When I first started this story I remember being able to update every couple of days. It's nice to say I did it again! This might be it for a little bit though; it's going to be a bit busy the rest of the week. I hope you enjoy. This chapter is a bit darker than the last few. Just though I'd mention it. Oh, and thank you again for reading and reviewing, particularly to those who attempt to read this beast all at one time! I applaud you!

LCailan

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

The fighting throughout England and the borders of Wales continued. There were whisperings of trouble up north, in Scotland although Voldemort had managed to get a good foothold there.

The Ministry forces were determined, retreating only a bit before striking again and then again. But Blaise refused to be defeated, forcing his army to hold their ground, fighting even as those around him fell in battle.

The hot summer melted into a mild autumn and then another cruel winter arrived.

Filius fell ill right after the holiday and died that January, much to Minerva's heartbreak. Charlie and Angelina married in February but because of the fighting between England and Wales, no one, not even a distraught Hermione and Ginny could get there. Shortly after, Angelina became pregnant once again and this time she hoped for a boy so to carry on the Weasley name.

Blaise had ordered all known captured Death Eaters killed and so the Ministry forces could do nothing but fight for their lives, knowing it was victory or a certain death. Never before since the fall of the Ministry had the Mark been a sign of doom and those branded with it prayed to survive.

When Rodolphus Lestrange wore out his use, Blaise had him executed and tossed aside. It was this, more than anything else, that drove Bellatrix to take over as Commandant of the Ministry Executioners and she raged angrily into battle, a formidable opposition to Blaise. At her side, the ever faithful wolf Greyback ripped and tore at those who were not being cursed. Though he had his own wand he tended not to use it, opting instead for more painful, grisly ways of killing people.

With Bellatrix at the head of the forces the Alliance was held back and even sent into retreat. Panic rippled through what had been glowing and confident forces. The fighting turned stagnant, each side unable to get a foothold on the other. Too many died; there was too much destruction but nothing could be done to stop it.

There was silence during the whole of March and April, there were only ragged and choked whisperings coming from the dying and wounded that would make their way into Wales. The Death Eaters were dying, they would say, but not at the expense of too many good people in the Alliance. Ernie MacMillan and Hannah Abbot lost their lives that month and the few in the WERA that could spare a moment had burials for them along with all the unnamed who had died for the cause.

And then, on a beautiful morning in early May, The Ministry Headquarters in London fell to the Alliance. Blaise had managed to infiltrate and bring it down.

All hell broke loose.

It was a village of the damned.

The firelight from a dozen torches whipped in the turbulence of the night breeze. The orange light was a beacon to those who were seeking a moment of respite from their sorrows and pain. Light was a symbol of hope; light was the scattering of darkness that had fallen over the hills and valleys of a land that was filled with only death and fighting. It offered some brightness in a lightless world.

But as much as the darkness was loathed, more was the daylight, for at the sunrise, they were more easily spotted; they were perfect targets.

The flat, darkened land was dotted with these billowing torches and around them were hundreds upon hundreds of souls. They lay, sat and crouched on the roughed, earthy terrain. The lucky ones had tents in which they could take shelter and the unluckiest of them all had to rest their weary bodies on the hard, dirt packed ground. Some were children, some in their prime and others were much too old to still be fighting. There was no food; there was no true rest for any of them for even in sleep the nightmares of what might come would plague them. They huddled together as there was safety in numbers, although true safety no longer existed.

They dared not use any magic at all apart from that which kept the torches lit. They feared that magic might give away their allegiance and therefore lead to their inevitable deaths. Though there were many hundreds of them, there little was spoken and an eerie, long-suffering silence lay blanketed over them.

Just beyond the flickering of the torchlight lay bodies of those slowly dying and those already long dead, the stench rising up to mingle with the scent of the firelight, dirt and breezes. These dead had once crawled and stumbled to the fire lit clearing hoping for help that did not exist and from those who would not give it even if it had. The ones still living had long ago gotten used the stench of death, both disgusting and alarming. They knew what death was – each of their senses had experienced such.

To their north lay a dark and thick wood – the perfect protection from anyone that might come to infiltrate their shoddy, man-made village. To the east and west lay open, flat terrain and anyone coming could be easily seen. And to their south lay a massive lake which provided protection and the water needed for drinking. In the navy, turbulent waves bobbed more bodies – those of suicides. Death by their own hand had proven too tempting in the face of what might come.

The sight of half-alive humans and the dead all around them, the sound of their whimpers and wails and the taste of fear – it all seemed woven together into a tapestry of the macabre. Still, the living would not give up – not all of them.

These villages had started to rise up along the Welsh, English and Scottish countryside within days of the fall of the Ministry. All order had been lost and many had died during the infiltration in London. Lord Voldemort had disappeared, abandoning his followers, showing cowardice where there should have been bravery and betrayal where there should have been loyalty. He left his followers floundering in confusion and despair and those still loyal to the Ministry or desperate enough joined forces with Bellatrix, mounting attacks against the unfailing Alliance.

But others fled from the city during the London battles, running for cover in the countryside. It was these that had formed the aforementioned villages, spending their days and nights fleeing from both the Ministry and the Alliance. They were the rejected. The Ministry had not taken well to their change of allegiance and the Alliance had been ordered to kill Death Eaters upon sight, not giving them a chance to explain or showing them any sort of compassion. These damned souls lived in terror hoping each hour that they would live through the next.

The irony was that Blaise Zabini would show no mercy to those who bore the same Mark on their arms as he did.

The first time Leo smiled at Hermione she wept. It seemed cruel and unfair that Draco not be there for such a beautiful moment. The first time he laughed tears sprung up into her eyes for his laughter was the most beautiful sound in the world. The first time Leo sat up Hermione laughed and clapped her hands encouraging him and making him smile up at her and she swore that he knew what was going on.

Hermione fell in love with her baby boy more every single day that passed. She couldn't get enough of him from the way he babbled to the way he reached for her when he was sleepy. He was the perfect baby, most content in the arms of his mother but rather of a sunny disposition which allowed him to be passed from one person to another. His toothless grin was infectious and he won over each person that gazed into his beautiful gray eyes. And not only was he unarguably quite the beautiful child, Leo was brilliant, having inherited this from both of his parents. He was crawling around the flat by six months of age, his long legs proving very sturdy and he was speaking at eight months of age, toddling around by nine and speaking nearly in full phrases only a month before his first birthday. Neville, who had become Hermione's closest friend during that time, declared that Leo was one of the brightest children he had ever come across.

The little boy was alert and aware of things around him, and he silently boasted of concentration and tenacity that most other boys his age did not have. He showed a propensity for learning and changed each and every day, so much that Hermione wanted to weep at all that Draco had already missed.

Hermione was proud of her son, she adored him, and she spoiled and doted over him. But restlessness filled her heart as news of the fighting trickled into Cardiff and more and more wounded seemed to be shuttled into Neville's care. Her heart broke for every soul that lost their life and she mourned the deaths of her former friends and classmates.

And she missed Draco, wondering where he was and what he was doing. She prayed that he was still alive somewhere. And she prayed for the end of a war that she believed would never end because she believed that he would come back to her when it was all over. Though she had come to Wales hopeless, Hermione's friends and the people around her had helped her find hope again. And that was what she had to cling to even if such hope was futile.

Three weeks before Leo's first birthday an oppressive silence had filled the Clinic. There were no empty beds and Hermione's arms and legs hurt so much from walking and working that she thought she might be numb from the pain.

It was while she was feeding Leo his lunch that Neville burst into the tearoom on the fourth floor of the hospital, his eyes bright with excitement and his face flushed pink. She knew that face; she prepared herself for what was coming for it would be monumental.

"The Ministry's fallen," he breathed holding out a copy of the Quibbler.

Because the Prophet out of London had been controlled by Voldemort from the day he had taken over the Ministry, questionable news sources and magazines that had once been called worthless rags had become the most reliable source of information to those who were aligned against the Ministry.

Leo's gray eyes moved between the two adults in the room as he attempted to feed himself with the spoon that Hermione had put down, a bit put off that his lunch had been interrupted.

Hermione took the Quibbler in hand and stared at the news article unable to breathe.

What Neville had said was true; London had been attacked by Blaise's forces and they had been victorious, attacking the Ministry at its heart and bringing it to the ground. Many had already perished and more had fled the city and disappeared. Bellatrix and Fenrir Greyback had mounted a retaliation effort while Voldemort had fled to safety.

The article was brief and offered few details but Hermione sat back in shock.

"Where do you suppose Voldemort has gone?"

"I don't know."

"What an evil, traitorous coward."

Neville didn't reply for it wasn't necessary. No one had believed that Lord Voldemort cared about anyone but himself. He had proven it once again.

Leo broke the ominous silence with indignation.

"Mama, I eat mowe!"

Hermione blinked tears away as she tried smiling at her son.

"I'm sorry, baby."

She mechanically fed Leo bite after bite of his meal but he was perceptive and could see his mother's agitation and began to fuss, refusing to finish food he had wanted only moments before.

Neville got up immediately, scooping the baby up in his arms and smiling at him.

"I think it's time for a nap," he suggested.

Leo looked at Neville as if offended.

"No nap. I pway wif ball."

"After you nap."

"I bite you!" declared an angry Leo.

Neville raised an eyebrow.

"What did we say about biting? It's only for…?"

"Doggies."

"Very good."

Neville put Leo down on the ground making sure his long legs were firmly planted and then offered his hand. Leo took it and then walked towards the door babbling about doggies and food and his ball.

Hermione put her head in her hands as she fought tears and listened to her son's innocent banter finding it harder to hear amidst all the dreadful news coming from London. She didn't want to think; she didn't want to cry. But neither was possible in that moment and she gave into her emotions, weeping softly into her hands.

If the Ministry had fallen, where was Draco? Had he joined forces with Bellatrix? Or was he fleeing the city and being hunted? Was he dead? Was he hurt somewhere? Would she ever see him again?

She was angry and she was terrified, both emotions warring within her until she thought she'd go mad.

"Hermione?"

She jumped at the sound of Neville's concerned voice but didn't move, unable to hide the fact that she had been sobbing.

"He's resting."

Still she could say nothing, she felt so overwhelmed by the news. There were footsteps and then the sound of his sitting down. After that, silence.

That's what she liked most about Neville; he wasn't one to force conversation unless he saw she wanted it. He let her cry it out in silence, sitting close enough that she could reach for him if she needed it. Hermione didn't; she didn't want to reach for anyone. The last time she had done that, he had been taken from her.

When her tears ceased and she felt the heavy blanket of weariness descend upon her, Hermione looked up. Neville was watching her patiently, one hand on the table near to her. She reached forward, putting her hand in his.

"Thank you for putting him down for his nap."

She reached to wipe her tears away with her other hand and Neville found himself wishing there was more he could do. He wished he could offer her the comfort she needed. And he wondered why it was that she loved another man when he was right there next to her trying to be everything she might ever want.

War changed people. What you believed in changed and sometimes the side you fought for changed. Some people grew oppressed and others felt freedom. Fear became your constant companion, bitterness the seasoning of life. You learned what it was like to truly hurt, to truly lose. And you had to grow in strength and determination. Whether you faced the fighting or worked to help heal those who needed it, you were never the same.

Feelings changed too, as Neville Longbottom had realized.

He had loved Luna Lovegood for as long as he could remember and sometimes he forgot that he was supposed to move on. He had been the friend all through school and then watched her fall in love, marry and have children with another man, leaving him behind. And for whatever reason he had never quite let her go.

But now as he gazed on Hermione he realized that something was different. Neville realized he had feelings for another woman; he cared for Hermione and letting go of Luna was as easy as taking his next breath.

It was a thought that both thrilled and terrified him. Love, just like anything else, came with a price. Unfortunately sometimes you didn't choose who and when you loved someone and even if you didn't want to pay the price, you had to. He hadn't chosen the girl and he hadn't chosen to feel anything for her and yet he did.

Neville wondered if she knew. After all, Hermione wasn't a foolish woman; she never had been. A part of him hoped that perhaps she was just distracted with her son and her freedom, even so many months after leaving London. But the biggest part of him feared and worried that she knew his feelings and simply did not acknowledge them because she did not feel the same.

He sat back at the kitchen table, listening to the large clock Luna had purchased at a Muggle shop downtown ticking on the wall in the nearby living room. His heart thumped funnily within him and his mouth grew dry as he watched Hermione try to stop her tears over another man.

I'm always going to be that bloke, aren't I? The one that women never want.

Neville felt stupid, awkward and out of place as he tried to reason with the sudden bout of love he felt for the brokenhearted woman sitting before him.

I love her, don't I?

It was odd, he realized. He had always been aware of his bashful and misplaced feelings – for months, even before Leo's birth, he had struggled with his mild attraction for her. He had held her hand through the pain of not having Leo's father with her during her son's birth. He struggled to learn how to feed, change and take care of an infant so that he could be the person she wanted and needed him to be. He had laughed along with her, hoping to brighten and bring hope to her life. He had called her a friend, a coworker, had forced himself not to think of her as a woman – a beautiful woman at that – and focus on his own life and his work. He had tried not to love the little boy that wasn't his.

But Neville realized as he watched her cry over a man who hadn't been in her life for nearly two years that he was in love with her. Why else would the thought of losing her and Leo cause his heart to shatter into a thousand pieces?

They came from the east, trudging slowly, nearly crawling along the earth towards the orange glow along the cast iron sky. Daylight was only hours away and they had been walking in silence for two nights, hiding out during the day as to not get caught by either the Ministry or the Alliance. Getting caught most likely meant death and even though death would have been welcome, the human soul had a strange tenacity about it that it would not let go of hope unless it was completely gone.

There were two of them, dressed in long, ragged, black cloaks that draped over their huddled frames so that nothing could be seen but their dark figures moving slowly. He clutched a pack to his pack which contained their meager food supplies; these were things they had managed to scavenge from old campsites and dead bodies. That was all that was left now – death and more death.

"There…it is."

Her voice was quiet, hoarse as she pointed towards the source of the orange light they had been following.

She had been ahead of him and he nearly bumped into her when she stopped abruptly.

For a moment neither spoke nor breathed as they saw the expanse of flat land before them. In the distance they could see billowing torches and small, dark forms huddled around them. Scattered here and there were the outlines of tents.

He shuddered and she reached back to offer her hand in comfort though he did not take it.

"Safety in numbers."

"There's no safety anymore, Pans."

His voice was broken and rattled up from within him, the sound decrepit.

He wanted it to be different but it wasn't. He also knew, however, that if they did not go forward they would have to go back and there was nothing to go back to. Not anymore.

Slowly, wearily they trudged on and moments later they were able to breathe in the sent of lake water. He breathed in again and his stomach rolled violently as the rotting stench of death and decay assaulted him. It was sticky and cloying, causing him to stop and gag, his eyes watering.

"Bodies," she whispered with horror, for she had stepped on a lifeless, black form.

A rattled, dry gasp issued from her as she stopped in cold fear, trying to swallow back her acrid vomit. It wasn't like she had eaten anything in days anyway; they were rationing the meager supplies they had but it was hardly enough.

As they stumbled back into a walk, there was a shimmering to their left and she realized that it was water; they had reached the water. It was a lake of some sort. The torch-lit encampment lay only what seemed a mile ahead.

"Be careful," came his dry whisper and she turned her head to see his face grimly lit by the distant firelight.

He was pale and emaciated – a far cry from the lithe and handsome man he had been only a year before. Against the black of the hooded cloak his face was skeletal and if it hadn't been for the few locks of white-blond hair that had fallen against his alabaster skin she would have believed that she was traveling with Death.

To their right there was a furtive movement which caused them to falter and stop once again. One of the black shadows shifted and trembled and a cough issued from it, causing the two travelers' blood to run cold. But nothing moved forward, nothing attacked and so they moved on, their footsteps quicker and more anxious to reach their destination even though they did not know what lay there.

They had not taken even ten steps when, as if from nowhere, two jets of red light lit up the early morning navy sky and she let out a cry and dropped to the dirty ground. He fumbled for the wand that he knew was in his left pocket, his fingers trembling and closing in around it just as a black, crouched figure burst forward and grabbed at his ankle. Whatever held him had clamped down on his flesh with superhuman strength but in spite of that his instinct was to protect her – his traveling companion – for he had no one else in the whole, hellish world. Not anymore. Not since Christmas nearly two years before.

"Pansy!"

The cry of her name from his cracked lips sounded pained and broken. The crab-like figure pulled him forward so that he tripped and fell with a cry of surprise. Another dark figure dodged out from the other side, grabbing his pack with a vicious swipe and cutting it open using a quick cutting spell.

He hit the ground with a thud and his breath rushed from him with a whooshing sound so that all he could do in the end was moan. He choked on the dry earth and the metallic taste of his own blood. His head began throbbing a fierce, aching beat.

"Oh, sodding hell..."

Ahead of him, Pansy had scrambled to her feet and was running towards the light, her ripped cloak billowing behind her. As he watched, the crouched figures leapt to their full height, for they were men and not creatures and began to gain on her. She was moving quickly and his eyes widened with horror as she tripped over one of the corpses that littered the lakeside and went down on her face, his name escaping in a startled scream.

'Draco.'

He wondered faintly if they were going to die now.

It was early June, three weeks after the fall of the Ministry. The last year in Azkaban had been better than this. This was Hell. This was probably worse than Hell and so he welcomed the idea that even if he died and went there he would have already suffered tortures and damnation greater than what was waiting for him.

'Draco.'

His name again and then she was silent, her cry cut off with a terrifying abruptness.

Then they came for him, yanking him to a kneeling position and keeping him from falling over on his face from the dizziness. They were wearing black and so he did not know if they were friend of foe. He knew nothing anymore. Nothing except that his name held no worth any longer; his life, too, was worthless. He knew nothing except that since fleeing London he had found no peace, no respite, and nowhere to call safe.

They yanked on his sleeve, roughly pushing it up to the elbow and turning out his forearm.

"Death Eater," one of them growled, the sound muffled from behind a thick, dirty hood.

In the firelight he saw the glaring Mark of his shame. He was nothing now but a Death Eater, wanted for war crimes against those who were Muggle-born.

Shadowed eyes stared at him as they began to drag him against the roughened, cold ground. He didn't move; he hardly struggled. He no longer cared. His mind was far away, contemplating a woman he had said good-bye to only two years before.

Everything since had seemed like a lifetime of sorrow and pain. He knew now he would not see her again and he was glad she had escaped when she had. At least he had done something right.

The sun began to rise as Draco was dragged through the throng of people, all just like him, all rejected and terrified. All Death Eaters.

Light began to fill the sky and Draco looked up at the heavens blearily. The sun began to rise on the first birthday of a son he did not know he had.

Hermione's eyes stirred awake the morning of he son's first birthday. She felt the sun shining through the window by her bed and Leo sleeping to her left as he always did the nights he refused to sleep in his crib.

It was just as it always was but she felt something fundamentally different. Leo began to fuss and when she couldn't quite open her eyes she heard something shifting next to her and then the warmth at her side was gone.

"Is my baby boy hungry?"

Hermione's heart stopped and her eyes flew open.

She saw Draco cradling their son, smiling down at him as he rocked him back and forth the way Neville had done a thousand times in the last year.

"Is my little Leo hungry?"

Again with the cooing in a voice Hermione had never heard and hot tears sprung up into her eyes as she watched Draco lean down to kiss his son.

The baby reached for him and Draco smiled. It was a dream. It had to be a dream. She closed her eyes tightly, trying not to get her hopes up. But when she opened them again he was still there, whole and happy, beaming down at his son with a smile Hermione had never seen.

"Come on, then. We'll get us some breakfast, won't we? There's probably a bottle or something in the fridge, yeah? That'll be scrummy. We'll leave Mama to sleep…"

A moment later, she was alone but Hermione's heart raced violently and her fingers trembled so badly she couldn't quite get the buttons of her ROBE closed. She dashed across the room and flung the door open.

Draco stood there, smiling down at Leo.

Leo wasn't a baby anymore, but a little boy now, with white-blond hair and vivid gray eyes identical to that of his father.

"Look, Mama!"

He lifted up a brand new football, waving it around.

"I'm gonna play, Mama! Daddy's gonna show me how!"

Tears of joy glimmered in Hermione's eyes as she dared step forward and reach for Draco, believing that he wasn't really there. But he felt solid against her fingers, his flesh warm and smooth.

"D-Draco…"

He leaned in to press a tender kiss to her forehead and she breathed in the familiar scent of him, the cigarettes, the mint, earthy praline that had always clung to him.

"I'm here, love. I'm not going anywhere."

She was crying now, her arms around his bare waist, clinging to him and praying over and over that she never awaken because she had never had such a perfectly wonderful dream. His lips were both firm and soft when they touched her mouth and she felt feelings rushing through her – feelings that only he could provoke within her.

Clinging to him, time stopped until there was a terrible crashing behind them.

"Confringo!"

Just like the Death Eaters had broken into her flat so long ago in eastern London, they did so again, blasting through the doors of the home she was sharing with Draco and causing Hermione to let out a shrill cry and pull Leo to her side.

They wore long black robes with thick hoods and she couldn't see their faces, only that they pulled Draco away from her and Leo and dragged him across the floor, through the rubble and splintered wood shards that were all that remained of the door.

Hermione watched Draco struggle, his eyes two round, gray saucers full of panic.

"Hermione!"

"Stop!"

The man behind the thick hood spoke but his voice was distorted by the thick material. Hermione strained to hear him, trying to remember where she had heard that voice.

"Draco Malfoy you are sentenced to death for Death Eater war crimes."

Draco struggled and Hermione gasped.

"You!" she hissed, suddenly dashing forward to pull the heavy hood away from the face of Draco's captor. And just as she had thought he stared back at her with smug, glittering onyx eyes. Marcus Flint.

"You can't be here! You're dead!"

Still she recalled with vivid horror that snowy morning she had taken Flint's life. The man who should have been dead laughed.

"Well, I'm not. And it won't be me who is dying today!"

He whirled on Draco but Hermione pushed him, leaping between Draco and Flint's outstretched wand, trying not to hear the sound of her son's terrified screams. But when she looked up at Flint she realized he had changed. In his place stood Blaise Zabini, tall and regal in black, sweeping robes.

The only thing that had not changed was the flat and unforgiving look in his glittering black eyes.

"Get out of my way. This isn't about you any longer."

Hermione stood her ground.

"He's just like you! Would you punish him for a Mark on his arm that you bear as well! He feels and he cries! He's not like the rest of them, I swear! He's not like them! He's a good, kind man! Don't do this!"

Her cries continued unheeded and once again Blaise changed, morphing slowly before her eyes. Her dream had become a nightmare.

"Move out of the way, Hermione. This is justice; this is what they all deserve."

It was Dean's voice now, Hermione realized with horror and shock. He wore a look of unrelenting determination as he glared at Draco.

"You'll die for all those things you did, Malfoy."

"NO!"

But they pushed Hermione out of the way and she stumbled to the side, reaching for Draco the entire time. The whole flat was filled with a horrific, green flash of light and then Draco fell into her arms, dead.

"NOOO!"

Dean and the others turned to Leo, who was wailing with fright.

"Mama! Mama, help me!"

But she couldn't move; she couldn't do anything but watch as they pointed their wands at her innocent son.

"We'll get rid of this abomination, too!"

She didn't recognize their voices now, didn't know who had spoken, which heartless bastard had condemned her little boy to die simply because of who his father had been.

"Leoooo!"

There was another flash of green and it was her son who fell dead this time... The man holding the wand whirled on her, a sneer on his lips.

"See? See what you get for being a Death Eater's whore? See? Seeeeeeeee?"

Hermione jolted awake to a clap of terrible thunder and she felt a final, hoarse scream rip from her lips. She was sweating and her flesh was clammy and cold while her eyes were burning. Her heart galloped within her chest so that she thought she would be sick from the terror of it all.

"No…."

She blinked tears of fear out of her eyes to find Neville standing over her bed holding a screaming Leo in his arms.

"Mama cwy! MAMA CWY!"

He was shrieking in terror as Neville shushed him as gently as he could. Hermione fell against her damp pillows limply and she too began to sob, shaking violently at the realization that it had all been just a terrible, horrible nightmare.

"P-please…"

Her request was clear; she wanted to hold her son and Neville acquiesced, handing the little boy to his mother. Hermione held him tightly, kissing his hair, face, neck, cheeks, eyes, whatever part of him she could reach. She buried her face into his soft, auburn curls, shaking with relief and the last cold fingers of terror.

"A dream," she whispered rocking her son. "Just a dream."

Neville was pale. He couldn't understand what she was saying but the echoes of Hermione's terrified screams still resonated within him. He was riveted in place waiting to see what she would have him do.

When Leo was calm, Hermione handed him back to Neville watching as he carried the little boy from the room. When he returned, she wordlessly reached up for him and Neville sank down on the bed, pulling her close. It was the first time he could remember holding her so closely that he could feel the beating of her wild heart and smell the vanilla scent of her soap.

"He's dead," she was whimpering.

Neville began to rock her gently, back and forth…back and forth.

"He's dead."

She felt Neville's gentle fingers run through her unruly, sleep-tossed hair. He was warm and solid against her and she wasn't alone, not anymore. Clinging to him, she tried to stop the flow of tears but managed only to choke on her own sobs as she buried her face against the shelter of his neck. He held her that way for a few moments.

"It was a nightmare, Hermione. No one is dead."

He hoped she wouldn't be able to tell how terribly his heart was beating and the way he trembled while she was in his arms. He thought she just happened to fit perfectly there. For a few moments she sobbed against his shirt but then her tears subsided, soothed away by the gentle words that fell from his lips.

"No more tears. It's Leo's birthday today."

Hermione realized that Neville was right. Another clap of thunder sounded around him as she dared to peek up at him from under her dark lashes.

"You're right."

Her voice was quavering but determined.

I can't go on like this! I can't keep having these dreams about a man who's no longer in my life!

And yet she was torn and guilty at even the mere thought of moving on with her life! It wasn't fair! The same old surge of resentment flowed through Hermione as Neville let her go.

"It's pouring out there. I suppose we'll just have to have it inside then," he said staring out of the window with obvious disappointment. "Leo might not be happy about that."

Hermione watched Neville with a mixture of affection and curiosity. No, he would never be Draco, but then again, Neville hadn't disappointed her. And he hadn't abandoned her. And she bloody couldn't wait forever!

"Neville, thank you."

He turned, raising one eyebrow and the look on her face made him blush. She stepped towards him almost shyly, hesitating for a split second before making her decision. When she reached for his hand to pull him closer, he didn't resist. Once more, Hermione rested her cheek against the roughness of his shirt, listening to the steadiness of his heartbeat and she didn't pull away when he pressed his lips against her head.

Unbeknownst to the both of them, their relationship had begun to change.