A/N: Love to reviewers and Countess Black

'The double grief of a lost joy is to remember it again in sorrow.'-Dante Aligheri

That said, I've been very blessed to have so much support from people, both online and IRL, during this difficult time. Thank you all very much-I truly appreciate it.

Their descent this time was less fraught. Draco wondered what his wife was thinking; her face gave nothing. She swept along in lavender scented silence, as the dour Mrs. Leek and even Virgilia Malfoy would have approved of her doing.

"Hermione?"

She turned to him and lifted an eyebrow gracefully. He bent and pressed his head to her neck for a second. "I am so glad you're well again, darling."

"Thank you."

Hermione was little inclined to talk. She felt herself sliding into a sort of deep thoughtfulness, which wasn't so much sadness as memory, and the deeper they travelled into the castle's belly, the more it sat upon her.

Crookshanks joined them, walking nearly under Hermione's skirts, watching his Girl and hoping the male would finally get the damned clew. He doubted it-as a cat, Crookshanks was a natural cynic of the highest order.

The cellars were as they had been left. Draco waited, permitting Hermione to choose. She frowned, brow furrowing, and then led them for the cells. They were mostly bare and empty, but Hermione threw open the door of the first one and stepped fearlessly inside.

"Shall we call an elf with a candle?"

Draco shook his head. "Minky, go and get Madam's wand, please."

Hermione had gone still. 'Truly, Draco?"

"Unless you don't want it?" There was a gentle, teasing note in his voice, and Hermione startled them both by gasping and then flinging her arms about him, laughing. Draco felt so happy he thought it had made him drunk. He lifted her and they sat on the narrow bench as the elf handed back Hermione's wand.

Hermione swished crisply and the cell was lit up, nearly as bright as day. Draco gasped a little and chuckled. The cat, emerging from the shadows, sniffed haughtily, showing he felt unimpressed. And then, because he was always proud of his Girl, he deigned to chase the light a bit.

Another swish closed the door. Holding the light, Hermione studied the room. The walls were stone, but the door was wood, and it had been richly carved, dense with numbers and names and inscriptions.

Draco gently let his darling go and went to look things over. He ran a finger over the words and bits of doggerel. "This is..."

Hermione shivered, feeling herself in the presence of those who'd carved bits of themselves on the door of this place. Draco was trying to translate the bits and bobs that were modern enough.

"Wonder what they did."

Hermione squatted beside him. "Carew' she read aloud 'Lonngebotom' and, to Hermione's surprise 'Poter'. She lifted excited eyes to Draco, and he realised anew just how different she was, and how strange, in some ways, compared to every woman he'd ever known before her.

"Are these..."

"Yes, of course. Carew, they changed it later to Carrow."

"And the others?"

"Mmm, I'd have to check. Edmond Longbottom, I'd think. They called him 'Hot Broom'."

"1486, wasn't it? Second trollish incursion?"

"Quite. Newcastle to York in just under a day."

Hermione shook her head and moved onto the next one. 'Wynter ys Comming'.

'House Lestrange, that one."

Hermione shivered and moved quickly away, as Draco slid a hand into hers. 'Is this upsetting you, love?"

"Not at all. Just...shall we check the next one?" She rose briskly and they left the cell behind them. Draco didn't like the cells-they smelt too strongly for his tastes, and he could perceive something troubling to him, though he wasn't sure what.

"I'd rather look at the curios, wouldn't you?"

Hermione could tell something was bothering-he still hadn't let go of her hand-and though she might have preferred to keep reading the etchings in the doors, her native compassion demanded she lead them toward the curio-room.

Draco liked this much better. It wasn't a terribly large room, but it pleased them both well enough, and it was less apt to disturb. He wished now he'd taken runes; it was irksome not to be able to translate for himself.

Hermione, grinning like a child on Christmas morning, promptly went to one of the cabinets and opened it. It was stuffed brimful with all sorts of things- cloth and feathers, rugs and taxidermy birds and bones on boards and at least one huge, glistening rock of the sort muggles call quartz and wizards 'dragon's tears'. Draco smiled at Hermione's unselfconscious pleasure and picked up the first thing that came to hand.

They spent at least two hours shifting and sorting, not so much cataloguing as simply exploring side by side, like children playing in the sand. At various times, elves crept down and hovered, silent and invisible, to report back to their comrades that the Master and Madam were still, lamentably, clothed.

As for Crookshanks, he found a comfortable pile of feathers and dozed, his breathing bestiring the long plumes with every dense exhalation. In his sleep, he flopped on his back and oozed, an orange coloured puddle, over his end of the table.

"He really is a wretched cat, you know."

"No, he isn't! Crooks is a wonderful cat."

"It's as though Goyle has taken up residence at the end of the bed. They snore alike, they grumble constantly, and they spend all their time searching for food."

Hermione sniffed. "Crookshanks has better table manners."

"True. And he's never got chocolate finger prints all over my notes." He shot the cat a look, which was ignored. Draco was currently studying a delicate bowl, carved from a single translucent sea shell.

"Look at this." Hermione's slight smile had dropped away entirely, as she handed Draco something, a little book. He frowned and opened it. It was inked wholly in dense, almost impenetrable scrawls.

"Strange."

She took it back, opened to the first page and scanned. "It's a diary."

"I don't know how you can stand to read that."

"We had to learn as part of runes. In manuscripts from this period, one can see how runes impacted everyday written English."

Draco felt keenly the great shame it was that Hermione had not been a man. She might have done so much! That such an intellect was wasted on a woman...he shoved the thought aside. He adored his wife, and was glad she was smart. But would it didn't make her so unhappy.

Hermione had forgot he was there. She was frowning ever harder as she read, and Draco finally put a hand on her arm. "Darling?"

"His son."

"Sorry?"

"Something had happened to his son. The man who wrote this."

"Oh. Does it say what?"

"No. Only that he thinks the son will die."

Draco wondered whether this was suitable reading for a lady. But it was a small thing, and an easy one, and could it find it in himself to deny her a treat that would cost no one anything?

"Why don't you take it upstairs when we go, and we'll read it together?"

Hermione was surprised when she found herself liking the idea. "I could...show you how to read it."

Draco wondered whether that might be a bit far. He was supposed to instruct her, not vice versa. But suppose she should come across something that upset her, and he couldn't read to know what it was? Or something down here?

"All right." If nothing else, it would distract her from this silliness with refuting the Letter. Though she'd stuck with it longer than he might have thought, and was making disturbing progress, from what he could tell.

Draco brushed hair from her forehead. "I should like that." What he'd like was for his wife to be happy, and he was, ever so very slowly, coming to understand her terms for it. And he was surprised by how far he'd go to gratify her, when it all seemed so easy and basic.

Crookshanks snored and kicked one stubby leg as he pounced dream mice, and was victorious, and praised by his Girl. One eye opened, and he snorted to bring attention to the fact his belly was unscratched.

Draco took up the feather and ticked the cat's chin with it. "Come along, cat, nearly time for dinner."

Hermione rose, and, summoning an elf to put things away, they went back to their rooms. She still felt huge guilt about the elves, but the more she came to understand them, the less she felt she understood them at all.

Narcissa and Lucius were in their room, Lucius in the bed. 'Darlings!"

"Mother, Father, Hermione's found something."

The book was duly passed around, and then dinner commenced, on trays. Lucius was growing quite grumpy with what he perceived as foolish mollycoddling, and amused himself by trying to make the nervous and very young healer flustered. He was sure he could reduce the boy to tears if he tried.

"Now, darling, you mustn't frighten the poor thing so."

"As though I would? Remember how your mother was when she got that attack of pthia?"

"She was...unco-operative, perhaps, but it was hardly like her. We should remember her as she was, at her best."

Lucius flicked his eyes to his son and heir. 'That was her best.' He mouthed, and Draco snorted helplessly, agreeing. Narcissa raised an eyebrow at them both and decided to exclude them from the conversation as punishment.

"Hermione, darling, I should like to go shopping tomorrow. Would that suit?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Lovely. The carriage will take us to Paris at, oh, ten AM?"

Hermione's brows shot up. "Paris?"

"Yes, darling. Much nicer for clothes shopping than Diagon Alley, I find."

Hermione shook her head a little. "There's very good museums there, as well."

Narcissa cocked her head. "Oh? Muggle museums?"

"Yes. A famous art museum, palaces-well, the main one's at Versailles, but some very good medieval buildings, at any rate. And..." Hermione trailed off, suddenly wondering why everyone had got so quiet.

"That's really very...interesting, love. You've seen all these things?"

"Yes, of course."

Draco felt for Hermione. He didn't understand why she'd care about these things, but clearly she did. Which, he supposed, made a sort of sense. And it kept her busy, which pleased him even more.

"I should like to go." His parents stopped and studied him. So, for that matter, did Hermione. He could see a cool, hard appraisal in her gaze-she thought he meant to mock her, perhaps.

"Why don't you, then, Draco?" Lucius laid back and gave his son a look that was meant to show him that wasn't, especially, a optional thing-he'd seen his daughter in law acting excited for the first time ever, and he fully intended his son should jump on this opportunity.

"I shouldn't leave you, Father."

"Bah! You're all treating me like an invalid."

"Lucius, darling..." Narcissa pressed his hand quickly and Lucius pressed back, relaxing under her smile. 'We just worry."

"Don't. Go and have fun. Shop a bit and then sight see." Narcissa understood and her look changed a little, almost imperceptibly. Her own eyes slid to the children, to the fact their marriage was consummated but hardly enjoyed, and the grandchildren it would be pleasant to have.

"If you really don't mind..."

"Not at all. The cat and I are locked in a bitter struggle for supremacy as regards my pillow, and perhaps we can come to some sort of truce in the absence of all others."

"Mmm, I shouldn't count on it. That cat is some sort of evil genius." Draco joined his father in staring at the otherwise indifferent Crookshanks.

"I'm willing to concede him napping rights, but only until after supper."

Hermione giggled. "Crooks is a good boy, aren't you, love?"

Crookshanks miaowed his agreement and marched to his pillow, burrowing next to the Sick Man, snuggling close. Lucius huffed loudly but made no move to dislodge the insolent creature.

"I'd say your terms have been rejected, Father."

"Really? I had not noticed." Anyone else hearing Lucius' cold, drawling voice might have winced, but Draco grinned, clearly loving the banter. Lucius, too, was looking almost playful.

After the meal was done, the children retired to nap and Narcissa climbed in next to her husband. The cat was still sleeping on his other side, and Lucius couldn't help but feel a little pleased at the way the beast had cheered the whole house.

"Lucius?"

"Narcissa?"

"Was I too hard on Hermione? I didn't mean to make her feel bad. I just can't believe she'd pass up shopping in Paris for dusty old muggle ruins and paintings."

"I shouldn't think. And it is odd."

"I was proud of Draco, pretending to want to come with us."

Lucius nodded and relaxed into his pillow. "He's such a good boy."

"Like his father."

"I was never as restrained as he."

Narcissa giggled. "I remember. I don't know whether to pity Hermione or feel glad she's spared the fatigue."

Lucius opened one eye. "You never complained."

"No."

And he proved his heart was not terribly weak, after all. Not that his wife would let him out of bed after, all the same.

In their rooms, Draco and Hermione were likewise under the robes. Hermione had opened the diary and was reading it aloud.

Draco, in his life, had known little emotional upset of a lasting kind. The summer of sixth year had been, to say the least, an awakening. Even now, Hermione had had the right of it when she suggested he'd lost little compared to the way others-and she herself-had fared.

But as his wife read, he could feel it in her. She'd never really grieved, he thought sometimes. Never put up her hands and declared she'd go no further until the great monstrous pain had abated, never cursed fate or screamed or cried at the injustice.

Rather, she'd tried to resolve it, and when she could not, she'd simply gone inside herself, like a hermit crab. Now that the first tentative feelers had been pushed from the shell, he wondered when the grief would come. If it would come.

"Hypatos Black, is the name."

Draco nodded and closed his eyes, relaxing, looking forward to the day he could read it to her and not the other way round.

Almost as soon as she'd started,, Hermione found herself wanting to stop.

"Every place I looke I do seerch but se himm not. What fate moer creule than this on, to bee so cloose and ytt soo far, to wish to speeke but can not? To se himm but have himm not, and I so olde and sicke, and himm but hardly a man, and neere to death?'

It seemed obscene, not right, to read something so personal and painful this way. But she found she couldn't stop-at some level, she wanted to give voice to his pain, to allow it to be spoken again as a gesture of respect, of kinship and shared sorrow.

'I doo but crye his name, and non answeres me. It were my falt. Wud hees mothr weere heer, that shee might southe his payne. But shee has gonne wheer all muste goo. I goo not, but bide, wayting.'

Hermione understood. She felt ravaged, the hard layer of her heart pulled open and the soft, beating meat exposed, the pain she'd refused to admit she was in. As she knew his sorrow, Hypatos Black would understand hers, the loss, the way the world would not reshape itself around the hole caused by the absence of love and loved one, the sense that nothing would ever feel quite right again.

Abruptly, she slammed shut the book and put it on the nightstand.

Draco reached up to cup her cheek. "Love?"

"I'm fine." She wasn't. Draco sighed softly and pulled her against him, murmuring, patting. He could say nothing- instinctively, he knew all he could do was let his ancestor's agonies speak to Hermione directly, pain to pain.

Hermione was surprised to find that she felt all right, letting it out, finally. The more she concentrated on what she had read the more it hurt, but it was strangely soothing, a sort of cleansing pain which made her want to share it.

"Everything's changed."

"Shhhh. Yes, it has. I'm sorry, darling. So sorry. Shhh." What was he apologising for, exactly? He wasn't sure. He wasn't precisely sure she knew either, but he thought that this was some sort of start, at least.

Hermione cried until she was too tired to do anything else. Then she slept, and Draco, feeling relieved that she'd finally opened up ever so slightly, drifted off as well.

They slept a very long time, and woke nearly at the same time. Hermione came up a moment after Draco, and found him playing with a tendril of her hair, wrapping it round his finger gently, a look of absolute pleasure on his face. Hermione felt light and clean and empty inside. The pain would return, she knew. Perhaps grieving is resolved not when their is an absence of pain, but we've learnt finally to live with it, until we've grown round it like ivy.

She hadn't grown round it, not yet, but someday she would. And this was a start. Draco's eyes lit up, seeing that she was awake. "Better, angel?"

"No. But it's a start."

Draco only meant to kiss her cheek, really. He knew she was too vulnerable, too fragile right not to risk anything more than chaste affection. But she felt so good under him, and had been so happy, and he was eighteen and alive in a way that only the very young can be, before the polish of life is dulled by cruel reality.

His mouth found hers and Hermione accepted it, still empty, still light. It was fine. She was not nearly ready to grieve for Ron-grieve what might have been between them, the children they would never have, the pillow talk, the shared bottles of wine- but what had happened that day had opened her to it, eventually.

But that was far from them, in their bed, in their room, watched by unseen elves. Draco got up on hands and knees and Hermione silently opened her legs to him, an invitation borne of no feeling, but a deep gratitude for emptiness and the sweet lack of anything but the moment.

It still hurt, but like the weeping, it was a start, and the pain seemed to give hope for better things to come. And the elves were well pleased, and wept, and danced, and the castle and it's people were, blessedly, free for an hour simply to exalt in warm flesh and silence.