[Thank you for your lovely reviews on the last chapter! They made me smile, and I'm so excited to see what your thoughts are for this one. So glad to be updating more frequently now as this is the final stretch! Enjoy :)]
"This is something I have to choose on my own. I have to, for my own sake."
The choice was Hermione's own to make; whether she saved herself or Draco from the confines of their prison- it was her decision. Hers alone. She held onto that cord of communion tightly, unwilling to let anyone sever it for her. Yet, with Narcissa standing at the doorway of her dressing room, reality's brutal nature bit at the cord. Her mother-in-law's appearance was a sharp reminder of all Draco had lost, all his loved ones had lost… and Hermione's claim to him began to fray. Narcissa waited patiently, unaware of her son's precarious state. She came with the sole purpose of undoing her own tie to Hermione on her wedding day. Hermione's wedding day...
"Hermione… You're obviously cancelling the wedding, right?"
Ginny's question still pounded in Hermione's head, a knocking that did not end when Narcissa opened the door and upended Hermione's unknown answer. Ginny still stared at her, expectant. Any moment of relief Hermione believed would come in opening the door, any air she could have used to breathe, had past her without ever actually arriving. Now, she was pressed and suffocating between two walls: Ginny's question and Narcissa's imposing presence.
Her mother-in-law was dressed as any mother-in-law would be for a wedding: elegantly, in an emerald gown that clearly announced her status and family. Yet, her shoulders' strength and poise lay exposed above a sweetheart neckline; a decision that softened her rigid stature. As tradition demanded, Narcissa held in her hands a wrapped box- a gift for the bride-to-be. Only, there was a sense of mourning to her demeanor; she was to be a mother for only an hour longer, and had only ever been a mother to Hermione in the briefest, fleeting sense of the word. The gift, more a goodbye than wedding gift, was pressed hard against her belly. Almost as though she was hesitant to part with it. As hesitant as Hermione was to part with Ginny, or the room she hid inside.
The bell no longer tolled above the abbey but, instead, waited silently for Hermione to come to terms with the hour.
"I see I've come at an inopportune moment," Narcissa stated quietly, a small sense of awkwardness slipping into the rise of her eyebrows, the tautness of her lips. Ginny opened her mouth.
"Actually-"
Hermione put a hand to Ginny's arm, and offered a nod of reassurance to them both. "No, it's alright."
Remembering the condition Hermione had fallen into after Narcissa's last visit, Ginny's state of distress was reasonable. Her muscles were strained and expression torn; she did not want to leave. Hermione squeezed Ginny's arm, the pressure meant to soften her. It crumbled Ginny instead; she fell onto Hermione, holding her and damn-near crushing her.
As quickly as she had come, Ginny let go. Her own question bookmarked, she left Hermione to another life chapter she had yet to finish writing.
When Ginny left, Narcissa closed the door behind her and came to stand beside Hermione in front of the mirror. This time, it was just the two of them. No ghost of their shared loved one stood within the mirror alongside them. Draco kept his promise, and stayed away. Yet, no matter how deeply committed he was now to his promises, he broke them in ways that could not be stopped or mended. At the nearness of his mother, a terrible sadness overtook Hermione's bones and shook them. She felt as though Narcissa was her own mother, and Hermione longed for her embrace. Hermione took a sharp breath, and wiped at Draco's tears in her eyes; they felt too much like her own.
"Wedding jitters?" Narcissa asked half-heartedly, offering Hermione a handkerchief. Hermione's laugh never made it to her lips.
"Somewhat."
"I was honored to be invited, Hermione," Narcissa said gently, and Hermione smelled her mother-in-law's perfume on the handkerchief. There was the soft dew of Narcissa's own tears within the fabric. Hermione lifted her head and forced herself to look at Narcissa. The mother's eyes mirrored hers: glass and terrified of breaking in front of another. No matter what love they shared between them, they stood as familiar strangers divided by a wall of the past. Neither of them could bring their arms up to break it. Narcissa admitted as much when she said, "I know this moment is difficult. I know, because it is too difficult for me. I came, hoping I could stay, to support you in moving on-" her voice fractured, and she swallowed down the years-old shards of pride and pain. Narcissa's shoulders braced themselves as her arms moved forward, pushing against the wall to offer Hermione the wrapped box. "I wanted, at least, to deliver my wedding present in person."
Hermione took the box, easing it towards herself like a life was cradled inside. It was light. Yet, Hermione was terrified of dropping it, terrified something would break. Perhaps she was just terrified of herself, breaking. She took a steadying breath, holding that box tightly, as she gave something in return to Narcissa. Something long overdue.
"About Draco's-" Hermione took another breath, her wedding dress constricting around the name of her other love. "About his burial: you never needed my consent and I would never keep it from you. He belongs home with his family."
The wall between them began to collapse, and Narcissa's composure did too. She pressed her lips together, hard, to keep them from trembling. Her face receded into relief, but there was still a tightness to the edges- as though she, too, was terrified of something breaking once all was settled between them. A bond, haphazardly made by rushed vows of young love, would snap with the reiteration of those vows to another.
"You are his family, too," Narcissa reminded Hermione. Tenderly, she added, "and so am I. Whenever you desire to visit, you are always welcome."
The handkerchief Hermione held crumpled in her hand, her fist clenching around it and unwilling to let go. She could feel Draco's yearning pulsing, unyielding in her already stiff muscles; he wanted more time with his family. And Hermione wanted nothing more than to give it to him. But the bell waited silently, the continued echo of its ring in her skull a reminder: there was not even an hour left to give. She closed her eyes and inhaled, reached out, and released the offering back into Narcissa's outstretched hand. She opened her eyes, knowing full well the weight of tears in them and determined to carry it.
"Thank you," she managed to say as Narcissa took the handkerchief, unable to say goodbye. Unable to admit the truth that she would never set foot upon Malfoy Manor, and unable to admit why. She wanted to. She longed to admit everything, all over again, to Draco's mother- knowing full well how Narcissa would react. Knowing full well Narcissa would take Hermione's choice away from her. And perhaps that's exactly what Hermione wanted; Draco wanted none of it. The tears broke free of her, a flood of conflicts and souls.
Equally unwilling to say goodbye, to admit the truth of her loneliness, and of her inability to let go of the last piece of Draco's life, Narcissa pressed the handkerchief back to Hermione's eyes. Narcissa's hand trailed down her face, comforting Hermione when her son could not. Her hand was drawn down to the thin silver necklace at Hermione's neck, her finger curling under the chain and delicately tugging until the string tied around it was revealed. Narcissa cleared her throat and patted the necklace back down over Hermione's wedding dress.
Narcissa's eyes lingered a moment longer on that small thread of Draco resting at Hermione's chest, before looking back up at her daughter-in-law. She moved her hand away from Hermione's heart.
"This dress is lovely," Narcissa said, clearing her eyes and throat with one deep, demanding inhale. "Was it your mother's?"
In a confused burst of nerves, Hermione laughed. "No, no, my mother didn't have a wedding dress. She, um- " Hermione's thin laugh widened into a smile. "Well, she married my father in a pair of khakis."
"Oh," Narcissa murmured, blinking back her obvious horror for Hermione's sake. She managed to reframe her thoughts on the matter and said instead, "how interesting… Why?"
Hermione laughed again, and desperately clung to the humor in order to keep away from the pain. She wiped at her eyes. "I couldn't really tell you. The story of their wedding differs depending on who's telling it."
"Ah," Narcissa said slowly, and Hermione could see her trying not to judge. Hermione smiled, seeing Draco in his mother's restraint, in her genuine attempt to be kind… Even if they were both miserable at it.
"This is actually Will's mother's dress," Hermione offered as she moved away from the mirror, casting aside their reflections for a soothing seat instead. She sat down, and placed Narcissa's gift on her lap. "All the other dresses didn't seem right. So, we altered this one. It's my something borrowed."
Narcissa made a face before her features could reconstruct themselves into composure. She followed Hermione to the small sofa, and sat beside her. "You're... what?" she asked.
Hermione's smile widened in amusement, and she glanced down to compose herself as well. She reigned her smile in. "In muggle tradition, a bride always has something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, and a sixpence in her shoe on her wedding for good luck. I might not have a sixpence, yet, but I have the rest."
Promptly, Hermione placed a hand at the back of her head, where the upper half of her curls gathered into two lace braids. Interwoven in the braids were soft flowers, kissing her fingers wherever she touched them; she recalled the feel of Will's lips, and his hands in hers as he gave her the blue forget-me-nots before they parted that morning. "My something blue," Hermione murmured as she resurfaced from the gentle memory. "The something new are shoes from my parents, the something borrowed is the dress, and the something old…"
Hermione's heart keened. Her hand strayed from the forget-me-nots, and came to rest on the string at her neck.
Narcissa finally smiled back, and placed a palm to Hermione's chest one last time. Could she feel her son in there, beating so fervently? Just beneath the last part of him Narcissa could touch? Narcissa's eyes glistened, and she stroked the frayed string. "You still have it."
Hermione placed her hand over Narcissa's. She held onto it. "I always will."
"I regret not being a mother to you when I could," Narcissa scolded herself with a short shake of the head. She moved her hand to Hermione's cheek again, making a home there. Hermione leaned into it, into the foreign yet familiar feeling. She had missed out on this for years, on this connection for years. She needed to embrace it at least for this moment, while it lasted. After all, less than an hour of time held their thread together. And she had four years to make up for.
"I hope your new mother-in-law does better than I did," Narcissa sighed. Hermione winced into her touch and pulled away.
"She would have," Hermione admitted. "She was always a sweet woman, but… unfortunately Will's parents passed away."
"Oh," Narcissa's composed expression stuttered and broke, empathizing. "When?"
Hermione's mouth opened- yet the words hung on different moments. She remembered the date of the attack Will attached to his parents deaths', but recalled a different date on their tombstones. She frowned, until those hung words blended together and formed: "during the war."
"Oh," Narcissa reiterated, at a loss for words. She folded her hands together, her fingers stroking nervously, again, at her wedding ring. She glanced over at the box Hermione still had sitting idly on her lap. She sighed, heartbroken. "I hope the two of you find happiness together. I truly do. Please do not take my present as a challenge. I'm aware it is not the most suitable moment, but I was unsure when I would see you again, and I needed to give it to you. I needed to know you would have it and keep it."
The being Hermione left resting on her lap beat alive at the mere mention of it. She looked down at it, and hesitantly peeled away at the wrapping, needing to see what it was Narcissa had given her as a goodbye. What she found was an old hello, old love notes in the form of pictures. Draco's pictures, taken during their time at Shell Cottage. They were piled atop one another, small clusters of dust snowed over the mountain. At the peak was the first photo, carelessly and confusingly taken. The result: Draco's blurred face scowling within the Polaroid frame.
Hermione laughed.
Draco sputtered as the little black contraption in his hands spat out his face.
"It's frozen. They sold you a broken camera!" Draco exclaimed as he pulled the picture out and stared at it, clearly offended. The longer he looked at it, the more offended he became. "It's all blurry and ugly, and I'm most certainly not ugly. This camera is rubbish. Dobby needs to return it, or else I'll toss it."
"No, you won't," she barked, still laughing. Hermione leaned forward from where she sat on the sofa. She reached for Draco, who sat legs folded on the ground in front of her, the skin of gift wrapping torn and thrown all around him. Hermione took the camera out of Draco's clutches before he could impulsively hurl it into the lit fireplace. "I told Dobby exactly what I wanted, and it's this. It's called a Polaroid camera. It's muggle, Draco, so the picture doesn't move."
"Hermione," Draco sighed, shaking his head in exasperation as he placed the hideous photo facedown on the coffee table. The glow of the fire danced warmly over his wedding ring; a simple, silver infinity band transformed into interwoven golden vines in the light. Hermione felt those vines wrap around her heart, and the urge to capture the moment overtook her. Draco watched haggardly as she fiddled with the camera and took one more photo of him. When yet another image of him stuck out, like a teasing tongue, Hermione grabbed at it before Draco could snatch it and place it atop its fallen brother. She shook the picture at him and gradually it revealed a snapshot of Draco, staring up at her in exaggerated disappointment. The documented expression was successfully undermined and softened by the warmth of love and firelight around him. The photo was perfect. Hermione beamed and, despite himself, Draco smiled in return.
"Clearly, I love you," he said as a disclaimer, before his face slowly returned to its previous state of stubborn disappointment. "However, it has become evident you don't love me enough to give me a functioning present. What's the point in a camera if the photo is still? Doesn't it seem you're paying more, for less?"
Hermione wavered in shaking the photo, and let the frame of it rest on her bottom lip. She frowned. "I always thought still photos were more. More precious, I guess. You either lose a moment or, if you're lucky enough, you manage to capture it forever. Its stillness is timelessness, yet it's also absolutely fixed. There's no taking it back, or doing it over again. Not genuinely, at least, but I could take the camera back if you-"
Draco's eyes shot wide, and his arms reached for the camera. "No! No, you don't get to do anything with it. That's mine! You gave it to me." He grabbed the contraption from her, his hands clumsy as he tried to remember where to hold it, how to work it properly. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he moved it around, studying it as he had once studied her. "I want to give it another try."
Hermione laughed, softly; the sound of it a distant memory exhumed from her lungs. She could feel the wetness in her eyes, so much heavier than the laugh. The already blurry picture of Draco threatened to disappear completely. Angrily, she squeezed her eyes shut and forced the tears out. Quickly, she rubbed at them before they could land on his face, and her vision cleared. She spotted another photo peeking out from under the sheet of others.
Draco smiled up at her, the expression so clear and striking. Her own sleepy expression lay just beside him, mid-groan at being roused from sleep by his pestering.
"Smile, Hermione, for me," he begged as he held the Polaroid camera above them. She buried her head in the pillow, regretting deeply the decision to gift him the damn camera for their wedding. At every turn, at every blink of hers, he was there taking photos to document their marital bliss- or lack thereof. How many times did she have to bury his camera in the sand for him to get the hint?
"I don't want my photo taken, Draco," she moaned into the pillow as he snapped another photo, and the sound of film rolling out like a tongue tormented her. He pressed the film onto her back, and pressed a kiss onto her exposed shoulder blade.
"Then why did you give me a camera?" he asked, partly to tease, but there was a gentle curiosity on his lips. It brushed against Hermione's skin, tickling her. She awakened and turned her head towards her husband. He rested his mouth on her shoulder, with his eyes so close and wide and bright. Hermione could not deny how much she loved being seen by him. She loved more how Draco had opened his eyes to the world, how he perceived this life of theirs in such vivid shades that sometimes she could not see.
Hermione smiled. "So you could take photos of your life."
Draco saw her, in all her shades, and smiled in return. "You are my life."
Hermione held the moment in her hands, the softness of her and him, the love of them humming into her fingertips. Despite it being still, no movement like the magical photos taken every day in their world, she could feel his smile dancing across her skin. She saw herself rising despite herself to kiss him, to pull him and that stupid camera down for a moment that was better left between just the two of them.
They both looked, felt so alive. Together.
Hermione's eyes burned alive with fresh tears, and she pressed hard against them. Trying to stifle the life she knew could not live on. There had to be an end.
"You should keep these," she said past the grief and longing. Yet, her hands clung to the photos in her hands, incapable of letting them go.
"I already took a few," Narcissa admitted without hesitation. But then, her hands came to rest on the sides of the box, lingering even as she said, "the rest are yours. It was enough to look through them, to see how happy he was towards the end." Narcissa's chest heaved, those proud shoulders gradually dropping from an unseen weight. Her eyes glistened from the task of carrying it. "I worried so much about him those weeks after he left," Narcissa confessed, her breath coming out in a gust. And like that, her body healed and her shoulders lifted. She comforted Hermione with a smile, faint as it was. "And now I know he chose right when he chose you."
And Draco had chosen her, over and over, in every photo he had kept of them during that month of brief bliss. He chose her, even when she snapped an unflattering photo of his sunburned scowl after waking up from a long nap on the beach. He chose her, even when she chose to read a book upon his lap- rather than smile up at the camera he poised above them. He chose her when they fought, when they raged, and when they had nothing to offer one another. Deliberately, stubbornly, over and over, he had chosen to love her. And she had chosen to love him right back, just as stubbornly. Just as deliberately. Infinitely.
As Hermione placed the photos back into the box, and willed herself to pick up the lid, to close it, something rolled into the corner. Another choice they had made together resurfaced, in the shape of a coin.
"Draco, I'm not doing it," Hermione stated for the millionth time. There was a frustrated clench to her jaw as she held back the urge to toss her spoon at her husband. The sun had long been set, with only the sole lamp at her bedroom's small desk for light. With her back to the light, Draco was cast in shadow where he stood in front of her, as he had been standing for the past five minutes. Stubbornly, he remained, determined to convince her into doing something ridiculous. And Draco knew full well she had enough on her plate; a small black cauldron grumbled and bubbled on the desk, a passive aggressive reminder of her mission. She groaned down into the murky mixture. "I don't care how calm the sea is today. The water is freezing, and we're both going to catch our death."
Draco's eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms. A smirk overturned his better judgment when it came to addressing his new bride. "I'll have you know, I recently heard a rumor about this unbelievable little thing called magic. It seems to do quite the trick at solving even the most trivial problems- like temperatures. Imagine that!"
Hermione sighed, and finished stirring the last of the lacewings into her Polyjuice potion. Her head turned, heavy and full of not-so-trivial problems that were extremely time sensitive. He knew as much, and she knew he was trying to distract her from the mission neither of them wanted her to go on the next morning. Just a matter of hours kept them together; in just a matter of hours, their future threatened to change. Possibly for the better. Just as possibly for the worse. Hermione wished she could believe it was all a matter of meticulous planning, and good execution… but life had exposed itself as a fickle thing of chance. But there were still some things in her own life Hermione could choose, and she was determined to make this known.
"Draco, I'm not going skinny dipping with you. I need to rest, make sure nothing goes wrong with the potion-"
"Hermione, please. Can we just… enjoy this moment? Be spontaneous? Here," Draco scrambled, rummaging in his borrowed jeans and finding something that immediately lit his eyes. He pulled out a single, silver sickle. "Let's flip for it. Heads, we do it. Tails..." Draco hesitated, staring down at the coin. He ran a hand through his hair, the locks long from a month of Hermione's adoration and complete refusal to cut it. A strand fell back into his face, and he pursed his lips. When he looked back to Hermione, he was smugly confident. "Tails, you choose."
Hermione glanced from the sickle to Draco. His present spontaneity was frustrating to say the least, as Draco had not changed that much over the month. He could be stuck in a cottage with four, or five, or a hundred Gryffindors for a lifetime and still be the proud, sly little control-freak Slytherin she foolishly fell for. Yet, some things had changed- not just the length of his hair. When he touched her, his hands were slightly calloused and scented from his work with the laundry; washing clothes manually had become a force of habit for him now, despite having his wand back. And his clothing had changed- had been forced to change, really. No more suits or finely tailored outfits. Though, somehow, he managed to make the Weasley hand-me-downs look vintage and custom-made for his body alone. There had been plenty of grumbling at the beginning; a plethora of scowls and silences as he adjusted to the used wear, to the monotone cottage life, to being surrounded by people who usually hated his guts. But he was trying, and trying something new. Most likely Draco did it all just for her sake.
She looked to the sickle, to the one thing he wanted her to do for his sake- most likely, really, to do for her own sake.
Hermione rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. With an exasperated huff, Hermione caved. "Alright. Flip it."
A contagious grin spread across Draco's face, and he did not wait a second longer before launching the coin into the air. Greedily, he snatched it before it could naturally land, and flipped it over onto his forearm. When he lifted up his hand, the grin twitched and faltered. Hermione could see him struggling with the innate desire to deceive. He pursed his lips, and sighed.
"Tails," Draco unwillingly admitted, devastated.
Not fifteen minutes later, Hermione was shivering and regretting her decision as they stood on the dark beach.
"Salazar's balls, it's cold!" Draco howled, his fingers frozen at the zipper of his grey jacket. He wept at the sea, and Hermione shook her head back at him.
"I said I wouldn't hold back my 'told you so's', so… I told you so. Repeatedly, if I remember clearly. And I do," she gloated, despite her own shivering position. She clung to her maroon cardigan, incapable of moving to brush her curls out of her face. As the breeze swept hair into her eyes and cold into her skin, Hermione caught herself wishing she had thought less like a lovesick girl and more like a reasonable witch. Her shoes were already full of sand, and her head full of curses.
Draco grumbled incomprehensibly to avoid further scolding, as he attempted - again- to unzip his jacket. He hissed as the layer came undone, his whole body convulsing against the frigid night air. "A little help?" Draco grit out.
"And where is your wand?" Hermione shot back.
Draco shrugged, eyes bulging at the attack. "I got used to not having it on me! I forgot it!"
Hermione stared, and her focus honed in on a fault in Draco's expression. She pursed her lips, and reached for her wand for the first time in over a month; they both knew how long she had gone without using magic, without wanting to use it. And she was fully aware what he was up to. With a curt wave of the wand, a heat charm was expelled from her- as was a shiver of fear, which went blissfully disguised by the cold. Hermione was unsure what her magic would look like after so long abandoned. Despite her panic, the spell came out with ease, with a soft tickle at her fingers to welcome her back; Draco's smile did much of the same.
"Well then," Hermione huffed, invigorated. She rose an eyebrow at Draco, letting her gaze roam over his body suggestively. "No excuse now."
Despite having seen each other naked many times now, she could see the slight clench of embarrassment as Draco stripped down to his briefs. He stood before her for a moment, his hands pausing on the edge of his final layer. A grin moved in with the waves, tantalizingly soft.
"I won't show you mine, if you won't show me yours."
Before Hermione could open her mouth to protest, or distract, or just flee, Draco reached for her wand. Effortlessly, he took it. The sight of her wand in his hands, those familiar wooden vines hugged against his skin, gave Hermione pause. She thought of Draco, of how safe she felt in his hands, of how safe that wand was now in his hold. A small twist of his wrist and she was wrapped in warmth.
"No excuse now," he echoed teasingly. Yet, as he stepped forward to tuck her wand into her cardigan pocket, he couldn't help himself from helping her. Draco's hands drifted upwards, and went to work unbuttoning her cardigan, her pajama shirt. With the same unchallenged ease he'd had in taking Hermione's wand, Draco took away her layers. He slipped his hands beneath them until he reached skin, and pressed his palms onto her chest.
Draco's touch warmed any part of her neglected by the spell, and inflamed her already lit senses. Even when the moonlight vanished behind clouds in an attempt to give them privacy, Hermione felt aglow in the dark. She closed her eyes; partly in insecurity, mostly in reverie. Draco's hands rose and Hermione grinned as she envisioned the phytoplankton of the sea, rising just beneath the surface of her skin, bioluminescent and lighting up a path as he moved. He moved her, tugging her breath up and out of her in sharp, deep exhales as he roamed over her collarbone, her shoulders. In a hushed wave, Hermione's clothing receded.
Without a bra, she stood with her chest just as bare as his. Uninhibited.
Draco's eyes lifted to meet hers, a slight blush to his cheeks. Impulsively, Hermione captured his mouth with hers. Eagerly, she slipped into him, and Draco replied with absolute abandon. His tongue wiped from hers any remnants of battle talk she'd had earlier that day; no more aftertaste of Ron's concerns or Harry's foolhardiness. Draco's hands rushed over Hermione's body, quickly brushing off and down into the sand any armor she had placed upon herself in preparation for the coming morning. He freed her of the overwhelming weight. And Hermione did much of the same for Draco. Her lips spoke softly to his worry, kissing it down until he had nothing but love to speak for. Her fingers traced the tension in his muscles and cut them loose, reshaping his body to seamlessly fit hers.
They held onto one another, even as they tugged free of their last barriers of clothing. In a rush, it all fell away and they stood naked in the dark. The sound of soft waves swept in on their exhales. Unapologetically, the moon emerged and illuminated the two lovers in a moment neither could capture on film; it was too reckless, too ephemeral, to be kept.
"Ready?" Draco asked, eyebrows perked. Hermione foolishly turned her head to look at the sea, to hesitate one last time, breathless-
The land flew away from her as Draco scooped her up onto his shoulder.
"Draco! Put me down!"
"Oh, I will," he sang, terrifyingly gleeful as he gracelessly ushered her towards the water. The unsound foundation of his body, struggling to hold her up as she wiggled, and the sight of his calves sinking beneath black waters made Hermione gape and slap at Draco's back.
"This is for all the times you dumped my camera in the sand," he said, his vindictive nature merging ominously with his newfound, starry-eyed spontaneity.
"Draco! Don't do it!"
He did it. He tossed her into the sea.
No amount of heat or charms could ever adequately prepare Hermione for the shock of dropping into darkness. She never thought of herself as someone who was afraid of the dark, or the sea, but the combination- it slapped her, and sucked her in without mercy. Her opened mouth- mid-protest when she fell- filled with water. The salt burned the back of her throat, her nostrils. A tumultuous wave rolled over and tossed her. She writhed and opened her eyes, and then that too burned in complete darkness. Everything she had hiding in the back of her skull, in the shadowed parts of her consciousness, suddenly surrounded her.
Draco's hands grabbed her arms, and pulled her above water.
"-it, shit! Are you okay? Hermione?" Draco panicked, but Hermione couldn't see past the sting, or speak beyond the choking. She coughed, and squeezed her eyes against her own panicked visions; unseen threats lurked in the water, in her mind, and he had just thrown her into it.
Rage snapped her body into retaliation and she slapped water at him, wherever he was. When her hand made harsh contact with his shoulder and arm, she continued to attack him.
"Ow! Shit! Hermione! I said sorry!"
"No you fucking didn't! I told you not to do it! Damn it, Draco!" Hermione continued to cough out salt, and her sight came back to her in sore spasms. Her legs kicked out beneath her in search of footing and found none. She hissed and blinked and cursed again and again, "what the hell?!"
Despite the assault, or perhaps because of it, Draco grabbed at Hermione's arms and pulled her closer. Until seaweed tickled at her feet. Until, finally, she touched down on sand.
Hermione's coughing subsided, and so did her attacks. Her hands held onto Draco's arms as she steadied herself on the tempo of incoming waves. Her sight came back, and she saw Draco's face. It was drawn and quartered, and absolutely mortified.
"I read it in one of your books," he said when she let go of his arms, somehow managing to be both defensive and dejected; a very annoying skill he had acquired in their time together. "I thought it'd be romantic."
"You know what's actually romantic? Listening to your wife."
Draco rolled his eyes half-heartedly, not having enough strength in his lip to argue anymore. And even the scowl Hermione stubbornly held onto began to falter as she stood there, naked as a damn baby, in front of her husband. Her husband, who visibly regretted going against his nature to please his wife; she could see his wheels returning to their normal rotation, going over his rash decision and fuming at the senselessness of it. Of the whole scenario, really. And Hermione began to regret scolding him for his attempts at romance.
The slap Hermione sent into the water was lackluster, and the splash meant for his face did not rise to the occasion. Draco eyed her, curious and cautious. Slowly, the couple adapted to the current, and their lips attempted to rise above the waves.
Still, Draco's smile was slightly watered down, the tease not quite genuine when he asked:
"Do you regret marrying me yet?"
His antics, Hermione's response, had chipped at already broken confidence; the glue was still drying on the pieces they had patched together inside him, inside her, and their relationship. In the moonlight, Hermione saw the dim, raw lines her nails had made against his skin. Whatever anger remained in her was seafoam, dissolving as the waves nudged her closer to Draco. She walked the rest of the way, feet slipping in sand, until she was slipping onto him and wrapping her arms around him. Hermione kissed the cheek she had marked and enveloped an apology at his lips, which was sent it through him with every touch and hug of her body onto his. Water struggled to move between them, and found no place to enter. So, respectfully, it flowed around and over them, wrapping the lovers' caress and preserving it like she wished to preserve every moment with him; the good, the wretched, and even the ridiculous. It was theirs, and thus it was precious. Could she regret any of it?
"Never."
Hermione's hand wrapped around the memory, and held the fateful coin hard against her palm; she tried desperately to imprint it, to make it a part of her. It wasn't necessary. Hermione could taste that sea's salt on her lips, in her tears, and closed her eyes to cherish the bittersweet morsel of their life together. She welcomed her past, the love and pain of it, and it dripped wet into her skin. No matter what, Hermione would always have that past to remember. Those moments would always be captured, and hers. And his. No matter her decision. No matter how broken the choice would leave her.
She opened her eyes. The pieces of him and her, messily stacked and scattered in a box, smiled back at her in all their broken and infinite happiness. They spoke of healing, and promised an end. An end she had begun, and needed to finish.
Without warning, Hermione flung her arms around Narcissa who, stunned, took a moment to return the embrace. When she did, Hermione squeezed fiercely, and a promise was pressed between them.
"Please know I will never forget your son," she vowed, heart cracking but voice strong. Her mind clung to Draco's memory, and her fingers latched onto his mother. Narcissa stroked at her back, but Hermione closed her eyes and felt Draco's warmth. She sighed into the feeling, and took a breath in of Narcissa's perfume, before pulling away for the last and final time.
"And I will always-" Hermione's voice finally betrayed her, and threatened to reveal everything she swore to keep contained. Her breath came drawn through tears, but determined to go on. "I will always love him."
She stopped herself there, held her tongue against speaking all the things still left unsaid between Narcissa and herself. Hermione only permitted herself a goodbye, one she sorrowfully believed to be the last. It had to be. For her choice was made, the coin permanently flipped in her clenched hand, and there was no going back. Only forward.
The bell tolled once more as Hermione's fist knocked upon a door; the coin was still trapped inside her grasp. There was the distant sound of footsteps, approaching, as the bell continued to ring out. The door opened, and Will filled in the frame. He stood in a groom's tux, the shape and look of it so fitting to him; he was destined to be a husband, a good and sweet one.
"Hermione!" Will gaped and grinned as he slapped his hand over his eyes. "I'm not supposed to see you yet! It's bad luck!"
Hermione's free hand rose, and wrapped around his, hugging the softness of it as she pulled it down to her chest. She revealed herself to him, bare in her borrowed wedding dress. His smile fell as he watched her, and saw her.
"Will," she said carefully, terrified of hiding again; equally terrified of being exposed. She swallowed the fears down, and they tasted cruelly of seasalt. She braced herself for the fall into darkness.
"I need to tell you something."