Set during Deathly Hallows, sometime on the hunt. Does exactly what it says on the tin, tbh. Some unexpectedly stormy weather triggers an unlikely sequence of events, leading to the most honest heart-to-heart Harry and Hermione have probably had in years.

Disclaimer: Wild LAWYERS appear! SLANIA uses DISCLAIM! It's super effective! Yeah, don't own. Not making profit from this, etc.

That Stormy Night

Darkness was drawing in.

Lying sprawled on his unmade bed, Harry couldn't find the energy to lift an arm and light the old oil lamps scattered throughout the tent. Instead he stared at the flimsy roof above his head, snatches of thought tumbling through the twilight descending over his mind. The lethargy, the apathy that had begun to leech away at him, was getting stronger every hour, and becoming pure hopelessness. He had no idea of where he and Hermione were, where they should be going, he didn't even know – or care – what day it was. Barely an hour passed without Ron's bitter words haunting him, mocking him: "We thought you knew what you were doing!"

But Ron had been right; Harry didn't know what he was doing, save running and hiding and wasting time. He didn't know why Hermione had stayed, why she'd want to, what she was hoping to achieve here with him, a boy whose only accomplishment was not to die.

His eyes fell on the half-closed tent flap opposite him, across the chasm of the floorspace, obstructed by chairs and tables, rugs and cabinets and all the other utterly mundane, utterly contemptible stuff. She was a vague shadow silhouetted by a meagre fire on the other side of the canvas, keeping a (somewhat redundant) watch and letting him rest, alone. She might as well have been a million miles away. It hurt him, to watch her fall apart and close off. It made him feel angry, and helpless, and want to beat Ron to a pulp for her, and want to be Ron for her. If that was what it took to bring her back to him.

The thought left him chilled, empty.

The ache within him when he looked at her seemed to be growing stronger. He noticed things about Hermione now; things he knew he wouldn't have if Ron had been there; if there had been anyone or anything to distract him from her. Things like the slender curve of her back as she hunched in her seat (huddled as though holding herself together); like the grace in her jawline as her mouth worked (fending off the tears that always seemed to be threatening). Like the way her hair fell over her face as she stared downwards (away from him, towards the ground as though wishing it would swallow her). He'd realised that "brown" wasn't the best way to describe the once-familiar curls, for they were shot through with shades of gold, caramel, umber, chocolate; a million different strands that glowed in the dusk of their refuge, bringing perhaps a little warmth back into his vision. But the flickering thoughts were soon extinguished. The darkness remaining left Harry more confused than ever. Even now, as he wanted her closer, as he wanted her to fill the space left by everyone else that had once stood by them, she was drifting out of his reach. Could they ever return to how they once had been?

And as though sensing his mood, the heavens opened with an ominous rumble, raindrops falling heavily, quickly, drumming into the walls of cloth and into his head. "Story of my life," he mumbled, his voice weak and swallowed up by the gloom. He couldn't really be bothered to get irritated though. As the minutes slipped by, Harry wondered idly if Hermione was alright. He didn't get up.

Flicker – CRASH!

Thunder. He jerked upwards with the shock, suddenly ramrod straight and alert, finally, to the reality of the situation. The canvas above him was sagging under the pressure of the downpour and Harry knew that Hermione couldn't stay out in this. The old flame had awakened, his heart warmed slightly, to the fact that she was still here. She had stayed, when it would have been easier to leave. She'd lost everything for him, and the least he could do in return was stop her from dying of pneumonia.

Grabbing the old fleece of Dudley's from his bedpost on the way, he pushed the flap open and slipped out, only to be immediately drenched. The grass was already squelching noisily under his feet, and Harry saw with some disbelief that Hermione was still sat on the ground with her back to him, staring out into the pitch blackness of the forest around them. He realised that her body was tense, more so than he'd seen in a long time, and it was with a little hesitance that he touched a narrow shoulder, kept relatively dry by a water-repelling charm. "Hermione?"

She spun with a gasp, wand clutched desperately in her hand. Her spell wavered, and both were suddenly feeling the torrential rainfall upon them. There was fear in her face, a fear so acute it panicked him. "Hermione, come back in! You can't stay out in this!" He grabbed her arm, but she resisted his pull, rooted to the spot, held down by something he hadn't seen before in her. This wasn't the usual life-or-death, do-or-die, adrenaline-fuelled alarm – this was the terror of a child.

Harry wrapped both arms around her, saying her name, trying to get her to wake up – and suddenly she gave up the resistance and let him drag her back into the warmth of the tent, just as the thunder crashed into their ears again. Buttoning up the entrance behind him with numbed and shaking fingers, a relieved Harry turned to pull the fleece onto Hermione's fragile, trembling body, glad that the angry roar of the elements was deadened a little. He guided her over to the old, soft, beaten up sofa at the centre of their home, and as she slowly sat he murmured, "Just stay there Hermione, you're okay. I'll make you a cup of tea." Her eyes found his, and she nodded with wide eyes, the helplessness still there, still worrying him more than anything else. He remembered the locket dragging at her, feeding from her. Violating her. Hyperaware of her proximity, and her vulnerability, he reached slowly, carefully around her neck, unclasped it, drew it out on its long, heavy chain. Even though it the gold had rested beneath her shirt against her skin for hours, it was bone-achingly frigid in his palm. He dropped it to the floor. She didn't need that right now.

Harry flicked his wand; the lamps ignited with a gentle, comforting glow. As he found the mugs and busied himself with the menial, habitual task, Harry noticed the tremor in his movement. Hermione was terrifying him – he realised that he was depending on her more than he ever had before, needing her strength, her determination, just to keep him going, because he couldn't face this alone. He couldn't ask himself the question – what if she failed? What if she gave up?

He allowed himself a bitter smile as he realised that the Wizarding people, the Order, his country, were pinning their hopes on the wrong person. Whether they won or lost was in the hands of her now – not the Chosen One, not the Boy-Who-Lived, but Hermione Granger, and her loyalty to him.

It took only a couple of minutes. He sat next to her, pushed the steaming tea into her hands, and was surprised to hear her speak: "I hope you've not put sugar in this, Harry." Hermione hated sugar in her tea.

He smiled a little, properly this time, glad that removing the Horcrux had given her some relief. It felt strange. "Would I? After this long? You know I only made that mistake once."

It had been the first time they'd had a good meal while camping, thanks to some stolen pasta and sauce from a village supermarket. Harry had made tea, always the gentleman, and filled it with purloined milk and sugar and optimism.

She'd accused him of trying to poison her and sent him to make her another cup, "properly this time." Ron had roared with laughter as he'd watched his mate scuttle back to the kettle, suitably chastised. They'd realised then the good a hot meal can do, and it could almost have been another Quidditch World Cup, another madcap adventure with his two best friends. The memory was distant now.

The companionable silence stretched between them, in a way that had been absent for so long. Harry knew that this was the closest he'd been to her at least since their friend had left, and probably longer. He'd missed it.

But still the past was over, and the present would not be forgotten. After a time, Harry had to ask; looking at her curiously he stated, "I didn't know you were scared of storms, Hermione."

Slowly, she took another sip of tea. Cradling the mug in her hands, it took a few seconds for her to speak; she seemed to be choosing each word carefully. "It's not usually so bad. But tonight, being exposed to it … being weighed down by that thing." Her gesture towards the locket abandoned on the floor was curiously staccato, curiously unlike her. "You probably think I'm being silly." Her pupils flicked to his, gauging his reaction. He waited, without responding, and she sighed and continued with her thoughts. "It's … difficult for me to explain. Not something I really like to talk about."

So she was keeping this from him. He started to apologise, a little hurt, but she waved him off. "It's fine, Harry. I might as well tell you, to be honest.

"When I turned eight, my parents had a birthday party for me. It was mostly family; I didn't have many friends even back then, as you could probably guess. There was a storm that night, but I wasn't that bothered. I was more excited that my Uncle Richard was coming round especially for me. He's in the Navy, you see," she clarified, gazing into the depths of her cup, "and he never gets much leave. He's always been one of my favourite relatives; my dad's elder brother, the gentle giant of the family. He was lovely to me. He taught me about ship commands, and my knots, and how to box."

Unexpected. "I can't imagine you boxing," Harry grinned, keeping his surprise hidden.

"I got quite adept at keeping the bullies off my back, you know." She smiled a little, but it faded too fast. "The storm got closer, right over the top of us. It was deafening…a bit exhilarating, really, even as Mum and Dad closed all the blinds and told me not to be scared. Uncle Richard laughed it all off. He popped into the garden for a cigarette, still teasing my mum about it."

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Next thing we knew, there was a flash, a massive thunderclap that rattled the house. I realised what it was, ran out to the back. Uncle Rich was just lying on the ground, off the patio."

"Was he…" Harry ran out of words.

She looked straight at him then. "Dead? No. We think it struck the drainpipe; he was just too close and got a blast. But my dad ran out to see him, helped him up. Uncle Rich took one look at him and punched him in the face." Hermione's eyes returned to her lap. "He was yelling, like an animal, violent; my lovely Uncle Rich. Even when my other uncles, my cousins, all went out, his own son. It took five of them and my aunt to restrain him, and I saw it all, his curses, his fists.

"They told me later that the shock had hit him badly; he'd thought he was back in the Falklands, fighting for his life against people he'd been made to hate. They had to admit him to hospital, because it affected him so badly, going back to that war."

Her voice grew distant, as though she were talking to herself: "Seeing him turn like he did…it was scary. It would have been better if he'd just been knocked out cold. But it changed him, turned him into someone I didn't know, who looked the same on the outside…that's what frightened me about it. The way it was almost supernatural. A man possessed by demons, spirits, like the ghost stories that are fun until you're in the dark with nothing but them in your head, filling up the emptiness…

"I didn't see him too much after that. He'd been ashamed, unsettled by it all. Last I heard, he'd started to drink again, gone back into counselling. Since then, I've hated storms."

Harry didn't know what to say. It was the most he'd heard Hermione ever talk about her family, the life she'd had outside of Hogwarts, and what she'd told shocked him. Perhaps there was no such thing as that perfect family he'd craved for so long. The Weasleys and Percy. Hermione and her uncle. A past he'd only been able to glimpse, a life hidden from his perception. Half of a person, pieces missing in the complicated jigsaw that was her nature. She'd never shared that with him. He closed himself off to it, shut out the sudden grief and the longing and the heartache for something else, something easier to face.

The Falklands. Another bitter war, more lives lost. Hermione's uncle had been haunted by that for years. And she'd seen the truth of it at eight years old. Was she ever to be followed by conflict?

He wrapped an arm around her; she was cold, her hair damp where it rested on his skin. She leaned into him, like she'd done in the past. So long ago.

"Do you think that'll be us, Harry? Me, and you, and Lupin, and Tonks, and Kingsley and all the others?"

He had no real answer. There wasn't much he could say, really. But the silence was too loud to take.

"I'm sorry, Hermione." He spoke instinctively, thoughtlessly, "I'm so sorry."

"What for?"

"This. This entire, pointless, godforsaken war." He looked at her, knowing that he could not lose her, anything but her, "you should be safe, and happy, and studying, and following your dreams. Not…following me around, hiding, in danger, wasting your life …I just…I couldn't bear for you to die for this…" His voice faded into the pattering of the rain. He'd never been good with words, and he hated it. He knew her eyes were on him again, testing him, stripping the shell away and seeing his soul. No one else could do it so well. He wouldn't want anyone else to, couldn't bear to be that defenceless around anyone else, except for her. It was too late for him to want to stop Hermione.

She sighed. "How many times? How many times do I have to tell you that I want to be here, Harry? I want to do my part, fight for what I think is right, no matter the cost. Like Rich did."

He didn't answer, couldn't, the emotions that he'd been bottling up surging out too fast, blocking his throat.

"You've nothing to be sorry for," she said, quietly, but forcefully. "We're all victims of this, and the only people who should be sorry are the ones that caused it. Riddle and his followers, and his insanity. Never you, Harry."

"I just," he shook his head, staring away from her, knowing that he had to tell her, "I feel so useless. You've put all your hopes on me, all of you have, and I can't do it, I can't be who they all need me to be – "

"Hey. Harry. Harry, look at me." To his surprise, she took his jaw in her delicate hand, finding his eyes with her own. "It's not just hopes. Not for me. It's pure faith. I know you can do it, Harry; I haven't been beside you for six years without knowing that. Dumbledore knew too, and he gave you what you needed to do this, no-one else. He had faith in you as well."

Her eyes were steady and comforting, and he wanted to believe her. "But what if he got it wrong? What if I'm just – "

"You're 'just' nothing, Harry. You're…" she seemed to hesitate, eyes searching his. He'd never noticed the depth of them, the richness in their colour like that in her hair, like that in her soul, the molten gold and chocolate and amber and dark mahogany swirling within them. But then their eyes hadn't been so close. Maybe ever. "You're … everything."

He stared at her, uncomprehending, as she smiled strangely and wrapped her arms around him. The returning of the embrace was automatic, as he tried to understand her meaning, but was suddenly aware of the smell of the rain on her, the scent of her hair below his nose where it rested on her shoulder. She fit into his arms as though she belonged there, and drew back with an air of reluctance, perhaps, the moment past. The small space between them gaped as it had not before. Sitting beside him again, she gave him a tentative smile, and her hand curled around his resting on his thigh. "You have to trust yourself, Harry. We're the only ones that can do this. And I know that you can, okay?"

"Without Ron?" It was the first time the name had been spoken, maybe in months. "You could have gone with him, Hermione, I thought…" the words were painful to him, "I thought you'd have chosen him…"

He knew now why the thought hurt so much. He could not live without Hermione. He couldn't do it, he couldn't hope to be the best he could be without her. She'd been his one constant since they'd saved Sirius together in third year, the one thing he could count on to be there, no matter what. Since Ron had left, since they had been cut off from everyone else, she'd become, literally, at the centre of his life. The thought of Ron taking this - taking her - away from him was unbearable.

Was he jealous? Possessive? Obsessed? Harry didn't know what he was anymore. But he wanted more. The parts of her, the memories, the dreams that she hadn't given to him, he wanted to know, he wanted to know as he'd wanted nothing else, for he knew that all of her would be as beautiful as the parts he'd been gifted already, and as precious, as incredible as they were, they suddenly weren't enough. He wanted to be everything with her. The air of the tent was suddenly as loaded as it had been early that afternoon, crackling with electricity, with tension; a gathering storm.

"Oh, Harry." Hermione's soft face looked close to tears. "The moment Ron forced me to make a choice, he'd lost me.

"I'll…I can't ever let you out of my life now. I'll always choose you, Harry. And I think … I've known a long time," her expression was now, unusually for Harry, unreadable, "that it will come to this between us. It's inevitable."

Time seemed to slow as she turned, leaned back to him, brought her face close to his. It was suddenly, sharply, undeniably clear to him what was going to happen tonight between them, and as her soft mouth drew closer, Harry did not move a muscle, so caught was he in six years' worth of understanding. Inevitable. She hesitated, waiting for the confirmation, perhaps mindful of what was at stake if she was wrong. But when was Hermione Granger ever wrong?

It was him who brought them together, cemented the course that they'd been on for a long time without even knowing it until tonight. Inevitable. How could it not be?

It was slow, it was lingering, delicate; and somehow absolute. There was no going back from this. There was no desire to. It wasn't really a kiss of passion, or lust, or teenage infatuation; but of promise, of friendship, of respect.

"Do you know why I choose you?" She murmured against his lips. "Because I love you."

A kiss of love.

Being with her was natural and instinctive, in a way that he experienced nowhere else. It was like breathing, smiling, laughing; this was the woman he wanted to spend his life with, share everything with, have children with. How could there be any other for him? Where could he find such contentment? Who else could understand him; know him for who he really was? Now he truly understood that Hermione was beautiful, inspiring to him, in a way quite different from the Chos and Ginnys of the world, and in a way that was so much stronger, that left him feeling amazed, and blessed, and grateful. He remembered what he'd wondered earlier. A perfect family. Perhaps this was as close as it could get. Pure, and honest, and unyielding, and effortlessly selfless, and completely rewarding, and worth more than anything else to him. Him and Hermione. So complicated, but so simple. Those three words and no more.

Perhaps apart from another three. She'd said them already. She had revealed more than ever before to him, all at once, and he had to return her trust. And he felt confident, eloquent in a way he'd never been before: "I think I love you too, Hermione."

Another second; another small touch of their lips, taken quickly, naturally, before she drew back from him on that old sofa. The silence encompassed them again. As though nothing had changed. Hermione tilted her head, drying hair tumbling richly down her back. "The rain's stopped. The storm's over, would you believe?"

He smiled, fully this time, and genuinely. "And were you scared with me?"

She stood with grace, pulled him up with her, the enamel mugs forgotten on the floor. "I don't think I'll ever be scared of them again, Harry, as long as you're around."

"That's good," he said quietly, pulling her into his arms, bringing them together again, and noticing how good it felt, "because I reckon I'm going to be around for a hell of a long time."

Hermione – this perfect, impossible, wonderful girl – leaned backwards and looked up at him for a long second. The slight smirk that finally spread across her face was stunning, and Harry caught his breath. "I think I'd like that."

Not really happy with the ending but whatever.

What do you guys think? Reviews wouldn't hurt ;)

Thanks for reading!

Slania