[c/w for hospital scenes in the first and second sections, including needles, discussion of meds, etc.; heavy emotional stuff in the third section]


Hermione woke slowly, feeling as if she were floating down an endless, swampy black river made of smoke and ash. She looked down at her greying arms, at her burning feet, then up into the yellow sky. She tried to speak, but nothing happened, and then—

She opened her eyes. The room was mostly dark, and the few dimmed lights were cold and white, burning her eyes at first. Hermione squinted, then blinked as a few objects came into focus—

A large, sterile room with pale blue curtains drawn over a purplish night sky. A fat sofa rested beneath the windows, and her gaze fell on a square, white cart, then on the door, which had a shade and a handle without a lock.

She was lying in a bed, a massive, white bed with handrails, under layers of thin, crinkly blankets. Hermione frowned down at them, then tried to move her hands, her feet. Nothing happened, and the shock of it was so astute that she didn't react beyond a stifled gasp.

It burned in her lungs like liquid ice, and she forced herself to stop looking, to stop breathing, to stop thinking, and it was only then that she realized she was not alone. Panic gripped hold of her, but then she realized who it was, and released her breath.

Harry was in a chair not three inches from her bed, slumped over, his head propped in his hand, apparently dead asleep, and he looked awful. Hermione had seen him in some pretty rough situations, but even this made the top five. He clearly hadn't shaved in days, his clothing was rumpled and creased, there were greyish circles under his eyes, and his hair was half-vertical. She could just see the way he must have pushed his hands through it, over and over again, and felt a pang of something rather like affection.

She tried again, breathing in and out, much more slowly than she had before. This hurt very little — close to not at all — and the relief was so intense that tears pricked at her eyes.

Suddenly, there came a quiet chime from something beside her bed, and a little light glowed orange in the relative dark of the room. Hermione stared at it, bewildered, then her gaze returned to Harry, and she almost passed out because his eyes were open and he was looking at her.

Neither of them moved. She had no idea how long they stayed like that, staring at each other, while the orange light bathed Harry's face in its strange, sickening color.

Finally, he moved, shifting forward in his seat, still staring at her like he didn't quite trust what he was seeing. It was only then that she realized that her right hand was not beside her in bed, but hanging just off the edge, mere inches from Harry's own. Perhaps it was because she looked at it, perhaps it was because he'd forgotten about it, but Harry closed the distance between them and took her hand.

His touch was gentle, tender, warm and rough, and Hermione took a shuddering breath, tears threatening again, because she could feel it.

Harry frowned, his thumb sweeping across the back of her hand. "What's wrong?"

Hermione opened her mouth, then realized how dry it was. "Nothing," she managed to get out. Her voice was cracked and rotten from disuse, but she plowed on. "I just… can't seem to move my arms and legs, but I can feel—"

"Don't worry," he murmured, though his frown didn't budge. "Just wait a few moments and then we can—"

Suddenly, the door opened, throwing a beam of golden light into the room. Hermione blinked, momentarily dazzled by it, and a dark figure came in, their robes glowing green in the blade of light.

"Minister," came a low, smooth voice. "Glad to see you're awake."

"She can't move her arms or legs," said Harry sharply, giving the Healer a pointed look. "Is that normal?"

"For someone just regaining consciousness for the first time in three days? Absolutely." The Healer turned on a lamp beside her bed, and Hermione was surprised to find herself staring at a woman, none other than Cornelia Rutherby herself, the Deputy Head Healer of St. Mungo's, world-renowned specialist in magical diseases and potions damage. Cornelia was tall and imposing, but her face was warm, kind, no-nonsense, and Hermione had a sudden, terrifying vision of what the conversations between her and Harry must have been like. "Give it a few minutes, Minister, then I'm sure you'll feel some remarkable improvement. Would you like some water?"

Hermione nodded. "De-Deputy Healer—"

"Call me Cornelia, please, Minister. Certainly, we've known each other long enough for that." Cornelia held out a glass of water with a straw in it and placed the straw in Hermione's mouth.

Hermione drank quickly, eagerly. She hadn't realized she was so thirsty.

Meanwhile, Cornelia pulled out her wand and used it to turn off the orange light on Hermione's machine. "Any pain, Minister? Discomfort?"

Hermione shook her head, then nodded. She drained the rest of the water, spat out the straw, and said, "If I breathe too hard, or too quickly, then—"

Cornelia nodded, refilling the cup with a tap of her wand. "To be expected. Your lungs are still healing, I'm afraid."

Hermione drained the second cup even more quickly than the first.

"And the mobility?" Harry's voice still had a hard edge to it, and he was still holding her hand.

Cornelia took the cup back and gave Hermione a nod. "Why don't you try again now?"

Hermione looked down at her right foot and thought, Move. To her relief, the toes on her right foot twitched, then the toes on her left. She couldn't hold back a grin, and Cornelia grinned back at her.

"See?" Cornelia gave her a pat on the shoulder, then another cup of water. "Better already." Hermione took the cup from her, delighted that she could do so, ignoring the slight ache that went through her shoulder and down her arm.

Cornelia went to the foot of the bed, where she picked up a clipboard and started flicking through Hermione's chart, wand in hand and one eye on the machine next to the bed. "You're certainly improving. We didn't think you'd wake up for another day or so."

Hermione swallowed, feeling a spike of nerves, and reminded herself to keep her breathing even. "I suppose that's good news."

"Very," Cornelia agreed, waving her wand and taking what Hermione knew to be her vitals.

She steeled herself. "Cornelia. What's wrong with me? What happened?"

Cornelia met her gaze, then looked away. "Let's not get into that right now. The important thing is that you're recovering very well—"

"It was an unknown, airborne potion," Harry cut in, his voice low and his gaze simmering with heat. He looked Hermione right in the eye. "The moment you inhaled it, it attacked the lining of your lungs and caused it to disintegrate."

Hermione stared back at him, awash in the few memories she had of the attack — coughing up blood, feeling as if someone was ripping her lungs out of her chest with their bare hands. "But you were there, you must've inhaled it, too. Nothing happened to you."

Harry nodded. "That's because—" He exhaled suddenly, then shifted closer. "Hermione, that's because this wasn't like any other potion." His other hand came up and brushed over her hairline. "Do you remember that cut you got at the restaurant?"

Hermione frowned, then nodded.

"This wasn't like any other potion because it had your blood in it. They stole your blood during the fight and used it to make a poison that would only affect you."

She gaped at him, her heart giving a painful thud. She looked to Cornelia for confirmation, and while Cornelia looked unhappy about this line of conversation, she did nod in reply.

"Blood magic?" Hermione whispered, feeling a deep, sickening horror well up in her stomach. "You mean to tell me they're using blood magic?"

"Yes," said Harry, his voice grim. "Which does narrow the suspect pool considerably. There are very few people who have the raw talent to use blood magic, not to mention access to the right resources. I would be surprised if it was someone who went to Hogwarts, those books were taken out of the Restricted Section hundreds of years ago."

"All right," said Cornelia, her voice sharp. "That's enough of that. She needs her rest."

"Wait!" Hermione sat up, ignoring the ache it sent through her chest, her hips, her back. The rest of her memories had come upon her in a rush. "You were shot, Harry! Are you all right?!"

Finally, finally, he cracked the world's smallest smile, and he nodded. "Turns out a bullet's nothing in the face of magical medicine. One went clean through my calf, so it was an easy fix. The other went in my shoulder, but they got it out in no time. I'm fine," he added, his thumb brushing her hand again. "I was up and about not half an hour after they brought us in."

Hermione nodded, sinking back into her pillows. Her heart began to slow again, and she realized that Cornelia was right — she was exhausted.

Cornelia gave her a knowing look and went to turn out the lamp, but Hermione stopped her, putting her hand to Cornelia's elbow.

"Please don't," she murmured. "I like the light."

Cornelia nodded and smiled. "I'll be back to check on you in a couple of hours. Sleep well, Minister." And with that, she left, her footsteps receding along the hall.

Hermione exhaled, allowed her gaze to travel back to Harry. He was still looking at her, his face impassive, but his eyes speaking volumes — fear, relief, pain, she saw all of it.

"Where am I?" she whispered. "I don't recognize this ward."

Harry cleared his throat. "You wouldn't. It's a private one, top-level access only. Cornelia is one of three Healers who know that you're here right now, and apart from them, it's only me, Alpha Team, and Kingsley. Security precaution."

"I see." Hermione felt her eyes slipping shut, but she frowned anway. "Harry, you should go home. Get changed, take a shower, get some sleep, really, I'm fine—"

He gave her that small smile again, his thumb tapping her hand. "No."

She tried to frown some more, but her face was fuzzy with sleep. "Harry…"

"Hermione." Harry tapped her hand again, something in his face so soft, so caring, that it made her insides twist.

But that didn't matter. She fell asleep mid-frown, descending yet again into the endless, velvet black.


When she woke again, there was fresh, watery sunlight coming in the window, and she was alone. Hermione blinked at the empty chair next to her bed, still too groggy to really feel anything, and couldn't help but wonder where Harry had gone, and whether she now had a replacement security detail. Would they have to stay in the room with her, or would they be outside the door?

Another part of her, the part that lived in the hollow edge of her stomach, wondered if she'd dreamt it all. If Harry hadn't actually been there, or Cornelia, if it had all been a potion-induced hallucination — Harry looking at her, touching her hand, speaking softly but clearly, telling her what she needed to hear—

But. She glanced up, and noticed that her bedside lamp was still on, its golden glow paling in the sunshine. She hadn't dreamt that. So maybe—

Suddenly, a door she hadn't noticed before opened, a light switched off, and Harry stepped back into the room. He froze when he saw that she was awake, his eyes widening in surprise.

"Good morning," Hermione managed to croak. Her mouth was much less dry than the last time she'd woken up, but still far from normal.

"Afternoon," he corrected her. He didn't budge. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," she replied, and it was the truth. Her body was slowly waking up, and her limbs didn't feel quite so heavy, or as stiff, which made it easier to speak.

"Good." Harry still made no moves towards her, and she felt a flash of irritation.

"What time is it?"

"One o'clock, and it's Wednesday," he replied. "You woke up around three this morning."

Hermione did the mental math in seconds, then felt a rush of satisfaction that she could. She'd slept for almost ten hours. "Is there… could I have a glass of water?"

"Of course." Harry went over to the cart, where she noticed several dishes, a large bowl, and a stack of cups. "They sent along some ice as well, if you'd like?"

Hermione had a sudden, intense flashback to being in a hospital room much smaller than this one, cuddling her teddy, waiting for her mum to bring her another cup of ice chips. Having her tonsils out wasn't exactly a fond memory, but it was certainly well ahead of this one. "Please."

Harry poured her a cup of water and prepared what had to be the largest cup of ice chips she'd ever seen in her life. The ice had a preserving spell on it, and it smoked a little as he carried it over. He put the ice on the table beside her bed, well within her reach. She didn't miss the way he kept his gaze down, and when he handed her the water, she took it, then took his hand.

"Harry."

His fingers curled into hers, but he still didn't look up.

"Harry."

He broke, then, his gaze darting up to meet hers. His eyes were full of so many things — fear, anger, pain — and they glimmered in the sunlight. He'd put on a fresh pair of slacks and a new shirt, and he'd combed his hair, but he still looked grey, worn-out.

She knew he wouldn't believe her, but — "It's not your fault."

Harry said nothing, but he squeezed her hand.

"It is not," she insisted, "your fault, Harry."

That finally got her a small smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Yes, Minister."

Hermione swallowed a strong, sudden urge to punch him. "I won't hear anything to the contrary. In fact, if I do, I shall banish you."

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Banish me?"

"Yes. To Greenland." Hermione took a gulp of water. "I'm Minister for Magic, I can do these sorts of things."

"Greenland," Harry repeated, some of the tension leaking out of his body. "Not much going on in Greenland by way of Dark wizards."

"That you know of, Harry." Hermione finished off her water. She wanted the ice, but she also didn't want to stop holding his hand. It was terrible, but it was the truth. "With your luck, you might find another terrorist cell to infiltrate. Or a halibut conspiracy."

"Out of everything you've ever threatened me with," said Harry, and he was still standing so close to her, she could practically feel the heat of his body, "investigating a halibut conspiracy is probably the strangest."

"It could be fun, Harry. Even deadly. Lots of action to be had over halibut."

"Top of my to-do list, then." He squeezed her hand again. "Go to Greenland, see a man about some halibut."

Suddenly, the door to her room opened, and Harry stepped away, letting go of her hand. To her horror, Hermione blushed, then quickly traded her empty cup for the cup of ice, looking up to meet Cornlia's smile.

"Good afternoon, Minister." Cornelia swept over and pulled out her wand. "How are we?"

"Very well, thank you." Which was true. Apart from a lingering, persistent ache in her chest, some soreness, and a slight shortness of breath, she felt almost normal.

"I'm glad to hear that, and to see you've found the ice. We'll have to keep you on that for a few hours, I'm afraid, you're on quite the cocktail of potions and switching back to solid food can be a bit dodgy." Cornelia took her vitals, then reached up and switched off the lamp. "You're still improving, which is an excellent sign."

Hermione nodded, then crunched up a piece of ice and gestured to the IV in her left arm. She couldn't feel it, but she could see it now in the daylight. It was thin and clear, the point of insertion hidden beneath a bandage and the sleeve of her hospital gown. "What are you giving me?"

Cornelia laid the chart on Hermione's lap and Hermione picked it up with her free hand, flicking through it to get the record of her treatments. "Some painkillers, some anti-inflammatories, some nutritional fluids, and the tail-end of your course of antibiotics." She gave a small, knowing smile, as if anticipating Hermione's next question. "The majority of your anti-poison course was administered within the first twelve hours of your arrival. We were able to stop the damage with spellwork, but reversing and repairing the damage was quite another story."

"I'm sure." Hermione felt a bit strange to be talking about this so clinically, as fascinated as she was by it — she'd almost died from this poison, and she was sure the Healers had had their work cut out for them developing a potion to counteract blood magic. She could see the ingredients listed on the prescription chart, and took a moment to be impressed by the Healers' skill. "What's the recovery timeline?"

Cornelia blinked, as if she were surprised to hear Hermione asking about it so soon. "We'll keep you here for another day, mostly for observation purposes. I'm afraid the DMLE wants to move you to a safe house as quickly as possible, so as soon as you are able to travel, you will. Once you're installed in the safe house, I will visit you daily to check on your progress, but at this point, you just need time. Your body will continue to heal itself, and the only way that'll happen is by resting."

There was an edge to these words, and Hermione fought off a smile. She'd forgotten how good Cornelia was at reading people. "What about long-term effects?"

"None, hopefully. But to be honest, Minister, this is the first case of blood magic we've had at St. Mungo's in almost four hundred years. We've done our best, and everything indicates that we've taken the correct course of action, but there is always the possibility of unknown long-term effects." Cornelia frowned a little, then added, "You must be honest with us — with me — at all times, Minister. Every detail, every little irritation, could be a possible symptom of a larger problem. But we can only identify and counteract it with your help."

Hermione nodded, pushing her chart back down the bed. "Understood."

Harry glanced at both of them before he spoke. "Now that you're awake, Minister, Kingsley would like to discuss the details of the safe house with you, preferably sometime this evening. That gives us adequate time to prepare before we move you tomorrow."

Cornelia shot him a look, her eyes flashing. "It appears that someone did not listen to my advice about resting."

"It's fine," Hermione told her, then took a slow, careful breath. "Harry, I'm happy to speak to him later. That gives me plenty of time to catch up on everything I've missed the past few days."

Cornelia now looked ready to strangle something. "Minister," she said, her voice hard, "you must not overexert yourself. It is my professional recommendation that you do not make an attempt to return to work for another week, at the minimum."

It took some time, but eventually, Hermione haggled Cornelia down to three half-hour work sessions staggered between naps. She was under strict orders to spend the following day doing no work at all, since travelling would likely take a lot out of her.

"Very well." Cornelia pocketed her wand and shot both of them an unamused look. "Should you tire of the ice chips, please ring for me and we'll see about getting you some broth." And with that, she marched from the room, the door hissing shut behind her.

Hermione took another slow, deep breath. "It seems I've lost all my good credit with Cornelia. Such a shame, too, it took me years."

"Don't be silly." Harry sat down in his chair again. "She'll be back to her reluctant approval by tomorrow."

Hermione couldn't help smiling. "I appreciate your vote of confidence, Harry." She crunched up some more ice, feeling tired and wired all at once. Then, all too quickly, she remembered — "Wait, what about the raid?"

Harry frowned. "What do you mean, Minister?"

"The raid," she repeated, reminding herself not to get too worked up. "How did it go?"

Harry's frown got a wary edge to it. "Minister, I — we were briefed on Sunday morning, before we went to the shops."

She blinked, surprised. "Oh." But everything up until the blast was a complete wash — she barely even remembered walking in and out of Waitrose. "Well… I'm afraid I—"

"It went well," Harry said, before she could say anything. "We were able to apprehend several of Salvation's operatives with minimal casualties on our end. They certainly seemed surprised to see us, so I think it's fair to say that our intel was solid. Not a trap."

"What about the Potions master?"

Harry shook his head. "Our luck ran out on that account. He managed to break through the anti-Apparition wards and escape just as we got into his workshop." His eyes glimmered. "But we got his notes. And some samples of his work."

Hermione had to take a moment to remind herself to breathe much more slowly than usual. "Really? Anything good?"

Harry nodded. "Loads. Draco's got all of it, I don't think he's slept at all the past few days. He's close, Minister. He's very close to breaking that cure for Veritaserum." He took one look at her expression and added, "It's not a cure in the conventional sense, either, which is somewhat of a relief. The method they use to undermine the effects of Veritaserum is based in Occlumency."

Hermione could only stare at him in shock.

"I know," Harry replied, "I was surprised as well, particularly because some of these operatives — well, Minister, they're not the sharpest tools in the shed, no one would suspect them of knowing Occlumency. But this potion gives them the ability to strengthen the natural barriers of their mind, to take what's already there and fortify it. Someone only had to go to the trouble of teaching them the most fundamental basics of Occlumency, then let the potion do the rest of the heavy lifting."

This information sank in slowly. "That… is…"

"Incredibly clever, yes. Draco's certain that once he finishes the antidote to the strengthening potion, we'll be able to question the suspects without any trouble."

"But what about Legilimency? If they're using Occlumency, then surely—"

Harry shook his head. "We had our best people from the Department of Ministries give it a shot, but no luck, I'm afraid. Whatever's in that potion, it bloody works."

Hermione sighed a little. "Shame you didn't have it back in fifth year."

He gave her a sudden, bright grin, looking every inch like his old teenage self, and she dropped her gaze back to her ice chips. Hermione crunched through another mouthful, absently thinking of crisps, then realized, with the sudden clarity she used to only associate with Arithmancy proofs, that this was one of the most amiable, the most normal conversations she and Harry had had in years. Outside the bedroom, of course.

This realization made her heart do something embarrassing, embarrassing enough that a little red light flickered on the box next to her bed. Harry frowned at it, and she could only stare at it in horror as her heart thudded again and the red light flashed.

Harry turned to her with a look of genuine concern. "Are you all right, Minister?"

"Yes," she said, too quickly, then faked a hiccup. "I think I was just eating too quickly."

Thankfully, her heart decided to get with the program, and the red light switched off. Hermione stopped herself from breathing a sigh of relief and buried her face in her ice chips. She hoped Malfoy had his nose to the grindstone, because they needed to stop these terrorists and she needed to go back to normal when it came to Harry.

Hermione wasn't sure what their 'normal' was at this point, but whatever it might be, she would take it.


It wasn't until the following day, when the sun was melting into a cold, blue evening, and the nearby waves were whispering against the shore, that Hermione opened her eyes and felt a sob welling in her stomach.

She blinked, staring up at the ceiling of her semi-darkened bedroom, trying to get a hold on her emotions before they provoked a disastrous coughing fit. She'd had one of those already just a few hours earlier — it had taken her by surprise, only a few minutes after they'd arrived at the safe house, her hand on the wall as she looked at the sparse, simple furnishings, feeling the weight of her travel catching up with her. They'd had to do Side-Along, and she'd guessed, as she fell to the floor, coughing so hard that tears sprang to her eyes and spots burned black in her vision, that it had taken her a bit by surprise.

Cornelia had been unhappy, of course, and not shocked in the least. But thankfully, she didn't waste time on an I told you so, and got Hermione stable and into bed, wordlessly shoving a small dose of Dreamless Sleep into her hands. "All of it," she'd said, stern and unyielding, and Hermione had been all too happy to obey, anything to forget the way Harry had bolted to her side, held her, his face twisting with panic and a sadness too deep to touch.

Now, as she squinted at her comforter, she tried not to cry. A deep, wrenching anguish was rearing in her gut, a feeling she hadn't known in years, and her hands were trembling with the effort of holding it in.

It's your fault, a slick, snide voice whispered in the back of her head. All those people, all that damage, and it's all your fault.

Hermione shuddered, a few tears slipping down her cheeks, and pressed her hand to her mouth, forcing herself to take long, slow breaths. It didn't work. More tears slipped through, hot and burning against her cheeks, and she shuddered, unable to keep herself from seeing the bodies of all the Muggles scattered around the square. Minimal injuries, Harry had told her only yesterday. All healed and Obliviated, you'd never know anything had happened—

But it didn't matter. It had still happened, people had still been hurt, and she'd put so many others at risk with her own foolish crusade. Maybe she hadn't really listened to the people she'd written legislation for, maybe they'd been warning her all along and she never heard it, too caught up in her own agenda, in her own preoccupation with making things better, no matter the cost.

Look at yourself, came the voice again. You're half-dead and you still don't know when to stop. When to give in. And who's going to want you now? You're—

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing another sob. Her lungs were starting to ache, a sharp pain shot between her ribs, but she forced herself to keep her breathing slow. In, two, three, she told herself, sucking in air between clenched teeth. Out, two—

Suddenly, her bedroom door opened, and before the words Go away even managed to form in her mind, Harry appeared, a steaming mug in one hand. His eyes found hers at once and he paused where he stood, one hand on the doorknob, one foot inside the room. He stared at her, and her body flooded with the fresh heat of embarrassment. She wished she was feeling just a little bit better, a little bit stronger, because the lamp on her nightstand would make a very good projectile—

He didn't say anything, just watched as she gulped and stifled another sob. Then, he moved, slowly coming to her side of the bed. Harry put the mug down on her bedside table, turned on the lamp, then reached down and picked up a box of tissues.

To her mounting horror, he sat down on the edge of the bed, less than a foot away from her, propping the tissue box on top of the comforter. He was staring at the wall, but she looked away, one hand on her chest as she tried and failed to keep her sobs under control.

"It's always wrose," he said, his voice so low she almost didn't hear him. "It's always worse when you get out of the hospital." The corner of Harry's mouth twitched. "Things are easier in the hospital. More normal. It's only once you get home that you realize how truly fucked it all is."

Hermione gulped, a fresh wave of tears breaking free. In spite of all her instincts telling her not to, she grabbed a handful of tissues and buried her face in them.

It was silent for a while — silent save for her strange half-sobbing, half-breathing — and then Harry spoke again, using the same low, careful voice.

"You're doing really well, Hermione," he said, and then she felt the warmth of his hand on her knee. "I mean it. You've been through hell and back by this point and you've handled it better than anyone could have imagined." He squeezed her knee. "I know it's terrifying to have someone come after you like that. But you're safe here. You're safe, and you're nowhere near London, and all you need to do right now is get better."

Again, in spite of her instincts, Hermione nodded. She'd make a mess of the tissues so she reached for another handful, letting out a single, mournful cough.

Harry didn't react, but he nudged the box closer. Something about that movement, and the look on his face, was so warm, so understanding, that she had a powerful urge to punch him. He had no right, not even now—

"I couldn't get out of bed," Harry said, then licked his lips, hesitating. "I couldn't get out of bed for a week after they sent me home from Mungo's. After my knee," he added, and Hermione could only stare at him, mute, all of the anger trickling out of her as quickly as it had arrived. Her breath crackled in her lungs but she ignored it. "Teddy was still at school, obviously, so I didn't have any real reason to get out of bed, to eat, to see the sun, none of it." He shook his head. "I didn't — couldn't — understand how I was supposed to keep going. Why I should bother trying, when my body already looked like a battlefield and there was no end in sight."

Hermione sniffed, wiping at her eyes. A part of her wanted him to stop talking, to stop telling her these things, but then another part wanted him to do the exact opposite.

"And in the end, it wasn't some big realization, or a lightbulb moment. Nothing like that." His smile was soft. "It didn't help to think about everyone who expected nothing less of me. Everyone who was waiting for the Chosen One to come waltzing out of the Spell Damage ward like nothing had ever happened. But I didn't do it for them. I got out of bed because I got bored of waiting to feel better. I knew I had to try, I knew I had to get over the new reality of… of this." He rubbed his knee, and even though Hermione couldn't see it, she could recall the feeling of the warped, thick scar tissue beneath her hands.

"It wasn't about who won or who lost, in the end," said Harry. "That didn't matter. What mattered was how I felt about myself. How I made the decision to get out of bed when I didn't have any real reason to." He shrugged. "It's awful, but you get through it, because that's what we do. And you're twice the fighter I am, so you have nothing to worry about."

It was too much. A fresh sob gurgled out of Hermione's throat, and a new wave of tears streamed down her face.

Harry shot her a look of alarm. "Oh, no, don't—" He was up on the bed in an instant, his arm around her shoulders. She hiccupped, then snorted, then coughed, then hiccupped again, and he rubbed her back, shoving more tissues at her. "'Mione, I didn't mean to— Oh, Merlin, this is a real mess, isn't it—?"

She gave a watery chuckle, curling into his chest. Her lungs were really aching now, but this was helping, weirdly.

"Just—" he tried, and he really was panicking now. She would've burst out laughing if she had the air for it. "Let it out, I guess, or don't, just— please, don't get one of those coughing fits, Cornelia will have my head on a spike if it happens twice in one day—"

Hermione blew her nose, making one of the most inelegant sounds she'd ever made in front of another person. If she'd had the energy for it, she would've been embarrassed.

"Good, good—" He was definitely still panicking, and his back-rubbing grew frantic. "Merlin's balls, I guess that means you can still breathe—"

"Harry," she managed, through another hiccup. She was grinning. "I'm fine, I'm better—"

"No you're not, you're better when you can take a breath without sounding like an elephant, I mean, Jesus Christ, 'Mione, are you sure you're not hiding another medical condition in there somewhere, or maybe a herd of wildebeest?"

"Harry." She blew her nose again — making a much more acceptable sound, this time — and wiped at her eyes. "I'm fine, I promise. Wobbly moment over."

Harry sank back into the pillows, giving her a lopsided smile. "Still alive, then?"

Hermione looked at him, then realized for the first time that he was wearing jeans — a clean pair, granted, with no mysterious rips or tears — and a thick sweater atop his usual button-down. His hair was combed, but it was a little scuffed at the top. It was the most casual he'd been since the beginning of this assignment, and it unsettled her, making her both comfortable and uncomfortable all at once. "Yes," she managed, forcing herself to pause and take a measured breath. "Still alive."

"And I live for Cornelia to disembowel me another day."

Suddenly, Winnie jumped up onto the bed, giving Hermione a worried look. He meowed warily, then padded up towards her, purring.

"See?" Harry said to Winnie, giving him a rub on the head. "The wildebeest are gone." He nodded at the bedside table. "You should have some tea before he knocks it over. It's that foul herbal stuff, but it's got loads of honey in it."

Hermione nodded, reaching for the mug, and curiosity got the better of her. She knew she should be telling him to leave, but she didn't. "Harry, how on earth did you get through having Teddy?" She couldn't help wondering, since he'd panicked so quickly at seeing her cry.

Harry scoffed. "Wasn't easy, I'll tell you that much." But then his gaze softened. "It was strange. I was always the one who was a mess. He was the tough one, the one who comforted me when I got upset about whatever scrape he'd managed to get himself into." He shook his head. "He's always been like that. Looking after me. I felt terrible about it, of course, still do, because that wasn't how it was supposed to be. He shouldn't have felt like he had to do that, like he had to be strong for me when I couldn't."

Hermione stared at him, the mug forgotten in her hand, Winnie curled up against her hip. Harry wasn't even looking at her, but that didn't matter. Seeing him, now, after their strange couple of weeks together; after sharing meals, talking more than they had in years; knowing the way his hands and his body felt against hers, the way his mouth, his eyes, swallowed her without trying; remembering the way he'd shouted over her limp body; his hand holding hers even as she lay unconscious… and now this, hearing him talk about Teddy, about knowing what it was to suffer and to keep going, even under the weight of a million expectations, and to still find glimmers of happiness — it was so different. They hadn't spoken like this, like friends, in years, and she'd forgotten what it was like to have Harry in her life, by her side, understanding her in the smallest, most unspoken of ways. The reminder was overwhelming. She stared at him, and felt a sudden surge of emotion, an emotion that, were she in her normal state, she would have buried at the bottom of a well far beyond the reach of daylight.

But she knew what it meant. And in that moment, Hermione realized she was falling in love with Harry. Again.

In the next moment, she panicked and remained calm all at once. She sipped at her tea, which was lemony and quite nice, praying to every god and magical figure she could think of that none of her thoughts were showing on her face. All the while, Hermione could only berate herself, her mind whirling, because she was an idiot. She, Hermione Granger, was quite possibly one of the stupidest people in the world, because she'd thought she could invite Harry into her life without a single consequence. She should've known. She should've guessed that they would end up here, just as they had before, just shy of catastrophe, regardless of how she'd tried to steer them towards any other course.

"There's some stew, if you're hungry," Harry was saying. His hand was still on her back, his fingers tracing small circles over her spine. "Cornelia said you can try eating more substantial stuff now, but it'll be soups for the next couple of days, just until you're feeling better."

Hermione found herself nodding, because she was indeed a bit hungry. A glance at her watch and the purplish sky told her it was getting on for six. "Sure. Do I—?" She hesitated, glancing at the door. "Do I need to eat at the table, or—?" The cottage was small, but the dining area was still a short walk away, far enough that her lungs ached just at the thought of it.

"No," said Harry, shaking his head. "You can eat it here." And with that, he slid out of the bed, still not looking at her. "Did you want the telly on?"

"Yes, please." Hermione was all too thankful for the distraction, even if the television was small and quite a few years out of date.

Once Harry was gone, Hermione sank back into the pillows, crumpling her used tissues into one large glob. This was going to be a serious problem. She just had to get through the rest of this stupid lockdown, however long that would be. Kingsley was confident that they'd be able to target or even arrest the Potions-master and Salvation's other leaders within a week, but Hermione wasn't convinced it would be that easy. Even if more information was forthcoming, Salvation would probably be ready for anything the Ministry had to throw at them.

But a week. She could handle a week more of Harry. And then—

Hermione let out a growl of frustration, then coughed a little and rolled her eyes. What would happen when this was over, when they went back to life as it was? When they went back to veiled insults, glares, and distance? Would that even happen? Hermione was reluctant to call whatever she and Harry now had a friendship, and just because they'd been able to stand each other for the past few weeks certainly didn't guarantee that their uneasy truce would continue.

But would they keep—? Even when this was over? Would he show up on her doorstep, pin her to the wall, his mouth hot and rough, making her shudder and scream until—

No. Hermione clenched her jaw, swallowing another wave of anger, frustration, denial. This was ending, all of it. She'd made a mistake before, when she'd let him cross the lines she'd spent years building around herself just for the excuse of having someone in her bed again, and now look where they were. She wasn't going to make that mistake again.

Harry reappeared a few minutes later, carrying a tray with two bowls and a pile of fresh bread. Casper followed, and he jumped up onto the bed, looking very imperious. "I wasn't sure how hungry you were," Harry said, somewhat sheepishly.

Hermione couldn't hold back a smile. "That's all right."

Harry slid the tray up the bed, and she sat up against the headboard, still half-buried in blankets, Winnie dead asleep beside her. The seafront was colder and drier than her house in the middle of London, and she was having trouble getting used to it. "Thank you," she said, pushing her hair out of her face and pulling the tray up onto her lap, out of Casper's reach.

Harry gave a nod. "Sure." He glanced at the television screen, where a Doctor Who marathon was playing, and gave a sudden, brilliant smile. "Should've guessed."

Hermione said nothing and kept her gaze on her food, which, helpfully, did look delicious.

"I didn't know you kept watching it," Harry went on. "Once it started up again."

Hermione stirred her stew. "I stopped after David Tennant. Just wasn't as good."

Harry nodded, looking thoughtful. "Teddy felt the same." Another pause, then he shifted a little. "Well, guess I'd better—"

She pictured him sitting alone at the tiny, little table and felt a weird lurch below her belly button. "You don't have to—" She paused, swallowed. "You can stay."

Harry blinked at her, then gave her a small, tentative smile. "All right."

And so he settled in a squashy armchair at the foot of the bed, watching as Chris Eccleston tried to reason with a Dalek. Hermione looked away with a blush, absently brushing a chunk of hair over her shoulder, and dug into her own food.

The beef stew was delicious — hearty, salty, bursting with vegetables. It was the best thing she'd had since waking up the day before, maybe one of the best things she'd eaten all year, and she said, "Where did you get this? It's incredible."

Harry hesitated, then shrugged, chewing and swallowing. "Nearby farm. It's where we're getting most of the supplies."

Of course. They were so far away from anything else, and she and Harry weren't even allowed to go anywhere. Only two members of her security detail could leave the safety of the wards at a time, and Hermione understood why a Tesco might not be at the top of their list. "Well," she said, scooping up another spoonful. "We'll have to leave them a note or something."

Harry flashed her a knowing look, then smiled. "Of course, Minister."

And even though she was fresh out of St. Mungo's, with a bunch of people desperate to kill her, hiding in a remote backwater of Cornwall, without even her books for company, Hermione couldn't help but feel a rush of warmth for this moment. For the coziness of sharing a meal with Harry, watching one of her favorite shows, tucked up in a deliciously comfortable bed. It was ridiculous of her to feel safe, to feel at home, but she did, and there was no changing that.

They ate their dinner in companionable silence, and Hermione realized that she was going to have to be very, very careful if she was going to make it out of this cottage with her sanity — and her heart — fully intact.