All humans have three things in common: they have to breathe, they have to sleep, and they have to eat. Hermione learned this during the weeks camping and hunting with Harry and Ron. At first, she had been hesitant to share her space with them. But living with two teenage boys in the tightest of spaces for weeks has taught her a couple of things. The lack of privacy became normal, followed quickly by a loss of shame.

So when she wakes with Tom's face pressed close to her back, she doesn't react. Carefully, to not wake him, she pushes herself off the ground and stands still. He didn't stir, sleeping on, undisturbed by the loss of her warmth. She's tempted to watch him a little while longer, but decides against it. Everyone's entitled to their own privacy. She doesn't want to feel like a pervert.

She slips into her boots without a sound and leaves the camp, heading deeper into the woods.

The noon sun shines through the thick canopy of the firs around her. The soil is wet, but not muddy, making it easier to rummage around for something edible. It doesn't take her long to find some wild berry bushes. Blackberries, blaeberries, red currants. A little honey and some fresh herbs fortea. A nearby river provides fresh water for their flasks.

She can see her face reflected in a small runoff pool, the sun creating a halo of light around her hair on the smooth surface. But then, the water ripples. It changes. Transforms. The bright pool turns dark, and a reminder of Tom's memory surfaces from the depths. She's back in the too small room. The dimly lit, too-small room, with the boy's sobs and the nun and the words she told him and the blows- No. She needs to stop. Needs to wrestle her breath back under control. No, Tom did not deserve this. No one deserves this. But her anger will not change anything right now. So, shaking herself a little, she sits at the river bank until her pulse evens out.

Everything around her is calm and silent. No birds chirping. No leaves rustling. Even the river lies dormant in its bed. She remembers her time with Ron and Harry in the woods. Nothing was silent back then, always coexisting with chaos and noise. Silence was depressive. Burdensome. But now, here, - sitting cross-legged next to the river, hand dangling into the water, Tom waiting in their camp close by - Hermione feels at ease. Her usually troubled mind is calm.

When the heat of the sunlight on the side of her face becomes uncomfortable, she gets up to leave. Hunting for a rabbit, she finds some wild asparagus, and chanterelles too. It's enough to feed them both for a couple of days. She'll probably go again for more fresh water later.

When she returns to the camp, she finds Tom sitting on top of a trunk, holding vigil. She steps onto a branch, causing Tom to flinch and spin around. She gets a good look at his face when he freezes mid-step. His eyes are huge and haunted. His hands clenched at his sides, knuckles, bone-white. He looks hollow and overused, bleached and sucked dry as if he's been left out in the sun for too long. There's baggage around him, she can see it clearly, as if he has it strapped to his back … or colouring the bruises under his eyes in shades of blue and violet. For a split second, he almost looks terrifyingly human. Humanly terrified. It is grotesque and cruel to see him like this.

But when she blinks, the moment is gone. Tom looks as immaculate and self-composed as he always does. The hands at his sides are hidden in his pockets.

"You're here," he says, tone casual. But the way his throat tightens as he breaths is anything but. If Hermione didn't know better, she'd think he was afraid she'd left him. You'll rot in here, the nun in the memory had said. You'll always be alone.

"You were sleeping. Didn't want to wake you." She says as casually as he did, and goes over to the fireplace. "I went and got us something to eat."

"I...see." He watches her search through their backpacks for the pots. Then, he moves in to take the lead himself. "Let me get that."

Asparagus, rabbit, berries, chanterelles; she pushes all of the foraging into his waiting hands and grabs the magical teapot from the backpack. It's a handy survival object; you can fill it with endless water and it will store it until you need it. Unfortunately, you have to refill it from time to time. This time, she tells Tom she'll be back and goes to the river again to make herself useful.

When Hermione returns, Tom already has a stew on the fire. It smells delicious.

"You know, you're a rather good cook," she says, putting the teapot back into its spot.

Tom shrugs, expressionless.
"There were not a lot of books in the orphanage. But we had masses of cookbooks. After a while you'll start reading anything you get your hands on."

She can agree with that sentiment, to some extent. Back when she had to wait for her parents in their dental practice, she had started to read gossip rags just to read anything at all. She looks up at the sun. They won't go anywhere today, not after yesterday. Maybe it's okay to take a day off.

While Tom is stirring the stew Hermione takes a slip of parchment and starts to write. It doesn't take him long before he comes over and asks,

"What are you writing?"

"A travelling list," she's just putting the dot on Spain's i. Her handwriting has suffered the last couple of months. A mess of sharp strokes and half circles. "Once this is over, I want to see the world."

"Anything particular?" He sits down next to her. They're sitting close together, knees touching. Only a week ago she had been hesitant to have him this close. But the last few hours have bound them. Each memory that they visit leaves another mark for her, too.

"Hungary. They have highly advanced medical spells and potions. I'd also love to see Egyptian runes and the artificial spell-work from the Philippines. From there, Australia, France, Mexico, and China. There are so many countries with such a variety of magical skills." The words fall from her mouth without control. Travelling has always been on her mind. At first, she wanted to go after school. But then the war happened, and now this. Maybe after she'll have the time to explore the magical world and its limits."What about you?"

"What about me?" He looks genuinely confused.

"Well, don't you want to go and see the world? As far as I remember your future self travelled too."

"I'll pass," he says, too fast. He starts to fidget again. She glances at his long, slender hands, graced with blue veins that push against his skin. She can see them pulse with his heartbeat.

"Okay, but if you could choose one place you'd like to see, where would it be?" For some reason, she expects him to say Albania. Or something posh like Paris.

"Greece," he says instead. He leans forward to stir the stew again, when he spots her writing in the corner of his eye. "What are you doing?"

"I'm putting it on the list."

"Thought you'd kill me once this is over." His tone is playful, without any bite. She likes it. A lot.

"Oh, I definitely will," she grins, mischievous enough to reach her eyes. She watches him fill two bowls with stew, passing one to her. It tastes rich and flavoured. Perfect."But I'll visit Greece, so if you haunt me, I can tell you all about it."

There's a small, genuine smile on his lips when he answers.
"I'm counting on it."

Somewhere, between her ribs, her heart speeds up. Tom's smile stays for the rest of the day. The shadows under his eyes are just a tad lighter than before. It's worth it.