TITLE: You and Me and The Rain AUTHOR:

eudaimon

canellaphile. Her original challenge was "realized attractions" and scenarios where the girl prefers another girl before she'd pick a boy. No the-boys-didn't-wantme, or boy-voyeurism, please. DISCLAIMER: None of this, not even the holes in Charlie Weasleys Quidditch jersey, are mine.
WRITTEN FOR: PAIRING: Hermione/Tonks (though, because of

communiquills , Im incapable of calling

Tonks Tonks. Forgive). RATING: R. Most definitely R. WORD COUNT: 8896 WARNINGS: Character death(s). SUMMARY: Love is watching someone die.
A/N: betaed to perfection by

pre_raphaelite1. Any mistakes are, deplorably, my own.

Nobody else here baby No-one here to blame No-one to point the finger Its just you and me and the rain - u2

On her belly in the dirt she waited until she realised that the ringing was in her and not the world. Still, she lay motionless for a time, until the edges of burnt clothing cooled, until Kingsley came to gather blistered skin into a blanket, and all the time, one thought. Oh, mate, Im sorry I didnt feel more. In the middle of the bed, the pitched roof of the attic room, she sat stripped to the waist, hunched over her knees, curled in around her own breasts, while behind her Ron puffed and swore and dabbed her with ointment which smelt like chamomile tea tasted. Breathing was difficult. She felt crushed, smaller than she had before. Charlie set on the bed beside her, tears running numbly down his face. She tried to say something, couldnt. Her voice felt like a frail, fluttering thing, its wings caught in her throat. It felt so alien that it made her cough, and Charlie thumped her on the shoulder, which hurt more than it should and, unbidden, came the memory of sneaking her dads cigarettes behind the fourth greenhouse, fifteen years old. Youre not helping, Charlie, Ron said, still dabbing, wiping, piecing her back together, almost a doctor, nearly enough. Dora, drink your tea. Itll help. She sipped the hot liquid. It took a long time; Ron was smoothing plaster across the more burnt places on her back. It took a long time, but, finally, she managed it. Hermione. Even her name sounded burnt, coming past charred lips. Later, Dora wouldnt be

able to say why it was Hermiones name that came first when she wanted to know if theyd been told; why not Harry or Fleur or Molly? None of themjust Her-mi-one like a song. I went and told her, Charlie was saying. Brought her home. Shes with HarrySheisnt taking it so well. Which made Dora feel colder and more cruel than she had before, burnt and wizened by smoke and heat until she couldnt bear her own weight. The day that Remus Lupin died. Grimmauld Place had a malevolent, sour feel, and she was always cold. You dont belong here, said the walls. Or you do, and thats the problem, isnt it, Nymphadorascared of fitting too well? She dressed herself in layers to dull the noise, her dads old jumpers, Charlies socks. Mollys constant cups of tea and fussing were almost welcome. Shed never really liked tea. She was twenty seven when Remus died. She sat staring into her cup and wondering about how grief could feel so much like relief. She thought of the pencil mark count which her mother kept in the back of an old exercise book hidden in dads shed. One mark for Remus, now. Yeah, it was almost a relief. Theyd been waiting so long for the next one. There had been such a lot of loss. Dumbledore, the Diggory boy whose face she only knew from Auror reportsSeverus Snape and Sirius Sirius Sirius. She glanced at the heavy clock on the wall, a split second before it began to strike twelve. With a sigh, she heaved herself up out of the soft chair and sank down beside the fire, wrapping herself around herself, ignoring the pull in her back. She turned up the collar of her jumper against the sound of pouring rain and watched as the fire resolved into her old dads handsome face. Wotcher, Dad. ello, Dora. It was nice to hear his voice, harsh and whispery as it was, forced through the embers. Is that my jumper, Dragonfly? She plucked at moss green wool, riddled with holes. Yeah. Mom was throwing it away. In the fire, Ted shrugged or seemed to shrug. This isnt about jumpers, Dora. We heard. We wish youd come home. I cant just come home, Dad. Theres a lot to do here. But your mother and I are verywe know how much Remuswe just wish that you were here, Dora. I will be soon, Dad. Itll be Christmas soon andyknowthere are lots of people here, Dad, and the less time I spend at home the better and Even her own jokes tasted forced. She could hear her mothers voice in the background, a hum, a buzz of sparks. Tell Mom not to worry either. Tell herwere looking after each other.

A noise in the garden, loud enough that she heard it over the sound of the storm; someone tripping over the rusting wrought iron furniture which Harry and Ron had dragged during the summer, trying to approximate what home might feel like, if it was there, down in the dark. Sensing that worrying (or, at least, obviously worrying) would do him no good, her dad had launched into his usual Leeds report; her mother, the cats, Charlemagne the train. Doras attention had drifted. Shed turned on every light in the sitting room, the better to hide the sofas clawed feet in shadow (everything in that house had claws). Light spilled through the big windows out into the garden, the garden which Sirius had cleared himself, muttering all the time about life finding ways and means. The rain showed up against the dark and Hermione, soaking wet, her hair streaming, holding out her arms. Dora found herself staring, not listening to her dad talk, something about derailment, just watching Hermione turn slowly in the pouring rain. Dad. Dad, Im going to have to go, Dad. Tell Mom Ill call, DadDad. Ill be home for Christmas, Dad. Dora paused over her boots, fumbling with her laces while the sparks settled in the hearth. Her dads jumper, Charlies socks. Sirius boots. Her entire life was made up of borrowed pieces. Hermione? Hmm? Hermione, love, the rain. Mate, youll catch a chill. Hermiones shirt had soaked transparent, and Dora couldnt look away from the slope of her back down to the waistband of her tweed skirt. Her long tawny hair stuck in flat curls across her shoulders, to the side of her face. With the light pouring over her, the rain bouncing off her, she shone and reminded Dora of something, though she couldnt put her finger on what just then. Hermione, sweetheart, come in. When Hermione opened her eyes and stopped turning, Dora could see that shed been crying. She hadnt seen before because of the rain. She dragged her dads green jumper over her head, draped it around Hermiones shoulders like a shawl. The rain soaked through her t-shirt quickly; she heard Rons voice scolding her about damp dressings, and then her scalp tightened as her hair shrank through a rainbow. Youre beautiful, said Hermione, meaning hes dead. I know, said Dora, answering the wrong thing. Just come inside love. Please. Okay, Hermione said and let Dora lead her. -

Oh God, oh GodIm so very, horribly drunk. She was still crying, pulling ineffectually at the buttons of her wet blouse. The thin (cheap) fabric clung across the neat swell of her breasts. Dora felt herself flush, not just from the radiating heat of the fire. Her skin stung as her drying shirt plastered across her shoulders. Hermione was a vision, flushed, damp eyed and damp lipped. God, it had been such a long time since girls. Too much of a good thing is as bad as none at all. Hermione twisted the weight of her long hair up from the nape of her neck, and the way it stretched the muscles in her arms, made arches of the lines of her back and neck When did you get so beautiful, Hermione? Which was another way of saying when did you grow up without me noticing? Hermione made one of the fluttering fingers dismissive gestures that shed perfected in a house full of boys. She pulled at her blouse again, her hair falling across her face. Ohfor fuckssake. A hiccupping sob shook her. Dora fought the urge not to laugh; capable Hermione Granger, jewel of the Department for Lost Spells, capable, clever, flummoxed by a damp shirt. Sit still." Carefully, very aware of the way that breathing changed Hermiones shape, Dora picked open the white buttons. It was the kind of blouse that a little girl might wear for school. Beneath it, in black lace, Hermiones breasts were like everything else about her: neat, exact. Dora pushed the wet fabric down over her arms. The curls stuck to Hermiones shoulders looked painted on, showed up gold in the glowing light. That was it. She sat back on her heels and looked at Hermione in her black bra and her tweed skirt, her hair in curls and disarray. She reminded Dora of a painting shed seen in a book which her mom had, once. She didnt look quite real in her angles and her lines, her soft glow. Do you know said Hermione, in the heightened conversational tone of the really, truly drunk, How long its been since anybody saw me in my bra? Dora shrugged. It was Ron and I was seventeen years old. That summer with the Horcruxes. That summer when we all did things because we thought that the world was ending. Oh, mate, Im sorry that I didnt feel more. What I remember most about that summer is this house, she said. This house and you. Me? You. You dont have any idea whatwatching you is like, do you, Dora. Youre likesomething loud happening in a quiet room. The world cant stay the same because it echoes, see? She moved her hands, trying to shape what she was saying. I was with Ron and itit was nice but it wasnt enough, it wasnt, and I seemed to spend my entire time watching you. I remember everything, Dora. I remember every single thing. Youre very drunk, Hermione. I am, but it isntdont you see? It isnt the point, Dora. She was fumbling behind her now.

The waistband of her tweed skirt dug in to pale skin and Dora found herself picturing Hermiones belly button above the waistband of knickers which would, undoubtedly, be black. There was a day when I came downstairs and you were sitting on the counter in the kitchen talking to Remus, and your shirt had ridden up and you were wearingturquoise knickers, and I remember never seeing anything like it, and I remember being so jealous of him. Of Remus? Hermione nodded, still fumbling behind her back. Because hed probably bought them for you. I was seventeenI didnt have to be rational. You? Were the most rational seventeen year old that I have ever met. Yes. Well. Thats not really the point, is it? Apparently not. Suddenly, she needed a drink. You made me feel like such a little girl, said Hermione, finally, abandoning the catch of her bra and pushing the straps down her arms, the tilt of her breasts keeping the fabric gathered and in place. You made me feel like something waiting to happen. Im sorry. Dont bejustjust help me with this. Not knowing what she was doing, not sure why, Dora reached around Hermione and unhooked the triple catch of her bra. It was like riding (or falling off) a bike; Hermiones bra was Angelinas bra was the bra that Charlie had worn for a panto was all bras. Nothing mystical to it. She felt her breath catch, at the sight of Hermiones bare breasts, her nipples pale pink. She felt like a clich, but still, it was difficult to breathe, as black lace dropped to the carpet. What are we doing, Hermione? said Dora, as Hermione leant forward and pressed a kiss to her mouth, the corner, a sweet and off centre kiss. Youre drunk, we shouldnt. Im drunk and we should. she said. Im not jealous of him anymore, Dora. Oh, God. Dora spilled forward against Hermione, crushed a kiss against her lips, pressed Hermiones breasts against her t-shirt still damp in spots from the rain. And there it was. Suddenly, Dora couldnt breathe for feeling. I have wanted to kiss you for years, said Hermione, breathless, burnished. But why now? Death makes us brave. She stood up, a little clumpy in her librarians shoes. Does this door lock? Dora nodded. She still wanted a beer, found herself staring up at Hermione from below, as she worked her heavy skirt down over her thighs. She was so beautiful in that particular light. A fire in every bedroom kept Molly fussing.

God bless Molly Weasley, and all who sailed on her. Hermiones knickers were black and barely there, a touch of pink ribbon, unexpected, lovely. They didnt quite match her bra, which was even more perfect. In the bed, they moved more slowly, Hermione in her knickers, Dora still in her jeans, her tshirt, Charlies socks. If Dora had ever thought of Hermione that way (and, guiltily, with Remus, she had), shed expected her to be a typical Gryffindor virgin, white cotton panties, pulling faces, hiding in pillows. What shed never imagined, with Remus or otherwise, was Hermiones body above her, Hermione lifting her neat breasts with her hands. Christ youre drunk, she said, meaning God when did you get so beautiful and how did we get here? She ran her hands over Hermiones arse, lace catching on her palms. The tweed skirts werent doing Hermione any justice. Dora own figure was the product of years of careful study; her moms eyebrows and ankles, Aunt Julies breasts (bigger than Hermiones), Minerva McGonagalls tidy waist. That Hermione came out perfect, just perfect, first time, was something of a marvel. As Hermione shifted down her, pushed her shirt up and kissed bare skin, Dora thought about how a lot of this was whiskey and grief and regret. She wondered if not telling Hermione to stop made her a bad person. When Hermione peeled her shirt up over her head, cotton caught on the edges of sticking plaster. Hermione tutted and kissed the singed edges of burns. Dora was braless and Hermione pressed her breasts together, kissed and licked her nipples hard, blew across damp skin. Dora wriggled under Hermiones weight. Stay still, said Hermione, fumbling with the conundrum that was Dora button fly. She lifted her legs to squirm out of her jeans, caught herself smiling as Hermione ran her hands down bare thighs. Her own knickers were green satin and Hermiones fingers skittered over the shiny fabric. She found herself wishing that shed shaved her legs more recently it had been so long since shed needed to. Hermione leant down against her, kissing her deeply, her hips pressing Dora down into the mattress. Hermione flicked her nipple with her tongue, kissed down between her breasts, spread her thighs around Hermiones hips. Hermione reached between them, traced her finger over the dampness on the front of her knickers. Dora tried to buck her hips, couldnt, pinned in place as she was. Suddenly, she had the feeling that she was quietly, yet very firmly, being ambushed. Between her legs, Hermione pressed her lips to damp satin. Dora closed her eyes, let out her breath shakily. Hermione started to peel Doras knickers down around her thighs. Dora got up on her elbows, glanced down between her own legs. Neat dark hair. Hermione draped green silk across Dora belly, straightened up to work her own underwear down. Between her thighs, Hermione was almost blond. Youre not what I thought youd be. Hermione bent down to kiss Dora belly, her hand between her own thighs.

You thought that Id be all innocent and then you found out that I wasfantasizing about your knickers? Hermione grinned, shifted to lie between Dora legs. Dora lifted her leg to drape it over Hermiones slender shoulder. She raised her hips as Hermione spread her cunt with her fingers. You make me want to do filthy things, said Hermione, every word a sucking kiss between Dora legs that made her squirm. All of my life, Ive wanted to do filthy things. Youre twenty one years old, Hermione. Youreahyouve very young. Youre thinking about normal years, Dora. War years cut your life in half. Come here, pretty girl Gently, Dora reached down and disengaged Hermione from between her legs, drawing her up to lie beside her. She kissed Hermiones damp lips. Gorgeous, daft girl. She rolled Hermiones body against hers, breasts pressed against breasts. Mnot gorgeous. Mclever. You can be both, Hermione, said Dora, stifling a yawn, kissing both of Hermiones eyelids, still dying for a beer. Headache? Mmph. Poor baby. Can I get in there with you? I think theres room for a skinny piece like you. The Blacks had never embraced Muggle technology; no showers, but the baths were deep and round. Dora lay in the hot water, short hair slicked back, and watched Hermione, her long hair corkscrewing, wrapped in Dora moms old robe, black silk, printed flowers. Are you working today? Dora shook her head. Weve got bury Remus by sun-down. Are you going to say something? Later, I mean.

Possibly, probably. The waters getting cold, she said, meaning I dont want to talk about it anymore. With her back to the tub, Hermione shimmied out of Andromedas robe. Dora hunched up, anticipating Hermiones legs folding against her own. She was surprised when, gently but insistently, Hermione slid between her legs. Dora hooked one knee over the edge of the tub to make room as Hermione settled into the curve of her. She wrapped one arm across Hermiones chest, palming her breast idly. I half expected you to be all penitent and reluctant this morning. I am never drinking again. That isnt what I meant, Hermione. I know. No regrets? Hermione twisted, pressed her mouth against Dora at an odd angle; the kiss was crooked but it held. I am never drinking again. Dora punched her nipple, grinning. Outside, there was still rain falling. After the bath, Hermione draped herself in Andromedas old robe while Dora toweled her thick hair. Hermione studied herself critically in the mirror, cupped her neat breasts through satin. I wish that these were bigger. Behind her, Dora turned sideways, arching her back to stick out her own bust. She was still naked. Its alright for you though, isnt it? You can be whatever you want. Dora went back to combing the snarls out of Hermiones hair. Mmph. Hermione was chewing the nail on her little finger. What do you look like really? Dora eyebrow twitched. I When Nymphadora Dora was fifteen years old, she had made a list of her faults, the

better to hide them. No, Hermione. No. Please? No. Dora. Dora took a deep breath. Okay. Alright, Clever girl, always questions. Questions are exhausting, pretty girl. But let me get dressed first. One should never humiliate ones self knickerless. The corner of Hermiones serious mouth lifted. Okay. On your head be it, Hermione Granger, said Dora, tugging self consciously at the hem of her t-shirt. If you see me and filthy things are no longer on your mind, on yourbloodyhead. Hermione pouted through a curtain of damp hair. Okay, okay. Dora closed her eyes and took a deep breath and tingled as she changed. Oh, said Hermione. Dora opened her eyes and studied herself in the long mirror, its frame draped with scarves and plastic beads. Her moms eyebrows, Auntie Julies breasts, Minerva McGonagalls trim waist. Youre a bit taller, arent you? Dora nodded. An inch and a half taller than Charlie. Mmm. Hermione turned to brush her fingers through shoulder length mousey hair, down over narrow shoulders and narrow hips. She pressed the flats of her hands to barely there breasts and ran her fingers delicately down Dora ribs. She tucked her hands into the back pockets of Dora jeans. Why, DoraYou have absolutely no bottom to speak of. Fighting a smile, Dora slapped Hermiones own ample arse hard enough to make her squeak. Bitch. And who says bottom anymore, anyway? Hermione pushed her hips flush against Dora. On tiptoes, she pressed her lips to Dora, with a touch of teeth. Perhaps. I think Ill keep you anyway. Lack of boarse not withstanding. Oh, thank God, said Dora, rolling her eyes and pushing her hand between them, curving

fingers to feel where Hermione was still wet. I Right on cue, the doorbell rang. Shit. Bugger. She ran her damp thumb over Hermiones bottom lip. Hold that thought, pretty girl. Im not- When Dora opened the door, her dad was perched against the banister, reading the football scores on the back page of the newspaper. There was a hole in the chest of his jumper. His reading glasses were too far down his nose. Of all things, Ted Dora was a blissful constant. Hello, Dad. Ello, Dragonfly, I He looked up. It isnt polite to stare, Dad. And a fly is going to fly in there and take up residence and then Momll banish you to the shed forever, and Im sorry, Dora. Id forgotten what you looked like. Bollocks, you. Fancy a cuppa? She pushed her hand through pink hair, making it spike. Well, I shouldnt He held up a knotted carrier bag from a Muggle supermarket. I just dropped by to bring these from your mother for tonightafterwards, I mean, and theres a match on, and Theres a TV in the kitchen, Dad. OKwell, maybe a quick one, then. -

Honest to God cats, Dora. Cats. Cats? How awful. Her dad regarded her balefully over the rim of his mug. It is not nice to take the piss out of your father, Dora. Yes, Daddy. Ooh, look. Youre a goal down. Dora. CanI have a cup? Hermione was standing in the doorway from the bedroom, still wearing

Andromedas dressing gown, her hair twisted up from the nape of her neck. Dora watched a flicker of recognition go across her dads face, for the robe if not the girl. Of course you can. Dora got up to make Hermione a cup of tea. What did I tell you earlier, Dad? Flies. Lots of flies, Dad. Sorry, Dragonfly. I was just wondering if you were going to pretend I wasnt here all morning. He held out his hand. Im Ted. I had the regrettable honour of fathering this ingrate. Cheers, Dad said Dora, rinsing out a mug as Hermione shook her dads hand. Hed never even met Remus Lupin. Dad, this is Hermione Granger. She works for the Ministry; Department of Lost Spells. Shes friends with Harry Potter. Thats a very lovely dressing gown, Hermione, said Ted, smiling, by the sound of his voice. There werent words to describe it; a funeral for someone who was always supposed to die but not so soon. Everyone had looked at her like they expected words or something. What was she supposed to say? Im sorry I didnt feel more?. She had just clutched Hermiones hand and closed her eyes, thought of him as hard as she could and hoped that that was good enough. Afterwards, the air static and chill with apparation, they pushed scarred tables back against the Leaky Cauldrons walls, and they poured good whiskey and they raged against the dying of his small but warm light. She had stood in the corner, felt like the ugly girl at the ball (been that girl, inside out). Her mom and dad came towards her, her mom pretty in a black skirt spread with net, her long dark hair bound up in gypsy colours, her dad wearing something which looked surprisingly like a Ravenclaw tie charmed red and white. You look lovely, Nymphadora but shouldnt you bestanding somewhere or something. Her mothers skin was dry and smelled sweet and soft, like powder. Leave her alone, Andy. She isnt a widow. Her Dad leant in close to hug her. You look beautiful, Dragonfly. Im not beautiful, Dad. Im sad. You can be both. Vaguely, she remembered that Muggles wore black for funerals, let grief drain them colourless. Not Wizards, though. Precious little light to begin with. Molly Weasley sat silent beneath a hat which sparkled with peacock feathers; every funeral, now, reminded her of Bill, of Percy too, blank and silent and all those things. Ginny, huge in green satin bent her head to listen to Fleur, whod stayed after Bill had gone on, who sipped champagne from a long and graceful flute. When Kingsley came back to the table, he slid his fingers under the long curtain of Ginnys bright hair to where her neck was bare above the collar of her dress. Doras mom and dad were dancing; her dads ridiculous tie, her mothers hair wrapped up for mourning. There

were a lot of faces which she didnt recognize; Remus had been quiet and yet everywhere at once. In her corner, she watched these things happen and said nothing. Who put you in the corner? said Hermione, offering her cheek for a kiss. Shed spritzed perfume in the coils of her hair. Her dress was blue. She was wearing the same shoes as she did for the ministry. Im hiding, said Dora. Not very well, said Hermione, stepping back to scan over neatly fitted black dress and Andromedas old red shoes, dancing shoes. They were missing six red sequins over one heel, the reason why Andromeda Dora hadnt danced in an awful lot of years. She was dancing for Remus Lupin, though, Doras beautiful mother. Penny for them? Charlie slid between herself and Hermione. Hed resisted a tie manfully, was tanned and burnt and handsome, open collared. Dora realized that she hadnt seen him since that night when shed opened her eyes, half of her clothes burnt away or sticking to her skin and hed appeared against seared retinas like an angel. Keep it, she said, letting him thread his rough fingers through hers as he bent to give Hermione a kiss. Come and dance with me, Dora. What else to do but dance? Hermione, she started, making excuses, but Ron was there, his tie loosely knotted, his shirt sleeves rolled up. He looked like he almost always did. Fancy a dance, librarian girl? I have told you this before, Ronald. I am not a librarian. I research. Ron looked up at the ceiling, weighing something up. As far as I can tell, he said, slowly, It all comes down to one thing. Oh? LibrarianResearcher. Its all just ugly shoes, isnt it? Ronald. Charlie rolled his eyes, chuckling. Dance, Dora?

Why not, she said. While they danced, when they danced, in his arms, she felt seventeen again. Funeral, what funeral; shed never met Remus Lupin in his tired tweed. There was no such thing as war. Charlie Weasley had always dealt in minor miracles. At a table in the corner, Hermione had kicked off her ugly shoes and sat wiggling her toes in Harrys lap. Ron was sitting with them and the three of them were laughing. They had each other, regardless, through training and exams, long shifts, conundrums and war; through all of that, there was the three of them. The doctor, the librarian and the boy who lived. With the smell of Hermiones hair clinging to her fingers and Charlies shirt, Dora closed her eyes and danced and clung to what she had. She sat on a bench in the pubs garden with her head between her knees, not drunk but dizzy the dancing and the grief. She had stood up in front of all those people; she wasnt a war widow but she owed up him all the same. What have you done with your hair, Dora? said Charlie, almost but not quite touching her hair; mousey brown, twisted up almost neatly. It was clashing with my shoes, shed said and stood. At first, she thought that she wouldnt look at anybody, but then she opened her eyes and saw Hermione in her blue dress, her hair pinned to one side of her face, barefoot and beautiful like the promise of a new life, smoking a Muggle cigarette. Okay, thought Dora, and spoke only to her. Theres been a lot, she said, Of death. This isnt just about him. Remus used to say that the moon is bright because it has the capacity toto reflect all light. She pushed her hair back off her forehead. He would have said that we were all stars. And hes right. A star She looked at her father, who had told her these things when she was little, who believed that Muggles had it better because they wanted to understand, Shines for a long time after it actually dies. It takes a long time for all of that light to run out. We mustNoWe Will not and we are not going quietly. Its for them, isnt it? For Bill and Dumbledore and Mad Eye, dear Mad Eye. For Cedric Diggory who I never met and dont remember, for Luna and for Sirius too. She smiled and couldnt hold it, raised her glass instead, a finger of gin for Remus Lupin and all of them who still shone. To all of them and to Remus Lupin, who had his fair share of light. Dont worry, mate, we arent going quietly. Not yet.

It was very cold. She wrapped herself around herself. Im sorry, mate, I really am sorry. Still no tears. She thought about Fawkes, very gone, and how the world had been growing steadily darker for years and years. A hand touched the back of her neck, out of all of that dark. Room for a little one? Dont underestimate an arse like that one, pretty girl. Laughing, Hermione slid onto the bench, bare legs, Rons overcoat huddled around her. There was plenty of room, too much. The two of them echoed. You did a great job, Dora. Not a job, is it? You were still goodDiddid you love him? I wish Id done more. Love isnt about doing things, Dora. Sometimes it is. Hermione wrapped her fingers through Dora. Lets not go back there tonight, hmm? I can give you a lift to the Ministry from my place in the morning. Okay, good. Im going to Leeds for Christmas on Friday. Mom and Dad. Hermione nodded. Lets go home, said Hermione, squeezing Dora fingers in the dark, echoing, doing. Tell me you didnt bring work with you, pretty girl. Imaybe a little.

Oh, Hermione. Dora crossed her arms across her chest, Charlies old Quidditch jersey against the chill of a house with a wood stove. Love, its Christmas. Its Boxing Day, said Hermione, a defiant tilt to her chin, flushed and pretty above her old Gryffindor scarf. Come in, come inMomll make you a cup of tea. Ah. Clothes, this time, said Ted from the lounge, behind his newspaper, contriving to sound almost disappointed. Dad. Hermione blushed, unwinding her scarf in the doorway. Hi, Ted. Ive got some things you might be interested in with me. Hellenic. Were trying to fill in the gaps. I mentioned your name and Lewis went spare. Behind his newspaper, Ted made interested noises. With her mother in the kitchen, her dad smiling at Muggle horoscopes, Dora pulled Hermione against her in the hall, her hand unconsciously jerking a fistful of wool in the small of Hermiones back. I missed you. I missed you tooI boughtthings. Dora raised an eyebrow, watched as Hermione flushed and fussed with her satchel. Go and do your work, pretty girl. Drink your tea. Charm my Daddy. Hermione smiled and ducked into the lounge. The afternoon passed slowly, evening falling early, lights showing up better in the dark. In the evening, after dinner, while Dora and her mother worked their way through a bottle of red wine and watched black and white Muggle movies on television, Hermione and Ted sat on the rug and puzzled over notes. I feel like Im missing something obvious, muttered Hermione, massaging her stockinged insole. Something that has to be here. Bloody Greeks, said Ted, magnanimously, sipping beer for a bottle. Hed fetched one for Hermione too and Dora reflected on the beauty of Hermiones lines when he lifted her drink. I met an oracle once. Shrew. Andy was not impressed by the scars, were you, Dove I was not. Her mother tousled her fathers hair fondly. Finding another husband after you got

eaten whole would have been too much trouble, Edward. I would have fought my way from the heart of the beast for you, Andromeda. Her mother made a soft, beautiful dismissive noise with air between her lips. In her armchair, Hermiones head against her knee, Dora yawned theatrically. On the wall, the clock showed nine. Bed, Hermione? Did you make up the guest bed yet, Nymphadora? She felt Hermione stiffen against her knee. No, Mom. Theres a mattress on my floor. Girlie chats. Yknow how it is. Dad, momll explain later. Yes, love. She wasnt fooling anyone. -

Dont look. Im not looking. Youll ruin it if you look. I promised that I wouldnt look, didnt I? Dora lay on her back on the single bed of her youth, her arms pillowed behind her bed, her eyes tightly closed. Can I open them yet? Yes. Yes, alrightyou can open them. She saw Hermione perched against the edge of her cluttered desk; her dad had taken to storing papers in her room when she was fifteenHed carried on unabated after shed left home. Hermione stood against all of the paper, her hair loose on her shoulders, her waist cinched in red satin. For a moment, just a second, Dora was sorry that Hermione wasnt nude, poetry of bare skin and all that jazz. Uncertainly, Hermione raised one hand above her head. Her face fell. I look a mess, dont I? I know that this was a mistake. Its allits all ugly shoes, isnt it?

Dora bit back a laugh. Come here, stupid girl. Hermione tottered a little in very high heels before she found her feet. She hoisted her battered leather handbag. Bag of tricks. She gave a tremulous smile. On the bed, Dora lay back and spread her legs. Hermione knelt on the mattress between them. Do you want to touch me, Dora? I think that I might like for you toyknow, touch me. She had laid her hands on the front of Dora jeans, over her hips, her fingers splayed to touch bare skin where Dora sweater had ridden. In the time it took Dora to wriggle down onto her knees on the floor, Hermione had lifted her breasts out of her corset. Dora leant forward and licked Hermiones left nipple, nipping at it with the edges of her teeth. She kissed down the red satin, ran her tongue over the strip of bare skin between ribboned waistband and corset. She hooked her thumbs under the elastic in Hermiones knickers. Hermiones fingers tightened in her hair as she worked the fabric down over hipbones and the curve of Hermiones arse. Once she had Hermione naked from the waist down, Dora guided her leg up over her shoulder. She ran her finger down the damp furrow between Hermiones legs. She pushed a finger up inside Hermione, licked a line from her knuckle to Hermiones clit to make her shudder. Come on pretty girl, murmured, encouraging. Hermione cupped her breasts as Dora licked and sucked, slid her finger in and out of Hermiones cunt. Hermione rolled her breasts with the palms of her hands, pinched her nipples and rolled up towards Dora lips. Filthy enough for you, pretty girl? Hermione twisted, her leg tightening over Dora shoulder. Shut up She sucked in a breath, sounded desperate, her head tipped back, her next breath almost a groan. Youve done this before. Sometimes, murmured Dora, pressing the word up inside Hermiones body. Im going toI cant whimpered Hermione, writhing, poetry in bare skin and red satin. Dora didnt say anything, added a second finger, mouthing a little prayer against all of that heat. Hermiones orgasm came with a soft sigh. Dora kissed her way back up Hermiones body with damp lips. She gave Hermione a long, loose kiss, her fingers moving lazily between spread legs. She wrapped her own legs around Hermiones thigh, still in her jeans. How was that then, filthy girl? Hermione coloured prettily.

Were not done yet. Dora laughed, sitting up to drag her shirt up over her head. She was braless, and cool air on bare skin was bliss. Her mouth made a soft o when Hermione stretched her nipple, pinching gently. And here was me thinking that you were, ah, a good girl, Hermione Granger. I have been a good girl all of my fucking life, said Hermione, rubbing her nipple hard with her thumb. And now I want to do filthy things. Go on then, said Dora, her mouth tightening. Do your worst. -

On all fours, she pressed her face into the pillow while Hermione worked the Muggle sex toy deeper into her, while Hermione rubbed her clit hard from behind. Her arse stung from being slapped. Shed bit her fist to keep from moaning until Hermione had urged her up onto her hands and knees. Even the thought of her mom and Dad at the end of the hall hadnt kept her quiet, until Hermione had balled up worn red knickers and pressed them into Dora mouth. She rocked backwards on her knees, a muffled moan for more. Even when she sobbed for less, Hermione pressed on. No more, shed begged, meaning not enough. Which she came, she exploded. It had been a very long time. She was herself, totally herself, for more than a minute. Hermione spread mousey hair across her breasts, rubbed her nipples and sighed contentedly. Youve done this before, murmured Dora, rubbing her hands through pink spikes. Sometimes, said Hermione, drowsily. I think I love you. Good, said Dora, curling in, turning in, wrapping herself around Hermione and all of that warmth.

She opened her eyes twice. She opened her eyes and saw her mom and dad sitting beside the bed. Her mother was wearing the shawl shed worn around her hair for Remus wake thrown around her shoulders. Her dad was reading the newspaper. Hello, Dora. She opened her eyes again without closing them. Hermione was sitting at the side of the bed

(not hers) Hermiones eyes were closed, but there was something watchful in the way she held her shoulders. At the bedside, a calendar read March. March? Where did February go? She tried to speak. Her voice felt tight and swollen; her eyes teared with the effort of forcing the word passed cracked lips. ermione? Hermiones eyes flickered open, too big and bright in a pale face. Dora. Whats up, pretty girl? She said, meaning nobody calls me Dora and dont tell me dont tell me. Hermione leant forward, gently took Dora' hand. There was something black under both of their fingernails. Dont you remember, Dora? You gotyou did get hit in the head. Charlie brought you back. Kingsley was angry. He didnt want you there, but Me? Hit in the She heard the dismissive tone in her hoarse voice even as she became aware of the dull ache in the back of her head. Hermione had mentioned it and made it hurt. In the hurt was a memory, screwed up tight and small and sore, of stumbling through smoke, bending to pick something upwhat? Something, and the sky falling then, the roof, and shed fallen, and hurt. She blinked, a tear slipping down her face. It wasnt her room. It wasnt her bed. She didnt want toshe didnt want, and something was so terribly wrong in the world. HermioneI dont remember. Shhh, Love. Its okay. It isnt. Dont lie to me. Youve got a glass forehead, pretty girl. Hermione squeezed her hand. It was nobodys fault, DoraAn accident. At first, Kingsley thoughtbut no, Dora, no. Just a stupid terrible bloody accident. Im so sorry, love. Im so very sorry. Shed been bending to pick something up. Her dads train. Red paint black split. Charlemagne. Her dads train. Her dad. I dont believe you, she said, her bottom lip trembling wildly. Youre lying to me. Her mom as well, the bright gypsy colours of Andromedas shawl, miraculously whole colours blowing, snagged on blackened wood. She was shaking her head fit to snap her neck. She jerked her hand free of Hermiones, rubbed her knuckles, her entire surface scorched. Dora, I

She moved without thinking; Auror training (move quickly, move without opening your eyes). Her hand snapped out. Her palm stung and Hermiones cheek flushed. Slapped, Hermiones face was sharp and pretty, her eyebrows high, her lips tight. Im so very sorry, Dora, she said, rubbing her cheek. In her room in St Mungos, swaddled tightly against burns and sorrow, Dora screamed herself to shreds.. My dad didnt know anything about the war, or at least he pretended that he didnt. He was proud of that. All of his life, my dad was proud of the choices that he made. That he was a wizard; that was unspeakably cool to my dadI dont think that he ever stopped reminding my Auntie Julie. My DadMy dad wanted to know thingsMy Dad cared. He didnt feel like his work at the Ministry did much good. He felt blessed to just be doing something with made him extraordinarily happy. My mother was another thing that made my dad extraordinarily happy. To the day theyuntil they died, they were so in love it was difficult, at times, to understand. They were just in love. My mother always said that she loved my father because he made it possible for her to do impossible things. My dad had that about him; he was quietly magnificent, my dad, but my mom was something too. Most beautiful of the Black sisters, braver by far than my horrible aunts who did as they were told and hated my mother for living life as only she could. My mother and father were the bravest, most beautiful people who I have ever met. It takes a lot to make a new world. A lot of courage and a lot of strength. My Dad wasnt Atlas, but he tried. He used to say that my mom was all the God that he needed. The world in which my mom and dad lived was a long way away from war. Not fire proof, in the end though. I wantedto tell you a quick story about my mom and dad in closing. More my dad, but it was because of my mom. Almost everything with my dad was. Anyway. Dad was asked to joinDumbledore offered my dad a job once, when I was a little girl. My mom said that my dad just smiled, thanked Dumbledore for the very great honour and said When am I supposed to look after my girls if Im off being a hero for the whole world? My mom refused that job too. She said itd play havoc with her dancing shoes. My mom and dad were just happy with what they had. My mom wrote books. My dad went on adventures, but he always came home. Better that they went on together, I reckon. They did marvelous things together, my mom and dad, and Ill miss them forever. Andromeda Black. Edward Tonks. Mom and Dad. Ill love you forever. I will miss you forever. Shed written it all out neatly on a piece of paper, which she trembled when she held. She wore the same dress that shed worn for Remus funeral, for all of the funerals. She wore Sirius old boots. She buried her mother in her worn out dancing shoes. When she started to cry, somewhere around her quietly magnificent dad, Hermione got up in front of everyone and held her hand. The snow was melting one day and freezing the next, dithering. She sat in the garden counting

shoots of green, watching as the Spring fought valiantly to win. It was something, she decided, that the world went on. She took a long drag on her cigarette. During the first war, the war when she was very little, her dad had taken up smoking on the porch at night. Her dad had smoked with relish, like a man who really enjoyed the act of smoking, but hed also kept a good watch, had Ted. Dora huddled in the damp, and kept a watch of sorts. Eventually, Charlie came to sit beside her. There was something endearing about a twenty seven year old man still wearing a Quidditch jersey with holes in the elbows. Hello, pretty girl. So thats where that had come fromCharlie and all of those years ago. Wotcher, Charlie. Whatre you thinking about? She offered him the cigarette and he took it. Just the way that my dad used to smoke. Mmph. I miss your mom and dad. You miss them. She took her cigarette back from him and smoked in silence, her fingers curled just so, like her dad used to. Ginnys about ready to pop, said Charlie, scrubbing his hands through red hair. And shes furious with Kingsley all of the timeShe figures either hes going to miss it or, worse still, hell actually get back. Either way, I figure that New York is the place to stay. Which made her laugh, which made him perfect in her eyes, just then. Three months from one end of the world to another, she said, finally. Doesnt seem like a lot of time does it, mate Its only the world, Dora. She leant her head against his shoulder. I just thought itd be bigger, thats all, she said. Philomena Bill Shacklebolt was born nearly four months to the day after the first end of the world. Her father made it back from New York in time to be in attendance. Ginny, formidable as she always been and ever would be (her mothers daughter) swore and sweated, but afterwards, she glowed. She was twenty years old; war makes young wives. They were making the best of what they had, Ginny and Kingsley were. How easily life stops.

Dora sat back and held Bill in a bundle of patchwork, after Ginny had managed to shoo away a flock of adoring uncles. Youll confuse her, said Ginny, fondly, stifling a yawn. Always changing girl. Nawh, said Dora, smiling as Bill rooted blinding against the front of her old Rolling Stones tshirt. Clever girl, this one. Shell know me by my eyes. No milk there, pretty one. All of that death and still a little life, said Ginny, smiling wanly and holding out her hands for her little proof of life. She settled Bill against her breast, grasping mouth, gold brown skin, dusky head. And then love arrived, said Dora, quoting some Muggle poet she couldnt remember, getting up to leave. Oh, no, stay a while, said Ginny, baring her breast for her baby, most definite proof of life. Talk to me like a real human being, Dora. Nobody talks to me anymore. Everybody just oohs and ahhs and treats me like a milk cow. Dora sat back in her chair, her bare feet up on the edge of Ginnys bed. What do you want to talk about? Ginny rolled her shoulder, made a soft surprised sound when Bill snuffled and snorted. Not the war. Anything but the bloody war. I look at them sometimes and it just feels like theyre getting further and further away. Who? The three of them. Dora shrugged. I just love her. Just like that, she said it. Ginny smiled. The thing about loving Kingsley, said Ginny, shifting Bill to the other breast, Is that I feel like nobody could take him away from me. A long time ago, there wasHarry and hewas going to break my heart but Kingsley wouldnt know how. Kingsleys got such big hands but hes so careful. I think..what it ishow it isIts been cold for so long, Ginny, but shes very warm. Ive been cold for so fucking long. Shhh, said Ginny, shielding Bills tiny shell ear.

That was it though, wasnt it? The end of that very long winter. The new world that Hermione was. Either Hermione was the spring, or the spring was with her. Spring passed into summer (the world moving as it does). Ginny dressed Bill in ballerina frills and tiny Quidditch shirts, swaddled clawed feet in scarves to keep Bills soft curves safe. The war went on but what shed mostly remember, later, were the quiet times lying on a rug on the lawn, Hermione in a spotted bathing costume like something from a fifties magazine. At night, they lay in bed with the windows thrown open (the heat, the heat). She had always slept naked, but Hermione always fumbled around on the floor for discarded knickers and afterwards stretched out, white cotton and suntanned skin. There were three moles under Hermiones left breast that sparkled like a constellation. After she came, she twirled one curl of her hair around her finger over and over. Her breasts were barely handfuls. The word tits made her blush. Her skin was perfect, without scars she had never been a soldier. In the world of Hermiones body, there was no such thing as war. She lay flat on her belly beside Hermione, her bones heavy and lazy in all of that heat. Hermiones legs were spread, one knee bent, Dora fingers moving slowly between her thighs. There were patterns to Hermione; a rise of her hips, a tightening of the delicate skin around her nipples, a sudden breathlessness. She wrapped her fingers around Dora wrist, sudden iron strength, guiding, pressing. Dora let herself be led. Why not? If I ever leave you, said Hermione, breathlessly. Hermione was a talker, always had been, had always felt the need to press words into every possible place. Dont always need to make a noise, pretty girl. Just let it wash over you like a wave. If I ever leave you, I want you to know that I was never this happy. Tell-tale lift on the last syllable. Come on, pretty girl, dont make me wait. A little more pressure, a kiss for Hermiones breast. Hermiones body was doors and archways, inviting inward movement. Comeoncomeoncomeon. Later, lying quietly and lulled by the soft, regular sound of Hermiones sleeping breathing, Dora lay with her ear against Hermiones heartbeat. Shed been an Auror for long enough that she had a sixth sense, sort of. Her ribs were full of alarms. Hermione had pulled her knickers back on, still giggling with aftershocks. Dora smoothed white cotton over a gently curving belly. She kept very still. There were no stars in Londons sky. Grimmauld Place existed in a bubble of its own darkness. A long time as an Auror had given Dora a healthy sense of her own mortality and a good head for a battle coming her way. She closed her eyes, felt herself shrink a little to fit better against Hermiones side.

If she goes, make it quick. If she goes, just give me enough time to say goodbye. Please. Dora made a wish on the constellation which shone under Hermiones left breast, and slowly fell asleep. Remember, remember, the fifth... Remember, oh, remember me. Been there before, or had she? The walls all seemed to be moving, which recalled kissing in the shadows of a staircase, side step waltzing, her mouth pressed to Hermiones. Never was much of a dancer, couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but you, oh you. Never was much of a dancer, but with you to follow. The walls of the room are charred and dark (Harry went supernova and blew the world away). Brief vision of Harry and Hermione and Ron, hands linked before the light went bright, went so bright, and they gave all of everything, all of that love for a moment's silence after all of those years of noise. Her ears were ringing. The insides of her eyes were spangled with stars. All of that noise. She sat up, felt crushed, smaller than she had been before. Charlie sat beside her, tears running down his face. She tried to say something, couldnt. Her voice felt like a frail, fluttering thing. Its wings got stuck in her throat and made her cough. Charlie thumped her on the back and unbidden came the thought of sneaking her Dads cigarettes behind the fourth green house, fifteen years old. Finally, she managed it. Finally, it came, an ugly sound, a croak. Hermione? Even her name sounded burnt now, blackened, and Charlie was shaking his head. She didnt so much collapse as shrink, fold down, wizened by the smoke and the heat until she couldnt bear her own weight. She closed her eyes but colour see nothing but white. There had been so much light. On her back in the dirt, the world was very dark after all of the white light which love shed. It came back to her in flashes, a year from one of the world to the other. Shed been right; it had been bigger all along. Dora closed her eyes and cried, that one word hanging in the air, Her-mi-one like a song, as, with a shudder, the world began again.