Standard Disclaimer. Thanks.

Just a little drabble series inspired by a question posed by chelseyb1010 over at the TL.

He wakes to a day off-kilter, wrong at its heart. He can tell by the quality of the light - bright through the canvas, mid-day light - filtering past the fine, red veins branching through his eyelids. Outside, the crackle of dead leaves, footsteps - fast, too fast - and Ron huffing. Harry holds his breath, listening, as the hot, sour air of the tent presses against his face. She's never let them lie in like this, before. He digs his fingers into the edge of the mattress, pulls himself up as he opens his eyes.

Ron bursts through the canvas, the skin around his mouth mushroom grey, the frayed edges of his jeans brushing the tops of his bare feet. He barrels forward, left shoulder leading.

"Did she wake you?" His voice is leaden, accusatory. Today has picked up where yesterday left off. Harry heaves out the breath he's been holding. Noon-time or not, it's too early for this shit.

"No. You woke me crashing about…" Harry begins, but Ron lifts his hand, dashing the words away.

"Did she tell you she was going off?" Ron's voice thickens, drops, falls apart on the last two syllables. Harry looks up, then follows Ron's gaze to her bunk. The familiar feeling churns up his throat. Panic. So dense Harry has to work his body around it. He makes his hands throw off the blanket, makes his feet and legs stand. He lurches past Ron to get outside, looking for what he doesn't know. A trail of bread crumbs? A streak of branch tips tied with short lengths of yellow string? He follows the path crushed into the leaves once, then twice, stopping every few steps, peering deep into the trees.

Thicket, branch, and vine stretch and reach. The forest tangles, constricting around him.

Hermione is gone.