Disclaimer: I don't own Harry or Hermione. But I do want to hold your attention for about 2,000 words =)

Warning: Spoilers to anyone who hasn't seen 'Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1'

AN: I felt like I needed to put this scene into words and (my own) perspective. It was just so unexpectedly hopeless, funny, and heartwarming all at once. I really believe it put the actors' ability in the spotlight, because they managed to convey so much with just their expressions and some aptly chosen backround music. And I can't dance either, so that made it many times more amusing XD

But when the song comes to its end
Our wounds will tear and bleed again
Pain and sorrow left unspoken
You and I, together, broken

It was cold.

As hard as he tried, Harry couldn't remember a time when he had ever felt as cold as he currently did. He was watching the sunset; the gold, rose, and plum bleeding into one another seamlessly. On the empty cliffs, unscathed by the touch of humanity, the descent of the sun was all too warm, much too peaceful, and he felt that the earth, ignorant of misery, was cruel. Because somewhere out there, amid the blush painted across the skies, people were being slaughtered.

People he loved. People he did not know. People he would never know. Children. Wives. Husbands. Friends. Parents…

He shivered, but it had very little to do with the chill of the wintry wind. The gusts did manage to earn his attention in the end, and with an icy persistence, ushered him to the refuge of the enchanted tent that had been his home for five months too long. Catching a cold now would be manageable, but unwelcome. That would be the icing on the pumpkin pasty, he thought bitterly. Maybe he could just sneeze Lord Voldemort to death…

Harry immediately regretted his sarcastic humor, for it reminded him of Ron.

But, well, he had made his choice, hadn't he? He was gone. With or without him, the war would rage on. Lives would be lost. The sun would still set. But on the days that were especially dreary, Harry thought that it might be better if the sun never rose again.

The Boy Who Lived felt entirely lifeless as he sat in a chair upon entering the tent.

He noticed Hermione sitting on the small wooden steps in the corner, curled beside the radio. To Harry, she looked like a doll that had been cast aside: limp, dejected, and utterly inconsolable. The ongoing pain was changing her before his very eyes; it was devouring her. Her chocolate-brown eyes gleamed only with unshed tears, and Harry remembered when that same sheen had been one of joy, instead. He was surprised at the number of memories he could pick out.

By now, the war should have stripped him of everything, Harry reasoned. It already felt as though it had. But he glanced at the young witch before him, and felt his heart ache. Right now, Hermione was all he had left, and it was so much more than he felt he deserved. Ron had been a right prat, horcrux or not, but if he'd just bitten his tongue, then maybe they'd still be together. Maybe Hermione wouldn't be sulking in a corner, nursing what was without a doubt a bruised heart.

It was then that the static slur of the radio defined itself, and Harry could pick out words- music- filling the silence of the tent. Hermione sniffed and buried her face against her knees. Every trial, every wound, and every death had left Harry numb to the suffering. He knew that, in his case, things could only ever get worse, so why bother with emotion? But he glanced her way again, and God, she was broken, and it killed him. He'd learned to embrace the idea that agony would follow him until the war came to its end. But Hermione's ache was new and raw and even though she shifted without a word, Harry could hear her screaming.

So he decided that if he could not fix her, they could at least be broken together.

Harry got up and walked over to Hermione, wary as she sat up to look at him. He took hold of both of her hands- a lazy grip of small, warm fingers- and coaxed her to stand. She looked at him wordlessly, and he could only pick out a slight lack of understanding in her gaze. They were glimmering in the dim lighting, and Harry knew that she probably wanted to cry. Very carefully, he reached behind her to unclasp the locket that hung around her neck. When he tossed it aside, Hermione followed its trajectory and then looked back to him. He pulled her to the middle of the tent, and her expression was a simple 'Why?', but Harry never answered with words.

He pulled one of her hands forward, then the other, and smiled at the discovery that he could still manage feeling silly, even now. Hermione then realized that this odd shuffling was him inviting her to dance. She answered his smile with one of her own, and though it was small and reluctant, it brought the warmth back to her face again.

Not a single word was exchanged between the two, but her hold on his hands became more certain, her expression edged with amusement, and she took a few awkward steps to indicate agreement towards the impromptu swaying. Harry spun her, twirling her around, and she felt small, like a child. Her mum and dad had done this with her long ago, spinning her to the beat of music, laughing and clapping and telling her she looked like a little ballerina. It was like she was reliving the memories, and she suddenly felt warm and bubbly and safe. She grinned, spinning Harry around and giggling at his enthusiasm.

Together the pair continued, the choreography strange and clumsy but entirely endearing, a style that was purely Harry's own. He swept her into a ridiculous sort of tango that made her chuckle, and sidestepped about her in a horribly sloppy pattern that urged a laugh from her throat. She had no idea why they were doing this. It made no sense to. But she didn't bother to think about it, because the smile on her best friend's face was so bright, as if he'd cast some invisible patronus that was driving all of the cold away.

She marveled at the boy, touched by his ability to surpass his sorrow as well as her own. Harry had been through so much, had felt so much more misery… He spun her around, and as the song slowed, the spell it cast between them seemed to melt away. Reality crept back into their senses, spiraling around them and taking the warmth, the laughter… everything.

Hermione blinked, and felt Harry grip her, his smile fading as he hugged her close and nestled his cheek against her shoulder. The embrace was so tender, she thought, so vulnerable and sweet, that as she looked at him Hermione thought that Harry looked rather broken.

Harry remained silent as he allowed himself the small surrender. For just those few minutes, they'd made each other whole. He felt Hermione hug him back, and she felt so warm, and there were suddenly too many things that Harry wanted to say.

He wanted to thank her. To tell her he was sorry. To smooth her wavy hair out of her face and tell her she'd be fine. That they'd make it. That they'd find the next horcrux, and beat Voldemort. That… that Ron would come back.

But the last thought was something that even he was unsure of.

Hermione pulled away, their cheeks grazing against each other. They still held hands, afraid to let go, staring.

Hermione looked into Harry's eyes, and he heard her speak without ever moving her lips.

This doesn't change anything.

This won't bring him back.

This won't mend either one of us.

I'm sorry.

And the moment she turned her face, and let go, the two were lost, and perhaps, just a bit more crippled than before.

AN: The end. Oh, David Yates. Your scene-insertions mess with my head, they do. =)