Hermione wakes to the sound of a fire crackling in the otherwise silent room.
Alone.
She knows it immediately.
Opening her eyes she looks at the leaping flames in the fireplace, the play of colour on the light coming from the windows across the room.
A grey light.
Grey.
Appropriate, strangely appropriate.
She doesn't move, hoping that by not moving she can stop the thoughts, hurtling, barrelling, towards her, scary, large, too much.
But they come with a soft sigh, whispering through the curls that fall across her face.
She understands.
No longer young, no longer the girl who went downstairs that grey morning so long ago. No longer the girl who sat next to Ron even as she watched Draco—for he was Draco then, suddenly—walk down after her, sit across from them, long fingers curling around a teacup.
No longer acceptance. Of death. Of life. Of one stolen night.
Brash, unlike her, yes, but stolen, a precious something given before she, and he, had thought they would die.
Now?
Hermione doesn't know.
Guilt?
Perhaps.
Shame?
No. No longer young. An action coming the last several weeks, the last several years.
Ten years.
Inevitable?
She doesn't like to think so, even though she feels the word, sees it as it floats through her mind, she notices, recognises, the tell signs of a burning in her chest, of the slow and distant throb at the base of her spine. Distant, of course, but there all the same.
Almost as if it is waiting.
For more.
And it is this thought, more than anything, that allows her to move finally, curling a hand around the softness of the blanket and pulling it closer to her body before shoving it off.
The cold.
Always the cold.
Hitting her with a force of a winter's morning, skin exposed to the chill, skin tightening across bones, muscles, tightening.
She aches.
And not all of it is from the cold.
Sitting upright, morning light on her pale skin, translucent, frigid, staring at the leap of flame that is doing little to warm her.
She doesn't know where she is.
They'd Side-Along-Apparated the night before, Draco pulling her towards him, wrapping the cloak around them. At the time, all she could think was she knew this scent, his scent, surrounding her, and she'd leaned into it, warmth from the freezing night air, heat, wrapping around her.
Now she pulls the blanket around her shoulders. She smells him. Just a taste. Barely, fingers clenching the fabric and bringing it up to her nose, standing up and walking to the room's single window.
The coast. Somewhere. Absent of people.
Alone.
Grey morning, grey sky, grey ocean.
Guilt.
She remembers it like an echo, like someone yelling far off in the distant.
But there is something else too.
Anger?
Had she really expected him to be here? Had she expected him to be by her side, white hair falling over his sleeping face?
A part of her had thought it. If only a moment. A mere moment.
Wished it?
Perhaps.
Though she doesn't want to believe she had. Doesn't want to believe he has that kind of power over her.
Power?
Anger at herself then. But far off, distant, barely there, just like everything else. Leaving, a memory, or, more like a shadow of something.
Distinct.
Shadowed.
Grey and darkness marking the one thing that should be light and sun.
Brilliant sun.
But nothing is brilliant between them. Nothing has ever shined.
Everything.
Darkness.
Shadows.
Grey.
Like the day spread out before her.
She pulls the blanket closer to her. The scent is fading and something in her whimpers at the slowly weakening recognisation of him. The slow absence.
The feel of his fingers on her skin, whispering, scathing, hot and cold, his lips along her jaw line, on the pulse at her throat, the feel of him moving within her.
Memories.
Something like amusement flickering across Hermione's face, pale cheeks pinking in memory and in comparison, because how can she not. He is different, she is different, ten years and only one winter's night is not enough to remember the reality.
The same. But different.
Broader shoulders, more muscled, rigid torso, the slight, ever so slight stubble along his cheek, hands a little more calloused, but just a small amount, along the tips and areas where a knife handle probably cradles while he cuts potion ingredients.
Different. But the same.
The feel of his hair under her fingers, the scent of him, spicy, expensive, cold almost, and the taste, the slight taste of his skin under her tongue.
Warmth pools in her womb, between her legs, centre tightening, tightening.
Desire. Yes. Definitely desire, attraction, still attraction, and the compulsion causing havoc, causing confusion, causing all rational thought, logical thought, to fall away, leaving just her need, an itch between her shoulder blades, even as the cold wraps around her spine once more.
Stroking.
Making her shiver as she stares out the window.
What is this? What are we?
Questions. Questions she never asked before, but ones, perhaps, maybe, she should have.
She questioned her decision in the garden, the night before Ron's funeral, two days after she and Draco had first found, what? Comfort? Peace? All those things, or none of them. She isn't sure anymore.
Sex. Yes. There is that.
There was that. The clinical, logical words; they, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy, had sex in Draco Malfoy's room at the Burrow the night before the final battle between the Light and the Dark, the night before Ron Weasley died, two days before Ron Weasley's funeral.
Memory. Weaving in and out of her.
A palm resting on the coldness of the window's glass.
Guilt now. Then. From the day that she turned and saw Ron, saw Draco, and her Patronus shot out, the Otter, vengeful, stopping the Dementor. Yes, stopping the Dementor, but not the curse.
Guilt.
Coldness. Shivering up her spine.
So, what now?
Questions. A part of her wanting to be angry with him, for leaving her, for the night itself, for so much. For being the arrogant Slytherin, the Malfoy prince, the opposite, the one time enemy, the one time friend, the brief (ever so brief) lover, the enigma.
For being him and she being her.
In the end. There is that.
Because it's always what it comes down to. She is who she is. And he is who he is.
The thought, the simplicity of it, circling her brain. Circling, circling.
Palm against the cold glass. Anchoring.
Because really, it is not that simple. And it never has been. And perhaps the decision she made that night before Ron's funeral was not because of what happened in the final battle, but because in the end, the very end…
She is who she is. And he is who is.
And there is nothing good, wholesome, or light about them together.
Hermione takes her hand away from the glass and curls the fingers towards her palm, bringing the fist up to her chest, pulling the blanket tighter around her form. It's soft but no longer warm and her naked body shivers underneath its folds.
Grey sea below. Crashing.
A moment.
And then she is moving, grabbing her black cloak, dropping the blanket and pulling the cloak around her form, opening the bedroom door to a dim hallway, walking down the hallway to a small kitchen, opening the door to the kitchen and stepping out in the wind.
Into the cold.
The sea crashing on the rocks brilliant in the morning silence.
Brilliant.
She walks towards the grey water. One step, two steps, black cloak swirling about her bare legs, her bare feet, registering none of it as her walk turns faster, into a jog, and then a run, and she runs, her feet hitting the cold cutting grass, brown in the winter's assault, toes curling into the rocks as she hits the cliffs, sliding against the wet stone.
Dimly she realizes the tears on her face.
Dimly she realizes the sky has started to mist down upon her.
Coming to the water, the shore, the rocks, a small beach, cold, so very cold, aching up through her toes, up through her ankles and in the solitude, in the absence of all but the sky above her head, the sea spread out before her and the rocks at her back, she lets the cloak fall.
One step.
Another step.
Water curling about her toes, curling about them, biting in its icy tendrils, curling, curling.
Another step, the water, above her feet, her hands at her sides, mist falling about her shoulders, in her hair, curls falling down a bare backside.
Another step.
Frigid. Wind whipping around her, through her, cold, freezing, frigid, ice, grey shadows.
Another step.
Water, swirling, swirling, about her, feet numbing even as she walks, another step, and another, the water about her knees, hands at her sides and it cleanses and something breaks loose, breaks in a brilliant shadow of darkness, blackness and redness, blood and night.
Always. Always.
Night.
And she walks another step, the water crashing against her, numbing her, hands hitting the water as it touches her, swirling about her, so cold, so cold, so very cold.
Cleaning.
The sky opens above her and she looks upwards, the rain drops catching at her eyelashes, on her cheeks, the lips swollen still, still after so many hours, and the ache, deep in her chest, flaring with its precision of white heat.
A heat that burns in its coldness.
Much like the water swirling about her hips, much like the wind cutting across her skin, across her torso, breasts, arms, up her necks, caressing, yes, but a blade, so cold, so final.
One more step.
And the tears, the drops of moisture from above her head, from her own eyes, they fall down her face, pooling at her chin and then drop. Drop. Drop.
And join the sea.
Falling against her.
And only when she can no longer feel her toes, her feet, her ankles, her legs and her body throbs with the numbness, only then, only then does she drop her head, curls heavy with moisture falling about her face, and only then do the tears stop.
Only then.
Numbness.
Cleanliness.
Turning and walking back to the shore, back to the sand, picking up the black cloak where she left it and absently throwing it over her shoulder.
Only then.
Walking slowly back to the small house on the cliffs, feet numb, stumbling, chilled, shivering now. Yes. Now she is shivering.
Only then.
The rain coming harder. Harder. No longer a mist but blanketing her.
Ice in the form of moisture falling about her as if from a waterfall.
She opens the door to the small house, closing it quietly behind her, walking through the empty kitchen, down the hallway to the room, the room with the fire leaping in the fireplace, to the smell of them, still lingering, intertwining with the smell of rain, of salt, of sea wind.
Intertwining.
And she stands dripping.
For a moment.
Shivering.
For a moment.
And as the numbness fades away and feeling takes place the pain is gradual, an echo, a whisper, and then there, along her feet, legs, up her arms.
A focus.
And she drops her cloak again, this time to the wood floors, putting on her clothes with shaking fingers, shivering into the layers of robes before grabbing her cloak once more, not looking around, not looking out the window, not looking at the flames in the fireplace or the bed with two pillows still indented with two heads.
Does not look.
Closes her eyes.
Apparates to Hogwarts.
And only when she is once more in front of the gates of her school, only then does the shivering stop, not because she is warm but because the pain has subsided and numbness has moved in.
Once again.
So similar to the memory. Yet so different.
An ache somewhere at the base of her spine.
A pain low and deep, curling about her person, stroking even as it slices.
Pain.
Numbness.
Coexisting.
Hermione pushes open the gates of Hogwarts and walks with a quiet step towards the side of the castle, to the side door that will lead her to a hallway unknown by many but one that will take her to her quarters.
Walking.
One foot.
Sky overhead slowly starting to warm with the sun of a winter's day.
Sun. In place of the rain.
And for some reason that hurts her more than anything else.
It is so incredibly inappropriate.
A slap.
From the gods.
But there is numbness and she pushes open the door of the castle, leading into the hallway, barely noticing the portraits looking upon her white face, dark burning eyes, observing the wet curls about her head, plastered against her face, the sodden cloak about her shoulders or the visible shaking that occurs with every step.
Her quarters.
A destination.
Classes.
In two hours.
Breakfast in the Great Hall before that.
Simplicity in the everyday normalcy.
She comes to her quarters, staring at the door for a moment.
Just a moment.
Decisions. Always decisions.
Simplicity? Chaos?
Choices.
Some things change. Some things never do.
Decisions.
Dismantling the wards and opening the door.
The heavy wood closes slowly on her form.
Closing with a quiet click, echoing in the empty hallway.