Present
"Mr Malfoy?" A distorted voice echoes around them.
"Mr Malfoy."
It wraps around them like a paper blanket in water; dissolving in the current of their past memories. The nurse's voice is distant, like someone in another room whose voice you could hear only if you were silent long enough. "Mr Malfoy, I'm sorry to interrupt."
Draco looks at Hermione and she nods.
With a pull, they are back on their feet in their drawing room. The pensieve is glittering innocently, Draco's younger, worried face floats to the surface.
"Yes, Rebecca." Draco smiles at her. "Is it already time for dinner?"
Rebecca, a woman with dark hair, dark eyes, and skin like midnight, smiles and reveals dimples on her cheeks. "Yes, sir. Mrs. Malfoy should eat, and take her potions."
"But I want to continue." Hermione touches Draco's shoulder and he is unsure if it is for want of contact or if she needs balance as she stands upright. He presses a kiss to her temple and grasps her arm, so they both can steady themselves as he accounts for her weight as well as his own.
"We will, love." He loves that her hair still smells of coconut and parchment. Both earthy smells he had come to know as home. "We need to eat first, and I promise, we shall come back and continue." She allows him to lead her from the room in steady, slow, careful steps.
"Is Harry coming?" Hermione's legs tingle as blood recirculates through her sleepy limbs, and it feels like bubbles of champagne against her skin. She looks up from them in time to see Rebecca look at Draco with a questioning expression.
Draco smiles at her. "No, heart. He cannot make it tonight." Sadness settles inside her, a little pocket beside the cavity she carries in the shape of her son. She misses Harry with sudden violence. She almost asks Draco to help her write him a letter, but she decides to try later.
Rebecca walks ahead of them at a careful pace. One that does not rush them and allows her to be within range to offer assistance. Hermione concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other, and eventually, she is able to walk much easier and relies less on her husband's arm for balance.
It feels like learning to walk again, except her limbs work fine, she just doesn't remember how to rely on them.
Hermione doesn't recognise the house as they make their way down the carpeted corridor.
"Draco." Hermione peers at the portraits as they peer back. "This isn't the Manor." Draco smiles at her, a proud glint in his eye.
"No, my love." Draco squeezes her arm gently. "This is the Villa." Hermione looks around again and inhales deeply. She expects to smell wood because it is everywhere. Their walls, the floors, the paintings' frames. Instead, she smells the ocean.
At least, she thinks it is the ocean. It is salty and briny; the air is perfumed with it. She sees the door they are going to at the end of the corridor and thinks to stop at the window there, where it is too bright outside to confirm what her mind is telling her. But as she approaches, the quiet roar of the ocean meets her ears; at the same moment the wind catches her hair and clothes to wrap her in sudden familiarity and absolute comfort.
The Villa. Their Villa. The white of the walls bounces the sunlight back at her through the windows that line three walls of the room. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to all the light, and finally, the ocean comes into focus.
The source of the crashing waves, the battle cry of the sea gulls, the wind whistling through the air, the shake of trees, an orchard over the hill, grass thrown sideways with wildflowers dotting the countryside. It is breathtaking. It is home.
The room is like a parlour. There are stacks of books, a small bookshelf, plants climbing the corners like living green jewels backlit by the sun, a small table with four chairs, a bar, a lounging chair and a reading desk.
Draco helps her into her seat before he tinkers with potions at the little bar. Hermione can smell the various competing odours, even in the busy air around her, but most obvious of all because it is under her nose, is the simple toast with strawberry jam. Her toes curl with glee as she sees the tiny seeds speckled in the red. Her tea steams lazily in gentle clouds. It is a moment before she realises that the room has a draft compared to the drawing room. But she is not cold.
Rebecca lingers for only a moment as Draco settles with a tincture in one hand and his wand in the other. Hermione watches him curiously, and for a moment, she remembers what it is like to have a wand. She absentmindedly feels her pockets and does not find one.
"I remember you from the infirmary." Hermione doesn't know why she is not panicking about the lack of her wand. She thinks it may be because she hasn't used magic in a while, but she cannot remember when last that was.
Draco is looking at her patiently, and she remembers she is speaking. "But, I don't remember why you were there."
"It was complicated then." Draco pushes the tiny glass toward Hermione and she looks at the wine coloured liquid. The wind whistles like a wounded man and a memory attempts to claw its way to the surface.
"Why didn't we start at the beginning?" Hermione touches her throat now, because it is tight and she finds it difficult to swallow. "Why are my memories starting from then , when I lost our baby?"
Draco clenches his jaw and combs his long fingers through his white hair. "Do you see what happened when I attempted to bring what you buried back to the light?" He was saying it with patience, but Hermione remembers what pain sounds like in his voice, and he sounds in pain. And he is terrified.
"I think I blacked out." Hermione strokes her neck, clutching at a necklace that is no longer there. "Does that mean we won't get what we need?" She swallows the lump in her throat. She is still useless. This isn't going to work. "If all we do now is go through what I didn't lose, then what's the point?"
Draco looks sad for a moment. He contemplates her words and she sees that he is trying to find some of his own. He pushes her plate closer to her and places the small tincture directly in front of her.
"Please eat, take the medicine, and I can explain." Draco doesn't touch his own toast, and his tea cup is empty. She wonders if he is thin because he has not been eating. She nibbles on her toast and her tongue shrivels from the initial tartness of the jam, then sugar sings across her palette and she is filled with joy. She takes another bite and Draco lets her swallow before he leans back into his chair, leaving his wand with the cutlery, and takes a deep, preparatory breath.
"I did the diagnostic." He swallows audibly, and it is as painful for him as it is for her. She can see how he is hurting. "And, by then, I was meddling with muggle methods. I knew what the inactive part of the brain looked like, and I developed a spell that could show me. The events of that day, when you came to the infirmary; I think the act of being cursed, killing some men for the first time, subconsciously knowing you were losing something – the baby – it shut down your memory centre."
Hermione has stopped chewing to listen to him. He looks at the toast hovering before her mouth and nods. She automatically takes a bite. He looks so tired.
"I thought, because it was simply muggle trauma, I could do what I could do with every other muggle trauma. I could patch you up. I saw how important it was to you to go back out there." Draco sighs and closes his eyes for a brief moment. "But, the mind is complex. It isn't as simple as stitching something up. I cast my experimental spell and-" His breath shudders and he shakes his head. "I was young and stupid and I thought I could fix you."
"You didn't make me worse." Hermione smiles at him, and when he sees her smile his face relaxes. He is relieved to see her this way, undeterred by his mistake.
"And, I have tried and tried over the years to perfect it. But, if we do this and it doesn't work," he sighs, "love, we are not young. You've already been through so much, and I cannot be the reason you remember no one."
"I trust you." Hermione reaches for his hand on his lap and she squeezes it reassuringly. "Do we start from the beginning then, when we go back?"
Draco blinks at her, his fingers curl around hers and he places his cool palm on the back of hers. "No." He is firm. "We go forward, and maybe, you can remember on your own. And if you do not, then maybe we can risk it."
"We have to risk it." Hermione insists. "Otherwise, will he not come back? Voldemort?" Her husband's eyes flicker at the mention of his old master's name, but he does not flinch as Hermione remembers many people did.
"We will run." Draco says quietly. "We've done our part in the war, and we will run before I lose you again-"
"We don't run." Hermione remembers herself now; the warrior she had become like muscle memory etched deeper, etched into her bones. Her spine straightens like someone has pulled a loose thread. She eyes the wine-coloured mouthful of liquid and without hesitation now, puts it to her open mouth and swallows it in one gulp.
It is surprisingly pleasant: mint and chocolate notes settle in her throat. It reminds her of cough medicine she used to take when she was a child and didn't know she was a witch yet. Muggle remedies do not work on witches and wizards, and she had never really been sick anyway. She misses her parents' tittering about her, caring for her.
"We fight." Hermione finishes her thought. Draco's eyes flash and he sits up so his elbows are on the table. "If I am the sacrifice to end this war before it can begin again, it will be worth it."
Draco nods slowly. "Yes, my love." She sips her tea now, but it has gone a little cold. Draco warms it with a nudge of his wand, and she smiles at him because he is so intuitive and perfect.
The brightness of the room starts to distort, like she has removed shades and things are so bright, they're blurry. She blinks sleepily as her limbs begin to weigh her down.
"The medicine makes you drowsy, love." Draco is saying as he holds her up with magic. He lays her on a chaise lounge, puffing a pillow to support her head and scooping her legs up so she feels comfortable. The blanket he pulls off the back is fluffy and light, like the clouds she now sees through the windows.
Her view is the cerulean sea and emerald fields, the azure sky meeting part of a rocky cliff, and seagulls in flocks as they search for food. She listens to them all singing their song, the background music as Draco begins to read to her.
It was a story of a man who tells the story of a young couple falling in love. It sounds familiar.