One Is Never Enough

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.

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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.