[Two updates in the same month? Your eyes don't deceive you! Not sure when I'll be able to get another chapter out, but I really do hope to publish once a month! At least, those are my intentions. As always, I've got a playlist posted. Thank you so much for your reviews, and you are always free to message me with any questions or comments! :) ]
"Hermione."
Someone said her name, murmured and kissed it reverently onto her hip as she slept. Again, she heard it, faintly, but it was soaked in so fast and hungrily by her skin that she couldn't make out who adored her so much.
Smiling, Hermione opened her eyes and searched out her lover.
It was useless. Eyelids open or shut, Hermione's surroundings were dark with only the slightest, teasing touch of light around the corners.
Her eyes roamed drowsily about the bedroom - a bedroom it had to be, because there was a soft give of mattress beneath her. She could just make out curtains and a window. It was a hazily sketch, kindly given to her by a waning moon.
Or was it waxing?
Disoriented, without knowledge of when, or where she was, Hermione couldn't tell. And in a moment, she didn't care to tell.
Soft, suckling lips labored away at the flesh of her thighs, pulling it into her nameless lover's mouth, and consequently pulling Hermione's eyelids shut. Here there was a light, too.
A glimmer of pleasure made a halo around the back of her eyelids, stimulating her nerves and exciting a breathy laugh. Hermione dug her heels into the bed, trying to ground herself as she felt herself rise, away and away. But her feet slipped over the silky fabric again and again, making her movements childlike and feeble.
The lover stirred. The weight on the mattress shifted in a wave of ecstasy that she embraced happily.
Hermione opened her eyes, and saw the outline of a man above her, lowering himself closer and closer to her chest. As she watched, trying to make out his features, Hermione felt the tantalizing brush of skin against skin; her toes, seeking, landed comfortably on firm, confident calves. Her thighs, still humming the sound of her own name and liquified from melting kisses, were parted like water around the ship of her lover's waist. Immediately, she pooled around him, legs hugging his hips and conforming to the curves of his backside.
As soon as her lover had landed, Hermione could feel his anchor between her legs, waiting for the right moment to make a home in her. The mystery lover leaned in, to get her kiss as permission to do just that.
Finally, he'd moved out of the curtain's shadow, and into the moonlight. A bare, dark cross hid parts of his face from her - the window's shadow, attempting to obscure his identity when the curtains could not. Still, Hermione knew him, and was ashamed for not knowing him before.
She should've been able to see him just from his inner light alone, which he showered on her then with a sunlit smile. It was unnatural for him and that light to be surrounded by such darkness.
"Will," Hermione sighed, feeling a strange splash of relief amongst the waves of pleasure.
He was still smiling as he bent down and sprinkled spring kisses all over her flushed chest and shoulders. Will's teeth brushed against her skin, and his beaming light spread warmth throughout her body - and all paths led deep into the wild center of her body and spirit, which had been so cold, dark and dormant for years. At last it was starting to spot the sun, and its distant heat left her skin rosey and tingling. Everywhere.
Another laugh bubbled in her stomach and floated out of her as Will nuzzled her neck, and planted butterfly kisses at her throat. She draped her arms over his shoulders and relaxed under his touch. Knowledgeable fingers trailed up her sides, softer than the softest spring bentgrass. In her mind's eye, Hermione could imagine them on a hill somewhere, exposed to sky and sun. Rather than in an apartment in London, the sounds of pub mischief leaking in through the thin glass. Here, in this place she'd created to suit him and how he made her feel, Hermione was confident that it was impossible for him to ever hurt her.
But there was always the whispering worry that this place she'd created for them was unsustainable. He was too ethereal, no matter his physical presence and strength. Spring had a fragility to it, and she was mutely afraid she would hurt and damage him. Eventually there would have to be a goodbye.
Hermione felt his teeth at her ear, pulling her attention away from shadows. She grinned, and thought nothing of its teasing, trailing graze, until Will abruptly bit down on her neck. Shock, and thrill, sent a spasm down her spine, through her bones, and expelled itself in a gasp. Instantly, her hands shot down in a vice-grip on his shoulders, pushing until they toppled over, and her body crashed on top of his.
Something in the night shuddered, and she paused- rode the waves and felt the space and skin ripple and change beneath her. Suddenly, her lover was no longer springtime to her senses.
For every dip in her curves, there was a dramatic rise in his. Every piece of her touched every piece of him. And where they touched- everywhere -it was a wild summer hellfire, and a biting winter frost.
The contradictions continued, stunned, as her hands stilled on the body beneath her. It felt soft and fragile with mistreated youth. It gave with a gasp under the slightest pressure of her fingers. Yet there was an overwhelming, tactile power that bruised and rendered her nerves near senseless.
The way his flesh burned hers was manifold. The pain and pleasure of it folded over and over her until its weight crushed her into him; much like the tidal waves she heard outside, crashing onto the shore and crushing shell and stone with its impetus. And much like the shore, she allowed those waves to wash over and reshape her.
Despite being unable to lift herself away, Hermione knew this lover was different. She knew who this lover was, without thinking. His name shot out in blinding, searing sparks from that wild center of her body and spirit, shattering its dormancy and illuminating every shadowed part of her.
"Draco."
Hermione pushed herself up then, and through her fallen curls, she saw her hands on the canvas of Draco's chest. Where her fingers pressed down, nails digging, Hermione continued the impression of a painting she'd already begun. There were places marked on his skin, blood singing at the surface where she'd touched him before - kissed him - bit him - loved him.
When she mustered the strength to pull a hand away from him, and to toss her hair back to really look at him, Hermione was struck by the familiar expression on Draco's face. His smile, sprawled and entranced, was unique to a specific moment in their lives together.
She was struck by the realization that this was a dream. This was a dream. And a memory. A cherished, buried but never forgotten memory.
Yet, startled as Hermione was, she didn't awaken. Even as doubt crept into her.
"Draco?" She called, and her voice sounded distant, detached from the memory. She knew of his ability to slip into her mind, into her dreams and to communicate there.
Was he doing it again?
If he was, Hermione wasn't as angered as she should've been.
She was aroused.
If Draco was intruding into the most inner and intimate parts of her mind, he played the perfect fool.
Just as she'd fondly remembered, his fingers slid up the length of her legs. They traced the hills of her calves and slipped into the tight closure at the back of her bended knees. There they remained for a delicious moment, massaging her- rubbing in, and out, in, and out. Fingers curling in, and dragging out.
All the while, Hermione's eyes were locked onto his, probing deep into his exposed gaze. It was, as were most things regarding Draco Malfoy, a contradictory look into his emotions; darkened with desire and selfishness, yet alight with sparks of awe and curiosity.
Still he rubbed at her skin, and his hips assumed the same rhythm between her thighs…
"Teasing," Hermione hissed, biting her bottom lip in an attempt to restrain herself. The attempt was a limp one. Her back arched, shifting her hips in search of release for the pressure of anticipation.
"I prefer the term: enticing," Draco corrected with a deliciously, deviously cocked brow. His lips aimed to entice then, and his widened grin reminded her of a crescent moon. Her responding smile filled in the crescent's shadows.
Draco leaned up to create a full moon and kissed her, softly.
In the moment it took her to close her eyes, he'd pushed her lips and body until both he and she were seated upright. His hands seized her jaw and pulled her closer. Fingers entangled in and tugging at her hair, palms pressed firm into her cheeks, thumbs bruisingly pushing down on her chin- Draco demanded more, and more and more of her. And she didn't mind his greed at all.
Hermione was dragged deeper into the kiss, into the memory. She was drowning in the torrential rawness of him, and she could feel her skin being peeled of callousness and indecision. Hermione knew she had to act, and she did so on impulse. She kissed him back, pressing her lips into the thrashing waves, and relishing how they pulled and bit at her skin. Left it singing for more, and more and more of him.
With another push of Draco's urgent thumbs at her chin, her mouth sighed open to him. His tongue dashed in hungrily to explore and taste her. He dragged his tongue along hers, drawing and trapping a low, yearning moan between them. And just as he tasted her, Hermione endeavored to taste him. Her tongue curled around his, licking it and the backs of his upper lip as he moved away to breathe- only to rush back into another urgent sampling of kisses. He tasted of lemon and salt- the salt of the water, the salt of her earth. It kicked her tastebuds, and she gave a small grunt in response.
Draco's hands had roamed away from her face by then, slithering down her back until they were wrapped possessively around her waist, fingers pressed deep into her hips, pulling her closer to him.
She could feel between them, between her summer fire and his dense winter waters, a spring energy- pulsing, humming, and pouring. Alive with natural instinct. Not to say she was never alive before Draco. She'd felt every change in season, and had lived fully before ever realizing her love of him. But with him, all that life and all its senses were heightened. His touch made grass into clouds and thorns into knives. It made sadness into despair, and a slip away from madness. It made happiness into euphoria. Peace became serenity. And pleasure?
Ecstasy.
Draco's hands were at the crook of her knees again. He grasped at her, fingers imprinting desperation into her skin, wanting to sink into her. She could hear the scratch of his nails against her, clutching and marking.
Without warning, Draco yanked her knees up and behind him. For a moment, her upper body was dropping, and her throat clenched and her heart flooded, intoxicated by the high of falling.
However, before she could land on the bed, an arm immediately wrapped around her waist to pull her back into the current, and Draco's hips swept beneath, and in, to catch her. And so she fell onto him, and he flooded into her; a great tide pushing through barrier reef.
Hermione cried out at the overload of sensation, and felt as every part of her system shut down- snuffed out by the thrust of water. She relaxed into the pulse, the throb, body falling backwards- ready to float as she had by the waterfall. But Draco's firm hands were steering her spine, leaning her back towards him.
He stroked her- both the external flesh and internal warmth - until disjointedly the system began to rekindle, and restart with bodily spasms. First, the parts where he touched her lit up - from where he filled her in, pushing tightly against her walls only to recede and come again and again, to where his fingers sunk and carved out valleys at her hip, all the way up to where his lips crashed against the cliffside of her collarbone.
When he heatedly grabbed her neck and lead her into a kiss, it inflamed her entirely and made her ever more sensitive to the increasing current between her thighs. Refusing to drift off, Hermione engaged with the thrashing of his waves, learned them and had her hips match them thrust for thrust. The more she did so, the more violent and rapid the waves became, and both of them struggled to keep their heads above water.
Draco clung to her just as desperately as she clung to him, both of their thighs, arms and hands and nails digging into the other, and nearly falling backwards - forwards - and even to the sides, at times when they became too eager.
With each give and take, Hermione felt herself climbing to the height of desire, and of life.
Merlin, how she'd missed this. This youthful, hungry curiosity and insatiable wantonness. She hadn't felt it in years, not even with-
"Hermione."
A reverent voice she'd heard before. But it felt like a hazy daydream.
The voice called again, but before she could focus, her point of view flickered bizarrely. Suddenly, Hermione was forced to look at herself, sweat pressing hair to flushed, freckled skin. Hands that couldn't possibly be hers, yet felt her own were pressed onto parts of her body she never touched - except for the rare occasions when she was curious about her sex, or felt daring. But this was different then that. How could she be looking at herself, touching herself, when she knew her hands were firmly in Draco's hair?
She felt herself leaning in towards her own lips, a roaring need to touch choking her airways, exploding in her chest… and much further below. And then she was kissing herself, and wondering at the soft skin and brutal force of her own kiss.
Pulling away, languidly despite the urge to flee, she thought perhaps this was a crazy out-of-body kind of dream but then other thoughts - other thoughts with a deeper, masculine inner-voice - invaded her. Vulnerable thoughts of love and insecurity. Passionate, vulgar thoughts about her body and what to do to it to make her cry out obscenities she'd blush at later; the possible actions this inner-voice ruminated over already had her burning, and aroused.
It was then that she felt the body she was in, equally aroused and burning- the counterpart to her body-
"Draco," she heard herself sigh into this ear, this body that was not hers- but Draco's.
Her mind reeled and the perspective flickered back.
Surprisingly aware, for someone dreaming, she searched behind Draco for the voice she'd heard before. She saw first a picture of her parents, an odd blank space between them, though they smiled up at her all the same, oblivious to how off-course she was. And how very, very suddenly embarrassed she was.
The hand that held the picture. She followed it upwards, but already knew. She knew, but she couldn't leave Draco. She couldn't do it, not even for-
"Will."
A bucket of ice water dropping over her head wouldn't have woken Hermione up any quicker than that one-syllable word.
Her eyes flooded open to morning, and she remembered herself and where she was, and what she was supposed to be doing. And she was not supposed to be doing… well-
"Morning," Draco breathed lazily, happily from beside her. Morning light floated in, warm and promising, and unveiling. It revealed all the subtle markings of Draco that were shrouded in her dream's- her memory's shadow. He lay there on the bed, no more than a hand's length away from her.
"How'd you sleep?" Draco asked, so innocently. He stretched out all his limbs, giving her a full view of a body she'd just seen bare beneath her-
Hermione unconsciously clenched her legs together.
The dream was still raw in her head, and her body felt raw with it, too. She was sure every inch of her skin was red, and if it was, well, she'd color it as embarrassment.
"Just fine," she replied, her voice painfully waking with a crack and a good amount of morning breath. Thankfully, the pillow she shoved her face into muffled the sound enough to spare her further embarrassment.
Unfortunately, it also blinded her to Draco's advances.
When she turned her head again, hoping her cheeks weren't flaring anymore, Draco's hand was at her hair. His fingers tenderly traced over her unruly, sleepy curls.
Whatever control Hermione had over her features shattered.
Immediately, she sat up in bed - before any questions about her appearance could ever be asked, and before any possible urges could ever come to horribly impulsive fruition. Just as abruptly, she was making excuses and getting out of bed.
"Got a big day ahead," Hermione huffed as she made her way, barefoot, to her open suitcase. "And to think- I've slept in too much!"
"There's no such thing as sleeping in too much," Draco grumbled behind her bitterly. When Hermione peered behind her, he had his arm sprawled over the pillow she'd just abandoned and his entire body seemed to fan out over the entire bed. He was devoted to lounging drowsily in bed. Something he was prone to do, especially after a night together.
But that was not where her thoughts ventured. That could not be where her thoughts ventured.
Her hands gravitated towards clothes with the most coverage. Modesty is the policy, she chanted to herself pathetically, pointlessly. It wasn't like Draco knew what she'd dreamt of.
She paused, her hand clenched tight against a delicate blouse. It felt too sensual, like soft skin against hers.
Draco could've known exactly what she'd dreamt of. He'd joined her before in reverie, manipulating her mind's view to entertain the both of them. Had he taken it a step further this time, and intruded on much more vulnerable memories?
The strangeness of it all did have the touch of him in it.
Well, Hermione thought with a rising blush. It obviously had the touch of him.
"Are you alright?" Draco cut into her inner musings. "Your face is red. Do you feel sick?" He asked, pure concern. Not even the slightest hint of impropriety to his searching eyes.
Though, the way he was spread out on that bed? That was impropriety personified.
"No," Hermione laughed, feeling ridiculous. He wouldn't have invaded her privacy so cruelly, so crudely. Never. "No, I'm not. I feel fine."
Briefly, Hermione debated her next move. She needed to assert her control again, somehow. To prove to herself that she was, in fact, fine. She was perfectly aware of what she could and could not have in this life.
So, in an attempt to snuff out her dream's hints of lingering lust, she decided to change in front of Draco. She lifted off her nightshirt and put on the blouse without once looking at him, and while maintaining the most indifferent expression. After all, he saw nothing he hadn't seen before. And what he saw was not his to have, or hers to give to him anymore. And, of course, she didn't want anything physical between them. Not anymore.
But… did he?
As soon as her trousers was on, Hermione glanced at Draco to spot any reflection of her dream in his eyes. There was a sudden rigid formality to his body, and a firmness to his lips, but his eyes were plastered to the sheets.
Hiding something? Or simply being modest?
After a pause, he blinked and looked back up at her. He sat up in bed. "If you're nervous about today," he started calmly-
"No," Hermione blurted out without really thinking about it. Draco stared at her curiously. She wondered at herself, too. For more reasons than he could be privy to. Ever.
She sighed and headed towards the kitchen. "Well, I'm a little nervous about seeing my-" she nearly bit her own tongue off, "-my parents again, but more so about them finally seeing me," she confessed quietly. The image of her parents bled out from her dream, and she frowned. Hermione couldn't believe she'd let herself stray from the mission at hand, no matter how wonderful a night she'd had with Draco.
She thought she'd only been letting down defenses, but apparently she'd been letting in something old and dangerous. Again.
Draco had gotten up, and followed her into the kitchen. He stepped closer to her then. Always trying to be nearer.
She fought the impulse to lean into him. Simultaneously, she fought the urge to run away.
"Don't," Draco asserted, and her eyes shot up to his, afraid he'd heard her thoughts. But he was smiling, all warmth and encouragement. "Don't be nervous. They can only ever love you."
As I can only ever love you.
Hermione cleared her throat of that hazardous thought.
"Sure, but will they forgive me? That's the real question," she said instead, fumbling through the fruit basket on the counter.
The faintest hum of delighted nerves alerted Hermione to Draco's hand on her shoulder.
"Of course they will."
Hermione sighed. "I hope so."
"I know so," he countered.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Always have some sort of rebuttal," she muttered, a jumbled tone of joking and critical.
"Kettle," Draco shot. His hand ghosted over her back, and she felt his arm's warmth blanket around her shoulders.
Her smile was an inescapable fate.
"Cauldron," she murmured, grin widening and spreading contagiously to Draco.
There was no crime in smiling, and in appreciating the little time she had left with Draco, but Hermione knew there was something more to her and his morning banter. It sounded too much like a return to them, like a continuation of their story when this was only supposed to be the epilogue. There was too much hope in her smile, as though tomorrow they'd add more tallies to their banter battle, and more sand to their hourglass.
Wistfully, her smile stayed in place. For now, until that destined flight back to London, Hermione would allow herself to live in that one grain of sand stuck to the side of the hourglass. Eventually, it would fall, but not today. Not today.
"You'll be here, right?" She asked abruptly, vaguely, as she picked at the skin of an orange.
For a second, Draco's brows knit together in confusion. But just as quickly as it had come, it went. His features softened, and even his cheekbones' sharpness smoothed over.
"Of course," he assured her with a gentle smile. "Until you tell me to go. I promised, remember?"
He hadn't though, not in words.
Ever since she'd let the past flood back to memory, her ability to remember all aspects of her life had gone into overdrive. Hermione remembered the moment vividly. She'd asked- demanded really. He'd kissed her forehead, and told her goodnight. It had been almost good as a promise, since it wasn't a goodbye. But she couldn't be sure he'd be behind the door the next time she opened it. Even with Draco's assurance, it didn't feel solid enough. It never did with him.
Hermione needed to hear the words - the full promise, sealed and delivered into her hands: I promise to stay.
But her tongue was still tied by the implications of her dream. She was becoming too dependent on a memory, as her subconscious clearly demonstrated again and again. When her conscious focus was meant to be on the living, breathing reality: her parents. So, instead of demanding clearer contracts, Hermione decided to leave- to make good on her own promises.
"Then, I guess I'm off!" She breathed, pushing more positivity out than she had at hand. At least, not with regard to him. Her body was pulsing, impatiently waiting to run to her parents and bring them back to her. In that regard, Hermione was glowing with positive energy- just waiting to be released.
But in regards to Draco?
Every moment was far too bittersweet to ever have a good amount of positivity. Especially when he was looking at her as he was right then and there. With devotion, yearning, and staggering, splintering pain.
It was obvious he didn't want her to go, not without him along for the ride. But just as much as he didn't want to be without her, he knew she had to find her parents, and herself, on her own. Yet, though he couldn't always be with her physically, Draco still wanted to promise himself to her wholly. As he'd done in the past, over and over again in that bed they'd shared; as they'd shared mind and heart. And soul.
But reality was a wall his words and hands could not break through.
Draco pressed down on his own desire, and gave her what she needed: a smile, and the chastest kiss to her forehead. An echo of last night's promise.
"Give your parents my love," he breathed into her hair before pulling away.
Again, he refused to say goodbye. As did she. She didn't say a word as she left- and especially not that godforsaken word. Because to say it felt so final, and it wasn't time just yet. That little piece of sand, delicate and small as it was, still clung to the glass for dear life. And neither of them would dare budge it before time deemed it absolutely necessary.
Besides, she was so damn tired of goodbyes. She was tired of rehearsing the words, over and over in her sleep and never having the courage to say them in the morning- to Draco, to Will, to the ghosts in her bathroom mirror. And she was moreso tired of remembering past goodbyes, of regretting them and never being able to take them back completely. How much time had she wasted on goodbyes? -On watching backs recede into the background? -On drifting away from those who remained?
Between her goodbyes and remorseful hello was a span of time she could never regain. She'd seen that much when she'd seen her friends' relationships blossoming without her, and when she'd peeked into her parents' new, humble lives. They'd moved on without her. There was no way she could just jump back into the timeline, as though she'd always been there. But there was no way in hell she wouldn't reintroduce herself.
She had to stop wasting her time waiting and dreaming, and finally start living the life she wanted.
With that goal on the gas pedal, it didn't take long before Hermione was on a familiar dirt road. And faster still she found herself at the end of it.
She'd barely felt the steering wheel under her hands as she drove. Hermione was almost ninety percent confident she'd moved it and the car with determination, rather than touch. That determination was palpable as she shut off the car, eyes steadfast on the path in front of her. For once, she was clearly focused; distractions and worries in the backseat. For once, she didn't fear the path's winding, wild nature or its shadows, or the car's silence. Or the daunting memories that spilled in to fill the void.
With a deep breath, Hermione embraced it all. She eased her mind onto the headrest, and leaned into her thoughts. Here, awake and purposeful, Hermione knew exactly where her mind would go from here. Swiftly, almost impatiently, memories of her family poured in and patched the holes she'd carved years ago, and with them came the potential for absolution. She breathed all that in, deeply, filled her lungs with hope and courage - courage enough to step out of her car and do what needed, at last, to be done.
The car door clicked shut behind her, locked. Even though Hermione knew she had the keys- even though she could jump back into its confines and slam on reverse until the car trunk slammed into the walls of her London apartment- even though a part of her whispered frantically to do just that- to run, run, run away, quick!- Hermione took a step away from the car. Then another, and another, until she turned back and couldn't even see the car past the wild overgrowth.
The same sprawling branches that scratched at her legs before, scratched again and again, testing her durability, her will to keep going despite the discomfort. She didn't find the wildness unwelcoming this time, despite its occasional brutality. Her eyes were cemented on that little house.
Its blue-eyed shutters were open this time, and the windows were lifted just enough to let the sheer curtains drift in and out. They swayed from side to side, up and down. They roamed over her, studying the familiar visitor curiously.
You again? It seemed to ask as she stepped onto the porch.
Memories still pounded at her head, and quickly the only memory she had of this little house came to her. Hermione remembered the last time she'd stood on this porch, heard the creak of it beneath her feet as though it were made uncomfortable by her. Even though it pained her to do so, Hermione remembered the unfamiliar, detached look in her mother's eyes when she first looked upon her own estranged daughter. This gave her the motivation to reach for the door, knuckle resting on the last, physical, barrier between her and- What do you want? The house asked again, groaning from her weight.
Home, Hermione replied, pained by homesickness and hope. I want to go home.
She knocked on the door.
And waited.
And waited, and waited some more.
Hermione shifted her feet, and noted the singular sound of wood creaking beneath her.
It began to dawn that, besides the quiet rustle of curtains, not a sound came from the house within. No footsteps, no tv hum, no hiss of a tea kettle or the purr of a cat. Just the breeze, and the occasional groan of an old house.
A panic reserved only for times of war came bubbling to the surface, all of a sudden and crushing. Immediately, she was bent over at the window, hands grabbing at the fabric, eyes searching inside for signs of life. She saw it all then: that tiny house her parents lived their quaint lie in. All eerily mirroring her old home's arrangement. They had all the same furniture, and all the same photos - except, she noticed, the ones where she'd been expunged. Her mom's favorite teal tea kettle was on the stovetop, her petite basket of arranged teas beside it. Two cups, steam still swirling in the air, were on the countertop.
But their owners were nowhere in sight.
"Hello?" Hermione called out. "Anyone home?" Panic and desperation leaked into her voice, pitching it sharply.
Still no answer.
She straightened up, and tried to take deep breaths, to rationalize against the fear. The fear that somehow, someway, they were in danger.
They could've just gone out for breakfast, or supplies. But why the open windows?
Hermione glanced at the door, and wondered. If she turned it, would it open?
Her hand crept towards the doorknob, trying again and again to calm herself. There was no way. They were fine. It had been years, and even she couldn't find them.
She turned the knob, and the door eased open.
"No. No. No, no, no, no, no, no," Hermione hyperventilated, instinctively grabbing her wand from her pocket. She pushed through into the empty living room, and scanned for signs of a struggle. Nothing. The room was beyond neat, besides the two little cups.
This wasn't the way she imagined herself coming into her parent's new house, barreling through and opening every door trying to find them or a clue as to where they went. Every room was as neat as the other, all the same furnishing as their old home yet jarringly untouched. When Hermione finally came to their bedroom, she hesitated a moment at the door. Besides the back door, this was the last one to open. Would she find them sleeping in, or the bed tousled and empty, or perfectly neat?
Those were the only possibilities she would consider.
As she cracked it open, a sound came from the very back of the house, just around the turn of the hall. Hermione swung into the room and hid behind the door, eyes peeled on the hallway. The backdoor gave a creak, and Hermione was sent back into a time when that was never a good sound. In the darkness of a blink, she saw the black cloak of a nemesis, and her blood froze. Her heart was in her chest, and she felt her feet go numb, and-
"Don't move!"
A woman's voice, soft and laughing and floating back outdoors. Monica Wilkins. No, her mother. Her mother, Olivia Granger. Or at least, soon she would be.
"I said, don't move! Keep on with your ridiculous little gnomes. I can easily manage two cups," she laughed again, and her light footsteps approached.
Hermione wasn't sure how she kept herself upright as Monica passed by. Through the sliver of an opening, Hermione watched her mother move, swiftly, safely, and smiling down the hall. Such waves of relief crashed over Hermione that her legs were bending over. As soon as her mother had passed to the kitchen, Hermione collapsed onto the floor, her head pressed on the wall, trying to stabilize.
Strangely enough, she wanted to laugh. Her fears, when it came to her parents endangerment, were of the past. Of all things, that was the one horrid memory she didn't have to dig up again. Hermione had to remind herself of that, over and over and over again. Nothing and no one was going to take her parents away from her. The war was over. No one would be coming after her or her parents. They were safe. They were absolutely safe. Just, not absolutely themselves.
By the time Hermione had gotten her blood pressure down and her breathing steady again, her mother had fetched the cups and gone out again. Again, she was alone in the house, but it didn't scare or close her in anymore. She rose from the floor and eased out of her parents' bedroom. But not before a photo on their bedside caught her eye- a photo of her parents sitting almost next to one another, a small space between them where a birthday cake and girl should've been. This was the one and only photo she'd seen that was supposed to have her in it. So near to where they slept.
Did the Wilkins dream of a house where this picture was complete? Or did they dream of the moment when they'd handed their daughter her fourth birthday cake? Did Monica Wilkins see Hermione every once in awhile, on nights when she wondered why she'd never had a child of her own? Did Wendell Wilkins place that picture there, as he had placed all their furniture, knowing that it was meant to be there even though he wasn't quite sure why?
Did they miss her without even knowing it? As she'd missed them?
Heart light and aspiring, Hermione came to the back door and peered out at her mother and father. They were tending a garden together as Wendell and Monica Wilkins. Though, her father - Wendell - was more interested in angling his gnomes than in plucking out weeds with his wife. Monica took notice of this, and ever so subtly tossed a few weeds into his hair. Her father's disgruntled outcry reminded Hermione of times when she and her mother would hide his gnomes, or precariously perch them on the bricks. And her mother's soft breeze of laughter reminded her of all the times they sat curled up in bed together, her mother breathing stories into her hair.
Hermione leaned against the window and smiled, their happiness contagious.
She wanted to be a part of it.
Then, be a part of it, idiot.
Quietly, she opened the door and hugged her wand tightly in her hand, melding it to her spirit. It clicked into place effortlessly, sighing with relief at its reunion with her. Hermione could only hope that, in turn, her magic would help in reuniting her family.
She raised it at their turned backs, and let the familiarity of the scene overwhelm her. There was the memory again, rising up in front of her - her parents sitting there on the sofa, holding hands as they were prone to do as they watched the tellie. Hermione forced herself to look and feel past the hurt that shot through her arm as she erased her from their minds. She overcame it and looked at those dissolving pictures of her and her parents, and willed them to become whole again.
Faciam ut mei memineris.
The words flowed out of her silently, through her bloodstream and down through her wand. She felt the exact moment her thoughts became a spell. Electric storms scattered over her fingertips, and sent shocks down her nerve-endings, jolting her heart into an ecstatic frenzy. It beat ferociously, and urgently pulsed out memories of home; her father's finely tuned scavenger hunts where, in the end, Hermione gleefully found a pile of fresh books and parchment; her mother lifting her up, sitting her atop loving shoulders so Hermione could see Monet's Waterlilies without pushing her small, determined frame past other Parisian tourists; the three of them at a chilly beach, her mother smothering Hermione's feet in sand while her father tried to show Hermione the best way to make a sandcastle; the four of them, Crookshanks sitting stubbornly on her mother's lap as they watched a series and her father peered at her Potions textbook in wonder; the tight grip of her mother's arm around her as she left for her sixth year; the even tighter, unyielding grip when Hermione returned at the turbulent end of that school year. When everything changed.
All those memories, and everything in between, came pouring out of her relentlessly until it felt as though all her life had been exhumed. Having bled it all out, Hermione's arm fell to her side, and willed herself not to fall with it. She was drained, but in that pleasant, cathartic way. As though she'd cried her pain out, and was left with peace.
Merlin, God, please, Hermione begged, eyes frozen on her parents' still frames, let this be my peace.
In the unnatural silence, she watched desperately for signs of movement. The vacuum in her mind and chest left her frozen, vulnerable, and fearful. Her parents hadn't moved since Hermione had raised her wand, and now she worried if her magic had not only battered her, but also her parents. For the first attempt, not a wink of a spell had taken place. But this time? Had she overdone it? Had she unknowingly broken them, stuck them in a place where they were neither Wilkin nor Granger?
The rake in Monica Wilkin's hand dropped to the ground. It was impossible for such a small thing to make the earth shake, but Hermione felt everything around her ripple, until her whole body was shaken by that one, simple movement. She dug the heels of her feet into the ground, determined to stay, to not fall apart no matter what happened.
No one went to pick up the rake.
Instead, Hermione watched as Monica's hand shook and rose to her own face, touching it as though she feared it had changed somehow- split even. But Hermione couldn't see a single expression on either of her parents' faces - if they had, in fact, remembered they were her parents - and she grew restless on that damn rickety porch, waiting for someone to acknowledge her-
Slowly, the woman turned and finally, finally Hermione knew.
Olivia Granger's eyes were fire under a current of tears; the same burning brown embers awakened there that she'd passed onto her daughter. That hand Hermione thought had traced over her features, remembering them, was placed firmly at her mouth - a dam against all the memories that now flooded inside of her mother. Olivia seemed afraid they'd pour out and vanish again, if given any openings to do so.
And somehow, though she was determined to accept all judgement, her vision went embarrassingly hazy. It angered her; she wanted to see her parents, to soak them in, but they were both just fuzzy images- just as they had been for years before. She could've screamed, but everything was clogged in her throat- threatening to rupture. Exhaustion had drained her, left her open and vulnerable to all and every minute emotion, and so many came at and from her that she felt herself filling up dangerously to the point of overflowing with-
A crushing force slammed into her, jolting her blurred vision into momentary focus. Briefly, she saw the canopy of trees overhead. They looked to be shaking. But that wasn't right.
Below, and surrounding her was the strong support of a shoulder and shield of a father's chest against her wet cheek, enveloping her in unmistakable love. She hadn't seen him move. She hadn't heard him run up to her. But she felt him then, arms tight with fear of letting go and body shaking. Or was that hers?
"-Mione," Hermione heard her own name muffled against her curls, felt the distinct, blunt and warming pressure of kisses being pressed into her hair - trying to get at the senseless head beneath. Overwhelmed. She was overwhelmed by his sudden, and determined presence all around her. So, Hermione closed her eyes and breathed it in, and smelled the strong scent of dirt and salt.
"My daughter," he affirmed against her forehead, voice and chest trembling with relief, anguish… absolute happiness. More kisses, and more affection than she could've dreamed to have received in all her life - let alone in the span of a few seconds - was showered upon her. "My dearest little, misplaced storybook. Where did you go off to this time?"
Hermione broke drown, then, in the most contradictory of ways. How was it that her legs gave up on her, but her hands clutched at her father's sweater with so much willpower? How could her voice be lost, but her words found and screaming to get out? Her throat was dry, but every time she squeezed her eyes shut to get rid of all the tears they just welled back up again- an endless stream.
How was it that somehow she found herself in the same state she was in two days ago? Throat incapable of handling all the emotions and words she needed to get out, to say, to feel. Yet, this time, it was so different. There was still the touch of despair in her chest, at having wasted so much time being afraid of this moment, but everything else was pure, unconditional and inexplicable happiness.
"I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Finally Hermione was able to release, after having mouthed the words over and over again into her father's shoulder.
Her eyes opened, finally somewhat clear- clear enough to see her mother still standing where she'd last stood as Monica Wilkins. Her mother's eyes were watching, teary and frightfully thoughtful, as father and daughter reunited. She never once took a step closer to the reunion. Only her eyes met Hermione's, mirroring shared regret and… anger.
"She's furious," Hermione sighed when words, other than 'I'm sorry', were finally able to come out. She sat on the back porch with her father, whose arms hadn't left her. One arm was draped over her shoulders, hand tugging her closer to his side, while his other hand held hers tightly. They'd sat there in silence for a few minutes, as they both composed themselves and allowed reality to sink in. Moments earlier, they'd watched her mother fidget for a moment with her work before freezing up. And then, in an instant, Olivia silently brushed straight past them, into the house that she now knew was not really hers - but Monica's.
Her mother was always silent when angry. So, Hermione knew exactly what she was up against, and dread started to thread itself around her newfound relief.
"Right," her father agreed calmly, pensively. "You inherited her passion, Hermione, so you must know why she's upset."
Of course she did. Hermione was just still so very much in shock that it wasn't both parents storming into the house, shutting her out. Hermione frowned, and squeezed her father's hand, determined to keep him around- just in case he thought to change his mind and join his wife.
"I took her life away and forced this dull one onto her. I know, for her, it's no life at all."
"Now, now, don't you get into the dramatics, too," Hermione's father chuckled. He rubbed her arm, and shook her with the force of it. He nearly shook a smile out of her. But her lips were set with regret.
"Maybe that's a little bit of it," he confessed, "but we had a good life here." He sighed, and looked over the garden they'd grown together for years now, and the trees beyond. Hermione could imagine them going for long walks out there, curious of the various species - despite how dangerous some of Australia's wildlife could be. "She's loved the wilderness, Hermione. And not just our quiet little piece of land. We traveled a bit before settling here, and I suppose that was part of your plan in… moving us. Never to big cities, always on the outskirts, but there's so much to see here. And of course, I enjoyed the tranquility of this house. I've got my own garden, my gnomes," Hermione finally smiled, "and I've liked our reprieve… Your mother's just angry she lost time with you. Mostly, I think she's angry with herself at being able to forget you."
Hermione buried her face between her knees. "That's not her fault."
"Neither is it yours."
"Papa-" She groaned, but a hand slapped at her hair, tousling it and tossing out her argument.
"Oh, don't pull out the 'papa'. This isn't a debate." She groaned again, and tried to sit up to, indeed, initiate a debate. But her father's hand patted down on her back, both comforting and intentionally confining. He chuckled when Hermione grumbled into her knees in distress, and then loosened his hold. His hand rubbed at her back briefly before letting go. "You did what you needed to do. And then things got complicated. I understand."
Hermione sighed and sat up, frowning in frustration. How could he understand? Without even knowing? It had been so long since she'd felt the comfort of his presence, that sitting there - just sitting there next to him - was hard to grasp, to believe as real. Ever since that summer, Hermione had dreamt of this moment, of being beside her father simply talking. But now, none of it made sense - no matter how euphoric it made her to be there, finally. Too much had happened since that first dream, and she'd done so little to bring it into reality.
"It's been years. I shouldn't have waited this long. The war's been long over."
She could feel her father's gaze on her, studying the face he'd been deprived of all those years. Because of that war. Because of her, she thought. But there wasn't an ounce of blame in his eyes. Rather, they were filled with concern. He could see how events in her life had aged Hermione beyond her twenty-two years. How they still dragged at the edge of her eyes, pulling her down.
"It isn't over for you."
Hermione frowned, a tender nerve hit.
"I can see you're still fighting. Why?"
On autopilot to deny the allegation, Hermione's mouth opened- but the words were jammed at the back of her brain.
Her fight was over, wasn't it? She sat beside her father, and her mother - resentment aside - remembered her. The final mission had been completed; the last family returned to their life before war - her own. But still the hairs on her arms rose, alert, waiting for the next horror around the corner. Even then, she sat with her back rigid to the door, ears peeled for any unusual sounds, vigilant to the stirrings in the bushes. As though, at any moment, something would spring out to steal away her happiness.
Though the scenery had changed over the years, all landscapes were battlefields in the blueprint of her mind. Just as London had been; her route to work and back home always sketched out on the backs of her eyelids, every corner suspect and every store and restaurant claustrophobic, caging, escapes unknown. And before then, her travels had been constantly cloaked and smothered by the smoke of anxiety. The smoke had come from the flames of war and the dust of destruction, and still remained at the edges of her vision.
Even as she sat beside solace, the smoke shrouded her father's image, making her reality unclear, unattainable.
Why wasn't her war over?
She didn't have to ponder over the question too long. The answer scratched and whispered at the back of her neck, as it had for years. There had to be more than one answer, though. In no possible way could the clawing of relentless demons be attached to the hauntingly gentle and velvety humming in her head. But, of course, he was always entangled in wrongs and rights. Perhaps there were other shadowy figures hiding, in wait to poison her thoughts against moving on - but he was the most vivid shadow of them all- and the most perilous. When she closed her eyes, she could see Draco's face, that rare and dangerously alluring, loving smile of his wrapping itself around her neck- unwittingly choking her.
In reality, Hermione was the one wrapping the noose, self-destructing. As she'd been prone to do in the not-so-distant past. All those lingering shadows reminded her of that fact.
"It's a long story," she sighed with a dry, humorless smile. Her parents knew so little of her life in magic, and love. Where on Earth would she even start?
"We have time, now."
A mother's voice and touch helped Hermione along.
Unexpected, radiant forgiveness came with the softest touch to her hair; slender and slightly calloused fingers smoothed out the mess her father had made. Hermione almost closed her eyes at the contact. If only to indulge in the long missed, long loved feeling of her mother's confidence and comfort. But Hermione couldn't do such a thing after so torturous a time away from her mother's view. Her eyes were peeled to the shadow that peeked over her shoulder, soon followed by her mother's strong, bronze legs, then arms and adoring, determined face.
Finally, Hermione felt that last piece of her family click into place as her mother sat down beside her, nestling her between the two people who'd made her everything she wanted to always be.
As her mother's arm wrapped around her, supporting her as her father did, the sound of self-annihilation stilled inside her. The spine and all those bones within, cracking from the pressure of lies and buried shame, began to heal their fractures. As she wanted to heal the fractures in their memory - and in her identity.
It was time. It was finally time to let out Hermione Granger to the two who'd made her, and try to come to terms with who she had become and who she wanted to be from now on. There was hope in the touch of family. Redemption for mistakes, and closure for…
Her and Draco.
Hermione closed her eyes then, to live in the pain of that thought. To feel it, to let it break her, and to acknowledge that one day, soon, she'd be able to break through it.
And in order to have any hope of doing that, she had to speak through it. To someone who could understand, even without knowing. To two someones.
With a deep breath, Hermione opened her eyes and let her parents in. And she let herself out.
"If that's the case, I've a lot to tell you, starting with my 5th year at Hogwarts…"