Huge thanks to my amazing beta Insanity-Red for all the help.

Chapter 2

Stardate 2260.343 — San Francisco, California, Earth

By the time Hermione finally made it home from her hospital shift, it was three in the morning. She looked like a drowned rat, with tendrils of dark hair plastered to her face and water dripping off her clothes—not medical scrubs that she usually wore at the hospital, Harry noted, but exercise clothes. He might have laughed at her unkempt appearance, had he not been in a poor mood; he'd been checking the chronometer constantly for the past two hours, his face darkening with every extra minute gone by without an appearance from his friend.

Hermione, upon seeing his anxious expression, immediately asked: "Harry, what's wrong?"

"What's wrong? I'm the one who should be asking you that question!" retorted Harry, wandlessly and non-verbally summoning a towel. "What happened to you? Are you alright?"

She sighed, grimacing at the puddle forming under her feet, and began removing her shoes. "Everything's fine, Harry."

Harry's hands fisted around the towel before he gently untwisted it to drape over Hermione's drenched shoulders.

"You're soaking wet!"

"I am aware of that," she said tiredly. "It's raining. Again."

"I know it's raining!"

He also knew that it was December and not bloody July and that Hermione was much too smart to forget that she could simply Apparate home, or use any number of spells to keep herself dry . . . And her changing into exercise clothes only cemented the fact that it was deliberate. He knew that she often used long runs to clear her head, and getting caught in the rain never bothered her. In fact, she welcomed it.

He gave her another once over before allowing the tension to seep from his shoulders; she wasn't shivering, and there was no indication that she was cold. She was just soaking wet.

Harry exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. Everyone had their own method of handling stress: Jim liked to murder the punching bag in the gym. Harry liked to go flying on his motorcycle. Hermione's latest coping mechanism was a long run—he just wished it didn't involve worrying him sick.

"Why don't you go and get changed, and I'll make us some hot cocoa?" he suggested.

She mock saluted him. "Yes, sir!"

He picked up a cushion from the sofa on his way to the kitchen and hurled it at her.

She ducked, grinning. "Missed."

When Hermione emerged from the loo, cosied up in her pyjamas and cat-shaped plush slippers that Jim had gotten her for her 24th birthday, there was a mug of steaming hot cocoa waiting for her.

"Tired?" Harry asked, looking up from his book.

She sighed and sat heavily in the armchair across from him. "You can say that."

He gave her a long look and made a disapproving noise (and was a little horrified to hear how much he sounded like McGonagall—or Merlin forbid, Aunt Petunia). There was a kind of tired that was solved by a good night's sleep; sadly, he suspected that Hermione's type of tired was the kind that required a bit more.

She needed a break—they both did. They hadn't had much downtime in the past two years, always dealing with one thing or another. But he was going to change that—and the upcoming winter break was a perfect opportunity.

Some fun, friendship, and good times just might be the medicine they both needed, and they already had a couple of things lined up. Amanda was planning to come to Earth to visit her sister over the Christmas holidays and use the opportunity to drop off some presents at Spock's apartment (the Enterprise was scheduled to soon return to Earth for a short break and reprovisioning); and Will—whose talents with a keyboard went beyond just computers—had invited them to a piano concert he'd be performing in.

Hermione yawned and asked, "And how was your day?"

Harry blinked, refocusing his gaze on his friend.

"Classes, then teaching, then more classes," he said, closing his book. "The usual."

"When did you become as boring as me?" she teased, running a hand through her still-damp hair.

"Hey, no need to get sassy," he shot back wryly. "I'm just doing the best I can. Otherwise, what's the point in going to the Academy, right?"

"Right." She paused for a heartbeat, a teasing sparkle in her voice as she continued: "If only you'd had the same attitude at Hogwarts."

"I was young and stupid. And trying not to get bloody killed every bloody year."

"Is there a need for the bloody language?"

"There bloody is."

They shared a small chuckle, before she picked up her mug of cocoa and took a grateful sip. "Mmm, this is really good. What did you add in here?"

He grinned at her mischievously and set his book down on the coffee table in exchange for his mug. "That's a secret."

"As long as you promise to make this every now and again, I won't threaten you with Legilimency," she joked.

"Deal!" he said. "Are you in the mood for a very late dinner—or should I say a very early breakfast?"

"Thank you, but I'm not hungry." She wrapped her hand around her mug and sighed contentedly. "Neha, Ryan, and I grabbed a quick bite to eat during our break."

"I know Neha, but who's Ryan?"

"A paramedic I often work with."

"You've never mentioned him before."

She shrugged. "There's nothing to mention. He's just one of the colleagues I sometimes share meals with, usually while he talks my ear off about the latest news and movies." She rolled her eyes. "He's taken it upon himself to educate me on pop culture, because I am apparently too uninformed to suit his tastes in a co-worker."

Harry chuckled. "Must be really hard," he teased. "A subject where you aren't the most informed person in the room."

"Like you wouldn't believe," she replied sarcastically. "I have no idea how I'll survive."

He let the smile linger, sitting back and cradling his mug.

She mirrored him, glancing at the chronometer on the wall.

"It's three in the morning, Harry. Why are you still awake?"

He shrugged, staring into the layer of foam on top of his drink. "Just catching up on a few things."

It wasn't exactly a lie—there was a number of things he needed and wanted to work on. But none of those things required him to stay up this late. The real reason behind it was his worry for Hermione's safety: every time she was late coming home from her shift at the hospital, every time one of them was away for one reason or another.

He knew it was stupid. They were adults who could each take care of themselves. Even apart from their magic, they had also become quite skilled in self-defence—their time spent at the Academy, and later studying some suus mahna with the Vulcans, saw to that. But worry, as Vulcans so often liked to repeat, was illogical. Fear was illogical. And Harry's greatest fear had long since stopped being Dementors—far more terrifying was the notion of losing those he loved.

He could feel Hermione's gaze on him, studying him, and he knew she'd done the thing where she read his thoughts, no magic needed. He mentally prepared himself for a lecture about how unnecessary his paranoia was, and how she was perfectly capable of looking after herself.

But instead, she turned her gaze to the piles of PADDs on his desk, and the thick books stacked beside him on the sofa.

"M-hm. A bit of light reading, I see," she said, raising an eyebrow.

He relaxed.

"I learned from the best," he shot back cheekily.

She smiled and tucked her legs under her.

"And what are you doing with that transmitter now?" she asked, eyeing the disassembled parts that were strewn across the sparse, clear patch on his desk. "I thought you were finally happy with the way it turned out?"

"I was. I am. But there's always room for improvement."

There were currently only two subspace transmitters like it in existence—one in Scotty's possession on board the Enterprise, and one with Harry. Working together, they'd been able to nearly double its range. At the time, that had satisfied Harry. But after Hermione's most recent adventure, he'd wanted to see if there was anything he could do to make it function within such phenomena as neutronic storms.

"I could always use another pair of eyes, especially for all the magic-related stuff," he said, raising his eyebrows at her.

"Of course, Harry," she replied, holding a hand out.

"Not now, silly," he scoffed. "It can wait. Just relax, take a deep breath, enjoy your hot drink. I imagine you need it after your shift at the hospital. How was today, by the way?"

"Oh, a typical Friday night shift, you know. Very eventful. Today we had a case of appendicitis, placental abruption, hoverbus accident, three drunken bar fights, a fractured penis—"

Harry nearly choked on his hot cocoa.

"You're joking," he said in disbelief.

"Not at all."

She nonchalantly sipped on her drink. "It's a common misconception, really. People think that it can't be broken because, despite the vulgar slang, there is no actual bone. But you see, it has to do with the pressure overload in the—"

Harry raised a hand to stop her. "You know what? I don't want to know."

As much as he loved Hermione and the fact that he could discuss pretty much anything and everything with her without feeling awkward, he wasn't in the mood for getting an encyclopedic explanation of how exactly a boner might get broken.

She shrugged. "Suit yourself. But you'd be amazed at the number of coital injuries we see. I can tell you some other time, if you're interested."

"I'm fine, thanks." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Coital injuries. Great. Because there aren't enough other things in life to worry about . . . Makes me wonder though: just how aggressive people have to—"

She mimicked his gesture from moments ago and raised her hand. "Don't ask. And it's not always about being aggressive during intercourse. It's also got to do with certain dangers involved when members of different species decide to engage in sexual relationships. Not entirely compatible parts and all."

She took a long sip of her hot cocoa. "And just so we're perfectly straight, my old friend: if you ever get yourself into something like that, I am definitely not going to be your first responder."

He didn't think he'd want her to be his first responder for something like that either—some things were just best handled by complete strangers you'd hopefully never see again.

"Agreed," he confirmed, and decided to change the subject. "Did you get a chance to read over the info we received earlier today regarding our upcoming exam?"

Hermione groaned. "I did."

"What? I thought you'd like the way they organized everything this year?"

Harry thought it was rather brilliant—almost as brilliant as Lupin's obstacle course for their Defence Against the Dark Arts exam at the end of their third year. Will had mentioned that the Academy was preparing a special, non-simulated mission in the run-up to its centennial anniversary; what he had failed to mention was that this mission wasn't going to be for every senior cadet—only for the top students, who'd passed the theory part of the exam with flying colours. Most cadets would be sent on the usual survey missions, but the top twenty-five would be divided into teams of five to take part in a treasure hunt of sorts. They would be following the path of some of the earliest Starfleet explorers, tracking down and deciphering clues.

"It's not that," Hermione said, wandlessly and non-verbally summoning a throw from her room and wrapping herself in it.

"Oh, then I'm guessing you're not entirely thrilled about our crew?" he speculated.

Harry and Hermione were on the same team—Starfleet had accepted that they were a package deal and no longer attempted to assign them to different crews if it could be helped. The higher-ups knew that in the long run, when confronted with a choice between staying together and staying in Starfleet, they'd always choose the former. And it seemed as though Starfleet needed them more than the other way around—at least for now.

Besides, Harry and Hermione always worked so much better when they were together.

The other three members of their crew were a Caitian by the name Krell, a Bolian Raix Hoss, and an Andorian they were well-familiar with—Shev Ek'Noor. The one they had met at a holo-karaoke bar what seemed like a million years ago.

"Can you blame me?" said Hermione grumpily. "Thankfully, Shev and I are on different tracks, and I don't see him much, other than during this one class on Federation History. The bloke drives me mad. He thought it was a marvellous idea to sneak up on me the other day in the cafeteria. I nearly hexed him."

Harry chuckled.

"I'm glad you find this amusing," she said flatly, glaring at him.

"Do you want me to talk to him?"

"Absolutely not. I can handle him."

"Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you handled him," he joked. "And I won't be your first responder, either."

She picked up a cushion and threw it at him. Harry caught it easily and used it to settle himself more comfortably on the sofa.

"Thanks," he said, grinning.

She crossed her arms and pretended to be angry at him, but he knew better than that.

"Maybe you should just get a boyfriend to get Shev out of your hair?" joked Harry.

"I would never get a boyfriend just to get someone out of my hair," she defended. "And you know it. Besides, I've already got one."

He raised his eyebrows expectantly. "Oh yeah? Who's that?"

"Mr Library, of course." She shrugged. "Who else?"

That wasn't exactly the answer Harry was expecting, but he went with it.

He shook his head. "I must say I'm disappointed in you, Hermione," he said dramatically.

She raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"You've been cheating on poor Mr Library with Mr Hospital and Mr Science Lab." He wagged a finger at her. "Shame on you, Hermione."

"Surely you've heard of polyamorous relationships, Harry."

Harry laughed at the ridiculous turn their conversation had taken. But the mention of romance had turned Hermione sombre; she began fiddling with the bracelet he had presented her with for her 23rd birthday. It was similar to the one he'd received from her for his birthday earlier that same year, and was enchanted with the combination of Fidelius and Undetectable Extension Charms, designed to replace her wand holster.

Harry knew that her wand wasn't the only thing she kept inside the enchanted bracelet. It was also where she'd tucked away her locket and engagement ring, buried like a hidden treasure.

She took a deep breath and slowly let it out.

"Sometimes I forget what he looks like," she said quietly, wrapping herself more tightly into her throw.

Thanks to the years of friendship, Harry immediately knew she was talking about Ron.

"It's not that I forget him, but it's the small things I find difficult to recall. I look at his photograph, and I can't remember how he smells, how his voice sounds. How he feels beside me. I know it hasn't even been three years yet, but—"

"It feels much longer than that," finished Harry. "I know."

They sat in silence for a short eternity, before Harry pointed out: "We did let them go."

And they did. Back on New Vulcan two years ago, between saving the survivors of the genocide from yet another plight and then helping them rebuild their homeworld. Following Amanda's suggestion, they had written farewell letters to their loved ones. At first, Harry had thought the idea was ridiculous, since it seemed pointless to write to people who would never read them. But Hermione embraced the idea wholeheartedly, claiming that it was a good form of therapy. She'd written page after page, pouring out her heart and soul, while Harry struggled. The words just never seemed to come out right on paper. To him, words like that were meant to go with embraces and strokes of Teddy's hair, kisses and caresses of Ginny's face, a clap on Ron's shoulder, a squeeze of Hagrid's large hand. Nonetheless, Harry had persevered.

Once the letters had been written, they sealed the pages with kisses and tears and promises to remember them; to live well and to find happiness. And then they'd burned them, letting the fire consume all the pain and sorrow and sadness.

To Harry, it had felt like opening Hedwig's cage to let her out for a flight, but then shutting the door permanently behind her.

"I know," Hermione replied. "I guess I'm just a little . . . sad."

"That your perfect memory seems to be failing you in this case?" he asked, aiming for levity.

She nodded distractedly. "I suppose time heals all wounds, doesn't it?" she said with a sigh.

"And yet they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Go figure."

"I guess it can be a little tricky."

"A little?"

She shrugged. "Emotions have a way of contradicting themselves."

There was a long moment of silence.

"Those Vulcans might be onto something."

Stardate 2260.345 — coordinates 23-17-46-11, Section 31's Io Facility

John Harrison arrived at Admiral Marcus' office and paused for a heartbeat before pressing the button beside the door. A chime beyond the light blue panel signalled his presence.

"Come in," he heard Admiral Marcus say.

John stepped forward, and the door slid open before him.

Marcus looked up from the PADD in his hands and smiled.

"Ah, John," he said, waving John in. "Come in, come in. Have a seat. I was just reviewing the progress you've made on the undetectable torpedo prototypes. Amazing work, John. You've revolutionized our long-range strike capability. That means fewer of our people will be in harm's way on the ground. Your work will save lives."

"That is gratifying, admiral," said John, taking a seat. "But there is still a number of modifications I wish to implement. The torpedoes are far from ready."

"Give yourself a break, John." Marcus waved him off, leaning back in his seat. "Over the last two years, you've exceeded the wildest expectations of everyone—the doctors, your colleagues, me. You've made unprecedented upgrades to our warp drive technology. You've refined the station's entire computer system. You've designed a new ship, which could probably blow any of our others out of the water even now, while it's incomplete!"

Marcus leaned forward, placing his hands on the table, and smiled again. "You've always been our finest engineer and worked on the most advanced covert projects. It appears that your accident didn't take that away from you, at least."

John furrowed his brow and clenched his fists. "That's exactly it, admiral—"

"Alex," the admiral corrected. "Just Alex. You can drop the formalities when it's just the two of us."

"Alex," John agreed. "It's just . . . It has been two years, and I still remember nothing of my past."

He jumped to his feet and began pacing.

"Oh, I remember how to read, and I figured out how to navigate computer systems very quickly. I recall theorems and math—at least, most of it. But I can't remember any people from my past—family, friends."

He halted by the wall across from the admiral's desk and stared at the painting hanging there—an image of Earth as it was seen from space. Marcus had once shared with him that the painting had been done by his wife, June. He analyzed it in tense silence for a few moments, before turning back to the admiral.

"I know my file says that I have no living relatives. My parents are deceased, no siblings. No wife or children. But I must have had some friends. Why can't I remember them? Why can't I remember any of my colleagues? Why can't I even remember you?"

Marcus picked up a stylus and began twirling it in his hands, his gaze fixed firmly down.

"Most of your friends are dead, John," he said finally, meeting John's gaze. "And the ones who are still kicking are still associated with our work—with the way our missions can go, it wouldn't surprise me much if you've repressed things. Despite our advanced medical science, the human brain is still very much a mystery. It is truly a miracle that you are able to function as well as you are after your injury."

John felt his molars grinding together, anger and frustration bubbling up fast, even harder to control than the last time they'd surged up.

Not good enough! a voice inside him screamed.

He breathed deeply and slowly, using the technique Dr Vyas had taught him. He strode over to the large floor-to-ceiling window and stared out into space, crossing his arms decisively behind his back.

"I've been waiting these two years for something—anything—to resurface," he said a few moments later, his voice deceptively calm. "I've been seeing Dr Vyas weekly and following her instructions to the letter. But there is still nothing but a black void."

Just like space, he added mentally, watching as a shuttle flew into one of the hangar bays visible from the admiral's office.

He turned back to Marcus. "Did I even have a life outside my work? Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything that might help me remember more?"

Marcus sighed, putting the stylus down and rising to his feet.

"Starfleet was your life, John. Starfleet was your family." He placed a hand on John's shoulder and gently squeezed it. "I've never met anyone with more devotion to everything Starfleet stands for. When you first woke up after your surgeries, I didn't tell you that you'd come 'home' just to be sentimental. It was because it's a fact."

He furrowed his brow and added grimly: "Besides, sometimes not remembering can be a blessing."

"You're talking about Tarsus IV," John deduced sharply.

Marcus nodded. "Believe me, John, it's probably best that you don't remember that particular part of your past. You had nightmares about it for years, even with extensive therapy. Not to mention your eating disorder. Had to have your meals on time and panicked if you didn't. Carried protein bars in your boots just to make sure that . . ." he trailed off and gave his head a shake.

"John, as your friend, I advise you to not push too hard for your memories. If they come back, great. If not—that's fine too. What's past is past. Focus on the future instead."