November 17th, 2004

I kept myself busy while you were gone. I researched, visited my parents, and wrote letters. On Wednesday, I went to St. Mungos. The security guard at the front desk was new and nodded to me as I made my way to the Muggle Relations department. I was sitting in the plastic chairs littering the waiting room when I felt his hand wrapped around my elbow. Someone must have called him.

"I just want to talk to Penelope," I said as he guided me towards the door. "You can even take my wand. I just want to–"

But the door was closing behind us already, the onlookers' wide and curious eyes disappearing as the wood swung shut.

Later that afternoon, Harry stepped through the floo and into my study. He was wearing his auror uniform, his wand strapped to the holster on his forearm.

"Harry," I looked down. I was still in pajamas, hunched over a textbook, desk surrounded by scattered parchment. "I didn't know you were coming. I would have...been better prepared."

"It's fine, Hermione." His voice was even, but his shoulders were tense. "I'll be quick. I need to speak to you about something."

I made to stand, but he put a hand up and walked over until he stood across from me, the desk situated like a barricade between us.

"You went to St. Mungos again today." It wasn't a question.

I said nothing, holding eye contact. His nostrils flared with each exhale. "Hermione, we talked about this. You can't keep showing up at St. Mungos."

"I just wanted to speak to Penelope in person."

"She's asked you, many times, not to show up. Hermione," he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, "she could press charges."

"For what? Trying to clarify–"

"For stalking!" His voice was so sharp Crookshanks made a disgruntled noise and stalked out of the room. He squeezed his eyes shut, touched his temple. "She showed me the letters, Hermione. Almost a hundred of them. I– how do you even have the time?"

I looked down. "All I have is time."

"This isn't the first time we've had a complaint from the department. I've made excuses for you, but I'm running out, especially after you glamoured yourself to look like a healer–"

"I apologized for that." I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "I already apologized to them for that."

"That's not the point. You're going to get yourself banned from all government premises, or worse." He walked closer and then crouched down so that we were eye-level. He looked so young just then: my best friend, the boy who lived.

He took my hand in his; his palms were warm and dry. "I understand how hard it is–"

"Do you?" I snatched my hand back. My voice was low and mocking. "Go on then, Harry. Go on and tell me how hard it is."

He was still bent over; I could see myself in the reflection of his glasses, the two growing splotches of pink on my cheeks. "Hermione–"

"Tell me you know how it feels, Harry." I said, louder. "Tell me how you're sorry and you wish you could fix it."

"I don't want to fight with you."

"Oh, how kind. How utterly thoughtful. You don't want to fight with me, but you'll come here and what? Are you going to arrest me? Here," I thrust out my hands, wrists pressed together, "go ahead, detain me."

He rose and took a step back, fingers grazing the desk for balance. "I'm trying to help you, Hermione."

"Help me?" I tipped my head back, let out a short, loud laugh. "Lately, you can barely talk to me. The way you look at me, all of you, like I'm confused or broken. Or," my voice cracked, "or crazy."

"Hermione," he thrust his hand in my direction, "look at yourself right now." His eyes lingered on my dirty and matted hair, the crumbs sprinkled on the front of my shirt. There were open books piled around around me; a black smear on the desk from where I had spilled ink and tried to mop it up using parchment.

My ears burned; I felt nauseous with how angry I was. "Did you just come here to criticize my lifestyle choices? In that case, you're free to leave now."

"Hermione," he touched the stubble on his jaw, "I know you feel responsible for what happened, that you blame yourself. But the healers did a thorough exam; there is nothing to suggest–"

"Shut up." I nearly shouted each syllable, voice sharp and fraught. "That doesn't mean anything– there are numerous reasons why it wouldn't have shown up in a simple scan." My hands shook; I shoved them under my thighs and leaned forward. "They all just gave up! All of you just gave up. But I can't do that. I won't."

He said nothing, just kept staring.

Harry," I inhaled, tried to keep my voice even. "I understand how this looks, why you might not see things the way I do, but you've known me since I was just a kid and," I looked past him, letting his outline blur in my periphery. "I've always believed in you, even when no one else did. I've researched for you, fought for you, hunted horcruxes with you," my voice trembled, the light in the room streaking under the gloss of my tears, "and I would do it all over again because I've always trusted that you would do what you think is right.

"Hermione," he looked like he was going to come closer, and I jerked my head.

"And if you can't give me that benefit, then I need you to leave." I bit down on my lip, shut my eyes. There was a terrible buzzing emanating from inside my skull. "Please, Harry, just leave."


November 19th, 2004

Susan's letter came while you were away. I took it with me to the hospital, and read it over and over again against the beep of the machines. Dad was drifting in and out of sleep, but he opened one eye and pointed. "Interesting read?" he said. A latticework of veins spidered across the whites of his eyes.

"Yes," I said, folding the letter up. "Hilarious."

Susan wanted us to establish a "date night." The words became more and more ridiculous each time I read them over. When had we stopped going on dates? When we got married, probably. We still went out to eat sometimes, but it was a means to an end, because we had forgotten groceries or were too tired to cook.

The bottom of the letter was littered with her suggestions, from the mundane (go to dinner together) to the ridiculous (get a couple's massages). The only requirement she wrote, is that you spend a minimum of four hours together.

Four hours was nothing. Depending on the definition, we spent 24 hours together sometimes, both of us sharing the same stale air, cloistered in our own studies on different floors. But I couldn't remember the last time we had actively spent four hours together.

Draco, sometimes I think that's the worst part. Not that we lost each other, somehow, but that we didn't see it until––or maybe I was the one who couldn't see it.

I put the letter on the table next to your dinner plate that night. I felt nervous doing it, asking for something I wasn't sure you would give. You had been tired and sullen all day; I assumed it was the traveling. You hated using portkeys. Like being splinched inside your head.

"I'll make reservations for us at the Italian restaurant," was all you said. And I let out the breath I had been holding.


November 20th, 2004

I wore the dress you liked, the green silk one with the cowl neck, back barely held together by a bow. I was floo-ing Ginny for makeup tips when I heard the front door shut. You looked surprised when I came down the stairs, your eyes dropping to the swirl of material around my knees.

"You look beautiful," you said, pressing a kiss into my cheek. You lingered, your breath tickling the peach fuzz on my neck.

"Thank you." I took your elbow. "You look very handsome."

At the restaurant, you pulled out my chair, our hands overlapping as I reached for it as well. I jerked my hand back, scratching an angry red line across the back of your hand. "Shit, sorry."

The maitre d' watched us with amusement.

We drank too much wine, both of us cradling our glasses, helping each other refill. Normally, I might have objected, but it blanketed the conversation, covered everything in a sheen of humor. Before our entrees came, you slid the toe of your loafers against my ankle and tilted your head to the right. We watched a little boy slurp two strings of pasta, letting the noodles dangle out of his mouths like husks to get his sister to squeal with delight. I laughed, loud and obnoxious. Things felt so close to normal I didn't want to leave.

"Granger." Your mouth twisted with amusement. "You are the absolute worst kind of drunk."

"I am most certainly not drunk." I hiccupped, and then let out a lady un-ladylike snort. The woman sitting to our right gave a disapproving sniff and glare, and I rolled my eyes. "I am simply...very hydrated."

"Right." You took the beer bottle out of my hand, whacking my fingers away when I made a grab for it. "Too hydrated."

"That is entirely," the edges of my words were blurry with eagerness, "a matter of opinion. Semantics, one could say. In fact," I reached forward, grasping your tie and tugging so that you had to lean in, "one could also say that your chances of getting me into your bed increase exponentially the more hydrated I become. So I believe that gives you some incentive, no?"

You snorted, but the skin beneath your collar pinkened, and I saw you glance over at our seating neighbors before grasping my hand, feathering a quick kiss over my pulse point. "I doubt that will be an issue, considering I'll be the one who has to put you to bed."

After dinner, we emerged from the restaurant, cheeks flushed, silently agreeing to take the long route to the cinema. We were standing close to each other, not quite yet touching. Your hands were thrust into the pockets of your coat, and I reached for you, heartbeat thrumming against my throat, wondering if you would pull away. You pressed my hand into your pocket, the movie tickets tickling the seam where our fingers were knitted together, and I smiled to myself. My guard was down. I wasn't expecting your question.

"You never ask me to come with you to the hospital anymore." You were still touching me, but your hold was looser now.

"I-I didn't think you'd want to come."

"I offer."

"I know, but–" we offer a lot of things we don't want. "You seem busy."

"I'd like to come."

There was a long pause, just the sound of my heels clacking against the pavement, before I answered. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"You don't want me to come?"

"It's not that. It's just…" I felt like there were ants running across my diaphragm, that prickly sensation of knowing whatever I said would be wrong. "It's complicated."

You laughed, short and biting. "Right. Too complicated for me. I wouldn't want to burden the brightest witch of her age with explaining it."

"Don't do this."

You stopped walking and I stumbled, grabbing onto the edge of your sleeve. You pressed a hand to my waist to steady me, but your jaw was tense. "Like what? Like a husband? Merlin, Hermione, I am trying here, but you give me nothing."

"That's not fair." The backs of my feet were sore and chapped from where they rubbed against the leather of my shoes. I shifted my weight onto one side and had to grab your sleeve again; the irritation on your face made me drop my fingers. "I'm trying here, too, Draco."

"Yes, trying to avoid me. Locked up in your study all night so that you don't have to come to bed. Accusing me of adultery while you're never home either–"

"Because I'm at the hospital." My face felt flushed. I had the horrible thought that the clash of it against my green dress must have made me look like a ripening tomato. "Are you going to punish me for not being a doting wife while I'm trying to be a good daughter?"

"That's not the point, Hermione." You raked your fingers through your hair, the gel releasing under your roughness. "Fuck. I don't know how to talk to you anymore. I don't know what you want or how to help you."

"I don't need you to help me. I just need you not to pick fights. To let me do my research and not feel guilty–"

"To leave you alone." The streetlight carved out dark circles beneath your eyes. "You need me to leave you alone. To be married but virtually strangers."

"Don't take my words and twist them–"

"Then be clear about what you want. Just say what you want." A vein bulged against your forehead. "Unless you expect me to use legilimens every time we talk."

"What is the point, Draco?" My voice was nearing a shout, and a couple on a nearby bench turned towards us. "What would be the point of having you come? It is bad enough I have to go every day. Why should I make you do the same? I don't want you to see me as I sit there every day and watch my parents die." I fisted my hand against my mouth, like I could force the words back in.

"Hermio–"

"I just wanted to have a nice dinner. For things to be normal. I just wanted," I closed my eyes; The wine clotted in my stomach. "For one night, to have things like they used to be. To pretend that my husband can still bear to look at me."

You flinched.

"But if that's too difficult for us right now, maybe we should just go home."

Your cheek was indented on one side, like you were biting it. You nodded. "If that's what you want."

You extended your hand slightly, and I came closer, grasping your sleeve without touching you, both of us closing our eyes at the pull of magic. We landed gracelessly in our living room, and you dropped the movie tickets on the coffee table before disappearing upstairs. You didn't look back at me once.


November 26th, 2004

"How was the date night?" Susan's fingers were folded against a mug, her pale pink nails clashing against the orange background. "What did you two do?"

You stared at the bookshelf, eyes hooded and unblinking, like you were trying to see through the wood grain. I waited a minute, to see if you would answer; you began tapping your index finger against the arm rest.

"It was fine." I picked at a thread on my sweater. "We went to dinner."

"Did you guys do anything after?" Susan smiled, steam curling against her cheeks as she took a sip of tea. "The assignment was to spend four hours together."

"It was a long dinner." You barely glanced at her while you spoke. "There was a lot of wine."

"And what did you two talk about?" Her voice straddled the edge of amused and annoyed, like a teacher anticipating a pitfall in a lie. "For the four hours that you spent at dinner."

Shut up, I wanted to say. Stop talking.

"I don't know, Susan." You drew the syllables of her name out like taffy. "Shall we get a pensieve and we can review it all together? Perhaps afterwards we can also review the previous session, the one where you and my wife had your own secretive conversation. Does that fit into our current treatment plan?"

Her smile faltered, and she put down the mug. "Perhaps we can start with something else today. Instead of focusing on the future, maybe we can talk about the past." She knew not to anticipate an answer and barreled forward. "Why don't you tell me about how you two fell in love?"

There was a long pause; Susan's eyes drifted between us. I hated this part of the routine, the anticipation of hearing how each one of us answered.

"–In Australia–"

"–After the war–"

"In Australia, after the war," I clarified. "We became friends during the war, but we fell in love after."

She straightened, and then tried to relax her posture, attempting to hide her fascination over this part of our history, the details that hadn't been available in the Daily Prophet. Her voice became more and more animated as she prodded, asking about how you and your family made the choice to defect to the Order, inquiring about how we became friends. Do you remember those first few missions together, Draco? When you could barely look at me, always loitering a few steps behind. I used to think you did it on purpose, sacrificing me to potential danger before you, but now I wonder if even then you were trying to protect me. If you recognized my blindspots before I did.

"And you went to Australia together afterwards?

"Yes. I asked Draco if he would come with me to Australia...to find my parents."

"Why did you ask Draco specifically?"

"He seemed like maybe he needed to get away as well, like he needed some place to go." The words were coming out all wrong. When did I start doing this? Identifying the sentiment in my brain but somehow unable to translate it into real words?

"She felt sorry for me."

"–No that's not–"

"–Poor little Death Eater Draco ostracized from society, another pet case for the golden girl."

"Draco." You were still staring at the bookshelf, hand curled into fists, tendons jump roping against your skin. "It wasn't pity. It was–I felt the same way, like there wasn't enough air left in England. I wanted you to come because I thought you would understand me best."

You seemed to relax a little. Susan's quill flew across the page, and then: "And what happened in Australia, after you found them?"

"They're so angry, Draco. The way mum looked at me like, like I was a stranger." I trailed off. "She actually called me–she said she couldn't believe what I had done, that I had violated their minds like that."

You wrapped your arms around me, tugging me so that my back was against your chest, our legs tangled together on the touch. "They'll come around, Granger."

"But that's the thing...I don't know if they will." I ran my thumb around your signet ring, watching the light glint off of it. " I thought getting their memories back would be the hardest part. I didn't consider that maybe they wouldn't want their old lives again...that they were happy here."

My chest started to hurt, that squeezing, popping feeling I get sometimes with the crack of short circuiting electricity or fireworks, when the streamers pull that specific, violent shade of red and green. The walls rippled, the room tilting until everything suddenly shuttled underwater, sounds muffled while a bzzz bzzz bzzz saturated everything.

"They were–" I thought I was speaking, but I must have been doing that thing I sometimes do, when I start gasping around a word, the constants bouncing between my teeth, because you were reaching for me. "It didn't–"

"Has it ever occurred to you Hermione that your father and I have lives here? That we have friends here?" Mum's eyes slitted into two em-dashes, her hands curled around the sleeve of a blouse she was packing. "You want us to go back now, to our real lives," she laughed, a sound so sharp I wanted to plug my fingers into my ears, "and what? Just forget these last two years? Will you do another spell, darling? Wipe it all away–"

"Enough, Helen." Dad stepped into the room. His glasses looked slightly crooked, like he had shoved them on in a rush. "That's enough."

He came over, grabbing her elbow and guiding her away from the bedroom, the sound of their urgent whispering following them out. When I looked up, you were standing in the doorway, cradling a cardboard box between your elbow and hand. It was the first time I had seen you speechless.

I closed my eyes. Your lips were on the shell of my ear, breath skittering against the hairs on my temple. "Breathe, Hermione." I felt your palm on the back of my neck, the muted pressure of it before your hand rounded the curve of my spine, pivoting up and down. I was staring at Susan's shoes, watching how the sharp tips softened each time I squeezed my eyes shut. "You have to breathe, sweetheart."

What had we been calling these again? My episodes? My hiccups? They were getting better at that point, weren't they? I was getting stronger. You came to counseling to help me with them. You didn't say it, but I knew. For you, our marriage always took a backseat to my well-being. I wish I had seen that sooner.

"Hermione…" Susan said. I watched her ankles move, first uncrossing and then unfolding, the pale skin creasing as she stood up and moved closer

"I think we're done for today," you barked, and she stilled.

You said something else to her, something I didn't catch, the volley of your voices, yours sharp and fast, and hers low and slow. Then your breath was warm across my cheek. "Let's go home. How does that sound?"

I closed my eyes, there was the feeling of being picked up, the crush of pressure around me; when I opened them we were at our doorstep, my arms wrapped loosely around your neck.

"I can stand, I think."

You didn't answer, but you also didn't put me down. On the stairs, I wound my fingers into your jacket, worried that we'd topple, but you were steady, arms secure underneath my rib cage. You toed open the door of our bedroom and didn't set me down until we reached the bathroom, movements cautious and gentle as you deposited me on the lip of the tub.

"I'm going to draw you a bath." You pulled out your wand, muttering charms so that the room filled with the scent of lavender, bubbles frothing inside the porcelain. "Are you able to undress by yourself?"

I flushed; I had been staring at you, like I was awaiting direction. "Yes." My fingers were clumsy as I pulled my sweater over my head, unhooked the teeth of my bra. I hated that I felt this way, but there was a flush of disappointment when you didn't turn to me, eyes focused on watching the water fill.

You stuck your hand into the tub, swirling it to check the temperature, and then motioned for me to get in. "I'll be in the bedroom," you said. I was sitting so that my breasts dipped above the water; you stared at the shelf above my head. "Just call me if you need anything."

I wanted to reach for your arm. There were so many variations of this I could have attempted: playful, tugging your arm until you toppled in; seductive, kneeling and coiling myself around you; plaintive, my fingers on your wrist, asking you to stay. But I was immobilized by your terse posture, the rigid line of your back. What did you see when you looked at me? Your poor, frail wife. Crying in the healer's office. Too scattered to draw her own bath.

I wrapped my arms around my legs, chin resting on my knee as I watched you grab a towel and lay it at the edge of the tub. You stayed there for a second, kneeling against the tile, lips pulled back like you were going to say something, but then you nodded and straightened.

"I'll be right out there," you pointed, and then dropped your hand. The door shut with a soft click. I inhaled and slid down, until my back was parallel to the bottom of the tub, water rushing everywhere.


You were sitting with your back to me when I emerged, gooseflesh puckered against my skin. I could tell from the slight ripple of your spine that you heard me, but you didn't look over, like you wanted to give me privacy.

I stopped in front of you; you were leaning forward, fingers curved over the mattress, head downcast. The sash on my silk robe dangled, a gap forming between my breasts, all the way down. I ran my finger down the line of your jaw, cushioning my thumb against your bottom lip, and you looked up, eyes level with my navel. There was a question in your touch as you reached towards the sash, fingers brushing across the newly shaven skin. I felt a jolt of pleasure, let out an embarrassing, breathy sigh. You smirked, but your hand was just resting on the knot, waiting.

"Are you sure?"

I didn't answer, pushing down on your elbow instead, until the sash slipped through your fingers; the robe pooled at my feet.

Your breath ghosted against skin, and then your lips trailed across my abdomen, planting kisses from one hipbone to the other. Fingers spread wide, you framed my hips, indenting the skin as you pulled me close against your face. You hitched my thigh up, and I clutched your shoulder for balance.

"Oh gods." Your tongue was inside me, parting my lips, tracing upwards until you tapped against the bundle of nerves that made my thoughts short-circuit. I carded my fingers through your hair, neck curved down so I could watch the movement of your head disappear between my thighs.

"Kiss me."

And you did. Open-mouthed and wet, fingers brushing against my clit, just above where your mouth was.

"No, not like that." You chuckled, the sound sending shockwaves inside me, and then you wrapped your hands around my waist, turned, and pushed me onto the bed. Your thighs bracketed my hips, weight resting on your elbows pressed against my shoulder.

No one else has ever kissed me the way you do, Draco. Like you're worried what will happen if you stop. Desperate: hands tugging on my hair, pulling me closer, fingers wrapping around my neck.

"Fuck," you breathed. You slid your tongue along the seam of my mouth until I parted, and then nipped my lower lip until I whimpered.

You shifted, lining yourself up and then sliding into me. Why had we ever stopped doing this? We spent so much time trying to talk; maybe we should have just done more.

We both moaned, and you buried your head into the crook of my shoulder, your breath erratic and hot against my neck while your hips rocked back and forth. I was making a sort of ngh ngh ngh sound as you palmed my breast, fingers sliding over my nipple, thumbing me until I wrapped my legs around you, nails scratching down your back.

"You're so..." I broke off with a moan; your fingers strayed between us, rubbing in a circle, the edge of your nail skating across my clit the way I liked, the way that made me shake.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I bucked against your fingers. A greedy and ravenous warmth snaked up from my pelvic bone. The tendons in my thigh trembled; my chest ached as I held my breath, hips seesawing until a viscous pleasure burst inside me.

I could tell you were close by the way your arm shook, your fingers slotted through mine and squeezing. "Come for me, Draco." I whispered, and I shifted to watch you. Your eyes were closed, face contorted. The roots of your lashes looked glossy and slightly wet, like you were–

"Draco?" I reached for you, but you shook your head, flattened your forearms and buried your face into my neck. I thought I felt a drop of wetness land against my skin, but then you started mouthing at the skin on my neck again, and a burst of heat flared inside me.

You back spasmed, shoulders jerking under my palms. "I love you." You sounded almost pained. You stayed pressed against me for a beat while we caught our breaths, bodies sticky and sated, before you pushed off, dragging a palm down your face.

"Draco," I said again, trying to lift myself up. I wanted to say I love you but the moment felt wrong, like it would be a concession. You shook your head, pressed a kiss against my temple. "You need rest." You shifted us, tugging me back until my head hit the pillow. "Get some sleep."

I knew there were things we had to talk about, things I wanted to address, but your thigh was draped over mine, hand stroking an even rhythm against my back. I was so warm and so tired. "Draco," I mumbled, eyes closing, just for a second. Your breath ruffled my hair: "Shh." Just this once, I listened.