Ripples of water, magic, thought. Ripples, a tide pool, swirling about and somewhere she is lost in that tide pool, struggling to breath, clawing her way upwards, and then…
She is not.
Her head is above it. Free of it.
Pressure gone.
Breathing.
With great gulps of air, of magic.
Awareness, before she opens her eyes.
The feel of lips across her own.
The sound of a voice, so achingly familiar, saying words she does not understand. Words her mind does not yet have the capability of understanding.
Opening, struggling, opening her eyes to see no one and wondering, all the while trying to make sense of everything, wondering if the words were real.
If the kiss was real.
Not knowing.
Not knowing anything.
The door opens to allow entrance to a mediwitch and a mediwizard, immediately at her side, faces concerned, as their wands start moving over her body, and after them, Minerva, Harry and George.
Stopping, as they see her looking at them, as they watch the diagnostic spells moving above her.
"What happened?" Hermione finally manages, past the feel of sandpaper in her throat.
The mediwizard hands her a glass of water. She sips it gratefully.
"We would like to ask you that same question," the older man says, looking down at her in professional curiosity, his light brown eyes kind.
Hermione hands the water back to the mediwizard and looks again at the trio at the door, shaking her head slowly. "I don't understand."
Minerva takes a step into the room, coming towards her. "You passed out, my child. You've been unconscious for almost eight hours."
Hermione remembers, suddenly, distinctly, and her gaze immediately seeks out and finds Harry's.
"Lily?"
She wonders at the flash of guilt, horror, on her Harry's face before being replaced by nothing.
He answers.
"Lily is fine. They are releasing her in an hour."
As if a weight is lifted from her chest Hermione instantly feels better, freer and she nods. "Good."
Harry opens his mouth to say something and Hermione catches the look that George is suddenly glaring into the back of his brother-in-law's head, but before another word is said the mediwitch turns and gestures with her hands.
"Please leave us for a moment. We need to examine her."
Harry hesitates, just a moment, but Minerva is turning and when she does, Harry follows suit.
George does not immediately follow, scanning her face with concerned eyes, a look she knows she has given him many times before.
She smiles in reassurance.
He catches her eye, his blue ones soft, then flashes her a smile and also turns.
All three disappear once more from the room.
Hermione looks away from the absent door to where the two medical professionals are looking down on her. She shifts in her bed, a dull throb at the back of her head making it so her vision swirls about for a moment before settling.
"What happened?" She repeats, focusing on the woman.
The man answers.
"We are not entirely sure to be honest. We were hoping you would be able to answer some of our questions."
Hermione settles. "Are you speaking of what I did with Lily Potter?"
The mediwitch waves her wand about Hermione even as she answers. "Partially. Mr. Snape said that you transferred her magic somehow? I was not there but from all accounts it took an hour and then afterwards you fainted."
Hermione dimly remembers Severus by her side and she feels a flush of embarrassment at the thought that he saw her faint.
She still very much does not like weakness.
The mediwizard continues. "So, that is what happened? You transferred magic?"
Hermione answers. "Yes. A rather base way of describing it, but yes."
The mediwizard leans slightly forward and Hermione is uncomfortably aware of his magic and she wonders briefly, just a thought, why it is she can even feel his magic.
"Can you explain how you accomplished that?" He asks.
Hermione shakes her head slowly, thinking on it. "I really can't." A pause. "I just can."
The mediwitch nods her head. "Well, that actually makes quite a bit of sense. Magic is not easily defined nor explained; it would make sense that this is the case here also. But Miss Granger, you were completely comatose a few moments ago, your magic was responding very strangely, but now it appears as if there is absolutely nothing wrong with you, well besides a slight headache it appears."
The memory of a kiss.
The memory of words.
She isn't sure of the reality of them.
And shakes her head slowly.
"I can't tell you." She says.
And it's the truth.
She can't say. She has no recollection of anything beyond the last moment before she fell to unconsciousness.
And the dim memory of something she isn't sure happened.
And the feeling of drowning.
Hermione is released at the same time that Lily Potter is, and with George's protective arm about her, she finds herself at the Potter's.
"Now Hermione, I want you to take a few days off to rest," Minerva says as she follows them out of the kitchen and towards the stairs.
Hermione turns in the protective hold of George and looks on the Headmistress.
"I am fine, Minerva. I feel a little shaky and a bit of a headache but I can most assuredly teach classes tomorrow."
The stern older witch shakes her head once. "I won't hear of that. You take the rest of the week and I will cover for you."
Guilt, moving across Hermione's face as if it were water. She leans into the tall, warm form of George.
Minerva put a hand up. "I don't want to hear another word. That is an order, Hermione."
George's arm tightening about her shoulders, whether in agreement or in warning, Hermione doesn't know, but it's enough, the two of them, as well as the guilt still radiating from Harry, for her to nod her head.
"Of course, Minerva. But no more than this week."
The Headmistress gave her a small smile and nodded at George before disappearing back into the kitchen to Floo to Hogwarts.
"All right, Mione?" George asks quietly.
Hermione turns and looks up at George, catching the brilliant blue of his eyes, concern warring with something else that she does not want to analyze.
She slowly nods. "Yes. Just tired."
"To bed then," George says brightly, if a little too brightly.
Hermione wishes that she could go her own bed but knows that there will be a fight if she suggests such a thing so she allows George to steer her to the Potter's spare bedroom. She is not surprised to find a small bag with personal things sitting on the bed and knows that Ginny, at some point, had made sure to get her things for her.
Making the argument of going back to her own bed an even more futile one.
George moves so he can give her a full hug and Hermione leans into him again, placing her head against his chest, letting the tiredness fall into her bones as she closes her eyes for a moment.
Safety. Warmth.
A man who has been there for her.
But words, said, not said, and a cold chill at the base of her spine, war with her desire to find peace in him.
George places his chin on top of her head; when he speaks she can feel the flicker of breath of her hair. "You scared us, Hermione."
He says this quietly but just slightly tinged with something else.
Anger.
Hermione does not open her eyes.
"I am sorry."
She says quietly. Though she isn't, not really, and would do it again if she had to.
A testament to the years, again, to the knowledge that George has of the witch, to many things. He laughs and hugs her tight before letting her go and stepping away.
She looks up at him and grins slightly.
"I am." She repeats.
George shakes his head. "Though it wouldn't make it so you wouldn't do it again."
A slight shrug.
Another laugh. Another hug.
"I would have been there by your side the entire time but I had to go and take care of some urgent business. I am sorry I wasn't there when you woke up."
Hermione, remembering.
She tightens her arms about him.
"It's fine, George. I don't know what happened, the professionals don't know what happened, so let's just be thankful that it appears as if everything is going to be ok."
A smile, against the side of her head.
She just barely feels it.
"The same Hermione, always the same Hermione," he says and in his voice gentleness and so much warmth.
And then a throat clearing from the doorway.
George does not release her from the latest hug, instead just turning his head. Hermione does the same, feeling secure, feeling safe, in the arms about her.
Harry is watching them with an amused expression on his face.
Though Hermione can immediately feel his magic, like she could with the mediwizard, a throbbing, and in it, unhappiness, guilt, and still, ever so slightly, anger.
George releases her again, looking down on her and kissing the tip of her nose.
Hermione smiles as something tightens in her gut. For some reason, some unknown and unanalyzed reason, sadness moves through her, wraps around her.
Though George has already turned away and does not see it.
"I'll go check on Ginny and Lily," George says and then it is just the two of them.
Friends.
Hermione does not meet Harry's green eyes, instead she turns and takes the bag from the bed, depositing it on the floor before sitting down on the pink and blue quilt.
"He loves you, you know." Harry says quietly.
For a moment, the briefest of moments Hermione thinks he is talking about someone else, something else, and her stomach floats, drops, tightens, before her mind catches up and she knows he speaks of George.
Hermione smiles gently, slightly. "And I love him," she responds, though she still does not meet Harry's gaze.
She looks up when she hears the door closed, watching the tall, dark-haired man walk over to the overstuffed chair in the corner.
It is also pink and blue, to match the quilt and the curtains at the windows.
Hermione sees these details, because she does not want to see what is going across her friend's face. What his expression is.
"But," Harry finally says.
Hermione looks down at her fingers. Looks down on them and remembers how they looked intertwined with another set of fingers, long fingers graced with a red stone.
And the feel of lips.
And the sound of his voice.
"There is always a but." She says, not looking up.
Her magic swirling about her, in reaction to her words, in reaction to Harry's magic. But it's not overwhelming and it's not too much. Clarity.
Just. In her magic.
Silence between them. Silence. History. Memories.
She knows Harry does not understand. She knows that she will never be able to explain.
"I shouldn't have let you do that." He finally says.
Hermione smiles, another smile, slightly off, slightly soft, gentle, wise, knowing, as she finally meets the brilliant green eyes of Harry Potter.
The green is a swirl with emotion. So many emotions that she can't actually read them all, even if she had wanted to.
A slight grimace, alongside his face. "Of course, that wouldn't have stopped you."
"Not in the least." Her immediate reply.
And then anger. She sees it spark in his eyes, along his jaw line, in the clenching of a fist. "Bloody hell, Mione. Why are you always throwing yourself in danger to save me?"
Hermione raises an eyebrow at that.
Harry gets up from the chair and starts pacing the room, long strides, three steps to one wall, three steps to the other, repeat.
She watches him. Watches him and allows the anger to flow around her. Knowing because she knows him that this is not only about Lily, that this is about ten years ago, about memories, about their lifetime together.
So she stays silent.
Watching him. Recalling the way he was fifth year, so angry, anger to hide the uncertainty.
She feels a stab of love, so absolute, so real, falling across her, through her.
But she stays still and watches him pace.
Three strides one way and three strides the other.
Until he stops in front of her and crouches low on his knees so his face is level with hers, and in his face is sadness, pain, and horrible, horrible guilt.
"Why, Hermione?" He asks and his voice is broken.
She places her hands on either side of Harry's face, his cheek scruffy under her palms. "Because that is what I do, Harry." She speaks the truth and her words echo with it.
But Harry refuses to listen, not yet. "That's not an answer, Mione." He says quietly.
Hermione smiles. "Of course it is. You are my brother, Harry, not in blood, but in every other way, you are my family, closer to me than anyone else, and because of that I would do anything for you and for your family. I do what I do because I love you, and I love Ginny, and Lily, and little Ronald and Fred."
Harry, searching her eyes with his own.
"You don't do this out of guilt?"
He says.
If Hermione was once the girl she was and not the woman she's become, she would have blown up at the sound of the words, at the insult that is not there but sounds as if it were.
But she is that woman so instead she shakes her head. "No, not out of guilt."
A pause.
Green eyes searching.
And then.
"Not even over Ron's death."
Coldness. Creeping into her, up through her hands against Harry's cheeks, around her throat.
She drops her hands and the smile falls away.
Remembering.
Remembering.
A flash of green. An instant of death.
A decision.
Not known, not until after it was all ready made.
"Why did you say that?" Hermione says, finally, barely, around a swollen throat, around the blood in her ears.
But instead of answering, instead of explaining, Harry asks her another question.
"What happened between you and Malfoy?"
Blood roaring, roaring, mind numbing, tired, so tired, guilt, heavy, weighing her down. Pressing down, down, down.
"What do you mean?" She asks, says, pleads, words barely a whisper, wondering, why, why is he asking, why now?
And a pair of green eyes searching.
Pinning her.
Searching.
"Was there something going on between the two of you, Hermione? Is there?"
And Hermione, backtracking, flinging herself away, not physically, but mentally, tearing her eyes away from Harry's, looking down at her hands, her magic gathering about her.
All three magics, gathering about her.
Guilt. The taste of it like bile in her throat, on her tongue, at the back of her teeth.
Bile.
And then a hand, Harry's hand, taking her own and she looks down at it, looks down on their fingers and she remembers other fingers, and a desire, a wish, a hope, rising up.
Wondering.
If she had never done that. If she had never done what she did.
If she had never felt the way she had.
If she and Harry would be sitting in this room.
Or if they would be dead.
"Tell me, Hermione." The voice gentle but demanding, and somewhere underneath it, pleading.
Denial on her lips.
On her tongue.
Until she looks up from their hands and into the green eyes of her best friend.
And denial falling away.
Replaced by nothing.
And nothing is bitter.
Because there is still anger in those green eyes, anger, and something like accusation. And everything is very complicated, so very shadowed, so very unclear.
Always, always, so very chaotic.
Letting her fingers slip from Harry's, breaking away her gaze, standing up, leaving, a part of her wants to just leave, but instead of the door, going to the window, the cool glass, the winter's afternoon.
Placing a palm there. Just there.
The coldness lacing through her fingers, up her skin, around her wrists.
Anchoring.
Hearing Harry move from his crouch, knowing he sits himself on the bed, towards her, looking on her.
Coldness. She leans forward and place her cheek against the glass, closing her eyes.
The swirl of magic behind her eyelids clear, precise, strong.
Brilliant colours.
Shadowed.
Tinged with red.
Memories.
"I felt a connection to him," she finally says, quietly, words spoken in the silence of the room. Continuing. "The night he showed up at the Burrow and he was close to insane, I felt something of his insanity and later, when he was better, when he could speak, I would listen to him, the same boy we knew in school but different too, and it was as if he was always speaking to me."
A smile, against the glass, against the cold.
"Silly really, but then, I have always been silly about things I believed needed my help."
A harsh intake of breath. Slow outtake.
"He never needed your help, Hermione."
The voice of a politician.
Hermione does not even respond to it, instead she focuses on the colours behind her eyes, on them swirling about her. Pulling on them, gathering them.
She continues.
"The first time we actually had a conversation was when you and Ron were out playing Quidditch with everyone. He couldn't yet, his leg was not all the way healed. I remember thinking he is going to do nothing but complain all morning about not being able to fly, complain, and whine, what he always was like, what he always did, but he didn't. I could tell he was bitter, I could almost taste it on the air, but he never once said a word." A smile, at the memory, of the boy with the brilliant white hair staring out the window, then back at his book, then out the window, and how she had watched him from lowered eyelashes from she sat.
Continuing.
"Anyway, he was reading something on Arithmancy and he asked me a question, I don't remember it now, just some random question. You know me, the know-it-all, and so I explained it. Before I knew it our conversation had stretched to hours and the lot of you were coming back in. I realized then that I had just spent three hours talking with Draco Malfoy without once trading an insult."
Opening her eyes then, pulling away from the glass, though she keeps her palm against it, anchoring, even as she looks out to the scene outside.
The winter's afternoon.
And smiles because it is ironically appropriate.
Continuing.
"He's smart, Harry, very smart, smarter than me in some things, intuitive, so when you and Ron were off, playing chess or Quidditch or whatever it is you two did alone, I talked with him. We talked about everything, Horcruxes, how to destroy them, where they were, battle plans, the latest Death Eater meeting he went to, his training with Severus, Order business, but other things too, the latest potions research, if we would ever be able to finish our seventh year, gossip about everyone in the Order." Another smile, though this one more of a wry twist to the lips than anything. "I suppose it was because no one talked with him but me, and because no one talked to me about those things but him."
A snort. And a stab from Harry's magic.
"You could have talked to us."
Words that Hermione knew were coming.
Turning her head to look at Harry, his face scowling, reminiscent to another time and a younger Harry.
"I know, Harry, I do. But you had so much to deal with, so much stress, and really Harry, would you have wanted to talk about school, about potions, with me?"
She says this question gently, very gently, and is not surprised when Harry looks slightly embarrassed. Just slightly.
Hermione continues, staring at Harry, back against the window, leaning against it, supporting her.
She can feel the chill through her robes.
Continuing.
"And then we realized that your scar was the last Horcrux, and suddenly it became very important to find a solution so that we could both destroy it but keep you alive, and in a state that you could fight Voldemort."
Harry wincing at her words.
And then paling as she continues.
"That is when Severus was given the book, when the spell was introduced. Draco and I worked on that spell, worked through it, again and again, while you and Ron were finding the last Horcrux, the cup, remember? And that led us to the conclusion that it was the only way."
A bitter laugh. Bitterness.
Hermione knows what it tastes like, even as it comes from Harry's mouth.
"Did you even look for another way?" The question harsh, caustic.
Hermione narrowing her eyes, this time in irritation, true irritation.
"Honestly, Harry, do you think I wanted to die? Do you think I would have done that spell if I had not looked for any other way, absolutely any other way to do what needed to be done."
A snort.
Anger, irritation for anger and irritation.
"I bet Malfoy didn't help you with that. Probably was fine with the outcome of the spell."
And suddenly Hermione's anger is cold, chilled, about her, and she stares at Harry with ice in her gaze.
Causing Harry to sit a little straighter, hand reaching for his wand, though neither realise he does this.
"You're wrong, Harry."
Memories. Memories.
Of the hopeless feeling in her stomach as she'd finished the calculations, as she had looked up at Draco standing against the library window, as he had turned and saw her look. Memories, of his reaction as she explained it, at the tightening of his jaw, of those grey eyes hardening, of the fury suddenly, ripping the book out of her hands and throwing it across the room, of him taking her wrists so harshly they bruised and telling her that they would not do this, that there was absolutely no fucking way they would do this.
Memories.
That she tells Harry in her cold voice.
"And he looked, we looked, Harry. We spent three almost sleepless weeks looking for another solution, but there was none, Harry, nothing that would compare to this field, this dimension of magic."
A pause. In the narrative. In the silence of the room.
Hermione standing against the cold glass.
Chilling.
Anchoring.
And then Harry slowly slouching back in his chair, shoulders dropping as his hand falls away from his wand. Closing his eyes.
Hermione watches him.
Suddenly wary, suddenly unsure, the anger falling away and replaced by something else.
Harry opens his eyes, the green there tired, accepting but tired. Too many years on a man so young.
How can we feel this old and still be this young?
The question, circling about her mind. A question she used to ask almost every day ten years prior.
A question that has never gone away.
"What happened?" Harry asks finally.
Hermione tilts her head, curls falling about her face.
"What do you mean?"
Harry waves his hand, "What happened between you and Draco? Why is it that every time I see you two together it is as if you are about to either kill each other or jump each other?"
The question is startling, not only because of the question itself but because of Harry's observation.
"The compulsion, the binding," Hermione finally answers. Slowly.
Buying time, though she doesn't realize she is doing it.
Harry shakes his head. "No. It is more than that. I know what a binding feels like, what a compulsion feels like and besides, if it was truly the compulsion, the binding, you would have not spent the last ten years running away from it." A pause. "Running away from him."
Coldness.
Hermione thinks.
Placing her hands against the window, palm against the chill, though she does not turn away from Harry's gaze.
Wondering, somewhere distant, at the back of her mind, why she always forgets how intuitive Harry truly is.
Harry continuing.
"I know it isn't that anyway." A smile, pained. "I might not be brilliant, or even overly smart, but I remember the looks between the two of you even before the spell. That last night, before the battle, leaving the room, I remember the way you hugged me, and hugged Ron, but you were already gone, your gaze never once leaving Draco. I had noticed it before then, how you couldn't sleep and eat when he went with Severus to one of those meetings, how you would wait up for him until they came back, and I remember that night, how you looked when Severus brought him in. Maybe no one else did, but Hermione, I remember the terror on your face, and how you didn't even flinch when he called you a Mudblood."
A pause.
A tilting of a dark head.
"So. What happened? There was something there between the two of you. So, why have you been running away from him for the last ten years?"
Again.
On her tongue to lie. The deceptive words pushing against her teeth. Denial. There is beauty in it. There is innocence in it.
Naivety.
But it has been a very long time since Hermione was naïve.
And Harry is waiting for an answer.
So meeting his eyes, across the room, she tells him the truth.
"Because I killed Ron by saving Draco."
And the white cold heat in her chest is brilliant in its precision.