A/N: Pay attention to the timeline in this one. It jumps about a bit.

OWLS AND OMELETTES

Early August 2005

Her phone was ringing. She could hear the echoing cry of it as she hurried up the stairs to her flat, and knew who it would be. Fumbling with the key, she unlocked the door and hurried inside, dropping her things onto the table as she went.

"Hello?"

"Hermione," came a familiar voice, and she felt her heart lifting and fluttering.

"Hello you."

"You busy?"

"I'm just back from work – give a girl a minute to breathe, yeah?"

"Just now? And tell me, are you secretly living there?"

"Shut up, Draco, or I'll do myself a kindness and hang up."

"You're pushing yourself too hard," he sighed.

"I'm not. I thrive on hard work."

"You say this like it's a great revelation. It's not."

"Grumpy, are we, Draco?"

"Where've you been? You've been busy all week," he grumbled, which made her smile.

"I took a week off work," she replied, amused. "My desk was covered in a literal mountain of paper on Monday. I've had to work late to catch up." A lie, a small one, given she stayed late almost every night of the week under normal circumstances.

"Well, are you free on Friday evening?" he asked hurriedly.

"Why? What's up?"

"I've a surprise for you."

"No, bugger off with that. You're telling me. I'm sick of surprises."

"Fine. I'm taking you to get a new wand."

"Really? Really?" her incredulous reply spilled out.

"Am I to assume you'll be free then?"

"Yes – absolutely yes."

"Good."

"Thank you," she breathed.

"Hermione," he sighed, "we've been through this. Stop thanking me. Trust me when I say that you of all people should not be thanking me."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

Silence.

"Draco?"

"It's not important."

"It is to me."

"Just give it up Hermione!" he snapped, and she fell silent. Then he sighed, and continued, in a low voice. "I'll tell you in my own time."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have"-

"Don't. You don't need to apologise. I was rude. I frequently am."

"I know," she replied, soft and amused. "Though, I'd say you're more... arrogant than rude."

"Oh, well, I won't deny that either. Such a glowing recommendation, don't you think? Arrogant and rude."

"To be fair to you, you have impeccable manners. And nice eyes. There is that... also..." she trailed off, with a flush that she was grateful he couldn't see.

"Yes I do, don't I?" he answered, sounding pleased.

"And we're back to arrogant again."

"I prefer to think of it as charming."

"Funny, though," she mused, ignoring his words, "you came across as rather less arrogant when we met those first few times."

"Yes, well I didn't want to frighten you off, did I?"

She laughed in response.

"I should probably go," she sighed into the comfortable silence that had followed on from her laugher. "I have to get some work done on my masters. I can't allow myself to fall behind. How are the manuscripts?"

"Trying my patience. I'm working on a Byzantine piece – research, for now – and it's turning into a minor disaster. I should probably get back to it myself. I'll talk to you tomorrow?"

"Of course," she replied. "Goodnight, Draco."

"Night, Hermione."

She hung up, a smile on her face, and a rosy blush on her cheeks. She was beginning to grow used to it; the smile that would sweep onto her face like a wave, along with a flush of heat and consciousness; the shiver that would follow, often accompanied by a breathy sort of sigh that was utterly foreign to her.

Their phone conversations had been a constant over the past weeks, something Hermione had begun to cherish at the end of her day. Sometimes brief and punchy, sometimes long and meandering, late into the night, and at the end of them it was hard to stop smiling, and harder still to make herself want to stop, so she didn't bother. When she was with him, even if it was just their voices entwining in the ether, she didn't feel alone.

Moving into the kitchen, she began to get things together to make tea and toast. She set the kettle to boil and popped some bread into the toaster, then moved over to the table where she'd unceremoniously dumped her things in her haste to answer the phone. She began sorting through her stuff, looking for a folder containing some articles on Ogham stones, when she spotted something at her window which gave her pause.

It was an owl.

One week earlier

Somewhere, in the lush hills of the Conwy Valley and hidden amongst the abundant greenery in the dip of a hill, sat a cottage. An old house it was, a sprawling series of interconnected buildings, with warren-like hallways and strange stairwells and doors hidden behind bookshelves, and a warm, bright kitchen that pulsed with life like the very heart of the place.

It wasn't a quiet house, not with the child of two currently running rampant through the hallways, chased by his indulgent father. In the kitchen, the flames in fireplace turned green and a woman stepped out, brushing the soot off her robes. At the sound of distant squealing, she smiled and made her way towards the source of the noise.

She found them in the study, a crooked little room stuffed with books and squashy armchairs and a sturdy wooden desk. A familiar little head peeped out from under a sofa, his black hair – so like his father's – an unruly mess.

"Mama!" he cried joyfully.

"Hello Jamie-the-boy," she replied, swooping down to pull him out from under the sofa and up into her arms. "How was your day, little one? Did you have a nice day with your daddy?"

But Jamie did not answer, otherwise occupied with trying to extract mummy's wand from her robes. She looked over to the boy's father, standing up from where he'd been crouched behind an armchair, and smiling as he made his way over to them.

"Hello, Harry," she said, smiling up into his rather wonderful green eyes, glinting playfully behind his glasses.

She loved his glasses. She loved all of him.

"Hello, love," he replied. "How are you?"

"Fine, I think," she sighed. "It's been rather a long day," she continued, shifting James on her hip, who was still intent on getting the wand.

At once, his brow crumpled with concern.

"Something happen at work?"

"Sort of... We'll talk about it later- No!" she cried out suddenly, as the boy managed to lay claim to the coveted wand. "James Rubeus Potter! Give that back. We don't touch mummy's wand. You know that, sweetheart."

"My wan'," the little boy replied sullenly as she took the wand back, throwing her a dark-eyed, mutinous look.

"Not your wand. You'll get your wand when you're a big boy," Harry said gently, setting his hand on Jamie's soft dusky hair.

"Share, Mummy."

"No, Jamie, not this time. A wand is special," Demelza answered him, pulling him close to cuddle him, and could feel him growing heavy in her arms, as the hour drew towards night, and she turned to Harry who was watching Jamie snuggling into her neck with a tender look in his eyes.

"Has he had supper?" she asked.

"Yeah, we ate at the Burrow," he replied looking sheepish. "Molly insisted."

"Sure she did, you lazy thing. You just weren't bothered cooking."

He didn't even try to deny it.

"Well, how about this?" she gave him a considering look. "I'll put the little monster to bed, if you make me one of your lovely omelettes."

"I can do that," he grinned down at her, bending to kiss her lightly.

There were no shadows in his eyes tonight.

Later, when the cottage had fallen quiet and tranquil, Harry and Demelza sat in the kitchen, he reading the Prophet (not quite the rag it had once been, but still not great), she eating the rather tasty omelette and sipping on butterbeer.

They both required this few moments of silence between them in their day. Harry, as an Auror, had a tendency to retreat into himself during particularly trying cases, and she, as a Healer, often needed time to process her day. The silence that wrapped between them was comforting, necessary.

Demelza finished eating, pushing her plate to the side, simply waiting for Harry to finish reading. It wasn't long before he too was finished, and put the paper down.

"So, do you want to tell me what's bothering you?" he asked, regarding her over the table.

"You always know," she smiled, softly.

"You're easy to read."

"I'm your wife," she snorted. "You do have an advantage."

"So do you, Mel," he replied with a knowing smirk. "You use it often enough."

"I suppose I do."

"So, what happened?"

She paused, gulping down a lump of emotion that tasted like both laughter and tears, and took a quick breath before replying.

"Harry... I... It's Hermione. She's alive."

"What?" he gasped the word. "Demelza, say that again."

"I saw her Harry. Today. She's alive."

She hadn't seen him cry in the longest time. Not since Jamie was born.

It was funny, she thought, how tears brought out the vivid beauty of his eyes, how she couldn't pull her own gaze away from them when she so hated to see him cry - most often because of remorse, or guilt, or for those he had lost, and rarely for joy.

She became aware that he had grabbed her hand, and was searching her eyes urgently, as though searching for something there that would confirm the truth of her words. He was gripping her fingers tightly and he looked tense and elated and terrified all at the same time.

"Really?" he asked her desperately, his voice hoarse.

"Yes."

"What happened to her?"

"You're not going to like this..." Demelza began, feeling unnaturally hesitant. Then she told him everything that had happened, about Hermione being Obliviated, how her memories of being a witch had been stolen, how she remembered nothing; how Draco Malfoy had found her in Oxford and befriended her, and told her who she was, how he truly seemed to care...

Harry gave a great sigh as Demelza finished speaking. He didn't reply right away, and she knew he was mulling over what she'd just said. Everyone always said he was the quintessential Gryffindor; noble, loyal, brave unto the point of recklessness... They always said that about Harry – reckless.

But he wasn't, not always, and certainly not anymore. Life, and death hung heavily on his shoulders, and while he had been reckless as a boy, as a man he certainly was not.

When he next spoke, his words came slowly.

"So what happened next? Did Malfoy bring her in? I don't understand," he said, shaking his head.

"Well, he got in touch with Pansy Parkinson. You remember her, I'm sure," she said dryly. "And Pansy, as it turns out, recently got engaged. To a rather nice wizard, a Healer, as it happens, and a former Gryffindor too."

Harry, who had been listening to her with a quizzical expression on his face suddenly sat upright, eyes widening, as the sickle began to drop.

"Dean," he said musingly, "Of course. I forgot he works in Mungo's. Haven't seen him in a while."

"Does that mean I get to invite Dean and Pansy over for dinner?"

Harry scowled at her.

"Have I mentioned lately that you're a horrible wife?"

"Careful, love, or you can get nice and friendly with that sofa you were hiding behind earlier," she shot back.

"I'd say sorry, but I'm not feeling terribly remorseful."

"Just as well. I'd tell you to shove the apology."

"So, Malfoy went to Pansy, who asked Dean, who got in touch with you...?" Harry prodded, turning the conversation back Hermione's mysterious reappearance.

"Something like that," she replied. "I didn't know what I was getting myself into when he asked, mind you. I thought it was a simple house call – you know, some rich old dear who accidentally Obliviated her second cousin.

"But then he asked me to Floo over to Parkinson House, and I thought something had happened to Pansy. And then, of course, when I got there I came face-to-face with Malfoy and Dean," she paused. "He wouldn't let me see her, not until I'd sworn I'd keep her... presence a secret. He didn't want me telling you, at first"-

"Why?" Harry asked abruptly, his brow forming a suspicious line.

"He's worried about her. Think about it. Forget about the fact that it's Malfoy – I know you don't like him much, but he's really not that bad, you know. You've said it yourself. Think about why someone would go through the effort of trying to have her memories restored, while keeping it highly secret."

"Yes... I see... Jesus, whoever did this is still out there," he growled, clenching his fist, suddenly furious.

"Exactly."

"So how did you convince him?"

"He told me that it was Hermione's decision. But that I can only tell you. No one else must know for now. No one, Harry."

"I understand," he nodded. "So what now?"

"Well, I have to sit down and work out how to unlock the mind and memories of one of the most talented witches of our generation," sighed Demelza, shaking her head.

"That's some task you've set for yourself," he agreed. "Is there no one you can have involved with you? If Dean already knows, surely you can ask him to help."

"Well, yes, I'd imagine so," she mused. "She wants to see you," she added.

"Hermione does?"

"Yes," she nodded. "Apparently Draco told her about you. She's been curious ever since then."

"Well then, we need to go to her. Where does she live? Oxford, you said?"

"Harry stop!" Demelza cut in, before he got into full swing – there was no stopping him then. "I don't know where she lives. The only person who does is Malfoy"-

"Why?" Harry interrupted. "Why Malfoy?"

"You know how this works," she replied, her voice soft but her tone firm. "She doesn't know you anymore; she doesn't know anyone. I know it's fucking awful, but they are the facts of Obliviation – something I'm sure Hermione would tell you herself, if she did remember.

"But she doesn't," she continued, pulling Harry's hand into her own. "And this Hermione, well, she's friends with Draco Malfoy. She trusts him. And he had to fight for that trust, Harry. She's intensely private. She insisted that Malfoy be the only one with access to her for now."

"So what do I do?" he asked, looking suddenly very young and rather like the bewildered boy she remembered from their school-days.

"Wait, dearest love," she said gently, laying a kiss on his hand and then releasing it. "Give it time. She's had a lot to take in, and in a very short space of time too. I'll do what I can."

"A week," he countered, a stubborn glint in his eye. "I'll give it a week."

Early August 2005

Draco was on his balcony, sipping on whiskey – the Muggle type tonight – and reading a book. It was rare that he afforded himself the time to read for pleasure, but when he did, it was always a deeply immersive experience and curiously meditative. It was especially true of this particular book, The Alchemist, (lent to him by Hubert the doorman) and not at all what he had expected.

The stillness of the air, the silence, was broken by the distant ringing of the phone. Not wanting Pipsy to answer the phone again (not an experience he wished to repeat), he sighed and stood, and hurried inside to answer.

"Hello?"

"Draco?" It was Hermione. Of course it was. And she sounded slightly... frantic. "There's an owl at my window, and it's just fucking sitting there and staring in at me, seriously, staring me out of it, and the cat is absolutely losing it, I mean, honestly, what the fuck?"

He couldn't help it. He started laughing.

She hung up on him.

So he decided to really make her evening by apparating into her living room.

It was worth it for the almighty shriek she gave.

"Oh, fucking hell, where did you come from?"

"You rang madam?" he smirked, running a hand through his hair, enjoying how her eyes followed the movement and the flush which crept onto her cheeks.

"That wasn't an invitation to apparate into my living room, you complete arsehole," she replied, shooting him a nasty glare. "I'm surprised you didn't figure it out when I hung up on you."

"I'm sorry for laughing, but you sounded fantastically unhinged," he said.

"It's still there," she muttered sullenly, pointing toward her window, "Look."

And, unsurprisingly, there was indeed an owl perched on the windowsill, glaring balefully in at Hermione. He approached the window, chuckling as he peered out at the owl, and opened it. The owl fluttered in through the window and settled onto the back of a chair, before continuing to shoot reproachful looks at Hermione.

Hermione eyed the owl warily in return for a moment, then turned to Draco, raising her eyebrows in question. He moved over to the owl, extending his hand and obediently it stuck out its leg, where there was a note attached. He took the note, giving the owl a quick stroke on the head by way of thanks, and read the address written in a scrawling hand: Hermione Granger, Somewhere in the City of Oxford, England.

He sighed, knowing, just knowing somehow, exactly who this letter was from. It was always Potter, wasn't it? Always him. Hermione had drawn close to him, having relaxed enough to ignore the owl in her sitting room, casting curious looks at the letter in his hand. He caught a wave of her scent – something light and elusive, and with the slight musty undertone that hinted at old books, something to him that seemed so right. He looked down at her, running an assessing gaze over her face, meeting his eyes with a defiant look. Her hair was fuzzy and wild, and reminded him of a younger Hermione Granger, and her eyes were bright, despite the shadows underneath, and it occurred to him that she looked happy.

"It's a letter. I forgot to tell you," he said, with an abashed grin, handing over the letter, "we use owls. For our post. Not as immediate as a telephone, but they are wonderful animals – very intelligent, and loyal too – and very reliable."

"And very good at finding people, even without much of an address," Hermione added, glancing down at the letter in her hands.

"Yes, for the most part," he agreed. "Though there are limitations to what they can do, of course."

"Of course," came her sarcastic reply.

"Aren't you going to open it?" he asked, nodding towards the letter in her hand.

"Do you use owls?" she asked him, ignoring his question and the letter in her hand.

"Of course. Everyone does."

She rolled her eyes at him and turned her attention to the letter, pulling it open and reading. He watched as her eyes skimmed eagerly over the words, returning to the top to read again, this time slowly, and by the time she'd finished she was smiling again.

"It's from Harry," she said, somewhat unnecessarily, he felt.

"I thought as much. His penmanship is atrocious."

"It is rather illegible," she giggled, glancing at the letter again. "Take a look," she added, passing the letter to him.

Dear Hermione,

I know this will be strange for you, receiving this letter from someone you have no memories of, and I'm sorry if I alarm you. Sorry about the using the owl too, by the way. Her name is Henwen. If I'd had your address, I would've just sent this through the regular post.

Demelza told me what happened. I'm so sorry, Hermione, not that it means much right now. If you need anything, anything at all, just let us know – me or Demelza. We'll take care of you. We'll keep you safe. I can't tell you what it means to know... well, to have you back in our lives again. You were always a sister to me.

Demelza mentioned that you wanted to meet me. Whenever suits. Anytime. Wherever you want. Let me know. Please.

Don't be afraid.

You're a Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart.

You're family.

Love always,

Harry

Draco looked up and found Hermione's eyes on him. They were warm, and gleaming with a sort of joy, and pride too.

"Penmanship aside, you approve, I take it?" he asked.

"He called me family, Draco."

The starkness of the words, and the hoarse throb of emotion in her voice said more than a thousand speeches could have. Much like himself, he realised, she had nobody left. Not in the life she had now. But in the wizarding world... well she'd had a place in the bosom of not just Potter's family, but amongst the Weasleys too, he supposed, not that he'd wish them on anyone.

"Would you like to write him back?"

"Yes, but not tonight. I need some time," she answered, shooting an uncomfortable look at the owl, who was still perched on the back of the chair, looking as though it was following every nuance of their conversation.

"Right," said Draco, walking decisively over to the window, and pulling it open. "Well in that case, we'll send Henwen back to Potter – you don't want her taking up residence in your flat, do you?"

"Certainly not. I have enough on my plate with a pissed off cat right now, thank you," she replied tartly,

"Thought so," he nodded. "Right, off you go Henwen; no, we've no reply and no treats," he added, as the bird fluttered over to the open window, "you'll have to go home for that. Be sure to give Potter an extra hard bite from me, yeah?"

And with that, she was gone, soaring away over the roofs of Oxford.

"Wait a moment," Hermione spoke up, "How am I to reply to the letter without an owl?"

"I'll let you borrow mine, obviously. And as it is, did you forget that your Healer is his wife?"

"I'll thank you to shut up. You're already in my bad books for being so ill-mannered as to apparate into my flat. I thought you better than that," she shot back, a mocking glint in her eyes.

"I can make it up to you, I'm sure," he purred, his voice dropping to a dark huskiness.

Unable to help himself he took a step closer to her, and then another, watching as her eyes widened, but she didn't move. Instead she looked up, meeting his gaze with her own and stepped closer, refusing to break eye-contact. Her scent clouded his senses, so alluring, and he lowered his head to hers as she moved closer still, the tension between them tightening like a knot.

He was aware of the distant thrum of his pulse, of each breath he drew, anchoring him as he looked long into her eyes, glittering like onyx, and lit with cloudy embers of desire. Then she surprised him by drawing close, bringing one slow hand up to curl around his neck, and leant up to murmur teasingly in his ear.

"Thank you for saving me from the big bad owl," she said, pressing her lips to his cheek, lingering just a moment too long, before pulling back.

He watched as her lips curved into an amused smile, her eyes dark and slumberous, and before he could say anything, before he could do something useful, like putting his arms around her and keep her close, she spoke again, her voice low and sardonic.

"My hero."

He wanted to grab her, pull her flush against his body, kiss her soundly, on and on, through the blue-black of the night; run his fingers through those fuzzy curls, draw his fingertips along the line of her neck, lose himself in her.

But he didn't.

He wanted her, felt the ache for her burning in his very bones – and was no longer surprised in the least by it, stripped of past and prejudice both, and knowing want for what it was. But however much he wanted to lay claim to the unspoken desire between them, he couldn't, not yet.

There was still one conversation left to have. There was one confession left to draw: That of his own past – this, his legacy of a Death Eater, laid to waste by alcohol and regrets and so much loss. And it was not yet one he was ready to have, in spite of his earlier promises to himself.

And so instead, he took her hand in his own, turning it over, and placed a soft kiss, slow with intent, into the her palm, running caressing fingers over the delicate skin of her wrist. Then, with a quiet apology and a quick goodbye, he disapparated, back to the quiet and safety of Erebus Towers.

He was ashamed later at the speed it took him to consume a large glass of Firewhiskey, gulping it down like a thirsty man drinks water. He was disgusted, in the morning, when he felt the pounding of his head and realised what he'd done, when he saw three empty bottles of the hellish drink. He knew it was bad. He knew he should stop.

But he didn't.

A/N: Thank you to all the lovely people who stopped by to read, and for all the new follows and faves. I also reached 150 reviews(!) with the last chapter (shout out to amr56 for a really, really lovely 150th review) and I'm just blown away. I never ever thought it would be anything like this. It's just so lovely and smile-making and honestly... I kind of just want to make cake for everyone.

For those who are intereseted Ogham stones are stone monuments inscribed with the earliest forms of writing seen in Ireland, and one of the most ancient forms of writing in the world. The inscriptions, or writings, date back to roughly the 4th Century AD and mostly consist of primitive Irish, though evidence of Pictish (ancient Scots) has also been found.

Hope you all enjoyed this one darlings. Thank you for reading.

-Millie x