A/N: Please note the hot air balloon process described in this chapter bears little resemblance to the real thing. It's artistic licence run amok, folks.

My descriptions of Norway don't do the country justice. Also, they're probably incorrect in places, for which I can only, and once more, apologise.

You might want to fasten your seatbelts; things are going to get a little bumpy.

Norway

Morning

Hermione yawned and stretched, giving Draco a lovely, if too-quick, view of her breasts outlined against her shirt. "Who are we meeting again?"

Draco finished the last of his coffee and strolled to meet his wife – his wife - at the tall windows of their hotel suite. The sapphire-blue waters and bobbing boats of Oslo Harbour, a short distance away, twinkled at them. Embracing her from behind (a position he'd come to associate as 'theirs'), he said "we're meeting Bjarne Aalberg, the manager of the Norwegian National Quidditch Team. He wants to chat about sponsorship, getting a higher presence in England, that sort of thing."

Hermione's shoulders stiffened a little. "Quidditch?" she said non-committally.

Draco smiled. "Not a great fan?" he murmured, kissing her neck.

"Er... well, that is to say... no. Not particularly."

Draco smirked and turned her around so they stood face to face. Or face to shoulders, since Draco was taller. "Well, you have been working hard over this entire tour," he said. "Therefore, I magnanimously give you the morning off to do with as you please."

"Oh, you do, Mr Malfoy?" Hermione smirked and raised up on her tippy-toes.

"I insist, Ms Malfoy-Granger." He followed this with a kiss to her lips that promised much more to come. Indeed, it was followed by a more intense kiss, hands pressing bodies hard to each other, and certain parts of those bodies stiffening to sensitive proportions.

"You'll be late for your meeting," Hermione murmured against Draco's heated skin.

"I can't help it," Draco grinned as he picked her up and carried her to their already-mussed up bed. "I gave my secretary the morning off and I'm useless without her."

"Secretary?" Faux-outraged, Hermione smacked his arse.

"Ow! Have a care! The Malfoy arse is worth a lot of money."

"Really? I should examine this goldmine more thoroughly..."

The housekeeping service, who were about to knock on their door, heard the newlywed giggles that transcend all languages, and decided to come back later.

Hermione didn't really want to sit through a boring Quidditch meeting, that was true. But she also wanted some solo time to sit and think about things that were hard to think about. Especially with a gorgeous husband hanging around.

She headed down to the harbour and paced along the promenade, staring at the water, a shining blue road for ferries, yachts, tugs and a host of other boats and ships she sadly admitted she couldn't recognise.

She found herself at a lovely wharf called Aker Brygge, and while it was a workday morning for most Oslo-ians, plenty of them mulled and mixed around the wharf's restaurants, shops, offices and apartments, all peeking out from beautiful brick or modern glass facades.

Taking an outdoors seat at an upmarket cafe, Hermione ordered coffee and lefse, a rolled-up soft flatbread sweetened with butter, sugar and cinnamon. When they arrived, she took a sip of the beautiful brew and slowly crumbled the lefse into bite-sized pieces.

When...?

Oh, can I even admit it to myself?

She took a deep breath, and let it out.

When did I fall in love with Draco?

Her useless heart clenched and her stomach knotted.

When he proposed?

No, it was earlier than that.

When he first made love to me?

Nope, even earlier than that.

At the Wizarding French Embassy ball?

No, Hermione, her logic said smugly. You know when.

Oh Gods, it was... it was...

Germany. Neuschwanstein. After he told me why he wouldn't have sex with me.

Hermione shuddered in the breeze. How bloody typical of herself. Slowly filling her lonely, broken-down heart with love for a bloke who confessed he was too scared of hurting her.

She remembered the exact words that made her fall.

"You need to live for as long as possible."

And then it grew.

But now she had two rather pressing problems on her hands.

Draco's never told her that he loves her. Does he love her at all?

To be fair, she's not confessed her love for him, either.

And why would they, when one half of the couple is due to die in a couple of months?

Fear gripped her bones.

When she first got the news of her suddenly-shortened life, she was apathetic, really. She'd lived such a beige, unstimulating life that she was rather looking forward to giving it up, if she was honest.

But these past months...

…filled with new experiences, triumphs, failures, laughter, tears, companionship, friendship and the intimacy of making love with a man who touched her body in a way that made her heart and soul soar. Falling in love.

Merlin...

She didn't want to die anymore.

She didn't want to die anymore.

Tears pricked at her eyes. She stood up and quickly headed back to the hotel, praying that she could hold it together until she reached the privacy of their room.

Afternoon

Draco was filled with excitement. Hermione, rather less so. But she shoved her hands into the pockets of her puffer jacket and smiled the part.

It was Draco's turn to choose an activity for the afternoon, and rather to Hermione's hidden disquiet, he'd chosen hot-air ballooning. The views will be lovely, she told herself firmly. Stop being such a Moaning Myrtle.

They weren't the only passengers for the colossal, silent balloon this afternoon. As it slowly filled with hot air, a family of four joined them at the safety point: a husband and wife in their fifties, a daughter in her early twenties, and a tall, muscular, brash chap in the same age bracket as the girl – the daughter's fiancé, and going by the magnum of champagne clutched in his fist, rather drunk.

"You don't think Chad will be sick once we're airborne?" the father asked, slightly hopefully.

"Of course not, Daddy!" the daughter giggled, hanging off Chad's free arm. He didn't appear to notice. "He has a marvellous ability to hold his alcohol."

Daddy drew in a breath, and his wife patted his arm soothingly.

Draco narrowed his eyes. There'd better not be any incidents around his wife, he vowed. Or there will be Trouble. Oh, yes. With a capital T.

The balloon was upright and the safety briefing was delivered by their pilot called Sven, who spoke excellent English with an accent that Chad immediately mocked. "He's so good with accents," the girl said admiringly to her mother, who was starting to wish she'd brought a magnum of champagne along for herself and her husband.

Once up in the air, Draco vowed to keep Hermione as far away from this gauche, drunken sot as possible. Which, in a tiny wicker basket filled with seven adults, gas cannisters, navigation equipment and assorted ropes, was a hard ask.

Mummy and Daddy decided to preserve their sanity by chatting to the saner (and only other) couple in the basket. In between admiring the stunning views of the fjords, mountains and meadows, they all engaged in the usual small talk – where they were from, what they did, how long they were staying in Norway, etc. Draco and Hermione gave the couple their Muggle-ised version, and discovered that Chris and Linda Fortescue were from Oxfordshire, semi-retired. Julia (with Chad, giggling as he tried to slop some champagne into her open mouth) was their only child.

"Engaged, I hear?" Hermione asked.

"Yes," they replied dolefully.

"We're just married ourselves," Draco said. Hermione wasn't sure, but it sounded like he was proud. Or was she imagining things?

"Oh, how lovely! Congratulations!"

"Are you talking about us, Mummy?" Julia called , picking the short way over to the group.

"No, dear. This couple just got married," Linda replied, wondering at what point in her daughter's life did her mothering go so phenomenally wrong.

"Ooh, is that your engagement ring? Let's have a look, then!" And without any warning, Julia grabbed Hermione's left hand and pulled it forward.

Hermione, aware of the sound of Draco's grinding teeth, set her own in place and let her hand be pulled this way and that, making sure there was no way Julia could wrench the ring free.

"It's pink!" Julia exclaimed. "Do they do pink diamonds, then?"

"It's not a diamond," Hermione replied. "It's glass. Draco found it in an antique store in Spain."

Julia looked horrified. "But one has to have a diamond for an engagement ring!" she honked. She raised her left hand and waggled it under Hermione's nose, who found herself staring cross-eyed at a solitaire diamond that was practically the size of a tennis ball. "Look what my darling Chad gave me!" she trilled.

"Yes, well, it's, er, quite" –

"Jules! Where's the extra champagne, luv?"

"Oops! Have to go!" Julia giggled.

"They have more?" Linda gasped. And they're not sharing? That's so bloody unfair!

A little while later, Chris stood next to Draco, admiring the unsurpassable scenery. "That's a lovely ring you found for your wife," he remarked. Draco nodded.

"So, why does she think the stone is paste, and not a rare pink diamond?"

Startled, Draco stared at Chris. Trying to think of an appropriate answer to the question, Draco found that he couldn't, and simply responded "It's rather complicated."

Chris nodded sagely. "I founded a chain of jewellery shops," he explained. "I know quality. Your wife's ring is exceedingly rare and of excellent quality. My daughter's ring, on the other hand," he said, sighing, "is not."

"Oh. Is it a real diamond?"

"Oh, yes, but it's considerably flawed. Chad's motto is 'the bigger, the better.'"

Draco wondered whether he should offer his congratulations or commiserations for the upcoming nuptials.

Then disaster struck.

Despite Sven's polite reminders, Chad seemed to have a case of ants in his pants, and kept wandering around the tiny basket. Presently he was squished up in a corner against Hermione, who was none too pleased with the arrangement, but there was no space to edge away from him.

As it happened, neither was Julia. Operating under the ridiculous assumption that every woman on the planet lusted after her Chaddy-waddy, she bossily tried to secure Chad's large, sweaty hand and pull him away.

Drunk, startled and slow on the uptake, Chad blearily swung out his arm, only to knock into Hermione full force – sending her toppling over the edge of the basket with a scream that ripped a cavernous hole right through Draco's body.

The air was filled with screams and gasps of horror. While Sven frantically tried to take control of the balloon, veering due to the sudden redistribution of weight, Draco shoved Chad and his stupid fiancée aside, and with his heart in his mouth, leaned over the edge, praying like mad for the best but steeling himself for the unthinkable worst.

Thank Merlin and all his little pixies, Hermione wasn't gone. She was clinging to a rope with both hands in a white-knuckled death grip, looking both green and white, and utterly terrified.

"Hermione! Hold on!" Draco shouted, and reached for the pocket in his puffer jacket where his shrunken wand was stored.

"No!" she shrieked back, more terrified of the consequences for him using magic in such a bizarre Muggle environment, than of her very likely impending death. "Sven can't be... you know... while he's piloting!"

Shit. She was right. If Draco used magic to save Hermione, they'd have to obliviate the others. Aurors might take too long to reach a moving target, so he and Hermione would have to do it. And it was beyond stupid to obliviate Sven while he was piloting the balloon. But the longer he wasn't obliviated, the more likely he'd form lasting memories of the event, and, well... yeah.

"Okay, just hold on, love!" he yelled, and reached over the basket as far as he could. "Take my hand!"

"I can't!" Hermione wailed, tears streaming from her eyes.

Draco tried with all his might to pull the rope up, but to his immense frustration, he could only manage a few inches. A white-faced Chris materialised at his side. With his help, they managed to pull the rope up to a point where Draco could touch Hermione. Giving Chris a sign, he let go of the rope and grabbed Hermione with both arms, heaving her over with a Herculean effort back into the comparative safety of the basket.

Draco dropped to the floor and wrapped Hermione in his arms, more tightly than he'd ever done before. "It's okay, love," he whispered over and over to his sobbing wife, tucking her wayward hair behind her ears. "You're safe now. I've got you."

While Sven accounted yet again for the changes in the balloon's weight distribution, Linda knelt by Hermione's other side, hugging her and issuing the comforting, cooing noises that mums all know by instinct.

When Hermione's tremors and tears ebbed a minuscule amount, Draco stood up and faced Chad and Julia with his jaw set and the Malfoy Look on full beam. Julia was shrieking fit to beat the band, presumably in shock, but the Chadster took it all in his stride. "She's allright, yeah?" he nodded.

Draco bunched his fist and socked Chad in the chin with an uppercut that immediately had him crumpled on the basket floor, out for a duck.

Chris looked at his comatose, almost son-in-law and wondered why his Julia couldn't have found a fiancé like Draco. "Oh, do be quiet, dear," he snapped to his daughter.

Late evening

Hermione and Draco were silent and exhausted as they let themselves into their hotel room. Her lips were still blue from the cold air, and her fingers were white.

When the balloon finally landed back at the base, the basket's occupants were greeted with a sizeable audience: police, ambulances, the balloon company's staff, the staff from the airfield where the balloon company based its operations, various plane-watchers and civilians who listened to the emergency frequency, were in the area, so what the hell; and of course, the media.

Hermione, Chad and Julia were taken to hospital – Hermione to be assessed for shock and minor injuries, Julia because she wouldn't stop being hysterical, and Chad because he was still unconscious. The Police took methodical statements from all parties capable of talking. They were particularly methodical with Draco, who had assaulted Chad mid-air, after all - but the statements from Chris, Linda and Sven made it clear that pursuing any charges against him would be pointless. The man had watched his wife fall overboard from a hot air balloon, after all – stands to reason he would be temporarily incapable of controlling his arms while under such terrible strain. Well, that was the Police's story, and they'll stick to it.

The Police asked Hermione if she wanted to press charges against Chad, but she shook her head. It was a genuine accident, she whispered. That's all.

Inside their rooms, Draco ran a bath while Hermione slowly, tiredly, removed her clothes in the bedroom. Draco joined her in removing his, and he helped Hermione ease into the hot, scented water.

He climbed into the bath behind her, unfolding his long legs and easing them beside hers. He leaned back, and Hermione rested her head and chest against his body. His arms soon found their way around her, and they lay together that way until the water slowly turned cold and the unspoken question between them faded into the background:

Why didn't Hermione's heart give out after having experienced the shock of a dozen lifetimes?

Afterwards, they went to bed. Hermione curled up against Draco's body like a cat, and quickly fell asleep tucked under his arm.

But Draco lay awake for a long, long time.

Next morning

Hermione stirred uneasily, then forced herself awake. Despite the bath the night before, nearly every single muscle in her body screamed for mercy; a cruel reminder of yesterday's adventure.

But it wasn't that which caused her so much pain that she curled into a tiny ball.

The rest of the bed was empty.

Only her luggage remained in the room.

Draco was gone.

A/N: readers of The Blue Castle, I know you're chill :) Non-Blue Castle readers – it will be okay. Hang on for the next chapter. Promise.