"Wait on me girl
Cry in the night if it helps
But more than ever I simply love you
More than I love life itself"

            ~Elton John, "I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues"

". . .I'm worried about her, Joseph," Hermione heard her mother say as she walked in the door of their home . Her mother locked eyes with her for a second, and reddened up, ashamed at being caught talking about her daughter. Anna Granger walked to her daughter, arms opened, as she started, "Hermione-"

"It's okay, Mum," Hermione responded, a magnanimous look on her face as she avoided her mother's arms, sitting next to her father, Joseph, on the couch. "I'm worried about me as well."

"It's been two months almost, Hermione," Anna mentioned quietly. "Your father and I-" Anna made eye contact with Joseph- "believe that some counseling may benefit you in this time. . . of loss."

Hermione looked astounded. "Therapy? You want me to go see a Muggle shrink?"

Joseph put his hand comfortingly on his daughter's shoulder. "We realize that with Harry's death, the miscarriage, it's been tough for you. What we would like you to do is see a counselor – not necessarily of the 'Muggle' persuasion. A magic one would be fine too, as long as you can talk to someone." He paused. "Does the magic world have something equivalent to a therapist – someone who can help you with your problems?"

"Yes, Dad, they do have an equivalent to a therapist," she responded sarcastically. "It's inexpensive, dependable, and doesn't require me to lie horizontally on some couch talking about the loss of my first childhood pet. They're called Obliviators."

*****

Hermione was ashamed of herself as she walked into her Muggle apartment. She had departed from her parents' house rather huffily, not at all caring about how they felt. They had, after all, said what they believed was best for her. They were concerned, compared to the busybodies in the wizarding world. Well, perhaps those so-called busybodies were concerned, but they had a funny way of showing it.

She walked into her bedroom, where Harry and her had spent hours exploring each other, every crevice of one another's body, and sat on the bed. The one that Petunia Evans Dursley had shyly, secretly presented to her a few weeks before Harry and her had married, after they had purchased their Muggle sanctuary, a nondescript studio in the middle of London.

"It's the bed I inherited from my mother. Vernon always thought it was uncomfortable – the old lump thinks anything softer than sheet rock is too soft – so we replaced it." A whimsical look crossed her eyes for a brief moment. "I. . . we used it for a few months after our wedding, as did Harry's grandparents before us. They used it for years. Anyway, I hope it gives you as many nights of-" her cheeks went crimson – "well, I hope it treats you as well as it treated us."

Hermione was genuinely touched, and it was a beautiful bed frame. Antique, walnut wood. . . classic. She couldn't speak as her eyes dewed up.

"There, there, dear," Petunia had comforted. "The gods must have blessed this bed, because it gave me and Vernon my sweet Dudders, and my parents Lily and me. . . Let's just hope that the gift giving didn't end with me."

"And it didn't end with Petunia," Hermione whispered internally, returning to reality. Her baby had been conceived in this bed, as had two generations of Potters before him (or her), she recalled, bouncing on it a little, surprised at its youthful springiness after so many years.

The truth was that in the last two months, Hermione had taken to sleeping on the couch. She just couldn't sleep on that bed without him beside her.

She lay down on it, her bushy hair splayed in the middle of the bed as she curled up on Harry's side of the bed, her face on Harry's pillow as she took in his scent – a mix of red pine (located conveniently in front of the Ministry) and Gilder-Odor, Harry's aftershave of choice. ("No matter that it was created by that prat Lockhart," Harry had laughed upon purchasing it the first time. He assumed a very Lockhart-esque pose, one hand firmly on hips, the other brushing non-existent bangs out of the way. "It makes me smell as pretty as I look, don't you think?") After two months, though, it was no longer there.

The scent. It was gone.

Hermione was alarmed. She could picture Harry lying in this very spot, next to her as she finished up the last chapter of some godforsaken book before lights out. She could hear his voice, see his tousled hair, feel his hands brush gently against her leg as he questioned whether she was ready to go to bed. She could picture him, but she couldn't remember that smell.

Her eyes darted around, alarmed. She took in a deep breath, hoping something of Harry would enter her nostrils.

Oh, gods, she couldn't remember his scent.

He was slipping away from her one memory at a time.

Shooting up from the bed, crying, she ran to the bathroom, releasing the mirror's clasp as the medicine cabinet flew open. She grabbed for the Gilder-Odor from the bottom tier and undid the top, nearly dropping it a number of times, taking in the comforting scent of Harry.

But it wasn't Harry.

Gilder-Odor by itself did not smell like Harry.

The bottle firmly in hand she ran out her studio door. Located on the bottom floor, she exited the building swiftly and looked around fearfully. Just as she had suspected – there were no pine trees in the downtown Muggle London.

Damn the architects of this city for not planting pine trees.

She needed the musk of pine needles. She needed to remember Harry's smell. Oh, gods, she needed Harry. This memory had to come back.

Retreating back into her studio, she frantically grabbed for her wand, and shouted, "Odorous Pinus Resinosa!" as the sweet musk of the red pine escaped through the tip. She greedily spritzed some of the Gilder-Odor in the direction of the tree scent, and breathed deep.

Her heart returned to its normal beat. Her breathing became normal, patterned, even.

This was the scent she wanted, she thought comfortingly. This was one more piece of Harry she had for the time being.  

As long as I can remember the little details, he will never be gone, were the last words to cross her mind as she fell asleep on the bed.

A/N A Chocolate Frog to anyone who can tell me why I am naming the chapters as I am before it becomes obvious.