Author's Note: Okay, this is the story I wrote for Strictly Dramione's "Summer Lovin'-Back to Hogwarts" summer writing fest. I spent the last three months writing this and I have a love-hate relationship with this.

Disclaimer: This story contains coarse language, alcohol use, and scenes of a sexual nature (to include both male and female masturbation, oral and tabletop sex). It is not the smuttiest smut, but it's more than I typically write. This will serve as the warning for the rest of this story.

This story has 20 chapters and is completely written. I will upload four chapters EVERY DAY for five days. Which means y'all gotta keep up and read and REVIEW each chapter as it comes!

Also, a massive thank you to Caprubia, for putting up with me and listening to me and alpha-ing this story. And Bailey4047, Otterlyardent and VanessaNFilms for reading my smut to make sure it was okay.

I do not own Harry Potter. If I did, though, I would still be trolling you all with fan fiction.

"One must maintain a little bit of summer, even in the middle of winter."

–Henry David Thoreau

Chapter 1:

Hermione Granger stood in the shower at 12 Grimmauld Place. She was relishing the warmth of the water cascading over her shoulders and back, the stream of water nearly scorching. She replayed her conversation with Ron Weasley over and over in her head, but the ending never changed.

Hermione was sitting at the end of the dock that ran out into the pond alongside the Burrow, her legs dangling lazily toward the water as she read her book. She heard Ron ambling down the ancient wood slats, slowly and hesitatingly. Since the end of the War the month prior, their friendship had been somewhat strained. In the harsh face of death, their emotions had gotten the best of them and they'd shared kisses in the midst of battle.

But since returning to the Burrow, they'd been awkward and had orbited away from one another. Molly, for her part, was too grief-stricken to fuss over her youngest son's relationship and Hermione had been able to hide for the better part of the month in Ginny's room, undisturbed.

Ron plopped down next to her, pushing his ginger locks away from his sweaty forehead and let out an awkward sigh. "'Mione, we need to talk."

Here it was. Hermione had known it was coming. She knew she should be upset. But she couldn't find it in herself to muster any indignation. She looked up into Ron's bright cobalt eyes, dulled ever so slightly since his brother's death. "I know what you're going to say."

"It's not anything to do with you, you know—I've fancied you since first year. It's just, with everything that's happened…Fred…everyone else…I think it's not the right time to get into a relationship. At least, not until we've both had enough time to process the world, post-War and given thought to what we want—"

"Unencumbered by the constant threat of a Dark Wizard and impending doom?" Hermione finished his thought, smiling slightly.

Ron's shoulders visibly relaxed and he gave her a weak lopsided grin. "We've been fighting alongside Harry for so long, I don't even know what to do with my free time anymore."

"You could return to Hogwarts," she suggested slyly.

Ron's grin fell a little and he shifted on his haunches, his feet dipping into the pond's surface. "I don't think I could go back. I know you want to—you've always been braver than me. But, after everything, I think I just want to take some time. George asked me if I would come and assist him at the shop."

Hermione sighed. She could understand his sentiments and his reasoning, but without his NEWTs, finding a position within the Ministry would prove to be difficult. She said nothing though, thinking of the way the Weasleys had gathered around Fred's limp frame in the Great Hall. Instead, she put an arm around his shoulders. "I'll support you in whatever you want to do."

He looked at her and pushed her curls behind her ear. "I'm sorry to do this to us—to you. After so long."

She smiled sadly. "It's okay. Really. I honestly agree, especially since I am going back for my seventh year. We need time to be independent and breathe freely."

Ron nodded. The War, and the subsequent death of a brother had matured him more than she could have ever imagined. He finally realized there was more to life than quidditch and exploding snap. Hermione felt a surge of pride and love for her friend as he leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "I love you, 'Mione. You know that. You've been my best friend for seven years."

"I love you, too, Ron. I'm proud of you—I think you helping George is noble and good healing therapy for you both."

Ron looked out over the pond as the sun began to set and leaned back on his palms. "I thought constantly about losing someone in my family during the War—you know that. I just," he paused for a moment, gathering his next thought, "never thought it would be one of the twins. Ginny, because she's so young and eager. Or my mum, trying to defend us. Or Percy, because he ran off. But not one of the twins. Not Fred. He was always the funny one, always kept everyone in good spirits."

A single tear fought to fall from Ron's eye and he cleared his throat. Hermione ran a soothing hand over his upper arm and sighed. The pair watched the sun set over the horizon, both feeling a shift in their friendship as a still, compatible silence settled over them.

She lathered soap into a sponge and scrubbed at her skin. This was a daily ritual since the War had ended—scrubbing her skin nearly raw under water that was too hot. Hermione was unsure why she showered so vigorously. Perhaps, she thought, it was to get rid of the terrifying memories of her friends' broken bodies, the sound of Voldemort's voice, the smell of smoke and blood that filled her nostrils and tormented her mind. Or perhaps it was because they'd been on the lam for so long without anything more than river water and some scourgifies to clean them that she hoarded the warm stream of water like a niffler hoarded gold.

Either way, she stood for nearly an hour each day in the shower and cleaned herself until her skin was red. She and Harry had moved into Grimmauld Place after Ginny and he had called it quits. They'd fought like pixies and leprechauns in the wake of the War, spending entirely too much time together in the days that followed. Ginny accused Harry of smothering her and Harry argued that he was simply trying to give her the attention she deserved after everything that had happened. In the end, it was a mutual split in the faces of her family and their friends. But Hermione knew, deep down, that Harry was heartbroken after losing Ginny, too. She held out hope that the two would reconcile once the dust had settled and the summer heat had passed.

But for now, she and Harry—the Weasley's Outcasts, as they'd so aptly begun calling themselves—were living at Grimmauld Place. Harry had renewed his desire to restore the house with added vehemence and the two had spent countless hours over the last week cleaning baseboards and researching how to unstick Walburga's portrait, which still hadn't stopped screaming slurs in their direction at every opportunity.

Hermione dressed slowly, her muscles aching from the hard work she and Harry had been putting into the most Ancient and Noble House of Black. As she did, Ron's face swam in her thoughts. She couldn't blame him for breaking things off, honestly. And, without the threat of death looming over them, without being forced to live side by side, Hermione found that she agreed with him. She wanted a chance to navigate the world independently. It was time for a change in her life, after years of the same high-anxiety, high-probability-of-death, high-hormone-induced-pining way she'd lived for years. She almost felt relief, if she were honest with herself.

As she was putting a kettle on in the kitchen, the floo roared to life and Harry stepped through, dressed in his best set of robes. His hair was a mess of black, as usual, and his glasses were slightly askew from the trip. He removed them and breathed a quick breath on each lens, then ran his robe over them to clean them—a small muggle gesture that had Hermione smiling. "Morning, Harry," she said, retrieving two cups from the newly cleaned cupboard.

"Is it still morning?" he asked, rubbing his face and removing his outer robes to reveal a shirt and tie.

He had spent the better part of the morning in the Ministry's courtrooms, testifying against various Death Eaters. He had been providing memories and testimony at least once a week since the Final Battle and today was the last of his testimonies. Harry sat at the table and sank into the chair. "Oh, before I forget," he said, leaning behind himself to retrieve something from his robe pocket, "the Ministry has so graciously given us three vouchers to some," he waved his hand, "island. Cosrosa?"

Hermione furrowed her brow and took the voucher from his hand, looking it over. Cosrosa: La Perla della Sirena. The Mermaid's Pearl. She looked at the information brochure that accompanied the vouchers. Pink sands, turquoise waters, rainforests. Both magical and muggle accommodations. "Why the hell would Kingsley give us a trip to Italy?"

"Apparently the Italian Ministry is supplying it," Harry said with a shrug as he dropped a sugar cube into his teacup.

"What did Ron say?" she asked, carefully not mentioning Ginny.

"The Weasleys are going on a holiday of their own this summer. Romania, to visit Charlie at the dragon sanctuary," Harry replied, his voice strained. "I ran into Luna at the Ministry. She was providing testimony as well. Xenophilius is still a little withdrawn but doing well otherwise. I offered her the third position and she said she'd be delighted to go."

"So, you're going, then?" Hermione asked, running a single finger over the moving waves that crashed on rose-colored sands.

"Aren't you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe this is what we need, 'Mione. To just get away for a little while. Act our age. Who knows what a summer can bring?"

o-o-o

Draco Malfoy laid in his bed, his legs drawn as he rested on his side, staring at the rich emerald green wallpaper. He hadn't really moved in weeks, other than to relieve himself, shower and slip into clean clothing every few days. A tea tray sat untouched on his nightstand and he hadn't had a proper meal in weeks. The curtains were all drawn, leaving him in an emerald green, dim glow though it was midday. It reminded him of the Slytherin dungeons and soothed his aching soul.

It was nearing mid-June. His eighteenth birthday had come and gone, with him lying in the bed and refusing to acknowledge the letters delivered by various owls. He didn't feel much like going out to celebrate. He'd seen the Nott, Zabini and Parkinson family owls perched on his windowsill time and again. Why wouldn't they just take the hint?

His mother had tried, unsuccessfully, to pry him from his bed the day before. Draco had dealt with crippling loneliness since his sixth year, anxiety that others would buckle under. But this newfound depressive mood was nearly more than he could bear. He was tired all of the time and slept for days on end. He tried to tell himself it was because he was catching up on all of the sleep he'd missed out on after the Dark Lord had taken up residence in his home. But there was more to it than just exhaustion. He was moody, withdrawing into himself completely. His whole body ached at times and he had zero interest in leaving the Manor, or even his bedroom, to indulge in his freedom.

Draco traced his Mark for the millionth time since his trial. To his surprise, Harry Potter had testified on his behalf. He'd recounted to the entire world what a coward he'd been, refusing to acknowledge who he and his ragtag team of sidekicks were that day in the spring. Except, Potter didn't call him a coward. No, he spun the tale as though Draco were courageous to hesitate in identifying them. And the Wizengamot had eaten up Potter's words like the Saint he was.

Little did Potter know of the inner turmoil Draco had gone through that day. He'd agonized internally on whether or not he should let his family know exactly who was sitting on his drawing room floor. If he positively identified them, his family would be held in high regard in the eyes of the Dark Lord. But if he lied, he would have had the time to formulate a plan to help Potter escape. The scar-headed prat was no use to the world if the Dark Lord killed him first. And Draco had long since lost his desire to live in a world where the megalomaniac ruled. His hesitation was entirely selfish. But Potter's testimony, combined with the fact that all of the provable indiscretions he'd committed had taken place in his adolescence, had saved his arse. He'd managed to get by with little more than community service and a Ministry sanctioned "voluntary" donation of one-third of his inheritance to a charity of his choice.

He pulled his covers up closer to his head, burrowing himself in their warmth when a sharp knock sounded at the door. "For the love of Merlin's saggy left tit, go away, Mother!" he called forcefully.

There was a loud bang, and his previously locked door was blown from the hinges. Draco shot upright, looking incredulously at the source of such commotion. "Nott, what the fuck are you doing?" he asked, staring at the hulking form of his oldest friend.

Theo strode into the room as though it were his own, and Draco supposed, earlier in life, it practically had been. And behind him, the shorter, leaner frame of Blaise Zabini came slinking through the doorway. Blaise had the decency to look sheepish, while Theo tossed himself into Draco's desk chair. "What the fuck am I doing? What the fuck are you doing, mate? We've been owling. We've been passed twice, and your mother says you aren't taking guests."

"I'm not," Draco responded, flopping himself back into his bedding unceremoniously.

Blaise made his way to the French doors leading out to the balcony and tossed them open, a wave of his wand making quick work of every curtain in the room. Draco recoiled in the bright light and drew the covers over his head. "Draco, we know it's been difficult for you—"

"My father received the Kiss less than a month ago. A fate I narrowly avoided," he replied, his voice muffled by the covers.

"For fuck's sake, Malfoy. Quit acting like a petulant child," Theo told him, using his wand to pry the covers forcefully off of Draco's thin frame. "My father got the same treatment. And you did avoid the Kiss."

"You have no idea what it feels like, Nott. To make it through a War, to live under a psychopath's thumb, only to be faced with your own mortality once more," Draco told him, "and put me down!"

Theo was levitating him upright into a sitting position and waved his hand. "Bullshit. It's done. It's behind you now. And what does it tell the rest of the world, that you are hiding in your dark, dingy room instead of getting out there and showing them that you are not just some Death Eater."

Blaise lifted a piece of molded bread with the tips of two fingers and then waved his wand to clear the tray from the room. "Theo's right, mate. You need to get up and get out there. It's been long enough."

"It's been five weeks."

"It's been long enough," Theo reiterated Blaise's sentiment. "Look. Wallowing in your own self-pity and," he gestured to Draco's disheveled hair, overgrown facial hair and three-day-old t-shirt, "filth will get you nowhere. People died, Malfoy. And the best way to honor them is to put on your big boy knickers and put one foot in front of the other. You have a family name to save. You didn't even get your arse to the memorial service at Hogwarts."

He had Draco in a full body lock, levitating slightly over the bed. The blond glared at his two friends. Blaise had his arms crossed over his chest and leaned back on the desk next to Theo. "We're heading to my home country. Pack your shit."

"Italy? Why the fuck would I go to Italy with you two arseholes?" Draco asked, already annoyed with their existence.

"Women," Theo said, a grin spreading across his face.

"Women? Have you been day drinking, Nott? Pussy is the last thing on my mind right now," Draco told him, scrunching his face incredulously.

"Malfoy, listen. You are free. There is zero reason why you should be holing yourself up in here and feeling sorry for yourself. This behavior won't bring any of them back. It won't bring your father back," Blaise told him while Theo nodded his agreement.

"I'm not saying it will. But should we really be chasing birds and living it up in Italy?"

"Better than lying in mourning for weeks on end. You're allowed to move on, Draco," Blaise told him. "It would be healthy to get away for a while. Breathe some clean air and take some time to yourself. You lived under duress for too long."

"And what better way than to take a nice long stroll on the topless beaches of Cosrosa?" Theo told him, his grin turning positively wicked.

Draco looked at his two friends, wishing he could light them ablaze with nothing more than his stare. This was a terrible idea—what would it look like to the outside world if he went away and had a good time, despite the War ending only a month prior? Theo let him out of the bind and set him on the bed. "Your mother is worried about you, Draco. We all are. We're all dealing with what happened, in our own ways. But this," Theo gestured around the room, "is not healthy."

The brunet wizard's tone had softened some and Draco knew what he was saying was true. His mother had tried incessantly to get into his room, to speak to him. He'd yelled and ranted and raved incessantly until she left him to wallow. "You know, she lost her husband," Theo said quietly. "You might try to speak to her and let her know that life can still go on."

And just like that, Theo delivered the line that punched Draco right in the gut. "Fuck," he sighed, running a hand through his mussed hair. "Fuck."

"Yeah, mate. She was looking a little worse for the wear when we walked in. So, go take a shower, shave your face and put on something respectable and becoming of the House of Malfoy. I'll get Lottie to fix you some lunch and let your mother know you'll be down in thirty minutes for tea in the garden. Let her know you're alright and be strong for her. She needs you to be the solid one right now, Draco," Theo finished tenderly, the mood growing appropriately somber.

"After that, pack your shit. We leave by portkey tomorrow afternoon," Blaise told him, opening his wardrobe. "And bring something to wear that isn't black."

Draco glared at him as he scrubbed his hands over his face and sighed, standing up. He made his way into the bathroom and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He'd lost a little weight, but nothing dramatic. The change came more in his facial features-his face was gaunter, his cheekbones prominent. He had dark circles under his eyes from prolonged, addled sleep. His facial hair, never able to grow in thick and full, was spotty and ragged. He looked wholly unkempt. He stepped into the hot water, steaming all around him and began to lather himself, washing away some of his negativity so he could put on a brave face for his mother.

Italy. Maybe his two friends were right. Perhaps he needed to escape England, and the shadow of the War, for a little while. He needed to move forward, and he couldn't if he kept dwelling on his past. Guilt niggled at the back of his brain—"survivor's guilt" was the term being thrown around these days. He'd survived when so many others hadn't. But Draco knew he wouldn't have done anything differently if given the opportunity. He did what was necessary to keep he and his parents alive and he'd been successful on that front.

After shaving his face, he dressed in some fresh trousers and a simple grey button-down shirt. He brushed his hair for the first time in nearly a month and figured he'd better venture out that afternoon for a trim if he was leaving the country in the morning. As he slipped on his watch, completing his polished and handsome look, he leaned his forehead against the wardrobe door. In the morning, he was going to be exposed to the world, to people who couldn't see past the Mark on his arm, to others who looked at him with pity or worse, sympathy.

He gave himself one last glance over in the mirror and decided he looked decent enough to face his mother. He padded down the stairs and out into the bright sunshine of the Manor's gardens. Theo and Blaise were flanking the witch when he approached. They were right—his mother looked older than she ever had, and though there wasn't a hair out of place, her lips were tight, and her eyes held more wrinkles than ever before. "Mother," he greeted, bending to kiss her cheek.

She put a hand up and ran a thumb over his freshly shaved jaw. "Dragon," she responded, giving him a watery smile.

Theo rose, tapping Blaise. "Narcissa, it's been a pleasure catching up. We promise to write from Cosrosa," he said, leaning in and kissing her cheek as well.

Blaise lifted her hand to his lips and bowed deeply to her. "Mother Malfoy. A pleasure, as always. Take care of yourself."

"Boys. Keep an eye on my son. Make sure he doesn't do anything foolish," she told them, causing Draco to roll his eyes. "And Theodore, go with Draco and get a haircut."

Theo laughed and nodded, bowing to her and he and Blaise took their leave. Draco turned his attention to his mother and guilt bit through him once more. "Mother, I do not have to go with them, if you'd rather I stay here with you. You and I could go away. Perhaps to France?" he suggested as Lottie and Cala, two tiny female house elves, brought them a couple of sandwiches for lunch.

She waved her hand. "Draco. You need to go. Get away from here for a while. This house…it's memories are oppressive."

"I'm sorry I've been so distant," he told her, pushing around the fresh vegetables on his plate.

His mother looked at him carefully over her teacup as she brought it to her lips. "This whole process has taken a lot out of you."

"And you. Perhaps you more so than I."

"I'm going to stay with Andromeda for a while. She owled me and said she was going to need help with Nymphadora's boy, Teddy," she told him sadly. "I didn't want to leave you, but now that you're going away for a while, I don't feel so guilty."

"Mother, I am a grown man. You could have gone regardless. You need to reconcile with Aunt Meda."

Narcissa studied her son for a long moment, bringing her hand up to push his hair away from his forehead. "Draco, go and have fun. Keep an open mind and take time for yourself. You did so much for your father and me, and for that, I am eternally grateful. But the War is over and you made it through your trial with minimal repercussions. Focus on yourself. Heal. And perhaps, you'll find a lovely witch?" she finished, a light teasing tone to her voice.

Draco didn't have it in him to repeat his earlier sentiment about women to her. She had a hopeful smile on her face as she cupped his hand in her own. "Oh, dragon. You deserve happiness after so much turmoil. Perhaps you'll find it in Italy."

He very seriously doubted this, but he couldn't find it in his heart to remind his mother that the Malfoy name was tarnished, and he'd floundered for the last five weeks instead of trying to do anything about it.

Perhaps they were all right—maybe he could find himself on the rosy shores of Italy.

o-o-o