She would go insane, she was sure of it. Hermione Granger appeared in the middle of her own home's living room with a flourish, and sank down onto the plush rug under her feet.

She knew she had only herself to blame, but that didn't ease her suffering. After a decade, her every thought and action carried within itself the mark of the Veela, the mark of her mate, and she couldn't shake it off. She read legends upon legends of perfect unions, powerful bonds, and eternal bliss, but she couldn't comprehend how she could grow to love someone who she resented and despised first.

She didn't even know if she would want to, but she found no alternative way to ease this madness. There was an itch deep under her skin she knew only the touch of one could soothe, and it didn't let up. Even now, having just parted from her, the insistent barrage against her mind was already at large.

She tried escaping it, negating it, cheating it, Merlin and Morgana be her witness, she even tried to do blood magic to get rid of this burden. She tried not paying attention to it when all else failed, but courting anyone else felt like her mouth was filled with ash and her heart drenched in ice water. Magic knew what it wanted. The only problem was, Hermione Granger was stubbornly convinced she knew better.

After all, one shouldn't allow themselves to entertain romantic inclinations towards someone who was already happily married - or seemed like. It just wasn't fair to the third, unsuspecting party. That the married woman seemed resigned to the fate of ruining her marriage should be irrelevant. And it was. Hermione declined, and up till the present moment, she held fast to her decision. The conversation she had with Fleur left her off kilter. It made her stop and think.

She wasn't married anymore. Hermione hadn't even known the divorce took place, what with her searching all corners of the world to right her mistake - but it seemed like the damage was done. She was too late. And now the only thing left for her to do was to give in. She was free to do so, morally, at least.

But what if I never give in? - She asked herself, her stomach in nervous knots and her limbs restless.

She knew the answer already. This madness would never end, and if luck would have it, it would even escalate forever to drive her insane.

She took a cold shower to snap herself out of it, but no matter how she scrubbed her skin, she felt urges and thoughts that she couldn't fight much longer coiling and twisting just beneath the surface. She dried off, and upon returning to her living room, took care to vanish the seawater from her clothes and shoes lest they become damaged.

With the insistent itch still upon her mind, she laid down to rest, bone tired, weary, and in desperate need of sleep. Meeting Fleur always took its toll on her, intensifying the ache to return to her - not unlike taking off a wet sock, but having to put it back on before it dried completely. The dampness and the cold would fade over time, but for the moment, it was ever present.

After a night of fitful sleep, filled with flashes of memory and images she'd rather forget, she knew she'd have to return to Shell Cottage if she wanted any rest. It was worse than it was last year, and last year was already maddening. She'd have to give in. She didn't want to. She couldn't believe this was the end. She wanted to try something else first. Something she hadn't tried in a long time.

Her stomach was still a jumble of knots, making her forego breakfast. After dressing herself in an attire suitable for leaving the house, she steeled her resolve, and twisted on the spot to disappear again.

She appeared in the front garden of the Burrow, and fond memories of days long past flooded her mind. Lazy summers spent watching her friends play quidditch, nights spent gossipping with Ginny in the confines of the girl's room.

She hadn't set foot in this house in years. She couldn't bring herself to come see them after causing them so much heartbreak. She was startled out of her reverie by the creaking hinges of the front door. A head of fiery red hair appeared from within, and Hermione could see her childhood friend's face fall at the sight of her.

"Oh… It's you then." He said as he leaned on the doorframe, his arms crossed defensively across his chest.

"Ron-" Hermione started as she ventured closer. Ron turned away and went back inside without a word, leaving the door open. In a couple of seconds, Hermione was on the threshold, and Ron had one foot up on the first step of the staircase.

"Is Bill here?" Hermione asked, determined not to show how much she was hurting as she forced her voice not to crack.

"Oh, you want to talk to Bill now?" Ron scoffed, and started up the stairs. Hermione followed hurriedly, intent on not letting Ron escape her. The lanky redhead led the way up the flight of stairs and stopped in front of a door that read "Bill's Room" on it. He wordlessly knocked, turned on his heel, and continued up the stairs into his room. Hermione looked after him with a pained look. One day, she would fix this, too. When she was right in the head again.

The door slowly opened to reveal the face of who Hermione supposed was Bill Weasley. After years of no contact, it was a challenge to recognise anyone. His hair and beard were long overgrown, and he looked and smelled like he hadn't showered in at least a week.

"Hermione" He said in place of greeting, his voice small and broken.

"I was wondering if we could talk?" Hermione asked, her ears burning. She knew it took some nerve to do what she was doing, but she was hanging by a thread. By the looks of it, Bill let the last thread go ages ago.

Bill let her inside the room and settled on his bed. He seemed entirely unresponsive, or in the least very passive if not addressed directly. Hermione formulated this opinion about him based on the fact that she stood in the middle of his room for two minutes and watched him look at the floor without moving a muscle. She wondered if this was the side effect of regular depression, or the effect of the magic that also held her in her grasp.

"Bill?"

"What did you want to talk about?"

"I just wanted you to know I didn't want any of this. I wanted the opposite of this, and I had no idea that this would happen."

"Is this about Fleur?"

"I… yes. No. Yes?"

"I'd like for you to leave, Hermione." He said, his voice suddenly filled with life - anger - and stood to go and open the door.

"Wait, no. I want to stop it. I want to get rid of it. I'm losing my mind. You're a cursebreaker…" She started, but Bill's empty eyes stopped her in her tracks.

"There's no escaping it, Hermione. If there had been, I'd have already freed myself, but… I cannot, I will not help you. You'll have to accept it. Live with it." He said, and motioned for her to leave.

"But I don't want that. I never wanted that, and neither did she! She wanted you!"

"That's neither here nor there." He said defeatedly, then as an afterthought, added "She only wants one thing now, the same as you. Good luck with that - don't let me stop you."

His words had a manner of biting, cruel finality to them as he stepped closer to Hermione, almost threateningly. She stumbled out of the room, and her legs took her outside before she was seen by anyone else. Before she could realise she was crying again.

She was ashamed of herself. She knew this would lead to nothing, only bring her grief. It made her feel dirty to the bone, to have the gall to ask a drowning man for help, whose suffering she caused. In a way, she was relieved - she felt like she deserved this pain, she deserved all the resentment and anger of Bill Wealey. In the very least, it made her feel something other than the insistent, prickly urge to run into Fleur's arms - for which, in a strange way, now she had Bill's blessing for.

She wanted this to be over. She never meant to hurt anyone. With an anguished cry, she apparated home.