Hermione feels the bed dip, and she squeezes her eyes shut tighter, trying to stay in this dream. There's a feather-light touch on her cheek, a gust of warm breath. She likes this dream, the one where her husband still touches her. "Hermione," dream Draco says, and she fists the duvet, clinging to the cobweb of fantasy. "Wake up."

She turns onto her side, and her mirage follows, phantom finger drifting across her ear, down to her jugular, where he taps out a secret in morse code. "We should talk," he says. "I read your journal." Hermione's pulse quickens; is this a dream or nightmare?

She'll have to do this with real Draco soon enough; she doesn't need a preview beforehand. She pulls herself through layers of sleep, desperate to avoid the nightmare version of conversation.

Except, when Hermione opens her eyes, instead of disappearing, Draco stares back at her. She blinks, once, twice, and reaches for him, letting out a burst of breath when her fingers touch warm, solid flesh.

"You're here," she whispers. Sleep still clogs her head, lending a surreal quality to the conversation. "What are you doing here? What time is it?"

"Late," he says. "You've been gone for hours. I searched the whole manor for you."

He's half-hovering over her, so close she can feel his warm breath. He lingers there for a moment and then sits back.

"Sorry, I didn't realize." She blinks. "I was exhausted." He's sprawled across her side of the bed, a strange inversion of dynamics.

"I suppose you exhausted yourself with the speech you made."

She flushes. There's a levity to his tone she doesn't know how to interpret. If he's come to leave her, she can brace for impact, but if he mocks her while doing so, she'll wither.

"How did you know I'd be here?"

"You act like I don't know you, Hermione Granger."

She's in love with that voice of his, the indulgent tone he sometimes uses, like he's letting her in on a secret she should already know. It's been so long since she's heard that specific tenor.

"You were tired. I suppose it's been a tiring few weeks." He looks down; he's holding her notebook. When he glances at her again, all his previous mirth has disappeared. "Why didn't you tell me these things, Hermione? What you wrote."

"I–" The tips of her ears burn. "While you were comatose, I read pages to you. I don't know if you–"

"I don't remember anything, really, from then."

"Of course. It was silly, thinking that you would. I just–there were so many things I wanted to say to you." She pinches the duvet corner. "I worried I was too late."

He shifts so that his knee folds, while his other leg dangles over the edge of the bed. Their hands are close, but not touching.

"I wish you would have told me." He looks at the notebook again. "We wasted a lot of time, didn't we?" He exhales, the corners of his mouth dragging down. " I thought about what you said, about how we've lost each other. And, Hermione, you're right. I am angry."

She breaks eye contact, focusing on the woodgrain of the floorboards. She had told herself she could live with whatever decision he made, but now she feels like a liar. Her hands tremble as she knots them together.

His voice is even, devoid of accusation. "I'm angry that we stopped talking to each other and started assuming instead. You were in pain, and you pushed me away. But I stopped trying to talk to you as well."

He takes her hand then, sliding his thumb against the bones of her wrist. "I shouldn't have gotten Theo involved, and I shouldn't have made decisions for you. There are moments, Hermione, where I still can't believe what our life became. I never thought I would wake up one day and not know how to talk to you, but it happened."

His grip on her hand loosens, and he continues. "Last week, after Cadric came, our problems seemed...insurmountable. The ways we hid from each other. I thought about how we would fix this, where we even would start, and I couldn't find an answer. This isn't the life we promised each other."

He touches her neck, tilts her chin so she's looking at him through a tangle of hair. He's still holding her hand, but this conversation feels like it may diverge at any point.

"I thought if I fixed things for you, then we would be okay. I thought I needed to take care of you, but I was wrong." A small smile tugs at his lips, the parenthesis around his mouth bunching up. "You're Hermione Granger. You don't need anyone to take care of you."

She can't find the words to correct him. She might not need him to take care of her, but she can't imagine her life without him, even if she promised to try. She squeezes her eyes shut.

Draco clears his throat."But I've–we've– lost a lot of things already, and even if I could live without them, that isn't the life I choose. That's not what I want at all."

She opens her eyes to find the silver ocean of his irises, gaze darting across her face in rapid strokes.

"Draco, what are you saying? I'm not sure what you mean."

He swallows; a blotch of pink colors his cheeks. He's nervous, she realizes.

"I choose you. I choose this life, right here, with you." He smiles then, a boyish grin. "Making this work. Rebuilding. Communicating. Things have to change, between us. We can't be stuck in this cycle."

He pushes back the hair clinging to her face, thumb tracing the outline of her lips. "But Hermione, we have so much time to do all of that. As long as you want to, with me. I love you. The rest–I know we can figure it out. Both of us. If you want it."

She can feel her composure breaking, the tiny cracks deepening, forcing a shaky inhale."I do," she says, and she's laughing and crying, carbonation overflowing from her throat. "I always have."


They're lying in bed, facing each other. It's past midnight already. She's famished, but she can't bring herself to get up. They've been talking for what feels like hours, what probably has been hours. Her voice is sore, but she worries that if they stop speaking the moment will evaporate; she'll wake up from the dream.

"Will your parents worry that you've been gone for so long?"

He laughs. "I'm not a teenager, anymore, you know."

"I know, but I just don't want them to–"

He presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist. "I told them we were moving out."

"What?"

He raises one eyebrow. "Unless, you'd prefer to stay?"

"Of course not." She freezes. "Sorry, I didn't mean–"

He barks out a laugh. "I've wanted to move out since the first week. Merlin, my mother is constantly fretting, like I'm a child."

"She loves you."

"Are you defending my mother?" He leans on his elbow, chin resting in his palm."Has there been a development of friendship I'm not aware of? An apocalypse I missed?"

"If you missed an apocalypse, I'd say it's probably your own fault."

"I'm glad your swottiness has been preserved." The lines around his eyes deepen as his mouth quirks up. "I'm glad some things stay the same."

In the morning, she wakes first, reaching towards his side. Her fingers slide against still-warm sheets, and she lurches up, panicked. The faucet springs to life through the closed bathroom door. She rubs her eyes, bundling the sheets around her.

He emerges a few minutes later, hands damp. "Good morning," he says. There's a line across his cheek, an imprint of the bedsheet. She smiles, so wide her cheeks strain, and he gives her a funny look, nostrils flaring in amusement.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

"Starving."

"I could make breakfast? Eggs?

She presses her lips together. He hasn't started solid foods yet. "We should go back," she finally says. All his medical supplies are still at the manor.

She must be staring at his abdomen from the way his posture stiffens. "Right," he says. "I guess we have to."

They're quiet as they get ready, smoothing out the wrinkles in their clothes, locking the front door.

Outside on the brick stoop, she admits, "I'm nervous."

"About my parents?"

She exhales and he curls his fingers against her knuckles. "Maybe. I just…"

He studies her for a moment and then tilts her head, resting a thumb in the space between her eyebrows. "You're getting that look again, like something is about to go wrong." He smoothes the furrow there.

"I'm worried about what happens after we leave this house. We have–"

He kisses her voice away, slowly, tentatively, waiting for an invitation. Her mouth opens with an exhale, hands migrating from his shoulders to around his neck. He tastes of toothpaste; his tongue does a minty caress around hers, and she lets out an embarrassing breathy sound. His answering laugh vibrates her lips.


By evening, she and Draco are packed, ready to leave the manor. They speak to Tabitha, and determine a visitation schedule to make sure he can continue receiving care. She gives them a surprised, but not disapproving, look.

"Please try not to over-exert yourself," she tells him.

"I don't think my wife would allow it."

At this, Hermione laughs, but dread coils inside her stomach. This is the easy conversation; they'll have to speak with his parents soon.

In the cavernous living room, she and Draco sit on the couch, his hand resting on her thigh. She can feel Lucius' eyes on her. She presses her lips together, holds his gaze, and slides her fingers against Draco's.

"It appears you two have reconciled," Lucius drawls. He holds a crystal tumblr in his hand, and the whiskey gleams as he rolls his wrist. "Touching."

Draco clears his throat. "I've come to tell you, as a courtesy, that we'll be moving back home."

"And how, pray tell, will you manage your care? Will your wife play nursemaid? Is that one of her–"

"Enough, Father. I'm not asking your permission."

"Luckily, I'm not granting it."

"But you must respect my decision."

Lucius smiles, a cruel twist of his lips. "Must I? Please, inform me, when did I start taking directives from my own son?"

"I don't want to argue about this. We're already packed, but I wanted to tell you myself."

"How kind." Lucius sips at the remaining citrine liquid. "Thank you for your thoughtfulness in the matter."

He rises; the crack of his cane makes Draco clench, a tiny vein ticking against his jaw. "Well, I suppose there's nothing left to be said then," Lucius says, without looking at them.

The geometry of the room ruptures: three occupants now, instead of four. Silence echoes in triplicate.

Draco drops his head, shoulders deflating.

"You should talk to your father," Narcissa says.

Draco exhales. "He's already made his thoughts quite clear."

"Your father loves you, even if he lacks the words. He wants what's best for your care."

Draco tenses, and then his fingers dance across the back of her hand; he looks at her, waiting.

"We have time, if you want to try talking to him again. I'll wait."

His smile is a mixture of dread and gratitude. For a moment, Hermione considers what a privilege it is to still have two parents. It's difficult to imagine Lucius as fatherly, but she could believe how certain loves aren't always visible, how they needed excavation.

Alone with Narcissa, Hermione attempts a smile. The other woman looks faintly amused at her efforts. "I do hope we'll see you and Draco for dinner, on occasion."

Hermione gives a short, jerk with her head, not quite a nod.

At this, Narcissa does laugh, a bright, airy sound. She rises to leave, smoothing down her skirt as she stands. Hermione fiddles with the frayed hem of her sweater, busying herself by pulling at a loose thread. She wants to thank Narcissa for her advice, but it feels disrespectful to voice right now, to thank her for releasing her son.


She watches Draco eat, noting the way he favors his right side, how he licks his lips after every bite. She wants to become an expert in Draco Lucius Malfoy, study his nuances. It's only been a week since they moved out of the manor, but it feels like much longer. He's started eating solid foods again, soft textures first. Her head is titled, cheek propped against her palm.

"Did you really read all of my journal entries?" she asks.

He laughs, his grip on the spoon loosening. "Will there be a quiz?"

"I'm just wondering. I know I fell asleep for a long time that night, but there were a lot of entries there. Did you read every single one?"

Their dining room table is much smaller than the one in the manor, and he easily reaches over, sliding his thumb across her knuckles. "I did, eventually. But that night, I didn't need to. I would have come even if I hadn't read a single one."

"But you said–"

"Hermione." He smiles at her, the crescents of his gums peeking through. "I would have come for you even if you hadn't given that speech at all."

"You were so angry."

"But not forever. I could see you were trying. That's all I needed, to know that you would try."

She squeezes his fingers. "I'm so worried I'll get this wrong."

"This isn't a test, Hermione. You don't have to be perfect."

"I know, but I just–I have trouble trusting myself sometimes." She tears at the corner of the napkin. "I worry that I won't be able to find the right words again." What a stupid thing to tell him, that she lacked confidence in her ability to fix this. There's a familiar prick in her eyes, and she closes them.

The chair screeches. "Then I'll remind you," he says. "And you'll remind me, when I forget mine." He thumbs her cheekbones.

"I'm sorry for always," she says, gesturing towards herself. Her eyes leak. "I don't mean to get emotional like this."

He laughs. "We can even go to couple's counseling again, if you want."

"Really?"

"Yes, but no Susan."

She smiles. "Of course, no Susan."

There's a beat, and then they both start to laugh.


She has a letter, opened, partly-read on her desk. I was so angry with you, the first line reads. Harry's writing is a shock to her system. The words barely register at first; she's so enraptured by the curl of his s, the loop of his g. She wades through the morass of her surprise, grasping for land only to shrink at what she finds. I couldn't believe what you did, Hermione.

A familiar chill seeps through her torso, concentrated in her solar plexus. She stares at the edges of the parchment, focusing on the creased center. Dimly, the sound of Draco's footsteps float to her. He's in the kitchen. There's the glug of water, the thunk of the fridge closing.

She touches the parchment again, pinches it between her pointer and thumb finger. The letters twist in her vision, strokes of ink tangling together. Vaguely, she becomes aware of a soft humming, the notes drifting through the half-open door. She strains to hear the rest, the melody Draco reverts to when he thinks he's alone. Maybe he thought she was still upstairs. He doesn't have a particularly melodic voice, and his pitch wavers as the song progresses. A muffled percussion starts, like he's drumming his fingers on the counters, and the chill inside her thaws slightly. She tethers herself to him; her heartbeat slows, the panic in her chest loosening.

"Draco," she says. The song stops. She hears him clear his throat.

"Yes?"

She can imagine pink staining his cheeks, his slightly abashed look.

"Nothing." She smiles. "Just seeing what you were up to."

She puts the letter down. It could wait. Perhaps Harry was right, but still, it could wait.


She loses herself in triviality, welcomes it: Tabitha, chores, errands. There are arrangements to make with the funeral home, logistics to navigate with her parent's affairs. Draco has one follow-up appointment with his surgeon, a formality to avoid suspicion at his sudden disappearance. The doctor marvels over Draco's expedited healing. "It's like magic," he says, and everyone in the room laughs.

"How's the pain?" the doctor asks, and Draco looks away.

"I'll manage."

Sometimes, at night, she feels that familiar, bruised feeling in her throat. She succumbs to the nightmares about Draco's body, his skin unzippered. During the day, she catches him bent over, fingers pressed to his abdomen. She tries not to fret over him. Or at least not to let him see her fret. She understands the necessity of pride, of preservation.

The only time they're apart is when she meets with her former ministry boss. "Is there still a place for me on the team," she asks, and Calvin laughs. "As if anyone could possibly fill your shoes."

When she tells Draco this, he looks at her over the Daily Prophet. "You sound surprised," he says. "But you are rather irreplaceable, to many people."

"I asked him if I could work from home, for the beginning."

She stares at him, worried he'll shut down, offended at the idea of her hoovering presence.

Instead, he puts down the paper. "Well, lucky me."

They've erected a forcefield around this peace they're building. Time seems to move slower now that they're home; she savors each moment, cocooned in the safety of Draco's acceptance. Perhaps that's why the letters catch her so off-guard. She comes home after dropping off onboarding paperwork to find three envelopes. Each has a wax seal: dark-red, green, and purple.

She's sitting on the couch, the letters splayed on her lap, when Draco walks in.

"They're worried you won't see them," he says.

"I know. I read the letters." She squints at him. "Are you going to try and convince me to see them?"

He laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I would never presume to have the authority or the ability to tell Hermione Granger-Malfoy to do something she doesn't want to."

"I'm not even sure what we would talk about. I haven't spoken to any of them since they came to visit you, and they're inviting me to lunch?"

He frowns, eyebrows pulling down. "I was furious when they told me what they said to you at the hospital."

"They told you?"

"I don't think I've ever seen Pansy show remorse like that."

"She's in love with you, you know."

"I–"

She shakes her head, letting her amusement slip through. Had Pansy's revelation even shocked her? In the grand spectrum of events, it felt miniscule, hardly worth introducing into this discussion. "It's just something Pansy and I have in common." She smiles. "I can understand why they were upset."

She recognizes the parallels between her, Pansy, Theo, and Blaise. Each of them would do anything for Draco, would lay down their lives, without question. She thinks of Ron then, and Harry, and how she had always felt that way about then, but how now she wasn't sure of the reciprocity of her commitment. She hasn't spoken to Harry in weeks now.

Draco strokes her chin, a soft back-and-forth against the indent beneath her lip. "That doesn't mean they had any right to speak to you that way."

She leans into his touch, thumbing the cable knit bottom of his sweater.

"Let me think for a bit about what to say," she finally says. "I want to find the right words."

Later that night, she sits in her office, the quill twitching between her fingers. It would be easy to ignore them. She didn't particularly want to see Pansy, Theo, or Blaise. She wasn't ready to see them yet. But she knew they were trying, and she wanted to acknowledge that.

"Thank you," she finally writes, "for being such good friends to Draco."

There's one more letter left, and she closes her eyes before reaching into the drawer. Touching the torn edge, she pulls the letter out, exhaling as she unfolds it.

Hermione,

I was so angry with you. Before, with everything. I couldn't believe what you did. I still can't, sometimes. I'm not writing this to blame you, or to relive any of this. I just want to be honest, once and for all, and to say that I was angry.

I have so many things I want to say to you, but I know you don't want to see me. I'm sorry I let you down. I sometimes think I still see all of us as 17-year-olds. Like we left Hogwarts but never let go of who we were. Maybe that's idiotic, but that's still how I feel sometimes: the boy who lived. I think I still see you as you were, before you left for Australia. I didn't want to see how much things had changed. You've cleaned up my messes, so many of them. I'm not used to helping you with yours.

I'm not doing this apology justice, but I don't want to do it on parchment. I have a lot of things to say to you, if you'll let me.

Harry

Her stomach cramps, a stab of twisted emotions she can't unravel. Her brain blurs, a haze obscuring her thoughts. Did she miss Harry? She hadn't let herself think about him much. She is trying to let go of what she couldn't fix.

Crookshanks pads into the room, weaving between her ankles, and she pulls back from the desk, her forehead sore from where she had rested it against the wooden edge. She drifts her fingers against Crookshank's soft fur.

"What a strange day it's been," she murmurs, and the cat purrs, circling his own tail.

She hears the leather couch creak, and she rises, padding into the living room. Draco has his feet pressed against the coffee table, a book cracked open on his lap.

"Draco," she says, holding out the parchment. "Look what Harry sent me."


There's a shyness to her interactions with Draco. She worries, constantly, about saying or doing the wrong thing. But there are moments, on the couch, against the kitchen counter, where he tangles his fingers in her hair, mouth gripping her neck, and she thinks he must feel the same ache. But he never takes it further. He traces the lace of her bra and then pulls back, a smile and pink flush to his face. "Sorry," he says. "I got a little carried away."

She can feel him, pressing against her stomach, the way he moans into her mouth, how he pulls at the loop of her jeans, but they haven't explored anything further. Her own hands demur: they travel under his shirt, but stay firmly above his belt buckle.

One morning, she wakes to his lips whispering against her clavicle, her neck, her ear. His tongue is a hot, wet slide against hers, and then his fingers are tracing the hills and valleys of her spine. Her palm crests the slope of his chest, down the sharp line of his abdominal muscles, and then he lets out a sharp breath and pulls back.

"Sorry, sorry," she says. She had scraped against the fabric covering of his ostomy bag. "I didn't mean–"

"No, it's okay." He rests his forehead against her shoulder, breath warming her skin. "I was just startled. That's all."

The moment, she thinks, is gone. It's worse this way, to have had an opportunity and then ruined it. But then he tilts his head, finding her lips again. He tugs her until they're flush against one another, wedging his knee between her legs. Desire unspools in her abdomen, lighting her up. Her fingernails scrape through his scalp, and he moans, chest rising in violent pants. "Fuck," he says. "I want you."

She rubs against his knee, gasping against the friction. "Please," she whispers. He guides her shirt off, and then the cold air hits her and she feels a flush tint her chest. She hasn't been bare in front of him for so long. He stares at her, pupils blown, and she shifts to cover herself, but he pins her arms back. "No, don't do that, let me see you."

His head dips, licking a path from one breast to the other, flicking his tongue against her until she whimpers. "Please." She grasps at his shoulder as he descends, white-blond hair tickling her abdomen. He presses her hips into the bed, pulling off her underwear.

"So beautiful," he murmurs and then he gives her one leisurely lick. She can feel the pull of his smirk against her thighs as she lets out a loud, uneven moan. Her hands are in his hair, urging him on, scratching at his neck. "Bossy," he chuckles before sliding one finger inside. She bucks, strangling the bedsheets, and she feels him smile against her skin.

"Do you like that?"

She nods, makes an incoherent sound, and he thumbs at her: a gentle rhythm that shifts into a frenzied back and forth, setting her blood on fire.

"Fuck." She pulls at the collar of his shirt, wishing she could disappear it. "Draco, please make love to me."

He stills and looks at her. Crawling up, he plants a kiss on her shoulder, and then he grows unsure, tugging on a curl as he settles next to her. Their faces rest close together, but he stares at her chin, eyes unfocused. "I–You'll probably be able to feel it during–" He gestures towards himself. "I'll be getting it out soon. I know it might be strange for you. To feel it. We could wait."

She drags her finger down the slope of his nose, over the slight indentation of his smile lines. "Draco," she says. "You don't have to hide from me."

He tenses, and she wants to pull back her words. It's the wrong thing to have said; she was always doing that, saying the wrong things with the right intentions. "I'm sorry," she says. "I just mean–"

"I know what you mean." He kisses the inside of her palm. "But it's a strange adjustment, isn't it?"

She places her hand across his heart. "You're my husband, Draco. No part of you is strange to me." She kisses him, sliding her tongue along the seam of his mouth. "We can wait, if you want, but I want you. All of you."

He exhales, a forceful burst of breath against her lips. He dips his head, forehead pressing against her collarbone, and for a few seconds, all she feels is the strokes of his eyelashes against her skin. Then, he pushes himself up. "Let me just take a shower real quick. I'll be right back."

He rummages through the closet and then disappears into the bathroom. There is the sound of the toilet flushing, and then the beat of water against the shower tile. He emerges less than fifteen minutes later, hair damp and curling against his ears. He has a towel wrapped around his abdomen, and some kind black band around him, covering his injury.

He gestures towards himself. "Tabitha mentioned that this would be useful, if we–" The tips of his ears are pink. "So you wouldn't have to see it."

He walks towards her, stopping at the edge of their bed. She sits up, knees pressing into the mattress as she kisses him, one hand looped around his neck, the other curling into his towel. She tugs. "Let me see all of you."

The towel pools near his feet.

She trails a finger through the line of golden hair below his belly button, kissing his shoulder as she does so. He makes a small noise, and then his hands are on her chin, tilting her head upwards. He kisses her, and she slides her hand lower, wrapping around him, giving him a gentle squeeze that forces an exhale from his lips. "Fuck," he breathes.

She strokes him; his breaths turn to pants. He grows rigid in her palm, and she pushes against his lower back, encouraging him to bend forward, onto the bed, above her.

She scoots backwards, until her head touches the pillows, but then he grips her thigh and navigates them so she's sitting astride him. He presses one hand into her hip and the other moulds to her breast. She lowers herself, slowly, and his eyes close. She gasps at the pressure: a brief bite of pain, a deep stretching she'd gone long without.

"Okay?"

She nods. "Yes," she says. "Very okay."

He starts a slow rhythm. Fire spreads across her veins, a heat missile centered where their bodies are joined, his hip bones scraping her thighs.

Her hands press against his chest, and she slides them forward, until her mouth hovers over his. He slides a hand down her ribcage, trying to keep her suspended above the fabric, but she tugs at his fingers. "Draco," she says, "I want to feel all of you."

There's a moment of his hesitation, and then he pulls at her hips, pushing into her further. "Oh," she breathes. "Oh."

The fabric of the black band rubs against her stomach, and he presses his face into her neck, his words muffled. "Sorry," he says. "Is the friction painful? I didn't realize the fabric was so rough."

She shakes her head. "No," she says. "It's perfect. This is perfect."

His pace quickens then, fingers sneaking between them and stroking her until a familiar gelatinous pleasure builds in her marrow. He keeps repeating her name, Hermione Hermione Hermione, like an invocation. His mouth sucks a bruise into her neck, edging her to the precipice until she unravels with a moan.

"Fuck," he breathes, hips canting furiously, fingers leaving little crescents on her hips. "Merlin, Hermione."

He kisses her, tongue coasting across hers before he bites down, softly, on her lower lip. Her thighs tighten against his hips, holding him close as the hollow at the base of his neck deepens. "Fuck, fuck," he whispers. The muscles in his chest bunch against her. She pulls back slightly, takes a moment just to watch him, how his eyebrows pull together. His teeth sink into the swell of his bottom lip as he thrust into her again, slower, fingers massaging the crest of her hip.

She lingers for a moment, nuzzling into his throat, and then rises, using his chest for leverage. "I love you," she whispers, and his smile spreads warmth down her spine.

"I know." He squeezes her hip, fingers dancing up her side. Her arms flop off his shoulders, boneless, useless as she untangles herself from him. "I love you too, Hermione."

"Did I hurt you? Are you–"

He shakes his head. "A good kind of pain." He raises a brow. "The best kind."


On a placid day in April, Hermione buries her parents. It's a beautiful day, actually. Bursting peonies, a tease of breeze, filegered clouds. It is nothing at all like she expects. It makes her ache that they aren't there to see it.

People appear out of the woodwork for the funeral, like mites hiding in wood. Suddenly, the distant relatives who ignored her letters appear, full of sympathy. She hugs people, a blur of faces. She shakes hands, her fingers loose and cold. There's a speech; she wrote it, but she can't remember the words and ends up pulling out a scrap of paper, all the ink dripping and smeared.

"This is exhausting," she whispers at one point. "They say funerals are for the living, you know?"

Draco slides his hand across her neck, fingers warm and calloused. He's been brewing potions lately. It's too early to ask, but she wonders if he thinks of it as a future career.

"Who said that? Tolstoy?"

She presses her face into his coat lapel and snorts. "No, Roeliff Brinkerhoff."

"Oh." He strokes her back, pressing a kiss against her forehead. "Well, I'm glad it wasn't Tolstoy. I hate his writing."

She laughs then, louder, and her cheeks warm as people nearby turn towards her. They're standing in the front, directly between the two coffins. The first palmfuls of dirt have already been scattered, but people are still gathered around, paying their respects.

She's seen Pansy, Theo, and Blaise somewhere. The Weasleys too, all of them. Their hair is a shock of red among the funeral black. Harry's there as well, his eyes and tone apologetic as he squeezes her shoulder. All her friends have shown up for her, even those she can't honestly label as friends these days. The coffins are edged with wreaths and flowers: spider lilies pressed against the thorns of rose bundles.

There would be things to sort through. Arguments to untangle, apologies to exchange. She could believe of a lunch or dinner weeks–maybe, months–from now, with Blaise, Theo, and Pansy. Draco's hand against hers under the table. She could imagine their lowered eyes, the awkward stillness in the air. She doesn't know what she would say, if she would–could–smile, forgive them, fully. But she can imagine a future where she has forgiven them, where she does that, for Draco. And, maybe, for herself too.

The crowd rustles, footsteps disturbing the silence as people filter down the hill and back to their cars. Soon, only the witches and wizards will remain, waiting to apparate. She turns and the Weasley are there, waiting to hug her, to whisper their condolences. Ron presses a kiss against her cheek that makes Draco's hand stiffen on her shoulder. Ginny hugs her, hard. Pansy, Theo, and Blaise murmur something to Draco and then they touch her shoulder, each of them, carefully, and she doesn't freeze or grow stiff.

When Harry hugs her, he whispers, "I'm sorry," and she gives him a tight smile. "I'd like to come by sometime," he says. She hasn't replied to his letter yet. She meant to, but the words kept evaporating. He looks so earnest now, eyes bright and green beneath his spectacles. She doesn't say anything, but she squeezes his fingers. She thinks, eventually, she will have the right words for him.

She turns to her parents' coffins, eyes tracing the glossy, lacquered surfaces. Draco's hand slips into hers and she catches his smile. The lump in her throat softens slightly. She had been right, weeks ago, in thinking that time was irreplaceable: spidering out, tiny cracks against the surface of her life that grew and grew and grew until one day they shattered the glass holding them together.

You could never replace time, but if you were careful, you'd spend yours wisely, with someone you loved.

And for Hermione Granger-Malfoy, that was enough.