A/N: And she lives! Apologies about my extended absence... I've been horribly stuck. This has, in fact, been dug up from my archives - I was supposed to post it ages ago. Anyway, this is dedicated to Eva, because she's awesome, and also Lauren, just because.

Hermione hurried along the dark streets, tucking her hands deep into the pockets of her overcoat. It had been getting warmer lately – they had managed to drive out the last remaining Dementors from London – but that still didn't prevent the harsh chill of winter, which wrapped its frozen hands around Britain, and squeezed. She walked faster, not really concentrating on where her feet were leading her – she had taken this path so many times that it was almost a reflex; turn left here, stop at a traffic light, turn right and right again.

So used to the journey was she that she did not even blink when a house of enormous proportions – a manor, to that extent – miraculously emerged from between two others, extending the street by a good 200 metres. It was a good idea, of course, copy-catting simultaneously off the House of Black and the Leaky Cauldron; only passing witches and wizards could see the house – and only those specifically invited could enter.

She walked through the front door easily, relaxing into the warmth of the front room. Sighing, she removed her coat, scarf and hat.

"You're here."

She spun on her heels, losing her composure for a second, though she didn't know why. This was as much routine as the journey.

"You're not looking well, Draco," she said, eyes narrowing with worry. "Have you been eating properly?"

"For God's sake, Hermione, you're not my mother," Draco replied, though there was amusement in his eye.

"And let us be thankful for that," Hermione replied, winking. "I'd have to have you taken away if you did half the things with your mother that you do with me."

Draco shuddered for a moment, playing up the light-hearted moment. "Why would you do that to me, Hermione? Why would you put a picture like that in my head?"

Hermione chuckled and reached forward, weaving her arms inside Draco's to wrap them around his torso in a tight hug. Draco put a hand on her back, and one on the back of her head, holding her close. It was rare that the two shared moments of genuine affection, such as this – their meetings were mostly about flesh, and lust; and trying hard to convince themselves that they were finding solace in each other's bodies, not in each other.

They broke away awkwardly, both refusing to look the other quite in the eye.

"Where does our Mr Potter believe you are tonight?" Draco asked, smirking, and Hermione shrugged.

"He doesn't know I've gone out. I'll find something to tell him later. It's not been a good day."

"Oh," Draco swallowed. Despite every fibre of his being screaming at him to shut up, he continued, "Want to tell me about it?"

"Not really," Hermione answered. He knew he could count on her. "I just want to forget it."

Again, he smirked. "I believe I may of some assistance with that."

And he kissed her, roughly, like he always did. Hands reached out blindly, passionately, groping for clothes and skin and that ever-elusive solace. They kissed and moaned and tore at each other's clothes like animals, hungry for the feeling of someone else on their skin. And when they were finished, lying naked and panting on the bed in a room upstairs, they both breathed in the aroma of sweat and sex and solace on each other and wished (quietly, and individually) that they could find that comfort in something more than just lust.

Later

Hermione left the next morning, the load on her shoulders a little lighter, with a kiss goodbye and a promise to stop by again soon. This was by no means a lie, of course – she knew, just as surely as she knew the way to Draco, that it would only be a matter of days before the need to feel alive again was too strong to resist.

This arrangement between them hadn't been mechanically and intellectually planned. Three nights after the Final Battle, Hermione had found herself unable to bear the heaviness around Harry, despite his brave attempt at smiling every so often, and so had escaped to the frivolity of a nearby pub. It was there that she'd found Draco, surrendered to fatigue and grief, with his head in his hands, and her heart went out to him.

The trouble was, really, that Hermione desperately needed someone to save.

She had, of course, first attempted to rescue Harry, determined that he would come back from everything – but that had been before the end of the war, when she still had faith in him. Before the end of the war, when she still believed he could be saved. Now, though – the way he wallowed in self-loathing was, even for her out-of-control Soldier Complex, too extreme. It was, perhaps, besides the point anyway now. The Harry she would have wanted to save was already dead.

She had spent that third post-battle night in Draco Malfoy's arms, feeling guilty but miraculously alive. It didn't take her long to realise that consoling Draco meant consoling herself. The two of them hid from their demons under each other's skin.

Hermione took out her keys and slid the longest one into the door of the flat she shared with Harry. She braced herself before crossing the threshold, welcoming the warmth on her skin but somehow not relishing in it the same way she did at Draco's.

"Harry? I'm back. Sorry I didn't come in last night – went to mum's. Harry?"

She walked into the kitchen. No one was there. Puzzled, she continued moving around the flat, opening curtains where they were still pressed together. Walking towards the small study at the back of the flat, she saw a shadow flicker under the door, and smiled in relief.

"I was wondering where you'd got to," she said, opening the door. Harry looked up at her wordlessly. His eyes were bloodshot – there were pieces of parchment and empty Firewhiskey bottles scattered over the desk in front of him. She frowned. "What's all that?"

Harry said nothing. She reached forward to pick up a letter – and her heart stopped.

"I have a feeling you'll be able to tell me, Hermione."

"These are… these are my letters, Harry. My mail! How could you-"

"I was looking for some spare knuts under your desk. Imagine my surprise when I found these instead."

"Harry, these aren't what they look like at all."

Harry snorted mirthlessly. "Funny that. Because to me, they look like love letters. Between you and Draco Malfoy."

"They're not love letters."

No response. Harry just looked at her with the same expression of rage.

"Don't look at me like that," Hermione whispered, afraid. Harry didn't move. "DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT! I did what I had to do! I did what was necessary… for me and for him!"

"And that would mean what?" Harry snapped. "Falling in love with Draco Malfoy? Falling in love with their side?"

"I didn't say I'd fallen in love with him. I never said that!"

"You didn't have to," Harry sneered, a perfect imitation of the man who had caused all this trouble. "It's all over your face, not to mention all over this filth!" He grasped the pieces of parchment in front of him, scrunching them into balls with his hands. "Love letters, Hermione? Following him around everywhere? SOMEONE WAS BOUND TO NOTICE! AND I DID! I NOTICED!"

"Took you long enough," Hermione said quietly. It was a throw-away comment, but it was still enough to pique Harry's interest. Previous rage forgotten, he stopped and looked at her.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, Harry, that maybe none of this would have happened if you'd have just stopped for a second, and looked around! No one here could manage without you – but you still went off, you still left-"

Harry was dumbstruck. "I HAD TO! What was I supposed to do, Hermione? Just sit here and wait for Voldemort to take himself out?"

"There were people here who wanted to help you," Hermione said, and Harry distinctly noticed the way she spoke in past tense. "People who were willing to lay down their lives for you! And you still went! You still left! Ginny… you think you feel bad about what you did to her? Leaving her here? You weren't here, Harry, you didn't see her. I've never seen anything like it before. And Ron-"

Harry's voice was low and dangerous, "Don't you dare bring Ron into this."

"Well maybe someone should! Maybe someone should tell you exactly how it was he got killed, looking for you!" Hermione's eyes filled with tears as she yelled, no longer caring if she was hurting his feelings. "Yeah, Harry, that's right – Ron was sick and tired of waiting around and sitting here doing nothing because you wouldn't let him so he went looking for you and got caught by those Death Eaters…" She broke off, and sobbed.

"His fault, not mine," Harry said, and after an astonished beat the two of them gasped simultaneously. Hermione clutched a hand to her mouth in disbelief, while Harry stared into open space, aghast with himself. "I didn't mean that, Hermione, I didn't mean that; I promise, I didn't mean it…"

But Hermione was too shocked to listen. She looked at her feet for a few minutes, and when she looked up again, her face was streaked with tears.

"You didn't notice that Ginny almost died for you. You almost didn't notice that Ron did die for you. So why," she said, standing up and taking a step closer to him, "do you think that you would possibly have noticed what was going on between me and Draco Malfoy?" Despite herself, she laughed. "It took one of your best friends screwing a man who seemed to be working for your opponent for you to take the slightest bit of interest in what was going on here. Tell me, Harry… how does that make you feel. If you still can feel, of course."

"You're changing the subject, Hermione. Whatever I may or may not have done has nothing to do with the fact that every other day you sneak off to steam up the backseat windows of that bastard's car!"

"You're drunk," Hermione said, mustering as much derision as she could, before turning back towards the door and taking a step towards it. Harry chuckled behind her.

"Maybe," he conceded, then looked up at her. "But you're a whore."

Part Two coming up soon! Please review.