love with you, or maybe I always was. I think I've known for a while. But seeing you with Ron...I saw it slipping away. He shouldn't be with you. He's not good enough. It should be me."

Hermione gasped and laughed and threw her arms around Harry's shoulders. In the dark, hopelessly entwined, the horrors they were living through seemed far away.

"Oh, Harry, I love you too!" Hermione breathed. "I know I always have.I never thought you...you never...why did you never?"

"Because I'm an idiot," said Harry, hugging her tight. "I want everyone to be happy...and if I don't survive...and least you'd have Ron."

"Ron was my security, but I've never wanted him in the way I've wanted you. I thought I'd lost you to Ginny. I gave up on you."

"I never knew," said Harry. "If we survive, I'll make it up to you. If we can get through this..."

"You will...we will," said Hermione. There was such certainty there that Harry felt steeled by it. "But it wont end with Voldemort. What about Ron? And Ginny?"

"Ginny was a fling, nothing," said Harry. "Don't remind me of her. And I can deal with Ron abandoning me. It wont be the first time. If you are willing, I am too."

Hermione answered with another lingering kiss. "I am more than willing. I only ever wanted you. Let's get Voldemort out of the way first. Then we can deal with everything else."

"So...about tonight," Harry tested.

"That privacy charm will hold, won't it?" Hermione replied sultrily.

Harry grinned at her, drew her face back to his. There would have to be a future. One night would be one too many, but just one would never be enough.