Severus Snape never had high hopes or grand aspirations for his life.

Unlike the other Death Eaters, who had joined the cause seeking glory and riches, Severus never longed for those. He was realistic; he knew that those things belonged to the Malfoys and the Notts of the world. He joined as a means of escape; a means to make money, gain a bit of standing, perhaps bring back a hint of pride to his family name that had been tarnished by his mother marrying an abusive Muggle. Severus was offered galleons, access to a Potions mastery with one of the best academics in Europe, and high-earning employment so that he could get out of shitting Cokeworth. Why wouldn't he join the Death Eaters?

He was told it'd be mostly research work he'd be required to do, it was his mind his Lord was interested in after all. He was bitter and alone when he joined Voldemort's cult. He'd allowed his 'friends' to fill his head with poison, allowed them to ruin the only real friendship he'd had– no, he had ruined his friendship with Lily, he couldn't blame them. It shouldn't have been a surprise to anyone that he'd signed his life away, longed for an opportunity to prove himself even if only to a group of raging psychopaths and zealots. He was still a teenager, he want to show he was worth more, could do more, could be more than the sad, lonely, freak that lurked about the Hogwarts corridors with his curved nose buried in a book.

Severus had always wanted a quiet life. He was the caricature of an academic at heart. He liked his books, the quiet solace of his lab, the routine—the repetition mixed well with the experimentation of Potion work. Severus wasn't built to be a teacher. A researcher, that's what Lord Voldemort had initially told him he'd be doing, and what he did for a time at the beginning of the war. He spent his days primarily trying to come up with horrific ways potions could be used in their war.He brewed a potion that could ensnare the drinker's mind with a small incantation, mimicking the effects of the Imperius with none of the residual dark magic. Salves had been created to make one feel the burning lick of Fiendfyre when applied—draughts that tasted of dreamless sleep, but instead caused the dreamer to be locked in their worst nightmares. All of these things he'd researched, made and tested for his Lord. All things he had to live with as he felt himself sink further and further into the Dark Lord's inner circle; a place where Severus once longed to be, but quickly began to regret. Were galleons and a nicer home really worth the hours he had spent listening to grown men scream and beg as he tested out his creations? Were any of the things he had wanted worth watching Mulciber grin and spit on women as he defiled them, soaking up their tears, humiliation and pain like the finest whisky? Did any amount of galleons and precious books make up for watching Dolohov's face light up in childlike wonder as he peeled the skin off dozens of Muggles in a singular night?

It was a surprising relief when Severus was told he was to do everything in his power to get the teaching job at Hogwarts. Much like an eleven year old, he believed it would be a good escape for him to stay there. It was an excuse to avoid the revels, an excuse to hide from burning summons where he would kneel before his master and relay his failures, an excuse to be a coward. Instead, it was a different kind of hell.

He wasn't kind or patient or empathetic to teenager's plights. He didn't care. His only friend had died as a result of his failure to protect her, he'd sold what little freedom or dignity he had left in becoming a turncoat to Dumbledore's bloody Order. Severus couldn't look at himself in the mirror most days, nevermind bring himself to smile and be kind to children. Children whose families he might've helped torture, children who looked at him and whispered to their friends about the Death Eater trials, children who shook in fear at what he was, what he could be.

No, Severus Snape was not built for teaching. He wanted his quiet home, a nice cottage in the woods with a garden and greenhouse to grow his ingredients and forage for those he couldn't. A warm fire that wasn't connected to any bloody Floo so that he could keep his peace. Bright walls and soft lights to make him forget all the years he'd spent in the dark, damp house his father made them stay in and the cold dungeons he grew up in after. He wanted softness and light and warmth.

She promised him all those things.

They had talked extensively about them, where they would go, the things they would do and how they would live. They had childishly dreamt and wondered about what their future held, wanting to hold onto the ridiculous notion that it may actually be possible one day. He still had the letters and scraps of notes she'd written to him, the years making them tattered, the writing faded and paper delicate to touch. He was frightened to open them now. He only did on the rare occasions, the very worst of his days when he felt himself slipping further away, when he felt like he was remembering the exact shade of her eyes wrong and the texture of her hair was slightly off in his mind's eye. Those were the only times he allowed himself to delicately peel apart the fragile scraps and consume their words like the starved creature he was until he could remember once again.

He always remembered though. He'd memorised every detail of the notes the first night after Draco handed him the letters during his one and only visit to Azkaban. He had to remember, he owed it to her. He already failed her once. Come to think of it, Severus had failed her numerous times over the years.

He'd failed her with his cruelty, his scorn, his derision. He'd failed her with not being enough for her—not being good or kind or honest in his feelings—too afraid of what others might say, or that the timing wasn't right for them just yet. He had failed her with her friends, and failed her with Harry.

Maybe he hadn't failed her with Harry. She had always put him first; Harry was her priority and he was happy now from what little Severus had managed to glean from stolen newspapers the Azkaban guards felt charitable enough to throw his way now and again. He was alive, that was the most important thing to Dumbledore, the only mission he'd really been given; keep Harry alive. He'd succeeded with that but Severus knew she'd want Harry to be happy, too. He had married the Weasley girl a few years back, the picture front and centre of the Daily Prophet. The smiling pair accompanied by the horde of her family and their friends.

All except her.

Severus wondered what she would've made of the affair. She never wanted a big wedding; she'd told him so in one of her letters. Apparently she wasn't even sure if she was all that fond of the idea of a marriage, but if he wanted it, because she was the only one that ever seemed to give a shite about what he would want, then she would consider it. She'd consider tying herself to him. She wouldn't mind taking his name alongside her own, merging their assets and magic to create a new line if they wished.

No, she almost certainly would've hated the Potter-Weasley wedding. The thought was almost enough to bring the ghost of a smile to his sallow face. He didn't think he had smiled since she'd died.

"You have a nice smile." She had told him simply one day in the empty Potions classroom.

"I beg your pardon?" He hadn't realised he'd been smiling. He never smiled, he didn't like it. His father always questioned him when he did, thinking he was up to something. He'd learned quickly to stifle the action. He didn't like the thought that he was apparently comfortable enough around her that he had let himself slip so easily.

"Your smile, it's nice." She'd turned to him with a bright grin of her own, face open and innocent as she looked up at him without reservation. Stupid Gryffindor. "You should do it more often."

"Yes, well maybe after this is all over I'll smile more. Get back to work."

"I'll make you smile after," she muttered cheekily, her eyes bright with mischief as she caught the way he scoffed even as he felt the tips of his ears burn, "I promise."

Imagining her pretending to enjoy the farce of an event was the closest she ever got to fulfilling her promise.

He admired her gall to make such a promise, almost as much as he admired her sheer audacity in every other aspect of her person.

If there was one thing about Hermione Granger that everyone admired for better or for worse, it was her complete inability to take 'no' for an answer.

She never took any of the nonsense the boys tried to throw at her, any of the vitriol he'd thrown at her, at least to their faces. He'd found her the odd time hiding in abandoned corridors or empty classrooms, sniffling to herself or with her head buried in a book, her eyes rimmed red and face splotchy from dried tears. Of course he never did anything to make it better, he wasn't good with feelings or comfort, it wasn't in his scope of talents.

But then she'd come up to him, all brazen and demanding, telling him she wished to be taught Occlumency alongside Potter, that there was a war coming and they'd be targets. She needed his help. Unlike Potter she saw his value, wanted to learn from him rather than simply take like Voldemort and Dumbledore had.

She hadn't accepted it when Harry wanted to throw in the towel with his Dumbledore-sanctioned Occlumency lessons during their sixth year. Instead, she had marched into his office, dragging the sullen boy behind her and demanded Snape teach her as well as Harry, apparently believing that if the boy saw her doing it without dying or wetting herself then he would be much more amenable.

Severus should've told her 'no' right then, sent the pair of them out of his office and given himself peace, the consequences Dumbledore was sure to rain down on him be damned. Instead, he'd agreed. Granted he wasn't that easy about it; he naturally threw an insult and scoff at the pair before conceding that she may have made a point. Hermione Granger was the brains of their operation after all, for as much as Dumbledore demanded Harry be saved, he wouldn't live particularly long without the girl. So, he'd agreed.

And within three seconds of being inside the girl's mind Severus wished he'd never let slip to Dumbledore that he was a skilled Occlumens in the first bloody place. She...admired him.

It was strange seeing himself through her eyes; he was used to seeing himself in other people's minds. It was far too easy most of the time, a gentle brush of his magic and a silent spell was all it took for him to find out other's inner-most thoughts. Decades of seeing himself in harsh lights, mocked and derided in other people's minds led him to become rather desensitized to negative opinions of himself. But, Hermione's thoughts…

They weren't entirely kind. He had been too cruel to her throughout her education for her to moon over him like a love-sick fool, but she respected him. Appreciated what he must have given up, what he must have had to endure, to be a spy for the Order and the Death Eaters. She admired his brain, his skill as a Potion's master, his intellect and high standards for teaching.

She liked his eyes.

Severus couldn't remember the last time someone didn't entirely hate him. Well, he could. Lily Evans, his first friend who he had damaged with his short-temper and foul words, and Regulus Black, the only other acquaintance he had made that had any sort of genuineness to it over a shared love of Potions and being bitter about James Potter and Sirius Black. Of course both were long dead by then, so it was fair to say he was rather confused when Hermione fucking Granger, of all people, didn't seem to despise him.

He didn't see either of the two for a week outside of his required teaching. Even then, he made a great effort to avoid her ridiculous stare. She was angry at him, of all things. Angry that he had called her a lost cause like Potter with the task, angry that he had told them to go to Dumbledore for help if they were that adamant about the whole farce, angry that he hadn't helped them. Severus only became aware of how angry she was when she stormed into his office once again after a week, threw her bag down next to his desk and demanded he teach her.

"I need to learn Occlumency and you're the best teacher at this bloody school, not to mention that you know all the tricks Death Eaters are likely to use to find information out if they capture me or Harry. So, I'm not leaving until you agree to help me."

Her hair sparked, practically grown three sizes. Her cheeks darkened with her indignant rage, eyes hard and determined as she stared him down. It was one of Severus' favourite looks on her.

"Miss Granger, I do have other responsibilities at this school other than holding yours and Potter's hands to-"

"Harry is being taught by Dumbledore," she cut him off, he wanted to curse her for daring to, "And I don't want to be taught by Dumbledore. I want you to teach me."

"Why on Earth would you prefer that I teach you?" He spat.

"I already explained, you're the best teacher at this school and you understand Death Eaters. I'd also appreciate it if you could teach me some Healing Potions and Defense whilst we're at it."

"I do not have the time to-"

"You've already allotted the time it would've taken to teach Harry. It'll just be me instead. Plus, we both know I'll pick it up quicker than he ever could; you'll probably be done with me by Christmas."

"If I am to teach you, you will stop interrupting me or you will be helping Filch clean the floors for the rest of the school year," he threatened.

Hermione only grinned triumphantly. "So, is that a 'yes' then?"

Unfortunately, it was. And either fortunately or unfortunately they were not done by Christmas. He...grew fond of her irritating presence. She was always just there. After lessons she'd be there, hassling him, prattling on in his ear about this or that, and what things he had planned to teach her that evening, and oh, she found this article in a journal she thought he'd just love and-

"Do you ever shut up?" Snape asked one night. He was attempting to teach her how to make a faster acting Blood Replenishing Potion, but if she didn't quieten down at some point he felt inclined to slit her throat just to see if it would actually heal her before she bled out.

"No, apparently I talk in my sleep as well," she replied distractedly, peering into the cauldron, "I think you need to stir it once more, shouldn't it be a shade darker?"

It should've. She was distracting him. Severus was never distracted before he took a dive into Hermione's mind. He almost wished he never saw the way she looked at him with softness and respect, with a tinge of longing. He didn't want to think about it, he didn't want to touch it with a ten foot pole. It was too strange, too odd and quite frankly just...illegal? Well, it wasn't illegal—she was of age, but it certainly wasn't bloody right. He was her teacher as much as he might desperately wish he wasn't, if for no other reason than to simply never go through the agony of witnessing Longbottom blow up a cauldron once again. No, he wouldn't think of it. He was good at locking things away from those that he didn't wish to see He kept secrets hidden from Lord Voldemort and Dumbledore for years; he could stand against Hermione Granger.

"You're distracted!" Hermione laughed, giddy and alive as they duelled in the Room of Requirement one February evening.

Snape gritted his teeth, "I am not." He sent a tripping jinx at her and felt far too smug at seeing her fall over herself.

"Come on, we're friends, tell me," she demanded as she dusted herself off and set about healing the scratches she'd gained in their duel.

"It may have escaped your notice, but we are in a war, you know? As a spy it does warrant a bit of my focus," Severus sniffed, "and I'm not your bloody friend."

"Of course you are!" She smiled at him, "I made you laugh last week, don't try to deny it. That's practically a declaration of friendship from you."

"I laughed when a second year fell down the stairs yesterday. Mr Taylor is not my friend."

Hermione sighed, "fine, we're not friends, but you're mine and as my friend I demand to know what's wrong so I can help."

Her arms folded over her chest, as she huffed a stray hair out of her face,staring up at him expectantly from across the room. The smile that usually cursed her features—and his heart—wasn't present but there was something about the way that she looked at him that made his throat tighten. Her hair was a riot, her clothes rumpled and her eyes were darker than they should've been. More chocolate than the gold that usually shone bright and-

"I have to kill Dumbledore."

He wasn't meant to tell anyone, Dumbledore had been adamant about that. The Order couldn't know that Severus was still on their side despite the murder plot contructed by the intended victim, himself. No one could know despite it meaning that Snape would be outcasted in a way he had never been before—he would be alone with everyone believing him to be the Death Eater he had spent so long trying to prove that he wasn't. He didn't know why he told her, what made the words slip out but he had and there was nothing he could do about it now that it was done.

He expected her horror, her outrage, cries of indignation and disbelief that he really was just Voldemort's puppet like Lupin and Black believed him to be. What he hadn't expected was the way her eyes widened fractionally, her mouth opening for a moment before understanding, of all things, graced her features.

"What can I do?" Hermione whispered.

Of course there was nothing she could do.

This was his mission, an order he had received from both of his masters and one that he would pay the price for if he failed. No, there was nothing she could do, but he did admire her frustration at that fact. Severus wondered if he had perhaps already corrupted her when she asked him, only half-jokingly he suspected, one evening in March if it would be better if she killed Dumbledore.

He had told her to fuck off and didn't speak to her for two days. Gryffindor lost 250 house points in that time.

When he had calmed down enough, he had told her there was something that she could do, if she felt so inclined.

"You want me to be your advocate?" Hermione raised her eyebrows at him. He didn't admit he found it adorable that she couldn't lift just the one.

"After the war, if I survive-"

"Of course you'll survive."

"If I survive." He repeated with a glare, "then I'll go to trial for...everything. I won't, and shouldn't, get away with everything, but this you could help with. You're the only person that knows that this is on Dumbledore's orders, no one else can know. You could share your memories, I have some other's I could give you as well. They could help when the time comes. If you are adamant about helping, you could do this."

"You would trust me with your memories?" Hermione asked softly.

"I'd trust you to do the right thing, yes," was the only answer he could bring himself to give.

Severus was trusting her with much more than just his memories with this task. He was trusting her with his freedom, to an extent—that she would still want to help him when this was all over. He was trusting that when she'd gotten what she needed from him that she would still fulfill her promise.

He never needed to worry; he never found out anyway. He liked to think that she would've.

"Do you ever wish you could just run away?" She had asked him in a timid voice that he loathed.

They were in the Room of Requirement again. June was fast approaching and they both knew their days at the school, as they knew it, were numbered. He hated that she sounded scared and feeble. It didn't fit.

"I used to, when I was younger. Now, I know it'd be a waste, too many people would find me."

"No, I think you could outsmart them all with a good disguise and a well placed Confundus," she smirked, staring at the ceiling from where she lay on the floor. Severus had joined her a while ago. He wasn't sure why.

"Where would you like to go, then?" He wanted to continue the soft conversation, tinged with melancholy, and childish as it was, he knew he wasn't likely to get any sort of pleasant conversation out of Rodolphus Lestrange in the coming months. He might as well enjoy this whilst it lasted.

"Somewhere quiet," she answered, "my family and I went to the Forest of Dean once. I liked it well enough there. Big trees and lots of light. I'd like that."

"It doesn't sound like the worst place in the world," Severus mused, making Hermione smile at him.

"No?"

"No," he answered simply, "we'll go when this is all over."

"We will?" Hermione grinned at him and he felt a ridiculous emotion akin to pride welling inside him at the thought of being the one to cause the happiness.

"Of course, what're friends for?"

He never got to take her to the Forest of Dean. He never got to tell her that he did value their friendship, that he even thought of her as something more important, precious, than a simple friend. That in time when he stopped being embarrassed of himself he might grow to think of her as something more, something that her letters clearly indicated that she already saw him as. Severus never got to tell her that he liked her eyes as much as she apparently liked his own. He never got to tell her that he liked them best on Thursday evenings in the Room of Requirement when the sun was setting on the other side of the window and her eyes matched the golden hues. He never got to tell her that her hair, although ridiculous in the way it grew five sizes in mass as she hung over a cauldron, had been something he adored. He could still feel the softness from the one time he'd been brave enough to push it out of her face when her hands were busy. Severus never got any of the things he wanted for them.

He never got to show her the rare collection of books he kept at his home in Spinner's End. He never got to take her to Prague and show her around the city where he completed his Potions mastery. He never got to come home to her at the end of an insufferable day. He never got to smile more with her. He never got to feel entirely comfortable around her. He never got to-

She never got to live.

It was never a question in his mind, the outcome of the war. Potter would win, Voldemort would lose, Minerva would cry with happiness about a job well done, Weasley would go on to do something inane and irritating like Quidditch and Hermione would...Hermione would do everything.

Hermione Granger was supposed to get a record number of NEWTs, Outstanding in all of them. Despite her talend in Potions, and as much as he would've loved that she had followed his path, she would've gone on to get a Mastery in Arithmancy or Ancient Runes. She was supposed to irritate the life out of pureblood elitists at the Ministry with her politics and outrage. She was supposed to turn the Wizarding world on its head, bringing it into a new age where people wouldn't be able to ignore her and people like her. She was supposed to be Minister for Magic.

She was supposed to live.

He wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't found her body.

Severus had always thought of her as loud. Loud voice, loud opinions, a presence that took over a room, a young woman that captured the attention of those around her, for better or for worse. She was alive and effervescent with a need to learn, and see, and do. Hermione Granger was the definition of life in its purest form.

And then he'd seen her amidst the dirt and the rubble of the courtyard. Her hair was dishevelled and covered in dust, her cheeks which were always flushed with humour or indignation were now unsettlingly pale, her mouth slightly open in what might've been an attempt at a spell or a plea for help, he would never know. Her eyes were the worst part. He had looked forward to seeing her eyes again, getting to look into them and see for himself, for themselves, what she wanted, what she thought and felt and dreamed.

"Stop that," Hermione muttered.

"What?" He asked innocently.

"I can tell when you're taking a peek with your Legilimency, you know." He thought she might've been trying to give him a scornful look but the twitch at the corner of her mouth gave her away.

"Who says I was trying to hide it?"

"Fine, I'm an open book to you anyway, you can see everything you want." She smiled at him before going back to practising the Warding spells he taught her.

He couldn't see anything in her eyes anymore.

The war went the way it was supposed to. Potter won, his last master died, Death Eaters were justifiably killed, or carted off to Azkaban to await trial, himself included. It was all correct and orderly. Families hugged their loved ones and cried over those that had died. There were parties and celebrations and funerals. Everything was correct. Except for the fatal flaw that he hadn't thought he would ever have to prepare for.

Severus prepared for everything. It was a skill he had sharpened at an early age. He learned to walk silently through the creaking house lest he anger his father. He memorised the hidden corridors and quiet footpaths at Hogwarts to avoid those who wanted to antagonise him. He learned to hide his thoughts quickly to avoid getting into trouble, to avoid being seen by his Lord. He learned how to duel better than most—read and consumed every bit of knowledge that was available so he could be ready for anything that might befall him. He prepared for his own death—his will was written, his few meager assets in order. He had accepted his own death, and in the event that he didn't, he had accepted his earned sentence in Azkaban with the hope that Hermione would explain some of his actions.

He hadn't prepared for her dying.

Severus hadn't even thought that she could die, as embarrassing as that sounded. She was a young woman in a war, a target was placed upon her for her blood status and her allegiances to Potter. Of course it would be a possibility. He had felt the beginnings of dread when Dolohov and Rowle reported back from their mission, hazy Obliviations and bruises, the only hint to what had occurred. But it was her. They had escaped though, relatively unscathed if the two dolts' memories were to be believed; there was no cause for concern. And then Bellatrix had come shrieking into the Manor, wailing about vaults and Mudbloods and how she should've just let the wolf have at her. It was then he probably should've realised how fragile Hermione was in the war. She'd been tortured for Merlin knew how long under Bellatrix's wand, knife, words, and didn't break. She would've needed expert healing, her magic would've been unsettled for months after an attack like that, the curse from Dolohov in her fifth year was a potential cause for concern for her if the healing he had administered to her at the time didn't take correctly. He should've checked up on her more thoroughly—he should've cared more back then—should've done more. That must've been the cause for the accident. Hermione was good at duelling, he'd taught her himself. It didn't make sense for her to die, it didn't make sense, it didn't make sense, it didn't make sense-

He didn't fight the Aurors when they put him in chains after Voldemort fell. He didn't say anything when Potter glared at him as Weasley cried over Hermione's limp frame. Hermione was supposed to give Potter the memories, show him the Pensieve in Dumbledore's office. They had a plan. What had happened to their plan?

Severus tried to ask the Aurors what had happened to her. He asked Draco, Narcissa, nobody told him, nobody knew apparently. Dolohov looked mighty pleased with himself though, despite the way he slumped in his cell across from him.

His trial was quick. Probably quicker than Sirius Black's, if that were possible. He had the mark, they were sure to check this time, they had the eyewitness account from the great Harry Potter of Snape murdering Dumbledore. Students who gave accounts of what he allowed Death Eaters to do at Hogwarts, as if he had any say in the matter. They had Order accounts dating back to the first war of everything Snape had done as a Death Eater, everything he had done as a spy for their fucking Order, but was apparently now a crime. He was asked if he wanted a lawyer, a representative, someone who would speak on his behalf, if he even had anything to say for himself that might help his open and shut case.

He didn't. She was dead.

Draco was the only one to visit him since his sentence. Just the once, not long after he had been shut in his cell and Draco had been sentenced to his own house arrest and following probation. It was impressive how the brat managed to still look haughty in a prison while escorted by his own band of Aurors. Lucius must've been so proud.

"Come to finally thank me for killing your Headmaster for you?" Severus drawled, not looking away from the spot on the ceiling where a spider was toying with a fly. He missed the way Draco flinched, the hollows of his cheeks tinged in embarrassment as he cast a glance at the guards behind him. Apparently, even now, the child was still self-involved enough to care whether people thought him a coward or not.

"I have something for you," Draco said shortly before thrusting a thick envelope through the bars.

"My, Draco, I know I'm your Godfather and everything, but hand delivering me a birthday card, don't I feel honoured?" he said, still unmoving.

Draco only scoffed, "Your birthday was two months ago and I don't know what it is but Granger asked me-"

"She's okay?" His neck cracked from how quickly it snapped in his direction, "She didn't- I saw her, she-"

"She's dead," he said bluntly, and Severus wanted to snap the runt's neck for how unaffected he sounded by the affair. "She slipped these to me when- when they brought her in. She asked me to give these to you."

"You waited this fucking long?" He seethed, pushing himself up quicker than he'd moved in months to snatch the envelope off the dirty floor. She was still alive for a while after the incident at the Malfoy home, he could've gotten to her, if she wrote to him asking for help, if it was because of her scar, or asking him a question, he could've-

"There wasn't time, you remember how mental it was. I didn't see you til we were fucking fighting. I don't even know what she could've been sending you but I got it to you as fast as I-"

"Get out," he cut him off. He needed him out. The Aurors, with their prying eyes and the way they were inching closer, needed to leave so he could see what she needed. "Get out!"

Draco nodded his head with an awkward mumbling of Narcissa sending her best.

He sat for hours on the cold stone going over each scrap of paper. They ranged from lengthy missives to short lines, sometimes just a few words to sum up her moods. She wanted to keep him informed of how they were doing, of where they were and what she was eating and wondering if he was okay-

'Of course, you'll be okay, I know I'm being irritating.'

'If Harry doesn't stop whistling I'm going to kill him myself and Voldemort will be shit out of luck, I don't care.'

'You would be so angry with me, but I won't lie, breaking into the Ministry was ever so slightly fun, looking back on it now. Don't tell Harry and Ron. I'll deny it to my dying breath.'

'You sent the sword. You remembered.'

'I don't think I fancy the Forest of Dean anymore. We can go anywhere else, I don't mind, just not here, please. There's blood here.'

'Harry told me he's going to marry Ginny after the war is over tonight. It was sweet seeing him blushing over the thought. I never thought I'd like to get married, it always seemed rather odd to me. I do like the thought of being with your best friend forever though, it might be quite lovely. Sharing your magic and name with someone else, that in itself is its own kind of magic in the Muggle world I feel. I might like to if you wanted-'

'I swear if I never see another mushroom again for as long as I live I will be the happiest witch in England.'

'I miss you.'

'Ron left.'

'I've been thinking of ways to help your case after the war. I think I've got most of it sorted out, you don't have to worry.'

'I'm going to keep my promise.'

'I miss you.'

'I wish we had run away.'

''I miss you.'

'I miss you.

All my love to iam0kaywiththis on ao3/twitter for beta-ing this for me, check out their amazing work!