"Did you say something?" Rosalyn turned toward her father, her appearance sleepier. She rubbed her eyes with her fist.

He looked over his shoulder and then back in front of him. He swore he just saw his dead wife. He swallowed the thick saliva and said, "no, sweet girl, I, er, stubbed my toe. Go on and get some rest."

Rosalyn giggled, "well, be careful, you silly goose!"

Draco chuckled, "ah yes, I will, you silly goose." He left the room; his body was shaking, and his stomach was doing an all too familiar nauseated dance. The hallways and stairs seemed to be a lot longer of a journey than usual. But he returned to his study and kept the door open just in case Rosalyn needed him again. His surrounding seemed to spin as he sat back at his desk and reopened the journal he had previously been writing in. He popped the top of an old whisky he kept in a drawer and poured it into a crystal tumbler. He downed it in one go, and sudden warmth engulfed him. Then, taking the quill back into his now steady hand, he began writing once again.

For the first time since your death, I am seeing you now… I — I fear I will lose my mind if that continues. Rosalyn can't lose me too…

"Hello, Love," A soft, velvety voice said.

Draco slowly peered up from the book and looked directly into his wife's eyes. His mouth went dry, and a frenzy took over his body.

Standing as though she was in perfect health. She was dressed in what she'd been buried in: A long white wrap dress. Her hair was curly as ever and wild. She was on her hands, leaning against his desk, forward, "what are you doing?"

Draco stared. From every truth ever told, the woman he knew was six feet under the ground and stood just a few feet away from him. "Draco?"

His throat was dry. He had to form spit to swallow to get her name out of his mouth. "Her— Hermione, what?" The man squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head. This isn't real, he repeated to himself. "You're not real." He stated pointedly and moved to get up.

Hermione reappeared next to him, Very much realizing she had moved from her previous spot within an instant. "Excuse me, that was rather rude to say, Draco Lucius."

"What?" Draco continued to his serving cart and began pouring himself something stronger. " A, A, A, a ghost of my wife, telling me I'm rude. No. No... I'm dreaming. I'm dreaming…."

"You're not, though." Hermione was beside him again. She placed a hand on his wrist, making him bring his drink away from his lips. "Honestly, Malfoy, I thought you'd be much happier to see me."

He froze. He felt Hermione Jean touch him. Felt her nimble, soothing fingers grace his skin. She wasn't cold. His stomach flipped, and a bout of nausea heaved up his throat. Oh, how he missed her. He jerked his head up and toward his wife, "h-how? How are you here?"

She placed a palm over his cheek, and he leaned into it, closing his eyes at her touch. "You finally wrote to me."

"What do you mean?" He asked, confused. He searched her face. He looked for every freckle, the pretty marbling of her eyes, the soft pink hue of her lips; It was all there.

"That journal I gave you, you finally started writing to me. Remember — I asked you to tell me everything." She answered with a smile.

It had been a snowstorm that night, and their small Christmas get-together had just ended. Rosalyn was cuddled up next to Hermione, sound asleep. It'd been a long day. Hermione had gone through a hard go of potions to help alleviate her pains and keep up with the gathering. She watched as the snow outside swirled around faster but admired as the Christmas lights blinked across the land. The reflection of the candle flame caught her attention when it flickered at Draco entering the room.

"She looks comfortable." He said quietly as he reached down to kiss his wife's cheek.

"She is. Leave her be." Hermione gently patted her daughter's head. Draco smiled. As much as he wanted to lie next to Hermione and be selfish with her time, he knew Rosalyn deserved it just as much.

"How do you feel? "he asked, knowing good and well she felt like shit, but he always hoped for a better answer.

" I feel… exhausted, but I'm okay." Her voice was rough.

"I wish I could take this away from you." Draco leaned onto his elbow and crossed his legs.

" I know. But I wouldn't wish for you to take it." Hermione reached behind her pillow and pulled out a black journal. It was plain, and nothing seemed special about it. She handed it to her husband.

"What's this?" He asked as he turned the book over and began flipping through the blank pages.

"It's a journal… a diary. I — I want you to… write to me." She heaved a sigh.

Draco immediately moved to sit beside the frail woman, taking her weakened legs and placing them over his. "Hermione?"

" I… I am just going to miss you and Rosie so much." She cried, careful not to wake the sleeping child next to her.

"What do you mean? You're not going anywhere." Draco had said that more for himself than for her.

Hermione tilted her head to the side, "oh Draco… don't be ridiculous…. You know it; we both do and have for a while now. I — I don't have much time left. I am sick."

"But modern magic medicines are getting better every single day. And you know my mother is constantly looking through her family's medicinal herbs. So there has to be something. You can't just give up." Draco felt the warmth of aggravation pool in his belly. It wasn't that he was angry at Hermione; he was upset at the situation. Hermione gave him a sad smile and reached over to touch his arm. She already knew Narcissa had done more than even her Healers in finding a cure for Hermione's situation. She didn't want to break that news to him. Instead, she tried to keep his hope alive but knew she couldn't uphold her end forever.

" Alright, Draco, just… hold on to this, and when you feel the time to write in it, it's here for you to try it." He set it on the dresser, leaving it to avoid touching it again because Hermione wasn't going anywhere.

"What does that have to do with anything? I've dreamt of you. I think of you often. You are talked about to anyone who will listen." Draco hung his head but raised it back instantly, afraid he'd lose sight of the woman before him.

"I told you to write to me so I could know everything. But what I didn't tell you was… I charmed the journal so I'd appear when you do, and you can tell me everything." Hermione kept eye contact with her husband. "If only you had listened, you'd have started long ago. However, I understand. You just weren't ready."

Draco stared. How many times would she appear? Was this a one-time thing? Here he was, full of mixed sentiments and questions and running out of time. But he couldn't form the words. He couldn't think of where to start. He wanted to hug her and tell her he loved and missed her. He wanted to yell at her for not telling him from the beginning; perhaps he could've gone through much less pain. Or would this make it worse? He'd be chasing and holding onto a ghost. Fuck those thoughts, oh, he was so happy to see her there. When he spoke again, his voice was raspy and low. He feared if he spoke much louder, he'd let out the sobs he was holding in. "C-can Rosalyn see you?"

Hermione looked down, then back up at Draco, "she won't be able to when you write to me. But I also left a journal for her when she's a little older. It's in the top of her closet..."

"How did you know I'd write to you?" Draco asked suddenly.

The woman shrugged, "I didn't. I guess I hoped."

The man moved to the loveseat in his office. He leaned forward to both knees and settled his head into his hands. No, you can't keep your eyes off her. Look at her. She is here. This all had to be a dream, a peculiar one. He was impressed — that much he could say. Hermione had so many talents. More than she led on. But that was her — humble. He raised his head again to speak to his wife, but she had gone. No. "Hermione?" His heartbeat picked up at an ungodly pace as he raced back to his desk, reopening the journal. He wrote: Hermione. She didn't appear. Again, he wrote her name. She didn't come back. He wrote it multiple times over, and she still didn't reappear. He slammed the book shut and dropped to the floor, crisscrossing his legs. His whole body began to shake as tears poured down his cheeks. He pulled his knees into his chest. Sobs overtook him. What could he have done differently to keep her there a little longer? Why couldn't he have just enjoyed her presence though it was little time? He wasted time filling his head with questions. He didn't keep his eyes on her long enough. He didn't even take the time to take in her scent. He growled at himself. How dare she do this to me! Just show up for a moment? Why did she ever think this would've been a good idea? She said she'd appear if I wrote to her, so why hasn't she come back?

The wizard sat there for he didn't know how long, just staring at the empty room. His eyes grew tired, as well as his body. He lay on his side and traced the carpet with his index finger. Once bored with that, he sat back up against the wall. He hoped that maybe she would come back. He hoped that perhaps he was dreaming and that if he stayed asleep, he could control his dreams, and she'd return. But, the hours passed, the moon hovered in his window, and the next thing he knew, the sun began to shine tendrils through. His lower back ached from being on the floor all night. He groaned as he moved to get out of the spot.

POP!

The house elf, Daisy, named by Draco and Hermione's daughter, entered the room. "Master, Young Miss Rosalyn is awake. Would you like her to go on to breakfast?"

Draco rubbed his eyes as he nodded. The tiny elf turned her neck, "it seems as though your mother has arrived."

Sleepily, Draco sighed. She wasn't someone he wanted to deal with so early this morning. "Thank you, Daisy. Have her sit for breakfast as well. I will be right down."

Daisy left the room with a soft disapparition, and he walked over to his window, pressing a hand against the glass. Fog traced his fingers. The foliage of his estate had been covered with a fresh sheet of snow. He then nudged the window with his forehead. The chillness shot goosebumps down his body. He needed to get downstairs to his daughter and mother. As he turned to leave, the journal beckoned his attention once more. He shook his head. He had no time to hover on the nonsense of his evening. He promised Rosalyn he'd be taking her to visit Hermione today. He left the room, and the book's first page glowed softly for just a few seconds before extinguishing back to the normal yellow shade.