The sound of gently gurgling water and ambient noise filled Hermione's ears as she walked through the atrium of the Ministry of Magic on All Hallows' Eve. It was a Friday, and the spacious atrium was filled with chattering witches and wizards making their weekend plans as they headed out of work.

Her workload was always heavy at the end of the week, and the day had passed by swiftly. By the time it was five o'clock, Hermione had finished with her paperwork and was ready to meet Harry at the fireplaces.

And there he was, his back to her, his Auror robes perfectly tailored to fit his broad shoulders. She smiled to herself. He cut quite the figure in the bustling atrium, standing tall and proud. When she moved to stand before him, his face lit up with a smile that made her melt.

"Hey, sweetheart." He curled his hand around the back of her neck, bending to kiss her. He tasted like coffee with a bit of cream—a vice that he'd picked up in the last few months after she'd introduced him to the nirvana of caffeine.

Pressing her hands to his chest, she leaned into the kiss, fingers twisting in the material of his robes. He groaned, just a little, and it wasn't an "I like kissing you" sound. She pulled back immediately, eyes scanning urgently over his figure. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

She pulled his shirttails out of his trousers, tugging up the fabric.

"Merlin, Hermione. Must you strip me in the middle of the bloody Ministry? I'm fine."

"You're not. You're not fine, and I need to see…"

"Okay—okay." He caught her wrist, stilling her frantic movements. He pulled her off to the side, out of the way of the commuters on their race to the Floos. When he lifted his shirt, the breath caught in her throat.

"Oh, Harry. "

The entire left side of his torso was covered in big, splotchy bruises.

"I'm okay, alright? Everything is okay."

It certainly wasn't the worst injury she'd seen, but the idea of Harry being in harm's way and away from her every day made her stomach hurt.

"What happened? Wait, don't tell me. Let's get you home, I have—I've got some paste. Go on, into the Floo you go." She shooed him to an open fireplace.

With an amused smile on his face, he said their address then stepped into the flames.

She followed, on a mission now to ease Harry's pain and get him sorted out. When she stepped into their sitting room, he was unsuccessfully trying to shrug his robes off with a grimace on his face. "Oh, stop it, you. Sit down." Hermione herded him toward the sofa, pleased when he acquiesced despite the mulish look in his eyes. "Just sit, love, and I'll take care of you. Okay? Let me care for you. Please."

His face softened, and he nodded. She hurried over to the cupboard, grabbing the squat glass jar that held her homemade bruise paste, the recipe perfected for moments just like this.

Jar in hand, she knelt beside the sofa. "Okay, let's get this off." She slipped her hands beneath his outer robes, unbuttoning his shirt and helping him to slide them both off his injured side. When she saw the colour that spread across his skin, she muttered a curse under her breath as she rose up on her knees and brushed her lips across his shoulder.

She opened the jar to scoop a dollop onto her fingers, warning, "It might be cold," before gently rubbing the paste into his skin.

"That stuff smells like a swamp."

"It's the borage—started adding it last week. It helps restore broken capillaries. The smell will fade after a bit."

Hermione felt his eyes on her as she dipped her fingers back into the paste to massage more into his skin.

"Thank you."

The fingers that had been moving over his chest paused for a moment as she stopped to look up at him. "Hmm?"

"Thank you for this. For being neurotically determined to create the best potions and salves for me."

"Hey!" She lightly smacked his knee with the backs of her fingers, warmth filling her when he caught her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles.

"I'd be lost without you, Hermione."

"You wouldn't. What you would be without me is a giant bruise with legs. It's the salve you need." She grinned, giving him a wink before focusing back on the task at hand. She needed to get him healed up so they could get going.

Tonight they would make their annual trip to Godric's Hollow.

They went every year without fail, a tradition they'd started after the war. The first time, Harry was consumed by grief, not only for his parents but also for their dearest friends, his dearest friends. The people he'd seen murdered before his eyes, the young, the old, and those in between. Death had no compassion, no desire to spare. It just took—grabbed and stole and took. Harry had been drowning when they got to Godric's hollow, swallowed up by despair and unable to vocalise what he needed.

Hermione had known. She'd tucked his scarf more securely around his neck to protect him from the bitter wind, took his hand, and stood there with him, a good fifty yards from his parents' graves. She stayed there at his side until he found the courage to walk forward and drop to his knees. He didn't speak, and he was shaking. The moonlight caught his face when he glanced back at her, and she saw stubbornly unshed tears in his eyes sliding down against his will when he blinked.

That night had cemented a tradition for them.

After a handful of minutes, Harry had beckoned her forward, and she'd knelt beside him, an arm wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him as close as she could. As they knelt there, Hermione stared for a long time at the headstone, realising it had gotten a bit grimy over the years. She couldn't just leave it, but for a reason she couldn't explain, it felt wrong to simply vanish the mess.

Instead, she transfigured one of her gloves into a rag and wet it down with a well-placed Augamenti. Shuffling forward a bit on her knees, she gently swiped at the dirt that had darkened the stone. After a minute, she heard the dry leaves crunch beneath Harry's knees as he turned to her. She made her other glove into a rag, wetting it and handing it to him. He took it without a word, and they spent the rest of their time cleaning up his parents' tombstone, each working on one side and meeting in the middle.

And so it went, each year without fail.

Sometimes they simply stood before the headstone in silence, holding hands and anchoring each other.

There were the rare years when Harry wanted to talk. He'd share stories of his parents with Hermione, hand-me-down memories told to him by those who had known them best.

But no matter what, they ended their visit by scrubbing his parents' headstone until it nearly sparkled in the moonlight.

Hermione was broken from her musings of the past when Harry shifted under her fingers. Looking up, she saw that the colour was already starting to fade from his skin. "Give it ten minutes, and you should be right as rain. I'll go get changed—these shoes are killing my feet—and then we can go."

She rose to her feet, ready to head down the hallway when Harry's finger caught in one of the belt loops on her trousers.

"Just a minute," he said, standing and pulling her close. When his hands cupped her jaw, Hermione's eyes fluttered shut, and she leaned into his touch. She felt his thumbs feather across her cheekbones before his mouth pressed to hers, slow and gentle. He pulled back, brushing hair out of her eyes and saying, "Go on then."

It didn't take her long to change, and by six o'clock they were standing in Godric's Hollow. The village was relatively quiet, just a handful of costumed little ones trick-or-treating from one cottage to the next.

Like every year when they reached the cemetery, Hermione let Harry be for a moment, only moving to stand next to him when he looked back at her. She'd brought a thermos of hot apple cider, and they passed it back and forth between them as Harry told stories of his parents.

Cider finished, Hermione pulled a rag out of her pocket to hand to Harry, heralding the start of their cleaning ritual. Over a year, the stone never got as dirty as it had been that first time, and it didn't take long to clear away the built-up grime.

It began to rain, fat drops making a splat sound on the stone. Hermione moved to stand before Harry, one hand reaching up to pull wet strands of hair away from his eyes. His glasses were covered in little drops of water, surely making it difficult for him to see.

"I think your glasses are telling us it's time to pack up, love," she said with a soft smile.

Harry nodded, taking her hand and Apparating them home.

When they arrived back at their flat, Hermione went to the closet to put away their coats and shoes. Harry disappeared into the bedroom, reemerging with a tender look in his eyes and a vinyl record in his hand.

He loaded it onto the old record player that sat on their coffee table, and Hermione smiled when she saw the title. The record crackled to life, music spilling out to fill the room.

Wise men say only fools rush in

But I can't help falling in love with you

Shall I stay?

Would it be a sin

If I can't help falling in love with you?

"Dance with me, my lady?" he asked, presenting his hand with a flourish.

She let out a giggle, buoyed by the look in Harry's eyes as he watched her. She worried about him all the time, but especially on nights like tonight when the inky black memories of the past did their best to sink him, to pull him back to the dark place he'd lived in after the war. Seeing levity in his expression was what she hoped for each time they had to step back into the pain of days long gone.

"I would be honoured, good sir." She daintily placed her hand in his, allowing him to pull her to him until they were pressed as close as they could physically be.

He curled his free arm around her lower back, and they rocked together, bare feet shuffling across the carpet.

Hermione lay her cheek on his chest, and the warm cotton covering his torso was soft against her face.

There was a rumble in her ear, and she realised he was singing—not something he did often. His breath stirred the hair at the crown of her head, and she smiled at the feeling, wrapping her arms around his neck. Both of his arms shifted to hold her close, and she sighed in contentment, breathing in the scent of him—rain mixed with the cologne she'd given him for Christmas.

On their first date, they'd gone to see a band performing in Hyde Park. It was dark, and fairy lights had been strung up around the area. Harry had taken her hand and asked her to dance. She hadn't told him then, but she'd been in love with him far before that moment, and the look in his eyes as he'd danced with her had turned her into putty.

The music came to an end, but still they danced in their tiny sitting room, just swaying together.

Finally, Harry pulled back and cupped her face in his hands, looking at her with adoration.

"I love you." He pressed his lips to her forehead, her eyelids, the bridge of her nose. He peppered soft and sweet kisses all over her face, finally landing on her lips and kissing her deeply. "Mmm." Hermione was lost in the feel of him, her hands coming up to hold his wrists, fingers wrapping around them tenderly.

He kissed her with a bit more urgency, tongue tracing her bottom lip until she opened her mouth and let him in. They were near the start of the little hallway that led to their bedroom, and Harry didn't have to go far to step into her, pressing her back against the wall.

Harry held Hermione's wrists, sliding them up the wall to rest on either side of her head, thumbs caressing the sensitive skin.

She loved every version of Harry, no matter what, but if she had to choose, this one was a favourite.

Strong and assertive, surrounding her with strength and allowing her to let go. She never felt safer than when Harry was wrapped around her, his body caging her in the most delicious way.

Tonight, though, she knew that he needed to feel safe, free enough to let go. She would give that to him.

When they broke the kiss, he relinquished his hold on her wrists, and she undid his tie, pulling it off and letting it slide to the floor. His shirt was next, her fingers pulling each button free of its mooring and brushing against his skin.

She ghosted her mouth over the tender spot behind his ear, pace unhurried as she nibbled at his earlobe and slowly trailed down his neck. She kept it soft, reverent. A reciprocation of the tenderness he frequently lavished her with.

When she got to his chest, she stopped for a moment with a hand over his heart to feel the steady thump-thump, to reassure him of his existence—here in this moment, safe and with her.

His skin was cool to the touch, and she leant down to kiss each corner of his mouth. When she pulled back far enough to see him clearly, the look in his eyes made her heart ache.

He was hurting. It was hidden, but it was there.

It was often that she wished she could wave her wand and banish his pain, make the sadness disappear from his eyes. But she couldn't. So she did the next best thing.

She loved him. She told him without words how appreciated he was, how needed and cared for.

Pulling him into the bedroom, she undressed him, hands and mouth trailing over every inch of skin she revealed. With her hands on his shoulders, she gently pushed him down to sit at the foot of the bed, slipping out of her jumper and wet trousers and crawling over him.

Harry watched as Hermione moved above him, painted silver in the moonlight. The gauzy curtains framing the window cast dappled shadows on her skin as the rain-scented breeze blew through.

She looked like molten metal, smooth and sensual, moving with an ease that still held him captured, in awe of her raw sensuality no matter how long they'd been together. The warmth of her skin against his felt like a prayer. A whisper of hope that there was something still good in the world.

When she faltered, losing her balance, he lifted his hands to her hips to steady her, thumbs rubbing across the points of her hip bones.

He'd like to think he'd healed, that he'd moved past the unfortunate circumstances of his youth and the horrors of the war. But on days like this, he wasn't so sure.

Here he was, grown up with a steady job and a brilliant, beautiful woman that somehow decided to love him despite the many reasons she shouldn't. Yet all he longed for was a chance for his parents to have met Hermione, for Remus and Tonks to see how perfect she was with Teddy, for Sirius to know how much she'd improved his life and helped him heal.

The fact that this incredible witch chose to stay by his side still left him speechless. Hers was the kind of loyalty a wizard didn't question, the kind that stood steady as a rock no matter the waves that battered it.

She believed in him.

It was as if Hermione had been made just for him, his perfect counterpart. She was strong where he was weak, determined enough to dig her heels in and stand before him in the face of his frustration and melancholy, not letting him slip into self-pity. She was brave enough to give him an attitude check when his ego got the better of him.

She wasn't drawn by his fame. Instead, she'd become a fierce protector of his privacy, always at the ready to deliver acerbic words to the journalists that sometimes followed him when all he wanted was a night out with his witch.

He prayed the day never came when he took her for granted, leaned on her as an emotional crutch, never seeking self-improvement. No, he would not allow that to happen. He'd seen too many men skate by on the goodwill and positive qualities of their wives or girlfriends, never working to make themselves better people.

She leaned forward just a bit, hands to his chest as she moved her hips faster and faster.

"Are you—Can you—Oh." As she spoke, he used his grip on her hips to pull her closer, thrusting up and hitting a spot that made her eyes roll back in her head.

When her pleasure crested, her body tensed and her breathing stuttered. As she came apart above him, the sweetest sigh left her lips, and Harry followed shortly, her name on his tongue.

Their coming together in that moment felt sacred and special. Healing. There was no feeling he enjoyed more than Hermione's body against his—solid and there and safe.

She'd collapsed onto his chest with her face pressed against his neck as he stroked her back. Their skin was slick with sweat, the fine hairs at her nape sticking to her skin and catching under his fingers.

As they lay there in silence, calm and content, Harry felt the tension drain out of him. He felt lighter—he could breathe again.

When Hermione wiggled a bit to get into a more secure and comfortable position atop him, he pulled the sheet up over her back so she wouldn't catch a chill. After a few minutes, she was making soft little snuffling sounds by his ear, and he knew she'd fallen asleep.

All day he'd been wound tighter than a spring, tension consuming him, the prospect of visiting the cemetery making him anxious. Everything felt right again with her in his arms. Perhaps her presence might even keep the nightmares away. It wasn't often that Harry slept peacefully through the night. He wanted to stay here, with her, forever.

Hermione didn't care about his scars, his wealth, his reputation, or his baggage.

She cared for him.

Just Harry.

A/N: Thank you to my amazing beta, ravenslight, for helping me polish this!

This piece was written for Harmony & Co's Halloween Competition, Double Double Toil and Trouble. All canon characters, plots, dialogue, and situations from the Harry Potter series belongs to JK Rowling. I am not profiting from this work.