Reminisce

Author's Note: Mostly DH compliant; Somewhat EWE. Inspired by Deanna Carter's Strawberry Wine. Enjoy! And review! :)

It has been a decade since I graduated Hogwarts and but every fall I come back down by this lake, sit by myself, and think back to that year.

After the end of the war, I decided to go back and finish my schooling at Hogwarts, while many had not. Instead they were given a degree-equivalent. I was split up from most of my friends. They all expected that they had enough real-life training. Too much, really. We had all seen so much death and despair—no matter what role we played in the war, no matter the side. I knew too many who fell to a curse, a jinx, or a potion. They figured there was nothing left for them to learn in a book, nothing left for teachers to say to them, to reprimand them for, nothing that they could be taught that they didn't already know. And, in their own way, they were right. School wasn't the place for them. But for me—a somewhat self-proclaimed bookworm and know-it-all—school was exactly where I needed to be.

That year, I stayed in an old professor's corridor, by myself, being somewhat a special circumstance, some sort of awkward Eighth Year. I traveled between there and the Burrow during that summer after the war, splitting my time between both—helping to make the castle presentable again and being with my family—the Weasleys, Harry, and my friends. I kept to myself, mostly reading and writing. Trying to put the pieces back together, to figure out who I was since the fighting had halted, since the way I defined myself had changed. I wasn't a girl going into battle, scared but brave, smart and swift. Instead I found myself staring into a lost-looking woman in the mercury mirrors of the washrooms. Somewhere amongst it all, I had left that little girl behind and became a woman. No one had seen me drowning, flailing my arms around, trying to grab onto something that wouldn't fall apart, something that was real and true. No one could see past the smiling tabloid photos of our victory to see that scared little girl trapped within this shell of a woman. I was lost and broken and I needed a savior.

Back then, my only issue with staying in the castle was that every space was marked with despair and sadness. Every corridor I turned down, every well-beaten path, every book, and every chalice reminded me them, of the war. I had left this beautiful castle mostly innocent—I had my scrapes and fights amongst these halls, but nothing about this place truly haunted me to my core—but upon returning for my studies, I had to look at each place differently. I can remember thinking "this is where Tonks fell," or "Dumbledore died here." It wasn't the juvenile memories of becoming a witch that splashed behind my eyes—the balls, the pranks, the classes. Instead, back then, all I could see was fallen fortress' walls, mistaken steps, the placid faces of the dead. It became a prison I held myself in. I never considered hurting myself in any tangible way, but conversely, I led a sort of self-induced punishment by not allowing myself be happy. Sometimes I wandered the castle, as a form of punishment, thinking, worrying, crying. And my feet would bring me to places I didn't always expect. And other times I end up right where I belonged. Like when I used to find myself staring at the entrance doors to the library. After all, Ron always said that's what I do. "When in doubt, she goes to the library." Or something like that. Even in my saddest penance, I found truth in his words.

Oh, Ronald. We were so close and so far away all at once. At the time, it seemed to me that everyone had paired off, found a mate, shacked up. They had decided to make the leap for love, fall off the ledge head first. I wanted that too so I sought out the only boy that had ever touched my heart, ever made me flutter inside. So we got together during war, both needing someone in a way that didn't need to be spoken. Maybe it wasn't perfect, maybe we didn't really make sense to anyone else, but all those nights spent in our tent in the middle of nowhere, just laying, and trying to not think about death were ultimately perfect. My Ron. Not my first head-over-heels love, but a really good friend. He saw me for who I was, who I wanted to be. He saw something there. Something that not everyone saw in me. Something I still don't always see about myself.

Ron and I would sit out by the Weasley's make-shift Quidditch pitch and kiss and touch and just be. We would remember the best times before war and wonder what our old friends were up to. Everyone had scattered due to the conflict and many had gone into hiding, fearing and expecting some type of backlash. Ron had tried so hard then to comfort me when I cried about our losses, our naïve innocence. But it was Ron and he never really could fix me, never could make it all better. But he tried and, at the time, that was enough.

All those moments at the Burrow in the summer, under the hot July moon, out in the fields. Talking and crying and trying to laugh again. My first taste of love, perhaps? At the time, I would have probably coined it that. It wasn't perfect, it didn't have to be. We never tried to be more than we were, even in the face of his mother's nagging. The kisses were chaste and sweet…and needed. We both needed to heal. But that was that and when he felt whole again and I was leaving, we drifted apart. We knew it would never be the same and that was fine. He found someone else that month. And I was happy for him.

But so sad for myself. Love is bittersweet, you see, for someone like me. Growing up in the middle of war there was no real room for love. No room for it left in my heart or my head, with all of that hate floating around. I could only care for my friends, hope for the best. But somehow, when I saw my first love, it was like everything was awoken again.

He was working for Hogwarts, although I had known him before. He was apprenticing under the new Charms Professor, working his way through college. He looked like a new man. Yes, a man, much like myself, war changed him. He passed seamlessly into adulthood. And behind his eyes, I saw something new and beautiful. I was thirsty for him. I wanted whatever it was that he had: the answers, the truth, anything, everything that he would give me. I wanted him. But I thought it wasn't possible. He was too complex, he probably had someone waiting for him, he probably didn't want me, he probably wouldn't care.

But he did.

His mouth latched onto mine, speaking a language that only we knew. His teeth nipped at my lips, gaining their entrance into my soul. His hands, so familiar, searched my body. He clung to what he found there. I was enveloped by him. I seized him, so sure of our adoration. And I let myself fall.

That autumn we found each other. I clung to him like a moth to a lamp. I craved him. He was my everything. He was the liberator I needed. He tried to heal me in ways that I can't even explain. I found more love in that summer than most people have in their entire lives. And for that I wouldn't ever give him up.

We marked the castle as our own, blocking out every sad memory with a new, sweet one. We were in every room, on every part of the grounds. Nothing dirty, just pleasant. Whispered words, held hands, deep hugs. He knew how to woo me, how to make me putty below him. He understood how to undo me with a single look. And when I needed to yell, he let me. When I needed to claw at him for what I had been through, he took my fists and understood. We had so many shared memories, such a deep past. He shared with me so much that I knew he never dared tell anyone else. And I shared with him. We were cups overflowing and it was okay. There was no pressure to be perfect. It just was what it was and that is what made it unspoiled by the sadness floating nearby us.

One honey-sweet night he took me out by the lake and let me cry there, in his arms. He cried too. We were so in love, so wrapped up in each other that I never saw how green we were, just barely new. I never saw any of it. I just knew I wanted him and needed him. And in hushed tones, beneath the navy blue sky, he told me that he needed me too. So I gave myself to him in every way possible.

He was gentle and sure and made me feel like a queen. It was the most sensual moment in my entire life. His body knew mine instantly and his soul must have reached down and touched mine. I flew above the grounds, soared high without the use of a broomstick. He was heaven on earth and I craved it from every moment after.

He was everywhere all at once. Surrounding me, filling me. I was smitten. When I closed my eyes I could hear the subtle whooshing of the hot blood in his veins and how much it sped up when I held him near. He and I used to sit next to each other and I would miss him, even when he was so very close. He soothed me. I yearned for him. We tumbled through our fall together, meeting whenever possible, not matter how early or how late. And when I wasn't with him, I thought about him, dreamt about him. He consumed me. I fantasized about his eyes, his calloused hands, those lips. I worried that I would wake up from it all one day, that he was never really there, and that we were never real. But that startling reality never came; he was real and only wanted me.

I kissed him so much, with such frequency, so fervently, that I marked him as mine with tiny kisses and love-bites. Mine. I wonder now if he might still have those nips and marks on him, beautiful scars hiding there beneath his jumper.

When I was with him, everything else fell wayside. I can barely remember now the millions of tears I shed that spring and summer, trying to put back together my heart. But I remember every sweet sigh, delicious kiss, and warm moment with him. The friends we had lost, due to war and time, became apparitions to us then. No ghost could touch what we shared. Do you remember sobbing over our dear friends, sweetheart? We wailed over them, clutching each other so tightly. Regardless if we both knew them or not it was a shared pain. I took the weight off of your shoulders, while you took mine. We lamented and gasped and groped for each other in the night. Our moans echoed through the classrooms, engraining every stone with traces of us. I still walk past those rooms and shudder at the memories.

That fall was everything. He was everything. He saved me. It was my rebirth. I was the woman I wanted to be again. He awakened me. He knew my soul, looked in through my eyes, and touched something hidden there. We kept no secrets and our potential was evident. He was it. The best I was ever going to have in every way. My perfect match. Did you know how perfect you were, my love? My biggest fear was when he had to leave. His apprenticeship wouldn't last forever. And, as time showed us, neither would we.

The day he left Hogwarts, we clung to each other in the Great Hall, crying out for each other, memorizing every bone, every scar, every tear. I was drunk with the way he tasted. He held me for hours, just whispering in my ear, soothing me with his voice, trying to not stammer over his words. He was trying to be stronger than I was. And when I drew back and looked into his eyes, I knew he loved me too. This was the real thing, a real once-in-a-lifetime love.

We tried to keep in touch—with owls, and the floo, and a few chance exchanges in seedy bars or Muggle hotels—but we drifted away, and by the following May—one year since the end of the war—I forgot how his bones, his scars, his tears felt. I missed being intoxicated by his kisses. I walked through my graduation and the subsequent parties as a happy, upright, vivacious woman and I knew I owed a great deal of that to him. He woke me up. He roused something in me that was lost. I am this woman today because of him. I have never looked back on that autumn with any regret. He was the best choice I could have made.

It's been ten years now and it doesn't get any easier. I remember when people were dying all around us and we though making it to twenty was golden, that thirty was old. I'm so close to that old age now, dear. I never thought I would make it here. I've had a decent life since the war. It's been tough at times, but I never knew so much pain as I did that year of battles and brawls so long ago. And I never knew quiet as much love as I did with him. I heard he got married and had some kids. I hope he is happy. I am. Mostly, at least. I can admit now that miss him. I had other friends, boyfriends, lovers, but I keep coming back to this place. Always. Near our tree beside the lake. I come back here to remember my first taste of love. The end of my innocence in every way.

I let myself do this once a year, marking that night. It feels like I am holding my breath all year long for this moment. The one time I let myself think back to my first lover, the first man to taste me, to hold me, to kiss me to deeply with his eyes squeezed so tightly shut as if he were afraid that I might fade away. Out here by the water, drinking my bottle of wine, I can barely imagine the outline of where the reeds and grass bent under our weight. I can barely remember what it felt like to be a teenager, barely remember the taste of that first sip of the wine he and I shared, but through it all, all this time, I can still remember how his kisses tasted.

Sweet like strawberries.

I lift my glass, silently toasting to him, wishing him well. I hope that he thinks of me too, at least a little. I know he's moved on now and it's silly for me to wish otherwise, but I would give anything to turn back the hands of time, to relive that carnal autumn.

"Hermione…?"

I turn around and I see the face that I've been dreaming about for this past decade. My heart skips a beat; not a single thing has changed.

"Draco." I breathe out.