The trouble with stories was that they ended. And once they were over, everything came rushing back. The sound of screaming. The crackle of magic. Green light, reflecting into the room. The sight of his mother's petite frame crumpling beneath her own sister's wand. The snap of her neck, when she was thrown. The horror on his father's face. The whispered, run.

It was too much. He replayed it all over and over behind his eyes until his vision blurred and his hands shook. Lately it seemed like his hands always shook. There was nothing he could think of to stop it. To quell the sounds and the shakes and the wounds, torn open over and over again. Until the flesh couldn't knit itself back together without a ragged scar.

And Granger — she looked sad. Empty. She was a healer. There had to be a way to heal this. To make it better. They could make it better.

"Can you just take it away?" Draco felt the words slip from his lips before he could stop them.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't care how — take my memories or give me a potion or something. Just take it all away."

Granger was quiet for a long moment. Staring at the wood of the table while her mind worked. "Okay," she said. A long beat. "Okay."

The chair scraped against the floor, echoing in the empty pub. She stood in front of him with her hand outstretched. After tilting his head in question, she nodded and he took it. They crossed the room and she extinguished the fire and the sconces before leading him upstairs. It was his first time in her flat.

A horrid floral settee and a broken gramophone. A few photographs and cards on the wall. Not much to look at but more than he had to his name. He could tell in just a glance that she'd brought in little things to make it her own, despite its obviously temporary nature.

Draco turned around and watched her pace. First to her kitchenette, to put the kettle on. Then to a cabinet to get the tea and chipped mugs. But she dropped the tin onto the counter and muttered something about needing to ask for more tea. Instead she opened the small refrigerator, revealing a block of cheese and some condiments and not much else. No wonder she'd gotten thinner.

"They don't send supplies for you?" He asked, leaning against the two-person table.

She sighed. "They do but it's been longer than usual. I'll have to run out to the shop tomorrow."

"Granger, is that wise? Leaving?"

"It's unavoidable sometimes. I'm always quick about it. Muggle towns like this are easy to blend in. You know that by now."

He did. It was starting to be preferable to him, walking the streets in trousers and a jumper and no robes. They were cumbersome and he liked the way that he was almost invisible among muggles. Just another young man, walking with the crowds. If only it could be so simple.

"Well?" He asked, licking his lip. Arms folded across his body. "What will you do to me? Can you teach me, so I can help you, too?"

"Match my breath."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. You want me to heal you? To make it better?"

Draco nodded. More than anything.

"Then take a deep breath in," she demonstrated, "and out. In — and out." Repeating it over and over again.

So he breathed, keeping his eyes on her. It was comforting there in her gaze. He could stay there. Swimming out until his feet grazed the bottom. Floating in sunlight dappled waters, warm and lovely.

Granger spoke. "I know right now you want to forget and you want to not feel anything at all."

Before he could confirm her statement she made him take more breaths.

"And I know that right now that's all you can think about — that want. I feel the same way."

Breathe in and out. Draco could feel his body relax where it was tense. Letting the weight of the water hold him where floated on the surface.

"I won't take your memories and I won't drug you into a stupor. It might seem like the only thing but it's not. In time it will feel less sharp."

He breathed in and out, focusing on her voice. The way her mouth formed words. Buoying him.

"What will you do then?" He asked.

She took her own deep breaths in time to his. Chest rising and falling at the same steady pace. It was a small flat, and she stood across the room from him. The backs of her knees against the settee. He watched her hands, the way she twirled her wand between her fingers before setting it down on the table.

"I'm going to count to ten," she said and took another breath. "And then I'm going to kiss you."

He looked up and stopped breathing.

"If you don't want me to—well, that's what the counting is for," her voice was quiet and sad. The low light in the room shined on her face, highlighting the dried tear tracts.

Draco breathed in as she counted aloud. But he didn't let her reach ten before he took three steps forward and kissed her hard. Letting the months of stolen kisses turn into a trove. And he, the dragon guarding it, finally diving into the treasure face first.

It was different from occlumency. He didn't shut things out. Instead he filled the spaces with her. With the feeling of her skin — calloused on her hands, from brewing and constant washing. Soft beneath her clothes. The little sighs and gasps that slipped from her lips into his. The way her fingers tugged at his jumper, pulling him onto her tiny sofa. It consumed him, to have her. To hold her.

With his body over hers he kept himself raised just enough that he didn't crush her, but not enough to let air between them. Not when she was determined to rid his clothes and press soft kisses to his neck. Each one a little shock. A little reminder that he was alive. That she was beneath him. And he wanted to see her. To look at her face, that he'd favored over all others since the day she asked him to tell her a story while she healed him. To see her curls unbound and her body bare. To look into her eyes, a warm brown that reminded him of mulled cider and cozy fires. Warm and lovely.

He lifted himself up and removed his jumper, then held her hands in his, helping her sit up to do the same. Kneeling on the floor so that she had more room to take off her trousers. Before he could clamber back onto the floral settee she joined him on the floor. Bracketing his hips with her thighs. Everything about her was warm enough that he didn't care about the wooden floor beneath them. The thin blanket she summoned from her bed the only layer preventing splinters.

They'd kissed many times before, over the last few months. Hard kisses and soft kisses. Rushed kisses and frantic kisses. But now she kissed him with such sensual strokes of her tongue and pulls of her lips. She moved closer, letting her knees fall open until she brushed his cock and he felt her arousal, too. She slid along his length and he felt like he might burn. When she did it a second time he reached between them to feel her, slick and warm and so tender she whimpered.

Tears in her eyes that wouldn't fall. Same as his. If he'd had his wand he would have collected them, determined to experiment with them in potions because nothing could be as powerful an ingredient as shared grief and bliss. As he pressed their foreheads together, she closed her eyes and let a tear fall. So he let his own leave him before wiping it away. Taking hers with the tip of his tongue when it reached the corner of her mouth. Tasting salt and letting the desperate way she clung to him, nipping at his lip, increase the tempo of his fingers on her clit. Slipping two inside her center and making circles with his thumb to carry her to the edge. Curling his fingers as he pumped them in and out, searching for the spot that would make her tremble.

Their eyes connected in a way that felt endless — the depths so deep, so unfathomable, that he knew this was what it truly meant to drown. To be pulled under, gasping and helpless. Lost in the feeling of her as she came, panting against his mouth. When she fluttered her eyes and sighed, he teased her further. Until she did what she did best and took charge. Pulling his hand away just enough to align his cock, notching it inside her. Slowly lowering herself until there was nothing left between them.

As she rocked against him he couldn't decide where to put his hands. Her hips, to guide her. Her arms, to steady her. Her breasts, small but round and sensitive. A dusting of freckles on her sternum and an old scar on her ribs, mottled and a dull mauve. Her neck, to feel the rate of her pulse. Her face, to brush the hair from her eyes. To pull her down to kiss him, meeting her lips halfway. With her hands tangled in his hair and gripping his shoulder she continued to put her attention to their mouths while she moved. So he slide a hand down her spine. Feeling every little ridge until he reached the flesh beneath her tailbone. His hand spanning over the curve and pulling her against him harder. Fingers digging in.

There was only her. There was only him. And only the way it felt to be together. It was frantic as they chased their pleasure. He'd never come with a partner before, but as soon as her walls tightened he knew he wouldn't last long. And once she cried out, her cheek pressed against his, harsh breath on his ear, he filled her with a cry of his own.

After, as they lay on the floor, limbs shining with sweat and breathing uneven, he slowly let everything back in. And the loudest sound of all was not his mother's screams but Hermione's. Dulled and underwater, far away. A sound he couldn't bear. So when she'd fallen into a deep sleep, exhausted from talking and tears and pleasure, he slid an arm under her knees and one across her shoulder blades to lift her. Tucking her into the narrow bed.

As the sound of rushing water filled his ears he dressed and slipped out into the night. Without a home to return to.