"Womb. Have you ever thought about it? A womb." She pauses and the man is forced to wait for her to continue her story. She is old now, her memory, and her thoughts have faded. "A blood-pumped thing that somehow created an entire being inside of you. My womb throbs at the memory of the child that had occupied it. I can feel his little fists, and I know, yes, logically, I could not feel him making little fists. Not even when he had existed inside me."

The man is unmoving. He is listening intently. He has a job to do. She is sad, her white curly mass of hair is pulled away from her pinched forehead and distant eyes as she speaks to him like he isn't really there. He is recording her on a device he has learned to use over the years, but he will use the Pensieve to show the story to the others if it comes to that.

"He was a casualty of war. At least that's what I told myself or what they would have me believe. The reality? I didn't know I was pregnant. We were all starving, no one could tell." Her voice is fragile. Her eyes are watery, but he is unsure if that is because she is old, or she is crying. He stirs, unsure if comforting her will be welcomed.

"This is where I explain how I lost the baby." She pauses to think, her hands are shaking as she touches her throat ."I think I was knocked sideways by a spell that felt like a hot iron being pressed- or woven really, through my ribcage. I took the bastard down," She smiles a little, but then frowns, "but I was hit. So they cast a diagnostic charm on me. It revealed I was perfectly fine, sore, but in the middle of a miscarriage."

The man readjusts his glasses. He shifts in his chair and it almost looks like he wants to hold her hand. To comfort her. A tear has made its way to her chin where it catches the minimal light of the candle and sparkles like gold. A golden tear for the Golden Girl, he thinks wryly.

"There was no saving him. I know it was a boy because I was fifteen weeks pregnant. I birthed him, I held him, I cried for him, I buried him." She cradles herself a little, but she is slumped in her chair and he cannot be sure. "He had wisps of red copper hair on his crown, so light it blended with his skin. Maybe I had imagined it. Maybe I made things up about him so that the little being I had discovered inside of me was more real."

She is steadier as she speaks now, "Because the loss of him was real. I was suddenly hollow. I became a shell of myself. There was no magical way to cure depression." She scoffs a little. "I was bleeding every day and made to walk around and plan a fucking war while everyone got to pat me on the shoulder and say they were sorry for my loss." He is surprised at the force of contempt in her voice.

"I became vengeance." The man shifted, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end at the low hiss of her voice.

"Ronald tried to be there for me in the beginning. I remember him holding my hand when I lay in bed; not knowing if it was nighttime, or if someone had blocked out the sun again.

"What I remember in those days, or was it months after the miscarriage was him . He had an uncanny ability, I think, to be around people. I wonder if he was trying so earnestly to win us over. I didn't know if he was gathering intel on us, feeding it to his Master, I didn't know. I didn't trust him." Her eyes finally meet the man's for the first time, she narrows her warm browns at him suspiciously. But she continues.

"But he was there, more than Ron. Always there in the shadows. Which is funny, you know? He's all white hair, pale skin, silver eyes. In theory, he's the worst at being in the shadows." Her hazy eyes soften as she thinks of this man from her past. "He might have been the reason you're here, right?"

The man exhales. Then he nods.

"What do they want with an old woman like me?" She smiles with no sense of humour. He knows she would much rather be left alone. He wonders if she recognises him or if he is just a stranger. It hurt to not be recognised. It hurts now. He clears the lump from his throat.

"They need information, Ms Granger." His throat is dry, this makes his saliva viscous in his mouth. Swallowing requires effort. "We need you to tell us what you remember." He is aware that she has already started telling him her story, but she seems to have already forgotten what prompted her to do so. He will have to be patient. He knows this.

"About what dear?" He feels a pang through him at being affectionately referred to. He craves more but shifts instead, resettling himself.

"The Horcruxes." The word feels heavy in his mouth. He doesn't like the feeling of familiarity that dark magic has within him; it feels like he has slipped back in time to forty years ago when everything had been terrible, uncertainty plagued visions of victory, but also there was hope. A flicker of recognition flits across Hermione's face and she swallows slowly, her face darkens.

"I know we hunted them." Her eyes are unfocused as she thinks. He can practically see her mind whizz as she recalls her memories. He hopes one of them helps. He nods to encourage her, unsure if she sees him.

"He was very sentimental, wasn't he? Voldemort." The name had meant nothing; until two months ago all fear of a dead man had been washed away with the brighter future. He wanted to silence her, his mind already thrown back in time when his name was taboo and used to find resistance members. But he thinks it doesn't matter, not right now; not yet. "Yes, sentimental. Made for figuring out his Horcruxes easily enough. We found the locket, the diadem, the cup, the diary was destroyed, and Dumbledore had destroyed the ring."

He sees what she means by sentimentalism and wonders if she finds humour in knowing that Voldemort, the wizarding world's worst villain, had feelings. Has feelings.

"Yes," He prods gently. "But there were more." He breathes deeply because he wishes to not believe it. Except, things have begun to happen and it cannot be ignored any longer. His Dark Mark has begun to prickle, and only one person has control over that.

Hermione's eyes widen as she fixes her gaze on him. "More?"

"We think there were more." He shows her his left arm now and her eyes study the skull and snake, faint but there on his forearm. Her eyes meet his and recognition floods her. His heart aches. "He's back, Hermione." He says her name now and it's like medicine to his dry throat. She reaches out a shaking arm and he holds her hand delicately in his. The contact makes him instantly crave more, but he lets her lead. She shakes her head at his statement, denial. Familiar to him and to everyone else at the moment.

"But Harry killed him." Hermione closes her eyes, her thumb thrumming the inside of his palm. Her skin is soft. It reminds him of silk in the way it offers no resistance to his skin. "How is he still alive-" Her eyes widen as she looks at him. "We missed one." Draco nods. "But, we got them, we figured them out."

"We need you to tell us, Hermione. What do you remember?" Draco gently squeezes her hand and she squeezes back.

"I remember I lost my baby." Hermione's eyes flutter. "And I lost my memories."

"I need those memories." Draco pulls his chair closer to hers so their knees brush and he can be nearer to her. "What will we find, my love, if we were to go through them together?"

"I don't want you to see me-" Hermione shakes her head, eyes closed. Shutting him out.

"I was with you for some of it, love." He cuts her off gently. "I know you. We can do it together, again."

She smiles at him, unsure. They are old now, they have moved past their pain. They are both unsure for different reasons that revisiting this pain would end in success. But if that pain has the solution, they will brave it.

"Okay." She nods. "How are we to do this?" Draco looks to the shadows where silver glints along the wall, light shimmering off its swirling surface. Hermione nods when she sees it. "I love you." She says to him as they prepare to pull her pain like loose threads that could unravel everything.