The letter lay unopened on Hermione's dresser for two weeks.

The first few days after Narcissa left, Hermione was in no state to read anything. Not trusting herself to apparate home, she had found a train station and then a train heading to London and then a window seat where she sat, unseeing and feeling faintly nauseous as the miles flew by. It was a cruel sort of surreal that their roadtrip, which had taken several long, winding weeks and turned Hermione's entire life inside out, could be undone by one and a half days on a high speed train. But the train took no detours. It made no difficult decisions. It was direct, to the point and brutally honest when it deposited Hermione, alone and devastated, at Kings Cross Station.

Hermione gave herself exactly three days after she got home to grieve - lay in bed all day, staring at the letter, waiting for tears that just would not come and eating soup out a can. And then she told herself that she had survived worse and that she would just have to get on with it.

She fetched Crookshanks from Harry, who wisely did not ask any questions, only lay an awkward hand on her shoulder and told her he'd bring her dinner the rest of the week. She went back to work early, delighting her manager and that was good - that was great - because now she could tell herself that she was too busy for mail. And she was busy. The Christmas rush was upon them and Flourish and Blotts looked every day like a crowded Quidditch stadium and every evening like the aftermath of a centaur stampede. She woke up before the birds to unpack boxes and got back late, shoulders stiff and eyes tired. Most days, she collapsed onto her bed the moment she got home, irritable from a day of handling demanding customers.

She was busy, but truthfully, she was not so busy that she could not read a letter. The letter lay unread because every time she looked at it - heavy cream paper and Hermione's name in that handwriting she would recognise anywhere - she remembered the very first letter Narcissa had sent her, extending an invitation of friendship. A beginning. So long as the letter lay unopened on the dresser, it did not have to be an ending.

Sometimes lying in bed at night, not busy at all, Hermione found herself imagining that the letter would say something ridiculous. She imagined it would read:

My darling

I'm sorry to have left you; please do not think it permanent. I realise now that Lucius is a disgusting, bigoted pig and I am leaving him immediately. I have some things to arrange but I will be back.

Keep a lookout for the car. I'm coming.

Narcissa

And various equally unlikely configurations of this.

On the fourteenth day, Hermione came back from dinner at the Burrow and the letter was gone.

"No," she said aloud to the empty room. "No, no, no, no, no -"

She dropped to the floor to look under her bed. Nothing. She opened each one of her drawers. Nothing. She checked the rubbish bin. Nothing. With each disappointment, Hermione's heart beat faster and breathing became more difficult through the wave of panic engulfing her. Perhaps the letter had been enchanted to destroy itself if unopened? Perhaps she had left it near an open window this morning and some malicious bird had seized it without her noticing? As the possibility of never reading Narcissa's last words to her became real, Hermione's thoughts became less and less rational. And then, when Hermione had stripped the covers off her bed to find nothing, when her heartbeat was frantic and her head had started to feel light, Crookshanks let out a muffled meow and Hermione looked down to find him with the letter in his mouth.

"Stinky little beast," Hermione muttered, snatching the envelope out of his mouth. Relief washed over her and she was glad to see that, barring a few teeth shaped punctures around the corners, it was undamaged. She intended to put it back on the dresser, to leave it there for who knows how long - perhaps she would be ready in another few weeks - but Crookshanks meowed up at her again and when she looked down into his wide, unblinking eyes, she knew she would have to open it.

Bullied by a cat - what had she become?

Taking a deep breath, Hermione broke the seal.

My dearest Hermione

I imagine that you are angry. Disappointed in me, I'm sure. Even as I leave you, I cannot help but see myself through your eyes. I must make a most pitiful figure.

I owe you so very much, least of all an explanation, but I will not insult you by giving you one. You are young and fierce and your response to injustice is to fight it. Perhaps you will understand one day, when you are old and tired, why I must go. Somehow I doubt that you will and I am glad of it.

So, in place of an explanation I give you this: an apology, your freedom and a chance at the future you deserve. I would do anything to see you happy so I do the only thing I can - I release you.

I once told you that I would never ask forgiveness of you. I did not know at the time that I was lying. When you look back one day, years from now, I hope you will think of me with warmth and grace. I hope that you forgive me.

Yours always

Narcissa

Hermione let her hand drop to her side. She had expected to cry when she read it, to feel heartbroken and miserable and whatever else she had been feeling these last few weeks amplified. But all of that was twisting in her chest, forming a horrible, bubbling mess. She almost laughed. She had forgotten, in her nostalgia, how she had reacted to Narcissa's first letter. Now she remembered and thought that this one was - unbelievably - worse. Who knew that was possible? And maybe that was unfair but Hermione did not want to think about Narcissa writing this letter in the early hours of the morning, sincere and sobbing the way she had been that night. So she thought of her patronising and evasive and full of shit instead and turned the ache in her throat into a flame. Almost unconsciously she curled her hand into a fist around the letter. She wished very much that a bird had carried the blasted thing off after all.

Hermione arrived at the gates outside Malfoy Manor in a flurry of snow and fury.

"Let me in," she said to the gate through gritted teeth.

To her surprise, it swung open and she strode down the gravel driveway, bits of stone kicking up under her feet.

The Manor door was open. A house elf stood there, bowing and snivelling. Before Hermione could speak, it turned and beckoned her to follow. She found herself ushered into a study of some kind, walls laden with austere portraits and leather bound books.

"Hermione," Narcissa said. She stood behind a desk as if it was a shield she needed between them.

Perhaps she did.

"I read your letter," Hermione said.

Narcissa swallowed. "You seem unhappy," she said.

She looked beautiful, but smaller somehow. Pale and severe. Hermione wondered if she had been eating. Her anger faltered for a moment.

"Narcissa," an imperious voice called. Hermione felt the hair on the back of her neck stand and turned to see Lucius at the door. He smirked when he saw her, amused, no longer threatened. "You've only just come back and you're already tracking mud all over the place."

"Lucius," Narcissa said, tired warning in her tone.

But Hermione was not okay with tired warnings and firm hands on her shoulders. The tense and tangled ache in her chest erupted into a cloud of rage so strong it blurred her vision momentarily. Before either of the Malfoys could react, her wand was out and she had crossed the room to press it to Lucius's throat.

"Go ahead, Malfoy. Try me," Hermione spat. "You spent most of your adult life fighting children and losing. I'm all grown up now and I'm not scared of a pathetic, snivelling worm like you."

"Hermione, please," Narcissa called out behind her. Her voice was a plea. Hermione's grip on her wand only tightened.

The moment seemed to stretch out long and tense. Somewhere a grandfather clock ticked loudly. Lucius's eyes were wide and his Adam's apple bobbed nervously against the tip of her wand. His smirk was gone.

Another tick of the clock and Hermione relented, lowering her wand and stepping back. She turned to Narcissa and pulled the crumpled letter from her jacket pocket.

"I don't need your platitudes," she said.

The telltale muscle flexed in Narcissa's jaw. "You cannot understand -"

"Maybe I don't, Narcissa," Hermione said. "But I've been in a fair few tough situations in my life and somehow I've managed to get out of them without marrying a Death Eater. So justify this to yourself however you like, but don't try to tell me that you're doing anything other than being a coward. Again."

Narcissa flinched and some part of Hermione ached - wanted to take back her harsh words. But that would be dishonest. There was far more than a desk between them now.

Lucius, who had been quiet until then, chose the moment Hermione turned to head to the door to speak.

"Oh and Miss Granger, I'd prefer you didn't see my wife again," he said. "Because you might have bested me as a child, but back then you were the brightest witch of your generation and now you're just a shop girl."

Hermione turned to face him and he was wearing the same, smug, self-satisfied little smirk that Draco had just before -

Crack!

Hermione's fist connected with Lucius's nose with a loud crunch and his head snapped back. He stumbled backward, dropping to his knees where he raised his hands to his face, trying to staunch the blood pouring from his now decidedly crooked nose.

Hermione barely spared him a glance. Instead she looked at Narcissa, who had not moved. Narcissa, who had not rushed to her husband's side. Narcissa, whose eyes were instead on her, and who stood motionless watching the door long after she left.

Back at her flat, Hermione paced. She wanted to curse someone, she wanted to set something on fire, she wanted to cry. But there was no one around to curse, everything in her apartment was precious to her, and the tears still would not come. So instead, she paced.

She was making good mileage - door to couch to door to couch to door - when her fireplace flashed green and someone stumbled out.

Dusting ash from his jacket, Harry looked up at Hermione and grinned. "Lasagne," he said, holding out a casserole. Then his eyes went to Hermione's hands and he frowned. Hermione looked down and was surprised to see that they were still clenched into fists and that the knuckles of one hand were bruised and slightly bloody.

"Sit," Harry said, setting the casserole down on the kitchen counter. "Dittany?"

"In the bathroom cupboard," Hermione said. "Top shelf."

Hermione sat on the couch and looked at the shelves and shelves of books in front of her. Her foot, of its own accord, began to tap anxiously against the floor. Harry re-entered the room and sat on the other side of the couch. He held out his hand and Hermione placed her hand in his.

"So," he said, uncorking the bottle and soaking a small cloth with dittany. "Who's the unlucky guy?"

"Malfoy," Hermione said.

"Excellent!" Harry exclaimed, eyes lighting up behind his glasses. "What did he do this time?"

"Not Draco," Hermione said, smiling despite herself. "Lucius."

"Ah," Harry said, nodding and looking down again.

Hermione winced slightly as Harry began to dab the cloth across her knuckles. A tiny plume of smoke rose from her skin as it stitched together and the bruises cleared. She waited for the questions she knew were forming in his head.

Harry stood and walked to the kitchen counter. He flicked the oven switch on and ran the dittany soaked-cloth under the tap. Within a few minutes, the flat was filled with the smell of melting cheese. Leaning against the counter, Harry spoke.

"So," he said, "just to be clear, you went to Lucius Malfoy's house to see his wife and the night ended with you punching him in the face?"

Hermione nodded.

"You're a little scary sometimes, you know that?" Harry said, grinning. "Brilliant - but scary."

Hermione snorted. Then she groaned and buried her face in her hands. "I should never have gone over there," she said. "And I probably shouldn't have punched him either."

Harry shrugged. "The Malfoys have a way of getting under your skin. Family trait." He regarded her for a moment. "But why did you do it?"

Hermione shook her head. Because she left, she thought of saying. Because he doesn't deserve her and she went back to him anyway.

"I was angry," she said instead. "I just - I'm so angry."

Harry nodded. "And hurt."

Hermione shook her head. "No," she said, though her chest ached so much it felt as if it would split open. "No, just angry."

"You know, after Sirius, Dumbledore told me that pain was my greatest strength. That suffering proved that I was human, that I cared."

Hermione met Harry's gaze. His eyes - that particular shade of green that so many people associated with Lily, but that made Hermione think only of her friend - were sad. Even now, so so many years later, even warm and full of laughter and starting to crease slightly at the corners, his eyes were always just a little sad.

"Respectfully," Hermione said. "That's rubbish."

Harry laughed. "Yeah," he said. "Maybe. It didn't make me feel better at the time either."

The oven timer dinged and he turned to it. He took two plates out of a drawer, heaped spoonfuls of steaming pasta into them and made his way to the couch. He handed one to Hermione.

Hermione took a bite and raised an eyebrow at Harry. "This is good."

"Mrs Weasley's recipe," he said proudly. "Ginny's been craving her mum's food so I've been practising."

For a few minutes, the room was full only of the sound of forks on plates and chewing. Theirs was not a friendship of many words. It was often just like this, in fact. Quiet coexistence, an understanding and love that did not need to be spoken about - in the Hogwart's library, in the tent, at Godric's Hollow, here, now.

"So what did?" Hermione asked eventually. "What made you feel better?"

Harry motioned with his fork at Hermione and then back at himself. "This," he said, around a mouthful of lasagne. "You, Ron, the Weasleys." He swallowed and shrugged. "Dumbledore was wrong about some things, but he was right about a lot too. Love and friendship and family - it really is the most powerful kind of magic."

Hermione shook her head. "When did you get so wise?"

Harry grinned. "Well, so long as you're going around punching people, someone had to step up to be the brains of the group."

For that, Hermione made him wash the dishes.

"You know, I think I might give away some of these," Hermione said, nodding to her shelves while he rinsed. "Someone told me once that it was a shame to keep them all hidden in here."

Harry shook his head. "Don't be silly, Hermione. They'll do a lot more good in your hands than with anyone else."

Hermione hmmed but secretly she thought that he was wrong.

Later, when Harry had left - extracting from her first a promise to come over for dinner the next evening and clearing his throat roughly when Hermione said seriously, "You're going to be a wonderful father, Harry," - Hermione looked to her shelves again.

They'll do a lot more good in your hands.

Harry's words played over and over in her head. He was wrong, she thought again. They wouldn't do anyone any good at all with her.

Once upon a time, Hermione had seen books as tools that she could use to be better, to help her friends, to make the world a better place. To do good. When had she stopped seeing them that way? When had they become nothing more than a way to pass the time? It was such a small and limited way to think about knowledge and Hermione could not help but feel that it fit perfectly into the small and limited world that she had constructed for herself these past few years.

She thought of her then - the way she had looked in that house again, its marble pillars and archways like the bars of a gilded cage. The thought was fleeting. Hermione did not allow it to settle in her mind because it was soil from which she knew pity and sympathy might grow and she was not yet ready to feel those things. But nonetheless it prompted in Hermione the thought that there was a great big world out there full and glistening with problems to solve and poems to learn and sun-filled meadows to lie in. She knew that now.

Voldemort was dead. The war was over. She had needed time to heal and she had had it. And now, it was time to live.

Hermione filled Crookshanks' bowl with the wet food he liked, scratched him behind his ears as he ate, and then she got busy. Genuinely this time.

In the next few days, the size of Hermione's world expanded exponentially. She arranged her academic apprenticeship with Professor McGonagall, who only nodded with a Dumbledoresque twinkle in her eye and a very McGonagall, "It's about time, Miss Granger," when Hermione approached her for the job. She spent a full day at the shop with Ron and George helping them develop a new and improved Puking Pastille (projectile, no aftertaste - it really was a brilliant piece of magic). She went baby shopping with Harry and somehow volunteered herself to proofread the Dobby Memorial House Elf Rights Bill that he was working on with Winky. She met with Padma to talk through a particularly tricky chapter of her thesis and found herself strong-armed into a series of horribly awkward blind dates, which at least made good stories and kept a very grumpy Ginny (who was on compulsory maternity leave from the Harpies) entertained.

It was a lot. It was better than nice. It was more than enough.

And most of the time, it was just enough to keep her mind off Narcissa.