I wanted to try something a bit different for this chapter, but I hope you still enjoy. It's a bit more poetic, fragmented prose without a clear linear story. Instead of mentioning Hermione and Draco by name, I also referred to them as "he" and "she" to see what the effect would be. Let me know what you think! (Because Hermione travels via train and taxi, instead of just apparating, this could be considered a non-magical AU. But I'll leave that up to you. =P)

Theme Ten: Breathe Again

Her breath fogs up the glass. She traces hearts with her fingers, and when she wipes them away, she wishes she hadn't. The train rattles on, but seems to be going nowhere. Another destination, another cold winter day. Away when all she wants is to go back. The passing hills look barren. They were alive when she left. The sky is painted with grey clouds. She prays it won't snow. She can't take any more delays.

She's been gone for weeks on one of her work-related adventures. More speeches and seminars, a thousand faces she'll never remember, telling her that she's doing a great job. Her life consists of cold coffee in paper cups and empty hotel room sheets.

She forgets what it feels like in his arms, though she pictures him every waking second. She doesn't know what scares her more – that she forgets, or that she misses him that much. A hundred thousand handshakes and pats on the back, smiles and one-armed hugs from people she barely knows, but none of them are him, the one touch she wants. Surrounded by so many people, she thinks she'll suffocate. She wishes they would just give her some space, but she knows it's the distance that keeps her from catching her breath.

She has become familiar with the taste of stale air in smoky pubs, drinking flat ale and misery. Pays for a round for a room of strangers who don't care who she is, just because she can, and she wants to reward their ignorance. The man in the corner is caressing a guitar, strumming with his eyes closed, a sad song she half-recalls. She listens and buys him whiskey. His hair is the colour of honey, and she thanks him for this, and his melody, which reminds her of him. He's all alone in their flat, surrounded by books he'll never read and artifacts in glass boxes he never touches.

She can't sleep at night without him. So she lies in strange beds counting cracks in the ceiling, rips off all the blankets because they seem to smother her, holds a pillow to her abdomen and pretends it's him. Reads by pale lamplight until her vision blurs, and she finally collapses in exhaustion, and can't think anymore. She sees him in her dreams, which only makes the days that much harder. She never thought she could hate the sun.

The closer she gets to coming home, the longer the days become.

xxxxx

He's drinking red wine from a long stemmed glass, a green tie loose around his neck. Staring out the window at the twinkling lights of the city, the people passing below bundled in colourful scarves and mittens, laughing to ward off the bitter cold. He doesn't care about any of them; he's thinking only of her.

That apartment is too quiet. He fools himself into thinking every footstep down the hall is her. Each time it isn't they trample another piece of his heart. The nights are too long. There's too much space to fill, but there doesn't seem to be enough air. He opens all the windows, but it doesn't help. His mind seems determined to fill the emptiness. He hates being alone with his thoughts.

The alcohol helps to take away clarity, dulls the edges, so he doesn't prick himself. He can almost make-believe his daydreams are real. His vital organs feel heavy and flat, like he's carrying around a chest full of cement. He deliberates calling the paramedics and demanding CPR, anything to make him feel alive.

The waitress at the cafe down the street smiled at him and winked this morning, as she handed him a lukewarm latte. Her eyes were the colour of coffee without cream, but they didn't have the same warmth and life as hers. There was more vixen about the barrista than lioness. An absence that only made him miss her more.

He never knew you could drown in loneliness. He's drenched in it, and no matter how many walks he takes in the rain, he can't seem to wash it away. His veins squelch, but he doesn't know if they're full of water or wine; he's forgotten how to bleed. You need a heart beat for that, which requires oxygen. He just can't seem to find the desire to inhale.

He's been holding his breath for weeks.

xxxxx

The taxi cab pulls up in late November. He hears the car door slam, but he refuses to let himself believe. He's been disappointed before. It's beginning to snow. Great white flakes that adorn her hair and eyelashes. She can see his silhouette in the window, and it's like she's seeing him for the first time. She exhales silver puffs, like smoke, the colour of his eyes. She weeps grey.

Her chest is tight – water-logged with tears she collected with each passing mile. She opens the door and drops her bag. He's standing there, arms open wide. She throws herself into them, and her lungs awaken. Each precious respiration fills her with his scent.

"Welcome home, Hermione."

They remember how to breathe again.