AN: Hiiiiiii guys! This is a (rather long) oneshot about the evolution of Hermione and Avery's relationship following the events of the The Light. As it turned out, it's actually more of a two-shot since a few of you were asking me when I was going to write something new and this is taking me forever! So I decided to split it in half and publish what I've got so far now!

Obviously you don't have to have read TL to understand this (I'm sure you can enjoy it if you're just a slut for fluff) but for those who came here from TL, this is for you.

When I introduced Avery, I never anticipated an original character of my own creation would receive such a warm reception but I can honestly say it means the world to me! As someone who wants to publish one day, I'm using this entire experience to learn all that I can about world-building and character-building and you have helped me so much with that.

So, here it is, perhaps an unconventional couple, but one that survived all the torment and tribulations I put them through in my last fic. I hope you like it.

Bliss

Sometimes I have the strangest feeling about you. Especially when you are near me as you are now. It feels as though I had a string tied here under my left rib where my heart is, tightly knotted to you in a similar fashion. And when you go, with all that distance between us, I am afraid that this cord will be snapped, and I shall bleed inwardly. –Charlotte Bronte

October 1981

"You did it," Avery said numbly and she turned to face him. She hadn't realised it but she was trembling.

Though she hadn't seen him clearly (everything was faded and unclear), she blinked and his white face came into sharp focus. He looked drawn, like he couldn't believe what had happened. His dark eyes were wide and young and he looked at her and said again, "You did it."

Hermione just offered him a half-smile, though it wasn't quite real. She said, "I told you I was crazy enough to."

Avery's face softened and he looked at Voldemort's body, but the sight seemed to sicken him, for his eyes returned just as quickly to her face. "I never doubted you for a moment."

She looked at him in exasperation and said, "You insulted my intelligence more than once. And insinuated my plans were foolhardy!"

"They were foolhardy," he pointed out, though he was smiling slightly. "Every last one of them."

They shared an amused look, before Hermione felt herself grow solemn once more, and she whispered, "Now the monster's dead."

Avery raised his chin slightly as he remembered their conversation from so long ago. He said, in a voice as equally as quiet and final, "So does this mean it's the end?"

She let herself smile. "I guess it does."

oOoOo

November 1981

It was really quite impossible to think of a time before Frederic Avery. Though she tried, and sometimes she tried often, the smug Slytherin always seemed to permeate through every memory he was absent from, like water devouring a piece of paper.

There was no keeping him out, though Hermione found she didn't mind it quite as much as she thought she might.

He was always there, usually silent; a statue of strength and resilience, a tree with its roots planted so deeply and firmly in the ground, no tornado could uproot it.

Of course, when this observation had been made, one could never have predicted that it would take more than a tornado. Nobody could've predicted Hermione Granger would be the one to uproot him.

He was a tall boy, with broad shoulders and a resounding chest that never seemed to fall. His face was marble, effortlessly sculptured, painstakingly carved. It nearly always wore the same expression of impatient boredom, though Hermione found the patience (or fury) to wring from him a rare droplet of a smile from time to time. His eyes were dark, his hair black, and it was as though he was allergic to warmth for it seemed to roll over him in strictly eluding waves. That being said, there was something eminently warm that lingered in those dark eyes when Hermione Granger held him, or kissed him, or even forced a laugh from his bow lips.

It took time for people to melt around him. The world could not seem to understand why they fit together so perfectly, or how they managed to love one another in full.

For she, on the other hand, was a resounding sun. Though plain in appearance, there was something blinding about her, something which made your eyes ache and forced you to squint if you stared for just a second too long. Her small body was perpetually tense and alert, and yet there was an undeniable softness to her very existence. She seemed to exhale compassion, breathe the gentle lull of consideration. Everything she did, she did passionately; she let it consume her.

Perhaps that was why they were so in-tune. She consumed him in her love, and for once, he didn't mind terribly to relinquish his control. He was never bored around her.

Whatever the reason was, it was cemented in place: Frederic Avery and Hermione Granger were in love. It was a skinny love, a love that was conveyed through lingering touches and fleeting glances that lasted just a moment longer than necessary, but it was love nonetheless.

And it was a love rattled though resilient. The war took a lot out of them, but they remained standing at the end of it. Somehow.

The world slowly rebuilt itself, and neither one of them had a place to belong anymore, so they returned to the Muggle lady's house, quiet sewing their lips shut, grief weighing them down. They were disconsolate prisoners to the past, and the torments they had seen. Everything they did felt numb, like they weren't really doing it. Only Regulus retained that fresh youthfulness that they had all once thrived on.

It was an evening, peaceful and free, untouched by the cruelties and demands of the world around them, and Hermione sat on the settee, curled into the corner. She had a blanket strewn over her lap, and her eyes were staring but not seeing. Everything was calm; everything but the crackling of the fire.

The grandeur of the house had long since fallen from her fancy, and she no longer regarded the alcoves or pretty cabinet displays with wide eyes. It had become the mundane to her. Hermione didn't even think of the Muggle lady who was currently living in an idyllic seaside cottage in France. Not that often anyway. Though she didn't know why she bothered, the rich old dear was probably living the dream.

Avery appeared in the doorway of the living room. Her eyes blinked, focusing on him, and he brought her a cup of tea. She accepted it gratefully, bringing it close to warm her body up.

He sat beside her. There was space between them, stretching out, chilling them both.

Neither one of them spoke; they simply basked in the serenity that still felt foreign to their tired bodies. Regulus was out someplace. He seemed to be living to the fullest, spreading his wings and pulsing with unbridled electricity to make up for all the years he'd spent locked in Grimmauld Place.

Hermione and Avery could not share in his liberty. They left the house very rarely, often choosing to remain in their designated rooms. Headquarters was still open to her, and all the other members of the Order, though she found that it just reminded her of everything they had endured. Every time she closed her eyes, she was plagued with nightmares, haunted by things that had both happened and not. So, at the soonest opportunity, she had moved out and into this place. She slept better here. Avery, though he'd never said it in so many words, had seemed quite glad for her company. They were going through the same thing. It made sense for them to quietly go through it together.

"It's strange, isn't it?" Hermione asked. Her voice was soft, barely an indentation on the air.

"What is?" Avery replied in a voice just as quiet.

She paused for a moment, then said, "How things are more frigid now the war is over."

He looked at her. "Frigid?"

"Scarier," she amended. "More on edge."

Avery considered this. "Perhaps it's because you're not used to freedom. You know how to survive a war. Life, on the other hand, is very different… it is not so easy to live."

Hermione didn't quite know what to say to that, but she sipped her tea. It was hot, scalding her lips. She ignored the burn and continued drinking.

"You know what else is strange?" Avery said.

She hummed questioningly.

"That we don't have to hide anymore and yet we can't seem to leave the shadows."

Hermione stopped drinking. She looked at him and said, "This isn't the shadows. You should know. We've both been there."

"So you're trying to tell me this is the light?" he demanded, eyebrow raised in slight disregard. "If this is what you stand for, I'd request a different title."

"No," said Hermione. "I'm trying to tell you that this isn't dark. Nowhere near. Not even close."

She reached out and held his hand, breaching the distance between them, and it was more than some thirty centimetres she crossed. Avery's eyes latched onto her. It was so much more.

He realised maybe she was The Light for a reason.

Avery dragged his eyes away, and asked, "Do you think it will ever go back to normal?"

"What?" She stared at him, a small frown knitting her eyebrows together.

Their hands were still lazily interlocked.

Avery swallowed, looking back at her, and repeated, "Do you think it'll ever go back to normal?"

A wry smile curled her lips. "I don't think you could really call it normal."

"How it was meant to be then," he explained. There was something vulnerable about the urgency in his voice.

Hermione just stared at him. "This is how it's meant to be," she said softly.

And Avery gave her one of those rare smiles; the type that fluttered her stomach and made the room that much brighter.

oOo

December 1981

It wasn't always like this; that skinny love didn't always present itself in the most obvious of ways, nor the easiest.

But it was there in the nights they both woke up screaming, writhing in the darkness, tangled in the grip of their bed sheets and memories. Hermione had cast a silencing charm around her room, but that didn't stop him from knocking at her door one night. She was sat up in bed, throat torn and hurting, heart racing in her chest.

It had taken her a few seconds before she was able to call, "Come in."

Avery opened the door gently, standing in the doorway. He had bags under his eyes, dark hollows, and from the look of him, she assumed he hadn't gotten much sleep either. She didn't know how he had heard her through the silencing charm, if he had at all, but she was glad for him; she soaked the sight of him up.

Hermione held out her hand, and he walked over to her. Their fingers grasped the others, linking them, interweaving their souls. He climbed into bed beside her, and she pressed herself as close as she possibly could into his warmth. His heart beat steadily against her ear.

"How much sleep have you gotten?" he asked her.

She whispered, "Not much. You?"

Avery paused for a moment, and she felt his throat bob. "I haven't slept since the war ended," he murmured honestly, his free hand playing with her hair.

"Me neither," Hermione replied, matching the vulnerability of his voice.

"I keep seeing him fall to the floor," Avery said. There was nothing else in the air, just his words and their stolen, shared breaths. "Every time I close my eyes. And I imagine that he's not dead, that he survived it somehow. That he's coming for us."

"He's not," said Hermione immediately. She couldn't look at him, but held him tighter. His hand stopped at the base of her neck. "He's gone. For good. We're safe now. The war is over."

"That's what scares me," he whispered.

She finally looked at him, sitting up a little to take in the blank smoothness of his indecipherable face. He always looked cold, like art frozen in stone.

"What do you mean?"

Avery kept his eyes firmly on the ceiling. His eyelashes were so long they cast shadows.

"I mean, I did bad things. I did really bad things. I did some stuff that I could never tell anyone about, not even you... I did things that keep me up at night, because closing my eyes makes me relive them, and I'd rather die than have to do them all again..." He paused for a moment, trailing off. He seemed to regain his track of thoughts for he continued soon after. "But I was in a war. That was my excuse..." His voice dropped to a whisper, so frightened it was almost inaudible. "I don't have an excuse anymore. What if those things are really me? What if I do more bad things, and there's nothing to stop me? What if that's who I am-?"

He broke off, and the look on his face made Hermione's stomach twist. She swallowed, shaking her head slightly. Her smile was constricted.

"Of course that's not you-"

"How do you know?" He demanded, finally looking at her. His eyes were oddly bright in the darkness of the room.

Hermione stared at him. "Because this heart is who you are. This one, right here." She pressed her hand against his chest, framing his heart as though she was trying to protect it, or steal it away. "And it's a good one. It's a loving one. It's not the heart of a monster."

Avery watched her, frozen in place. Eventually, he whispered, "You can love a monster. It can even love you back. But that doesn't change its nature."

"But that's where you're wrong," Hermione whispered back. His eyes clung to her, desperation prolonging every second. The truth set him free. "It changes everything."

oOo

January 1982

The New Year's Eve party was a night exploding with laughter and cherished recklessness. Life became that much tenderer once you saw the end of it, and that had never been truer than in this instance.

The Order danced and sang at the top of their voices; they grinned and let go because one day, they wouldn't have the chance to. It was a night of freedom, of stepping away from the shackles of the war and embracing the future for what it was: fresh, promised and there in front of them; ripe for the taking.

Avery, though he'd agreed to come when Hermione had asked him, stood by the window of Godric's Hollow's living room, thoroughly unimpressed. He had a drink in hand, though he'd yet to try it. His dark eyes roved over the throng of people swaying to the sound of the music (Celestina Warbeck was on- Salazar knew whose horrifying taste this was), but they kept straying back to one in particular.

Hermione was dancing in the middle of the room, with Marlene. She had her arms up in the air, and a sweet blush to her cheeks. She kept laughing, bubbles of euphoria tripping over her lips.

She glanced over, catching him looking, and beamed at him, and the gesture made her eyes light up. Avery swallowed.

"You still get nervous seeing her?" asked James, coming to stand beside him.

Avery's jaw clenched, and he seemed to straighten up. Despite the fact that they had fought in a war together, and James made the effort at every possible opportunity, the ice between them still had yet to thaw. Sirius didn't even try. There was an entire glacier between those two.

Even so, Avery replied stiffly, "Of course. I never know if she's going to strangle me or write me poetry."

"She wrote you poetry?" James asked in surprise.

Avery's face tightened. "I was speaking figuratively…"

James considered this for a moment, nodding. He asked, after a slight pause, "Was the poetry good?"

The scowl knitting his eyebrows together was his only answer, and James took this as the cue to stop pressing. A small smile curled his lips, however, for he knew that, though Avery acted like he detested them all, there was the semblance of fondness in his blank face.

"I wouldn't have put Hermione down as a poetry kind of girl," he replied lightly.

Avery inhaled deeply. He said, in that cool voice that never had so much as a crack in it, "No. For good reason too. She rhymed angelic with astrophysics."

James looked at him, surprise making his features soft and his eyes crinkled at Avery's lame attempt at a joke. It seemed the ice was melting after all.

Hermione bounced over to them, hair electrified with the spike of Firewhiskey. "Do my eyes deceive me?" she cried, though she was smiling. "Or are you two chatting amicably?"

Avery rolled his eyes. James grinned, his ears tinged pink.

"We're bonding over a shared opinion," began James.

"Yeah," agreed Avery. "We both find you painstakingly embarrassing."

Hermione scowled at the pair of them but completely ignored this statement and decided to drape herself over his back, wrapping her arms around his neck, chin propped on his shoulder. Avery pulled a face, though made no move to shrug her off. She smiled victoriously.

"You both love me though," she said, voice smug.

James' face softened into a smile. "Of course."

Hermione looked at Avery. He raised his eyebrow. "You're alright, I guess."

"Charming!" she exclaimed.

She began to disentangle herself from him, but he caught her arm and held her in place. Hermione's smile was tender. She pressed a kiss to his pulse.

James watched them, something twinkling in the mellowness of his hazel eyes. He said, "Yeah. I think he does."

When they both looked at him, he simply raised his glass in mock-toast, before leaving to wrap his arms around Lily. Avery looked at her, and she just smiled. He pulled her round so she was tucked against his side.

They stood by the window, watching the party, though minds whirring with something else, something much bigger.

Hermione turned to him abruptly, eyes tracing the floor. "I love you both too."

She dared to glance at his face. Avery was staring at her, eyes unbelievably soft and he pulled her closer to his side. Hermione leaned into him.

His eyes narrowed when they caught sight of Sirius, who was dancing round the house, utterly lost in the euphoria of a survivor. He was singing at the top of his voice, and casually kissing anyone who looked at him.

"I still don't like him," said Avery.

Hermione thwacked him.

"Stop taking pride in being an arsehole," she said dismissively and she missed the way Avery's eyebrows raised. "It's boring. You're not intimidating anyone."

"Not even you?" He asked. She looked at him as though he'd just told her a very bad joke, and she was waiting for the punchline to end.

Hermione said, "Especially not me."

Avery moved his lips close to her ear, his dark eyes steady and boring into her. He murmured, "Then why have you got goosebumps, darling?"

She stared at him, and Hermione wished that he wasn't right but her skin had erupted in goosebumps at his closeness. Instead of replying, she scowled and rubbed her arms.

Avery huffed a laugh.

"It's cold!" she said defensively.

"Oh, I'm sure."

She was saved from embarrassment as the countdown to New Year started; it was loud and explosive, and their slurred shouts echoed around the house. They dominated the world.

"Three!"

Hermione looked up at Avery. His dark eyes were cast out at the crowd.

"Two!"

He looked at her.

"One!"

His head ducked down, and he pressed a long but sweet kiss to her lips. It left her breathless. There was nothing urgent about it; it was lazy and content, like they had all the time left in the world.

When he pulled back, their faces remained close together. Every breath was shared, kissing her cheeks and existing inside the stolen space between them.

"Happy New Year," he whispered.

Hermione stood on her tiptoes, pressing another chaste kiss to his swollen lips. She held his face in her hands, feeling the way his jaw clenched, and his eyes fluttered closed.

"Happy New Year," she smiled.

oOo

March 1982

Avery sat at the dining room table. His eyes were glued to the paper laid out in front of him, his face was impassive.

Hermione entered the room, rubbing her eyes, immediately flicking the kettle on to sate her tea desire. She leaned against the countertop.

"Good morning," she smiled.

He didn't reply. He didn't even look at her.

Hermione frowned. "Freddie?"

His head shot up suddenly and he said, "My father's trial is today."

She felt herself falter, and the empty mug she had just retrieved from the cupboard nearly slipped from her grasp.

"Oh."

His eyes lingered on the picture of his father, before he flipped the page. "And Rosier got sentenced last week. Life. Minimum 45 years if he behaves. But I doubt it. That boy couldn't even behave in school."

Hermione averted her eyes when he glanced up at her, turning around as the kettle whistled. She made her tea, and the sound of the spoon clinking against the mug echoed deafeningly around the kitchen.

When she was finished, she turned back around and noticed Avery watching her. Hermione swallowed.

"Snape got let off easy," he continued, never once looking away. "Dumbledore vouched for him." His smile was tight. "Lucius wasn't so lucky."

She held his gaze for a few moments longer before she took a sip of her tea. Avery scoffed, his taut smile turning bitter. "Is that it?"

"What do you want me to say?" Hermione asked quietly.

"Something!" he demanded. "The only reason I'm not rotting in a cell with them is because of you!"

"Then perhaps you should be thanking me, instead of biting my head off," she replied coolly.

Avery's face was cold and hard. "Perhaps."

She stared at him, jaw clenched, eyes burning. "I feel like, for whatever reason, you're trying to retain your superiority."

His eyes narrowed. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you still cling to the idea that you're better than everyone else!" Hermione explained heatedly.

He regarded her for a moment. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips.

"You know that's not true," he said in a low voice.

"Do I?" she demanded, incredulity making her sound like she'd lost her mind.

Avery sighed deeply. "Maybe I miss the society," he began. "Maybe I miss my mother and father, and all my friends, and everyone who was a part of my life before they got sent to Azkaban to have their soul sucked out. Before-!"

His words increased in volume and vigour, before he cut off. Hermione felt the unspoken word linger in the air between them.

-before you.

"It's not my fault they picked the wrong side," she said, folding her arms across her chest, watching him carefully.

"No," Avery agreed. He was seething, in that reserved terrifying way he got when the anger poisoned him. "But it is your fault they're behind bars."

"Then maybe you should've let Voldemort kill me!" Hermione said loudly, anger finally getting the better of her.

Avery's eyes flashed. "Maybe I should've!"

She felt the cold seep through her, and the breath lodged in her throat. She stepped back as though he'd struck her.

Avery's face dropped, and his lips moved to grapple for the words, trying desperately to take them back because no part of him meant them. They were throwaway fragments of his frustration, shards that had bubbled up and pierced her skin before he had time to stop them. The regret pounded through his body, infected the lines of his face.

"Hermione," he began, clambering to his feet, moving towards her. He reached out, but she ripped her hand away.

"I-" she started, then swallowed. She didn't look at him. "I forgot. I was meant to be meeting Sirius."

Avery's head dropped to the side, and her name cracked on his tongue, "Hermione-"

She apparated before he could get to her, leaving him standing in the room, alone. The cup of tea she had been holding shattered on the floor, spilling into a puddle. His eyes closed. A ragged sigh slipped from his lips. Everything felt heavy.

It was difficult, trying to survive as though you were part of the winning side. How was he supposed to explain to her that Lucius had been there for him in a time when everyone else acted like he was invisible? How was he meant to tell her about the time his father had taught him to read, and they'd both spent the entire day laughing because he couldn't, for the life of him, pronounce Herbology right? How was he supposed to explain that the people she was sending down were his friends, his family? That, apart from them, he had no one else left in this world.

Avery screwed his eyes shut. It was hard because the winners wrote the history books, and he wasn't part of that winning side. All he'd done for redemption was love a girl so much he'd betray everything for her.

And she couldn't so much as find a flying fuck to give that it was her fault he'd been uprooted and wrenched away from everything he'd once known.

The same hands that had killed so many people had tucked him in at night for ten years. The same blue eyes that had watched Muggles get tortured had regarded him with mirth and companionship. Now, they were rotting in Azkaban, with only their memories of his rancid betrayal to keep them going.

And he was out here, free to walk down the street but shackled to the torment of knowing that he'd condemned them to their fate. He was alone, wallowing in guilt. He was drowning in it.

Avery lashed out, exploding abruptly, kicking the dining table. It made his toes numb and throb painfully but he didn't care. The end of the war was supposed to be the end of suffering. As it turned out, suffering never really ended. Life was just as bad.

When Hermione didn't come back that night, he stayed up until the early hours of the next morning, waiting for her, and all he got was a letter informing him of his mother's descent into illness.

Avery thought life might just be worse.

oOo

Hermione apparated into the kitchen four days later.

She felt tired, like her bones were dragging her down, and there was a tightness in her throat. She swallowed to try and dislodge it but it wouldn't budge; her anxiety was suffocating.

The house was quiet, though that may just have been because everything felt magnified. Her footsteps broke the silence, her breathing sounded laboured. Avery was nowhere to be seen.

Sighing, Hermione collapsed in one of the chairs, closing her eyes, holding her face in her hands. Her entire body ached. She'd been staying with Remus and Sirius for the past few nights, and though she hadn't told them what had happened (Sirius would've killed Avery), they seemed to have known that it was something to do with the Slytherin regardless.

He hadn't even tried getting in touch with her, and though she'd come close multiple times, when the other side of the bed felt cold and empty, she'd refrained from writing to him, or coming back home. His words still stung, and their blackness had settled deep within her like a toxin.

Hermione breathed in deeply to try and settle her jangled head. She opened her eyes, and stared. It was only when she blinked that she saw what was in the centre of the table.

They were purple in colour, dainty and small, looking as ethereal and delicate as the magic that had created them. Cyclamens.

Her breath caught in her throat. She wondered whether Avery remembered, even slightly, that those had been the flowers he'd procured to guard Regulus' grave.

"I'm sorry."

Hermione spun round.

He stood in the doorway, looking as tired as she felt. His eyes had dark circles framing them, his face was drawn and pale. Avery was little more than a ghost, fraying on the edges of existing.

The tightness in her throat just got tighter. She didn't say anything.

She watched as he moved closer to her, carefully, slowly, as if he didn't want to scare her away again, or maybe he just didn't have the energy.

"I didn't mean it," Avery said.

"I know," Hermione replied. Though his face was expressionless, she saw the way it dropped. "You're just frustrated. You don't understand why you got to live when all your friends didn't. And now you're lost, battling for happiness in a world where you don't belong. I wonder where I've heard that before."

Avery stared at her. He felt his heart like it was heavy in his chest, and he just wanted to hold her. He recognised the pain in her voice and the forced blankness of her face (though he saw her fury was bubbling underneath- she never had an empty face).

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely.

Hermione looked at him. Her shoulders dropped a little. "I'm sorry too."

"What for?" he asked. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"For making you feel alone. And unworthy." She swallowed thickly, and it held the tears at bay. "For not appreciating the fact that you and I were two very different people before this war. For forgetting that you had a life outside of your role in mine. That was very selfish of me."

"Hermione Granger? Selfish?" Avery replied, his words were light, even if his voice wasn't. "Impossible."

She couldn't help but smile slightly at him.

Her smile faded and they just stared at one another. Every inch of her wanted to go to him, to feel his heart beat steadily in his chest because he was, and always had been, her equilibrium; the only thing that kept her steady.

Hermione stood up, never once taking her eyes off of him. Avery watched her, something flickering in his face; an unsureness as to whether she would hit him or kiss him. He didn't really mind which. He deserved to be hit- his words had been cruel and toxic and he shouldn't have said them. He just wanted her next to him. If it meant he could feel her, he would gladly be punched a thousand times, till his skull cracked open and all that could be felt was her forgiveness and the tangible whisper of her soul.

She stopped in front of him. They were millimetres away, and he could feel every one of her breaths. He heard the way they hitched, and saw the pulse in her jaw that meant she was angry and trying to hide it. He knew her too well not to notice the slight furrow of her eyebrows, and the almost eerie stillness of her chest, and he knew she was hurting because he was hurting too.

And that was why he was so surprised when Hermione stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his waist, burrowing her face into his chest. Avery reached up quickly to hug her back, to hold her, to commit the feel of her love to memory.

"Don't ever leave again," he murmured, and his plea caught in her hair. She knew what he really meant.

I missed you.

"I won't," she promised. He knew what she meant.

I missed you too.

oOo

April 1982

Avery's mother was a woman with bright blue eyes, as clear as the sky, and laughter lines that far opposed the strictness of her son's face. Despite this, Hermione could see the resemblance; see the tightness and rigidity of someone who had lived in the shadows of the spotlight; who had once walked footpaths with the Devil himself.

The first time they visited her, Hermione's breath had caught in her throat and Avery had held her closer because the Manor was a place of nightmares now. Though it was a war ground, it was still his mother's house, and it was the place she wanted to die, which was what led to them standing outside her bedroom door on a Monday morning that was as cold and clinical a spring as Avery was. She felt the chill from him.

"Relax," murmured Hermione.

She noticed the extremity of his stiffness only when he tried to loosen up.

"I'm fine," replied Avery.

She looked at him. He stared at the door. "You're trembling."

She hadn't realised but the hand in hers was shaking, ever so slightly, and he untangled their fingers and clenched his fist till his knuckles turned white to try and stop it.

Hermione watched him for a moment longer, before he slipped back into composure and, though she shouldn't be by now, the ease with which he did so surprised her. She reached out to open the door, but he caught her wrist.

"I just- want to warn you," Avery said. "She's not very well. And she- she's what you'd expect a fascist Pureblood wife to be like-"

Hermione interrupted him. "She's your mother. She can't be all that bad if she managed to raise someone like you."

He stared at her, his eyes boring into hers, before he moved his hand to where her fingers were still holding the handle and opened the door.

"Frederic."

His mother's voice was soft and awed when they entered, eyes catching on her son and lingering there, like she couldn't quite believe he was standing in front of her, tangible meteor of bounding heart and rushing blood.

Avery's smile was small and weak. "Hello mother."

He moved to sit in the chair by her bed, taking her hand when she held it out. She pulled him into a tight embrace, and Hermione saw the way he clutched his mother like she was his lifeline.

His mother opened her eyes, and her smile softened when she saw Hermione standing in the doorway. She patted Avery's shoulder and he leaned back.

"You must be Hermione," she said.

Hermione swallowed, stepping closer and offering her hand. "Yes. It's a pleasure to meet you."

But Mrs Avery brushed her hand away, pulling her close. Her arms were warm and strong for such an ill woman, and Hermione momentarily felt the rush of remembrance. She had not been held by a mother for a long time.

When they separated, Mrs Avery turned to her son and said, "Will you read to me?"

Avery stared at her. "Of course. What would you prefer?"

"Surprise me," she smiled.

His reluctance was only evident by the way he did not move straight away, and his eyes flicked back at them before he disappeared from the room. They were left alone together.

"He's fond of you, you know," his mother said suddenly, breaking the silence. Hermione only stared at her, feeling heat rush to her cheeks. "I haven't seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you."

She didn't reply, though his mother was not concerned because she continued softly, almost wistfully, staring at the slit in the curtains, where the light sifted in from the sky, "Like a blind man seeing the sun."

Hermione's smile was watery and breathless, and she reached over and held his mother's cold hand in hers. "It's a privilege to love him, isn't it?" she said.

His mother squeezed her hand and she looked at her, into her. "And it's a privilege to be loved by him." Hermione looked at her. His mother said, "It's a warmth. That starts here." She lifted a bony finger and held it at Hermione's chest. "And spreads outward until you feel like you might be consumed, and you feel safe. Like you could live a life and die fulfilled at the end of it."

Avery walked in on them then, holding a collection of books in his hand. He paused when he saw how close they were. His mother didn't miss a beat.

"Ah, Bronte? How did you know?"

The visits usually went like this: they would turn up; his mother would hug them; Avery often read to her or they sat in content quiet, savouring the serenity.

"I'm grateful you came," his mother told him one day, interrupting him mid-sentence.

Avery paused, eyes lingering on the words on the page before they flitted to look at her face. He didn't say anything, just swallowed and continued reading.

He spoke quietly, if at all, to her, often resolving to sitting at her bedside and taking her hand when she reached for him. Hermione found their eyes often met when this happened, and Avery would out-stare her, forcing her to look away.

It was as though, even when his mother was on her deathbed, this blatant display of human emotion was too much, like he had to silently warn her not to tell anyone his capacity stretched to grief.

His mother was many things, though a fascist she was not, though perhaps that was simply because malady had wrung her of her supremacy and left her little more than a breathing corpse, who could only smile, sleep and listen to the books her son read to her. Hermione found she was a rather cultured woman, who bore the sparkle of wisdom in her impossibly bright eyes and spoke with an air that suggested she knew something you didn't and was uncontainable with her thrill at the fact. Nevertheless, she quite liked Avery's mother and that was only partially attributable to the stories from his childhood she shared with her, much to her son's chagrin. Neither one of them spoke of their conversation, though Hermione realised that they both looked at Avery the same; like he was a star they were both wishing on.

It was one day, when the sun was sinking beneath the edge of the garden wall, and Hermione was curled up on a little armchair by the window, sleeping because they had been there for hours, that his mother turned to him.

She put her hand on the book, lowering it, and Avery stopped speaking, and looked at her. His mother tapped her lips, motioning to where Hermione slept, and when Avery's eyes snagged on the chair by the window, she reached up and held his cheek so he would focus on her.

"I thought I'd only ever see you on the front of the papers," his mother whispered. Her eyes traced over every line of his face, every individual eyelash and shadow, as though she would never get to see him again. "I thought I'd have to watch you grow up in ink."

Avery's throat tightened, and he simply stared at her. There was a guarded vulnerability to him, to the stillness of his chest.

"We forced a lot on you," she said, her face taut and pursed. Her eyes were wet with tears. She was nodding slightly. "A lot of bad. But you found your own little bit of goodness. Don't let anyone take that away from you."

He looked away because he hadn't cried since he was ten years old and his falcon flew straight into the manor wall and snapped its neck, but his eyes stung now. His mother, the woman who had loved him and stroked down his hair and kissed him goodnight every time he fell asleep, was dying, and there was nothing, no magic or prayer, that could bring her back. There was nothing he could do to save her. He had never felt so powerless.

His mother brushed his hair back, smoothing the crease of his frown, and Avery forced himself to look at her. She was still crying, silently, because for her entire life, she'd had to be silent and it seemed she would not break the delicacy, not even in death. He wrapped his arms around her, grasping her tightly, holding on.

His mother patted his back, smoothing circles by his shoulder blades, drawing wings, and Avery climbed onto the bed beside her, curling up like he used to when his father was out and he'd had a bad nightmare, when the blackness had groped from every corner, clawing at him. She had always held him close and shielded him. She had always fought away the monsters after him.

He hoped, as he curled up by her side, clutching her to him as the warmth drained from her, that she had fought away the monster within him. It had to be enough now because soon there would be nothing.

oOo

May 1982

His mother died and there were only three people at her funeral, standing together in the drizzle, because everyone else was either incarcerated or dead. Hermione held his hand tightly, monitoring him because Avery had a tendency to shut down on the world, and when she'd promised not to leave him, she'd meant it. She wouldn't go where he could not follow. She'd done it once before, and his screams still haunted her-

"Come back… Come back-!"

Hermione blinked and the past fell away. That promise was mutual- he could not shut down on her, he couldn't leave her. Not now. She squeezed his hand, feeling relief when he squeezed hers back.

Regulus stood on Avery's other side, and he lifted his wand. Small, red roses began to grow, dancing along the grave; colour in the dying winter's black and grey.

They all stood silently, staring at the flowers.

"Thank you both for coming," Avery said.

Hermione held his hand tighter, standing as close to him as she could, so he could feel the warmth of her body, pulsing next to him, reminding him there was still warmth in the world even though everything was cold and frozen at the moment. Regulus rested his head on Avery's arm.

Neither one of them had known his mother fully, but they knew the son her love had helped forge, and for that, they were graciously and eternally indebted to her, because they loved him too.

oOo

October 1982

The morning sunlight sifted through the curtains, and Hermione groaned, throwing an arm over her eyes in an attempt to steal a few more seconds of sleep. It was early. She could tell because every bone in her body felt heavy still, and the world was jilted because she had been wrenched from her dream too soon.

The other side of the bed was cold, and her hand stretched out, reaching for him but Avery wasn't lying beside her. Hermione sat up.

He was sitting on the side of the bed and the light danced on his bare back. She moved to kneel behind him, resting her head against his shoulder. He was cool, and her lips were searing as they pressed a kiss to his skin.

She nuzzled into his throat. "Having trouble sleeping?"

"Mm," he hummed. "You?"

She didn't answer.

"You know what day it is?" she whispered.

Avery exhaled deeply. "Yes."

"It's been a year," said Hermione. She kissed his neck again, gently.

"Already?" he murmured, running a hand down his face. He sounded tired.

"I know."

It seemed that in all their whirlwind freedom, they had let time slip through their fingers.

The war had finished a year ago today.

They sat in silence for a few moments more. Her chin was propped up on his shoulder. She muttered, "I want to honour them."

Avery didn't ask who. They didn't wait around for much longer. There was a restlessness to them, a sense of unease, like they knew they weren't supposed to be here, like they were aware of their stolen time. As soon as they'd eaten, Hermione had offered him her hand and, without hesitation, Avery had taken it. She apparated them straight away.

She hadn't seen the hill in so long, and the sky seemed to smile down on them. It was bright and fresh for October, and Hermione inhaled the thrum of life, gulping it down. The wind was sweet, picking up and twirling through her hair, playing dot to dot with the ghostlike freckles on her cheeks.

Avery looked around. There was a slight frown on his face. "I feel like I've been here before."

Hermione smiled slightly. She held out her hand, interlocking their fingers when he came to stand by her side.

She stared down at the little patch of dirt by her feet. It was unbroken. Unearthed. No grave was marked out for a lost boy on a trip to a star, second on the right and straight on till morning. Even so, Hermione dropped to her knees, taking out her wand and conjured eight yellow roses, which twined around one another, reaching for the sun.

She stared at them. They symbolised so much more than flowers fighting for the light. They symbolised the life of eight people who had died in another time, who had sacrificed everything they held dear, all their hope and dreams and love, for a better world. The same better world they thrived in now. Though it had happened in a time that ceased to exist, the agony ripped through her again. Her throat ached from the memory of screaming until it was raw and she couldn't speak. Grief consumed her.

"It's raining," Avery said, eyes tracing the clouds, blinking as raindrops snagged in his eyelashes.

Hermione shook her head, wiping at her face. "That's the sky crying for us."

"Is it sad?" he asked.

She smiled. "No. Hopeful."

When she climbed to her feet, brushing the dirt from her knees, she noticed Avery was watching her. Hermione couldn't help but stare at him.

He was so painfully beautiful, yet she knew his soul had been sculptured from pain and fear. His dark eyes bored into her, deep and resonating and she felt her breath trickle from her lips. To the bystander, Avery was just another statue in God's labyrinth of creation but to her... Well, he was everything. He was the vine that pirouetted round flowers and the incendiary collision of waves against the rocks; he was all of life's heartache and power melded into a living being. He was everything that made the world turn.

"Close your eyes," she said suddenly.

Avery frowned at her. "What?"

She sighed impatiently, repeating, "Just close your eyes."

He stared at her for just a few more seconds before he raised his eyebrows, exhaling deeply, and closed his eyes. Hermione swallowed, stepping closer to him, taking his hand.

"Keep them shut," she whispered, when his face creased.

"Hermione, what-?"

"I want to say all the things I've been afraid to say," she began quietly, "ever since I met you."

She saw his throat bob, though he kept his lips sealed. She took this as the sign to continue.

"From the moment I saw you, I knew you were dark," said Hermione after a breath. "But you stared at me, with this… this curiosity, like you saw right through me. You never treated me like a child, or a victim. You treated me like someone who you knew could kick your arse-"

"That's because you could kick my arse," Avery murmured.

"Can," she corrected. "I can kick your arse."

He smirked but before he could say anything more, Hermione continued, "Everyone acted like I was going to break. Like I was a vase with cracks in that would shatter at any minute. You didn't. You just- you just saw me for me. And I can't thank you enough for that. I respected that. Grudgingly, I'll admit, I respected you. And then, you kept pushing. You were always there. Always interrupting, always getting in my way. It irked me to no end. You're incredibly vexing, I hope you know that."

"I try my best."

"Try your best to shut up then," she replied, holding his lips. He smiled regardless.

"And then you sent me that dress. That damned dress! And I- I knew it was you. I knew you were the vessel and I just- I just couldn't. I lied to Dumbledore for you. We hardly knew each other and yet I knew you enough to know that you were worth saving… I wanted to save you."

Her voice dropped to little more than a whisper, and her hands on his face turned soft and featherlike. "Then it all changed… You bled out in my lap… And I couldn't do anything but hold you. You said I should've let you fall then, because you were a monster. Do you remember?"

By the strain of his face, Hermione guessed he did.

"I forgave you then- of course I did. I forgave you for everything, even though you didn't forgive yourself… and you asked me to stay. Like I would ever leave."

The silence kissed them, languidly, softly.

Avery swallowed, then muttered, "Are you finished? You're making me blush."

Though he was teasing, the pink tinge of his otherwise pale cheeks gave him away. Hermione grinned and replied lightly, "Not yet. Though I can save you the embarrassment. Do you want me to leave?"

Something trickled across his perfect, expressionless face. He turned his head, and his lips brushed her palm, heating her veins. His eyes were still closed.

"Not yet," he whispered. "Not ever."

oOo

April 1983

They stared at the Manor, squinting up at the turrets piercing the sky, and the glare of the windows. It was undoubtedly a beautiful house; red brick which simmered in the sun, and white trim. There was something odd about its face, however, something dark behind the heavy drapes. Even if it hadn't witnessed the destruction of evil, Hermione would have shivered at the sight of it.

Nonetheless, Hermione had to ask, "Are you sure?"

He was staring at the house with empty eyes, and she knew him deeply enough to recognise his silence as one of grief. They had not stepped foot on the grounds since a year ago.

She swallowed, continuing gently, "This is your home after all-"

"It's not my home," Avery interrupted. "It's the building I grew up in. You're my home."

She looked at him, rendered momentarily speechless. She couldn't help but smile.

"Let's destroy it then," said Hermione, eyes sparkling. "This could be a good outlet for you to get rid of all those passive-aggressive spoilt childhood issues."

He raised an eyebrow at her, then looked back at the house.

"I don't have passive aggressive issues," Avery told her.

"Childhood issues," she corrected. "Spoilt childhood issues, in fact."

This didn't sit any better with him and his eyes narrowed slightly. She could only grin.

It had been his decision to demolish the Manor. They had been entwined, lying together in the darkness. His fingers had stroked her spine, his breath tickling the curls of her hair when he whispered, "Why don't we move out?"

Hermione laughed, but she decided to indulge him, turning over to face him. "Where would we go?"

"The Manor."

The smile on her face faded, and she swallowed tightly. Avery was still drawing patterns on her back, and he noticed the change in her demeanour for he said, "We could knock it down. Create our own place, our own somewhere, with a pond and a library the size of London. We could make it ours."

Hermione traced the curves of his lips with her thumb. "What's wrong with here?"

As if on cue, there was a noise from downstairs as something shattered and a consequent, mumbled, "Shit."

She dropped her head against Avery's chest, muffling her amusement at their housemate. "Ah. Regulus. Point taken."

"Besides," he continued, and he tipped her head back, brushing her hair away so he could look at her face. "I want our own somewhere."

Their own somewhere, as it turned out, was to be built from rubble and ashes, from the ground up. It was their own little Phoenix, constructed from magic, with life breathed into its white, ivy kissed walls and a humble grandeur which sat somewhere between his extravagance and her own simplicity.

The library, as promised, was grand and impressive, and the bookcases wore the ceiling as a crown. Avery had taken it upon himself to make, crafting it with the pulse of his hands and the stick he brandished, and he waited until her birthday, when he'd covered her eyes (impatiently shushing her protests), and led her into the room with decided delicacy.

When he moved his hands away, he whispered, "Welcome home."

Hermione's first reaction had been one of quiet awe; when her breath had skilfully evaded her parted lips. Her eyes kissed every inch of the place, taking in every book, faltering at every shelf. It was only as she'd walked down the centre aisle, fingers brushing the spines of ancient tombs, caressing peeling gold lettering and well-worn pages, that her breath returned to her.

She came suddenly to a stop.

There, already propped up in an alcove set deep into a large window, was the purple felt and golden twinkle of Peter Pan.

"Do you like it?" asked Avery.

Hermione looked at him. For some reason, though she couldn't exactly pinpoint why, she was crying.

"It's magical," she whispered because she could not manage anything louder.

And it was.

Every golden picture frame was matched by a rustic antique: a broken clock Hermione had charmed to work exactly like the Weasley's; the leather armchair Avery had stolen, much to Regulus' chagrin, from their old place of residence; a globe with all the Wizarding towns in the world on it. Hermione liked this the most; she liked to walk her fingers over the mountains of Europe and wonder how strange it was that dragons soared at their peaks.

"It's our own little somewhere," Avery replied. "It's home."

Hermione shook her head, smiling at him. "You're home," she said.