A/N: Okay guys this is it. This story is COMPLETE. There are no words to describe how much I have loved going on this journey with you. I know I've been shit at replying to reviews lately, but just know that your words kept me going through all the fits and starts and hard places. You guys are amazing.

I would be lost with my Beta, iwasbotwp. Seriously. Thanks for all the input and good ideas and the help with my awful punctuation.

Chapter Twenty-Five: To Find What is Lost

There was a dragon in the ballroom of Nott Manor.

He lay on a pile of hastily ripped silk curtains and tablecloths, stained black with his blood. Two healers were weaving a net of magic around him, attempting to knit his bones and veins back together. Hermione wasn't sure how she had gotten him here, but she knew it had taken the last of her strength to do it, for when she reached for the the power to help his healers, she came up empty handed. There was only a flickering light left inside her, like a candle's flame ready to gutter out of existence.

The healers shrugged their shoulders at her. They weren't dragon healers, they told her. They had never seen any magic like this before. They didn't know how to help him. He was as healthy as they could make him. There were others who needed their help and needed it now. They didn't know why he wouldn't wake up. Perhaps he just needed time.

Hermione scoffed silently. Time was the last thing he needed. The thread keeping them tethered together was unspooling and she knew it. She felt it tugging at her under her ribs, but couldn't seem to get a hold of it. Helplessness swamped her, compounded by a weariness that weighed down her limbs. She sat down on the cold marble floor, her head in her hands.

With her eyes closed, she could feel the multiple injuries she had sustained during the battle. Her whole body throbbed and twitched in pain. The flaky brown remains of Bellatrix crusted under her fingernails and sat heavy on her tongue. When she looked inside herself, she found she was empty in a way that was entirely new and yet achingly familiar.

People filtered in and out. She didn't really notice them, but she suddenly had food next to her knee and a blanket around her shoulders. She didn't hear them speak but seemed to understand what they told her. The battle was over. Blaise was near death in a room upstairs. Neville cowered and cried and wouldn't let anyone near him. Draco was trapped in a dragon's body and completely lost to her. Harry was dead.

A hot tear tracked down her cheek. The sensation brought her out of her stupor. Another tear dripped from her chin. She raised a shaking hand raised to her cheek, feeling the wetness there and marveling at it. How many years had she gone without tears, only to have them when they meant nothing? Each tiny drop felt like it held the weight of an entire universe.

They had won.

They had lost so much.

It was shocking how quickly Draco had become so vital to her. She tried to remember that first night at the safe house when she had threatened him and he had sneered at her. How had that man turned into the missing piece of her heart? By bribing her into eating, bullying her into resting, and believing that she could triumph in the face of impossible odds.

He had given the Order the means to win an unwinnable war, but more than that, he had made her believe in herself again. With a snarky rejoinder and that infernal bloody eyebrow, he had kindled the flame of courage in her heart. He had stood next to her when so many others had pulled away in fear. For the first time in years, she hadn't felt alone. He had faced down her demons, kissed all of her scars and coaxed pleasure from her body in a way nobody ever had.

He hadn't fixed her; he had shown her that she wasn't broken.

The knobs along the top of his shoulder were bony and cool to the touch. She ran her fingers along the bumps, moving along the slick scales of his neck. A part of her waited desperately for him to roll over and purr at her, begging for attention, but the steady swell and fade of his ribs was his only sign of life. When she reached the spiky frill at his jaw and his eyes remained closed, she collapsed to her knees.

"Open your eyes," she whispered against his nose. "You can't make me love you and then leave me here."

She didn't have enough power. The little flicker of magic still left within her core was barely enough to light a candle, much less transform her into a dragon. If she did manage it, she might very well be trapped like Draco. But she needed to be near him, to lay next to him and feel his heartbeat, to cover him with her wings and protect him until he awoke.

"Trabeadraki Formus."

The familiar sensation of her body breaking and reforming was painful but joyous.

As her scales formed over her skin and her wings stretched out behind her, she felt her inner dragon reach out for Draco. Their two minds collided with a clap of magic and twined around each other. The sudden awareness of him grabbed her and yanked her forward. It was like a missing puzzle piece clicked into place. It was like coming home. She collapsed next to him, her wing covering him protectively as her mind flew along the golden thread, anxious to find any sign of him.

He sat next to his parents in the Great Hall, resting on an overturned column. There was dust in his throat and dirt on his skin. The Dark Mark on his arm tingled. The shame in his gut was twisting his insides into a maze of self-loathing. He hated himself. He hated the choices he had made. He hated the fear that still gripped his throat as he watched them bring the body of Dark Lord into the Hall.

She was among the group gathered around his corpse. He could see her mass of hair braided down her back, a bushy halo of escaped curls gathered around her face. She stood with her shoulders curved inward as if the grief of the day might crush her. How did she not feel the weight of his stare? It was so important that she turn and come to him, as he knew she eventually would.

There would be no real recognition in her eyes.

He choked on the desire to go to her, pull her against him and inhale her scent. He knew that if he pressed his lips to the spot under her ear, she would taste like oranges and sunlight, and she would shudder in his arms. He knew the feeling of her breath panting against his mouth, the way his name sounded on her lips when she broke apart; the rough silk of her curls against his finger, the way her scales caught the light like all the stars in the sky.

Draco would swear he could see a shining golden thread in the space between them, except he knew it wasn't so. He had already tried to reach her and found nothing.

Although this seemed a lot like Hell, he knew was alive, a prisoner in his own mind. If only he could find the will to break free, he could return to his body. He was afraid of what he might find. The last thing he remembered was seeing a very human Hermione looking down upon his broken body, hearing her scream his name. Hermione was dead. She must be. So what did it matter if he was trapped here?

The toes of her trainers appeared on the edge of his vision. He knew what happened next. She would peel the orange, sit next to him and change his pathetic life.

Weary eyes lifted to her, ready for the pain to stab him in the gut again.

She had her empty hands on her hips, tapping her foot impatiently.

"Just what the hell are you doing, Draco Malfoy?" she demanded.

He blinked at her stupidly.

"I beg your pardon?" he blurted.

This wasn't how it had happened.

"Were you just going to sit here until you died?"

He looked around as if the rubble on the floor might give him answers.

"Sorry?" He must have misheard.

"Have you gone mad?" Under the irritation in her voice was a thread of real concern. "Or don't you know that all of this is in your mind?"

Big brown eyes were flicking back and forth, searching his face, looking for signs of insanity. She was bloody and bruised, her round, young face creased with exhaustion. This shade of the past looked exactly the same as she had that day so many years ago, but she wasn't the same person at all. If he looked closely, he could see the real Hermione layered underneath, and as his mind grasped what was happening in front of his face, he became aware of their dragon-bond yanking at his ribs.

A roaring filled his ears and he knew it was his dragon. This was no shade.

"Oh fuck," he gasped. "You're really here, aren't you?"

"Well, of course -" her response was muffled by his shirt as he yanked her to him.

Bloody hell, it was like coming up for air. Her scent wrapped around him like a soft blanket and he closed his eyes against the huge, bright thing climbing into his chest.

"Draco."

There were tears in her eyes as she pushed a bit of his hair from his face and whispered, "Hi."

"Hi."

He rested his forehead against hers.

"You came for me." His voice sounded like gravel for he was choking on a great lump of emotion lodged in his throat.

"Don't be daft," she swatted at him. "Of course I came for you."

She sighed and buried her face in his shoulder again. "I'm just glad it worked." Pushing away from him, she took a deep breath. "We have to get out of here."

"I don't know how," he said, still dazed and following her with his eyes as she turned to examine the dilapidated memory.

"What do you remember?" she demanded, suddenly all business.

Salazar, he loved that swotty tone of voice.

"I was dying I think," he began, struggling to bring forth details. "Then the castle started shaking and I was hit with something. It knocked me out."

"We found you under a pile of rubble." She swallowed hard. "I think I brought the castle down on top of you."

He shook his head. "No this was magic. It hit me like a wave. I felt it rip me away from my body."

"That was also probably me." Her voice was small and uncertain, filled with apology. "I got a bit carried away, I'm afraid."

He laughed and tugged her close. What did she have to be sorry for? This magnificent creature was unlike any witch in the history of magic.

"Did you kill her?" he asked.

A fierce flame lit behind her eyes and he could practically hear the rumbling of her dragon.

"Yes."

Pride welled up in his chest until he was choking on it. "That's my girl," he whispered and wrapped his hands around her waist. She turned a delicious shade of red and he had to clear his throat to continue. "The magic took me and brought me here."

"Interesting." He saw her retreat into her mind and he couldn't help but grin at her.

"This is just like my graveyard at Godric's Hollow," she announced. He shivered as he remembered that experience. It terrified him to think that she could have been trapped there. "I think I pulled you into my wild magic when I released it on Bellatrix."

He nodded. It sounded as good as any theory he had. "So you followed me the way I followed you."

Hermione shrugged, looking unconvinced. "I suppose so. All the evidence seems to support it."

"So then what's next?"

"You brought me out of it," she reminded him.

He frowned, trying to remember what he had done. "Yes, but how?"

"You reminded me of why I needed to live," she answered. "I needed a reason to return."

He turned that over in his mind for a moment. Bloody hell, he was an idiot.

"I can get us out," he said, feeling a smile split his face. "It's so obvious."

"Good because, I'm right out of magic," she admitted. "I don't think I can get us back on my own."

"We don't need magic."

After the eternity he had spent in this world of ghosts, struggling to escape, the way to freedom was suddenly so clear.

It was her. It had always been her.

"So what do we need?" she asked, clearly exasperated by his lack of response.

Instead of answering, he gathered her face between his hands - so different yet exactly the same - and pressed his lips to hers. He opened the channel between them, allowing all of his love for her to flow along their shining golden thread.

They were human again, twined around each other on a cold marble floor.

"You did it," she said, her voice heavy with pride.

He didn't correct her, instead, he fused their mouths together. The need for her was suddenly gnawing at him like a fever. He needed to know she was real, that they were both alive, that they had a future together. He banished their clothes, realizing they were both dirty and exhausted. It didn't matter. He wanted to press his fingers and lips and teeth into her skin and leave his mark behind so she could never leave him.

Her arms wrapped around him without a moment's hesitation. With every pull of her lips and caress from her fingers, she bound him to her. She didn't even know, he realized as his mouth skated across her skin, drawing moans from her throat. She didn't know how much he needed her. He pushed the feelings towards her even as he slid inside her welcoming heat.

"All of me," he told her, his lips brushing against hers. "You have every fucking piece of me."

"Draco." She said his name like a benediction and he felt the warmth of it spread through his body.

The gentle heat was followed by something else. It rushed towards him along their dragon-bond, hitting him square in the chest. Love. Respect. Pride. The feelings were hers, he realized, but they melted into his heart as if they were always meant to be a part of him. They were of one mind and body. He moved within her, listening to her voice and her breath, aching at the feeling of her heartbeat against his.

Mine.

"Yours," she agreed as if he had said the word aloud.

Perhaps he had. All he knew was that he would never part from her. Whatever lay in the future, Draco would have Hermione. They held each other close as they were destroyed and made real again, their hearts beating in time.

"You fixed them?"

Neville was gazing into a hand mirror, making faces. He grimaced hugely, inspecting his teeth one way, then the other.

"I did." Hermione straightened the piles of newspapers as she spoke. "You asked me to; perhaps six years ago now."

He grunted as if perplexed. Jutting his jaw, he fingered a white scar on his chin and then grinned. "I look right dashing, don't I?"

Hermione huffed a laugh. "Quite."

Pansy felt a smile tug at her lips. She could just see him through the crack at the door hinge. It was so like him to simply shrug off the confusion and fear he must be feeling and accept it all good-naturedly. She wished she had a fraction of his fortitude. Her heart was knocking against her ribcage.

"I still can't believe you cut your hair."

Hermione chuckled. "I can't believe I didn't do it sooner."

Save for Draco, the hall outside his hospital room was deserted, thank Merlin. It was bad enough that her best friend was witnesses to her shameless behavior, much less random passerby or worse, a reporter, many of whom already hunted her down for photographs and interviews.

"You can go in," Draco said for the thousandth time.

"Fuck off." It didn't even have any heat behind it. Gods, she was losing her edge.

"You're hiding," he sang at her, making her back stiffen.

As if she was not aware of the horror of her behavior. It was undignified and beneath her, but she couldn't keep her heart from trying to gallop away. Neville was awake and aware. He looked healthy and happy. He looked like everything she had ever wanted, and she needed a fucking minute dammit. The potted plant she held in her hand was suddenly heavy with intention, and she had to wipe her moist fingers on her skirt.

"Two months back from the dead and you're already on my last nerve."

A few minutes of subterfuge later and Hermione stepped out, pretending she hadn't seen Pansy hovering around the door for nearly an hour.

"The potion worked," Hermione said unnecessarily. Pansy fought the urge to roll her eyes. "You are a brewing genius."

"Whatever. Is he okay?"

"He's a bit weak, but he's physically well." The reluctance in her voice formed a fist around Pansy's heart.

"So memory loss, is it?" She tried to sound casual, but she knew her voice cracked.

"Yes."

"How much has he lost?"

Hermione didn't pull any punches, charging right through the last of her hope.

"He doesn't remember much of the last decade," she whispered. "And even that is mostly memories of Hogwarts."

The pain was acute. It doubled her over. She reached out and placed the potted plant she held on the nearby sill, using both arms to keep herself upright. Something like a whine escaped her mouth as she tried to breathe through the agony. Hermione bumped up against her, facing the other direction as if shielding her, twining their arms together. Neither of them had ever been comfortable with physical contact, but Hermione didn't hesitate, and Pansy clung to her without reservation. The last few months had changed everyone.

"I'm sorry, Pans."

Draco stood just behind her, a hand grasping her free shoulder.

"You did tell me not to get my hopes up," she chuckled without humor.

Bloody hell, she must be bleeding all over the floor. Why was there no blood to go with this aching wound?

"It might be for the best," Hermione murmured against her shoulder. "He has no lives on his conscience, no nightmares at night. He's happier than any of us could hope to be."

Pansy felt a fleeting moment of rabid jealousy for his forgetfulness before she quashed it. If he had been anyone else, she would have hated him. She would have hated the softness of peace at his jaw, the sparkle of joy in his eyes, the utter relief of forgetting; but even more she would have hated him for forgetting her.

But because it was Neville, Pansy merely sucked in a breath, the air feeling like glass in her lungs, and let the pain of loss pass through her body like a thousand shiny needles. It took only a moment for her to straighten, wipe the moisture from her cheek and magically refresh her eyeliner. There was a dull, empty spot behind her ribs that throbbed. She could live with it, she decided, if it meant Neville would smile.

"You haven't told him about Harry yet?"

A dark cloud moved over Hermione's face. "No."

"Good."

Pansy shoved the potted plant at Hermione, suddenly desperate to leave the magical hospital. The non-scent of magically sterilized equipment and the buzz of healing spells was too much for her. She wanted to find a dark hole and curl up inside.

"Give this to him, will you?"

Hermione blinked at the plant. "You're not leaving, are you?"

"He won't remember me."

"You don't know that," Draco argued.

Pansy laughed without humor. She felt like her skin was too small. Suddenly, all she wanted to was stretch her wings and fly away. "He won't remember me the way I was . . . with him."

"Even if that's true," Draco continued. "So what?"

"So?" What did they not understand? "To him, I'm Pansy Parkinson, Slytherin bitch who made his life hell. A cowardly, traitorous Pureblood who tried to sell the savior to the Dark Lord."

She hiccupped and hated herself for it. "I called him terrible names. I laughed while you made him miserable."

Draco winced.

"How is that different than before?" Hermione queried with exaggerated patience. "You were all of those things the first time around. He still fell in love with you."

It was true, she supposed. Except the first time had been an accident, a strange attraction that had led to something more. She'd had nothing to lose but her clothes. Now it felt like losing a piece of her soul.

"It's not the same, and you know it," she gritted out. "Don't pretend to be stupid, Granger."

"Do you love him or not?" Hermione demanded. After a moment of silence, perhaps realizing Pansy wouldn't say it out loud anyway, Hermione continued, "Because if you leave him like this you will never forgive yourself."

"You don't know anything about me," Pansy snarled.

Draco reached between the two women and plucked the plant from Hermione's hands, effectively stopping the all-out screaming match that was about to take place.

"Don't worry about it."

Pansy narrowed her eyes at him, aware that she was about to be played like a piano.

"What?" Hermione screeched, slow as usual. "You can't mean that."

"It's probably for the best," he said idly. "I can see it's too much for you, Pans. I'll give him the plant instead, and you can come back when you're less. . . sensitive."

There was a moment of utter silence. Pansy thought she saw Hermione reach for her wand. She wondered if the woman knew that Pansy could have Draco tied in a knot and crying before she would be able to get the length of wood out of its holster.

"You're an arsehole and I hate you."

The deadly quiet words made Draco grin before he pressed the pot back into her hands. He turned to leave, one arm slung around Hermione's shoulders as he steered her away.

"You'll regret it if you don't go," he called over her shoulder. "Thank me later."

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Pansy stepped into the doorway. She knocked lightly and had to keep herself from reeling backward when he looked up with a smile. It flickered for a moment as he took her in, but didn't fade entirely. She shuffled forward, cursing her suddenly clumsy feet.

"Hullo," he greeted her, his eyes puzzled.

Even from the foot of his bed, she could see the faint, shimmering scars of the cruciatus marring his skin like a pale tattoo. Had his eyes always been so blue? Oh fuck, this was going to kill her.

"How are you feeling?" she rasped out.

He shrugged good-naturedly. "Well enough, I suppose."

Stupid question, Pansy.

"You probably don't remember me-" she began.

"You're Pansy Parkinson."

He looked wary as if she might leap across the room and strangle him, and in her past life, she might have done, had she been wearing more comfortable shoes.

"Right."

Explain yourself you daft bird. When she opened her mouth, nothing came out. Her words had deserted her for the first time in her life.

"What have you got there?" His voice brought her out of her paralysis.

"Oh - ah," Pansy leaped forward and thrust the plant out to him. "It's a Wiggentree sapling."

His eyes lit up. "Blimey, that's rare!"

He sounded so young, she thought with an ache. "Yes, it took quite some doing to find a bowtruckle willing to give me a sprout."

"How did you manage that?" he asked.

He hadn't taken the plant from her yet. Probably thought it was a trap.

"I traded a large number of fairy eggs," she said, rolling her eyes at the memory. Those arsehole bowtruckles were demanding. "Which I got from a nasty little bridge troll for dragon scales."

He finally took the pot. His fingers brushed hers, sending a lightning bolt through her body. She stifled a gasp and retreated a step, even as her Dragon stirred to life.

He was clearly fascinated. "Where did you get dragon scales?"

Pansy cleared her throat, rubbing the tips of her tingling fingers, not sure how much she should tell him. Would he be afraid of her if he knew she could melt into the body of a killer reptile? "I have a private supplier."

He could tell she wasn't telling the whole truth.

"Why go to all that effort?" he wondered, then answered his own question. "Were you making Wiggenweld Potion?"

The query was innocent, but Pansy had to swallow past the lump in her throat. The memory of those desperate months when he lay insensate and dead to the world still squeezed her chest. She crossed her arms over her stomach.

"Were you the one who brewed my potion?" He was looking at her as if he could see through her skin to her bones. She wanted to run away. She wanted to crawl into his lap and cry.

"You were lost," Pansy muttered defensively. "I had to get creative."

Her answer puzzled him, and she realized he was wondering why she would make such an effort for him.

"Thank you," he said. It was genuine, of course, with no suspicion attached.

"You're welcome." What else did someone say to such sincere gratitude? Fucking Gryffindor, making her heart do somersaults.

After a moment he spoke up again. "We became friends then?"

The utter doubt in his voice pierced her. It was all so laughable. Neville Longbottom, one of the bravest men who ever lived was well out of any connection with Pansy, the youngest member of a family steeped in shame and cowardice. Instead of answering him, she plucked the pot from his hand, careful not to let their fingers touch and leaned forward to set it on his bedside table. The motion allowed her hair to shield her face, where she was sure her eyes were getting puffy from the strain of keeping her tears at bay.

"I'll just set this here."

As she righted herself, she caught sight of his large, calloused hands ghosting across the fall of her hair. With a short hitch in his breath, he took a hunk of it between his fingers. Pansy froze.

"Your hair," he whispered, brow furrowed. He studied the strands as if his life depended on it.

A bright pearl of hope unfurled in her heart. She realized she was gasping in anticipation.

"I knew you." His blue eyes met hers, and she shivered, the Dragon inside her shaking with readiness. She wanted to lean in and press her lips to his, to claim what before she had been so eager to dismiss. But even as he looked at her carefully, his eyes were still vacant of recognition she craved. "Didn't I? I mean, more than just from school."

Pansy swallowed and nodded. He released her hair with a blush, and she straightened quickly, the pot clattering to rest on his bedside table.

"I don't mean to paw at you," he apologized. "But I feel like I should I know you."

Oh, Merlin, this was destroying her. The Dragon wailed, vibrating through her mind and raising goosebumps on her skin. Neville looked horribly confused and bit distraught. She couldn't stand it.

"It wasn't for very long," she choked out, trying to ease him. "There's no reason you should remember."

"I'm sorry." He looked away. "I can see that I'm hurting you."

She was going to lose it. Right there, in the middle of St. Mungo's, she was going to break apart into a million, soggy pieces.

"I'll leave you to rest." Her voice sounded rusty. She forced out a short laugh, the movement sending spikes into her stomach, hurting as if it might kill her. "You should transplant that sapling as soon as you can," she babbled as she backed up. "They don't like pots."

She cleared her throat and turned to leave with a small wave, struggling to hide her face.

"You know," he called after her quietly. "If you like rare plants, I might have something for you."

Pansy stopped in her tracks. Leave, she told herself. Just leave. But instead, she was turning, following the sound of his voice.

"It's a book," he said, his cheeks turning red. "Boring, I know, but you could borrow it. If you want."

"That would be nice." She was a bit confused, but she grabbed at this strange offering. She would take anything he wanted to give her.

"I don't have it here, so you'd have to come back, of course. To get the book."

She blinked.

"And to return it, I suppose." There was a twinkle in his eyes. "I'm rather stuck here at the moment."

"Why?" It would be better if he never remembered. He was all that was bright and good and clean. She wouldn't bring back the darkness for anything, not even her own salvation. "You don't owe me anything."

"You're different." He said it with such conviction after such a short acquaintance. "You seem like you've changed. Your face too." He gestured vaguely at his own countenance, obviously flustered, and then cleared his throat and shrugged. "If a beautiful woman says she knows me, who am I to argue?"

It was so like Neville to charge ahead through his own discomfort and lay plain all his thoughts and feelings, regardless of the risk to himself. If Pansy walked out, Neville would move forward with his life, do amazing things and remain unchanged and unsullied, unaware of how desperately she needed him. Perhaps he would never recover the memories he had lost.

But what if he did remember? What if one day he woke up and knew everything about her again, and realized she had just left him when he needed her? And he did need her, she realized, whether he knew it or not.

The man she had come to know was something rare and precious, forged in war and pain. If she left him, he might lose that part of himself. She precisely remembered the look in his eyes before she stepped onto the Quidditch Pitch for her ritual. It was as if he had needed her just as much as she needed him. Perhaps she too had something to give.

"I'll come by tomorrow if that's okay?"

He grinned at her, and she found herself smiling back.

"One more thing." There was a small frown between his earnest brows "Did we spend time in the greenhouse? I don't remember much, but when I look at you, I see stacks of pots. And maybe a potting bench." His words cut off abruptly, and Pansy watched the flush spread over his cheeks as his eyes widened. "That can't be right," he whispered.

"The potting bench was my favorite part of that greenhouse," she said, as the blush trickled down his neck.

Hope expanded in her chest like a balloon. This time when she laughed, it felt less like it was killing her and more like it was bringing her back from the dead.