Chapter Text

“Is that your brother?” 

Charlie rolled his eyes. “Which one? I have like a million of those, Tonks.”

Nymphadora Tonks scoffed back at her friend. “Your older one, arsehole. You only got one of those, actually."

“Oh, I see him too!” Sam, one of Charlie’s roommates, piped in.

“Where?” Charlie asked, casting his eyes around the small town square. He didn’t usually hang out with Bill on Hogsmeade weekends but Charlie wanted to ask his brother if he could copy off his old ancient runes notes and would rather ask now when Bill was relaxed and full of butterbeer than when they were in school and Bill was on Head Boy duty. 

“He just walked into the Three Broomsticks,” Sam answered. “I don’t know if you can see him anymore- oh wait, there! He’s sitting by the window.”

“Who’s that girl he’s with?” Tonks turned to Charlie. “You never told me he was dating anyone.”

“I didn’t know. Last I heard he had just broken things off with that Hufflepuff Amelia…” Charlie squinted, his sight focusing on the hazy front window of the Three Broomsticks. He saw his brother sitting in a booth, holding a butterbeer in one hand while the other was stretched across the table holding the hand of a girl. Her face was turned away but Charlie could see the back of her black ponytail. He watched as Bill spoke, his words unreadable to Charlie, but Bill must have said something funny as the girl began to laugh, her body shaking slightly, her smiling face turning towards the window. 

“Oh my god.” Tonks gasped and through his cloak Charlie could feel the tight grip of her hand on his arm. He felt his stomach drop.

“Is that…” Sam started.

“It’s Margaret.” Charlie finished solemnly. 

“Oh.” Sam said. “Is that the girl-”

“That Charlie asked out and who then rejected him brutally? Yeah, yeah it is.” Tonks answered before giving a sheepish apology when Charlie glared at her. 

His eyes drifted back to the window of the pub, where Maragrat was beaming at Bill. She looked happy and excited, and not at all bored or distressed or like she didn’t want to be there.

“I don’t understand.” Charlie whispered. He stood frozen on the street and a sense of despair pumped through his blood. The joy he had felt on leaving Hogwarts while laughing with his friends immediately disappeared into thin air. “How could she…”

Margaret Douglas was a Gryffindor girl a year above Charlie who he’d harbored a crush for ever since he’d sat across from her on his first night at Hogwarts. He thought her one of the prettiest girls he ever saw, with sleek black hair and dark round eyes. Every time he looked at her (or when she gave him the rare glance), he blushed fiercely, his skin turning the color of roses. During the slow routine of his classes, Charlie would daydream about her, and would imagine what it’d be like to walk down the long hallways of Hogwarts with her hand in his, her dark eyes beaming up at him. (The other daydreams that didn’t evolve around her were mostly of dragons and images of Charlie riding dragons and sometimes there would be daydreams of both Margrat and the dragons, which Charlie considered to be the best ones, of course.)

 But by the time Charlie reached third year, when most boys and girls began to ask their crushes on dates, Margaret already had a boyfriend, some Ravenclaw in her year. And as they stayed together with every passing year, Charlie started to believe that his chance to ever be with Maragart was a lost hope.

But just two months ago, when Charlie was walking back alone from his Care of Magical Creatures class, Tonks rushed towards him, giddy with gossip. “Maragaret and Peter broke up!”

The news could not have come at a better time. Charlie, freshly turned sixteen, had (mostly) passed the awkward phases of puberty. He had grown into his height, his six foot and two inches stature taller than most boys in the school (but still shorter than Bill’s six foot and five inches). He wasn’t lean and lanky like Bill and Percy, but bulky and broad shouldered, with thick muscles gained from Quidditch sketching his arms and legs. His voice had stopped being squeaky and was now deep and adult-ish like Bill’s. While pimples were still scattered across his forehead and chin, they fortunately didn’t overshadow the good features of his face. Every time she saw him, Charlie’s mum would tell him how we looked more and more like his uncles Gideon and Fabian, a compliment Charlie held in the highest regard (for Bill and Charlie had always believed, now and as children, that their uncles were the most handsome and charming men that ever lived). 

Charlie wasn’t vain enough to think of himself as the best boy in his grade but he certainly wasn’t a lousy choice as a boyfriend. He was nice enough to look at, a good student, not smart like Bill was but far from dumb either. He was a good Quidditch player (a star seeker some would even say), a prefect, he was especially great with animals (Tonks told him girls loved that sort of thing); he was a responsible sort of boy, the kind with a good future ahead of him. He would be able to buy a girl a butterbeer and candy from Honeydukes and a nice present for her birthday, even if that meant saving his up meager allowance or asking to borrow money from Bill. Margaret Douglas, while pretty enough to date any boy, could do worse than him. Charlie believed he had a fair shot with her- or, so he thought.

“I don’t want to date a boy younger than me.” Margaret had said when Charlie asked her out after breakfast one Sunday. Her expression was unreadable and Charlie felt himself tremble under her gaze.

“Oh, but we’re the same age.” He said, fidgeting with his hair.  “I just turned sixteen in December.”  

While she was a sixth year, Margaret was one of the youngest in her grade with a late July birthday and wouldn’t turn seventeen, wouldn’t be a year older than Charlie, until the summer. 

Margaret pressed her lips together, not saying anything further.

“I thought, maybe-” Charlie stammered out, tumbling over his words. His heart beat fast in his chest and he could feel small drops of sweat run down his back. His body was charged with nerves; it had taken Charlie about two weeks to work up the courage to ask Margaret out after her breakup. Some Gryffindor he was, he had thought to himself. Brave enough to fist-fight Slytherins with Sam and their roommates and yet scared shitless of asking a girl out. “We could go to Hogsmeade- the Three Broomsticks, I- I could get you a butterbear or maybe we could get some Honeydukes…”

Charlie trailed off as Margaret’s gaze traveled up and down his body, focusing on his face. He hoped she wasn’t looking too much at his pimples but instead at his eyes, which his grandmum once called a pair of pretty gems, or his cheekbones, which were the same as Gideon and Fabian’s. 

After a moment of staring at his face, Margaret seemed to have gained the information she had wanted and looked away from Charlie with a disinterested gaze. “Sorry, I’m not ready to date yet after my breakup.”

“Oh. Well, then, maybe in a few weeks I’ll ask again if it’s okay with yo-” But Margaret was already walking away from Charlie, seemingly not having heard his final plea. 

And now, a week after Charlie had asked her out, Margaret was in Hogsmeade on a date with his brother. It was certainly a date for Charlie had never before seen Margaret interact with Bill, knew she wasn’t even part of his circle of friends, and by the way they were holding hands anyone who passed their table or window would naturally assume they were on a date.

“I don’t understand.” Charlie repeated. “She told me she wasn’t ready to date.” 

Tonks put her arm around his shoulders, giving him a gentle squeeze. 

“Sorry, mate,” Sam said, patting him on the back. “Maybe your brother was just the better option.” 

Tonks punched Sam in the arm. “Sam, what the hell?!” 

“Ow! I’m just saying-”

“Can’t you see the boy’s heartbroken enough as it is-”

“Well, I was just trying to-”

“Merlin’s beard, what a good for nothing friend you are-”

“Hey! I’ll have you know-”

Charlie tuned out his friends as they began to bicker, his eyes shifting from Margarte’s smiling face to Bill’s. His gaze studied his brother’s face, his features. Bill’s face was perfectly symmetrical, perfectly handsome and good looking. Unlike Charlie’s, it was clear of any pimples, the skin perfectly smooth and blemish free. His eyes were bright blue, pretty like a foreign ocean, unlike Charlie’s boring brown eyes. Charlie studied Bill through the window, looking at him seated and picturing him standing.

Bill was tall, taller than Charlie was, and though lanky, he still possessed muscles gained from Quidditch like Charlie’s, though they were lean and almost natural looking, not bulky and heavy like Charlie’s. Bill was not too thick nor too thin. Bill’s body, Charlie thought with envy, was one of almost perfect proportion. Charlie’s gaze went to Bill’s head again, focusing on his forehead, where his brain was hidden ahead, which was just as perfect as his body. 

Bill had been named Head Boy for his final year at Hogwarts, an honour that their parents never forgot and forever praised him for. He was top of his class, the smartest in his year, in Gryffindor and among the other houses. He was taking all the NEWTs he was able to and his marks for almost all the classes he’s taken throughout his Hogwarts career were all Outstandings. Bill was, without a doubt, one of the smartest people Charlie knew, the smartest in their family, smarter than even their parents. 

But even though he was freakishly intelligent, Bill was no nerd or loser. He was effortlessly cool, one of the most popular Gryffindors, if not the most, was well liked by Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, and even some of the Slytherins. To Charlie’s knowledge, his brother had never been rejected before. He could, quite literally, date any girl he wanted. Tonks regularly complained to Charlie about how much the girls in her dorm fawned over his brother. 

The worst of it was that, to Charlie, Bill didn’t even seem to try that much; he never seemed to study endlessly, or took forever prepping his appearance, or falsely flattering people to gain their good favour, like Charlie often found himself doing. Bill was just naturally smart, naturally handsome, naturally appealing. 

Even in Quidditch, where Charlie could at least claim (with the opinions of many others) that he was a much better player than Bill, Bill was the team captain, had led them to countless victories, and therefore, naturally, the team looked up to him more than they ever did to Charlie. 

Of course, Charlie was far from a misfit, far from low in Hogwarts social standing. He was pretty well liked for the most part, had no rivalries except for ones with Slytherins. He was favoured with most teachers, respected by his peers, admired by the younger students. Tonks had told him that at least two girls have had crushes on him in his five years at Hogwarts, so he wasn’t completely repellant to women. He was a good student, a prefect, and a great quidditch player. He had a solid group of friends, was popular in his own way. But it was all almost nothing compared to Bill. In his brother’s shadow, Charlie couldn’t even begin to compete.

He would never be able to be as naturally smart as Bill. Perhaps he’d be able to reach the same level of charming and handsome as Bill but the difference between the two would be that Charlie would have to put in effort whereas Bill just was. Where Charlie tried, Bill didn’t have to.

As much as Sam’s words hurt, he was right. Charlie understood how Margaret could have gone on a date with Bill when she had told Charlie she wasn’t ready to date. Bill was the better option, the better choice. Bill was just better than Charlie. 

Plain and simple. 

*****

The wind shifted, turning the hot and heavy air of the spring sun into a cool breeze that glided gently through the mountain’s grass and flowers. She turned her face towards the breeze, welcoming the soft, chilled wind that hit her face and cooled off her sweat from the sun. 

She placed her hand on the ground, her palm gripping the soft grass. She dug her fingers into the soil, the brown dirt tickling her skin. She felt the roots of the grass and flowers surrounding her hands but didn’t dare to grab hold of any of them. She lifted her hand experimentally from the soil, shaking off the sticky dirt. She looked down, her gaze a little uneasy, at the patch of ground that her hand had just been buried in. The grass, and the flowers that surrounded it, were still alive, still green and flourishing. Interesting. 

“Ok!” Charlie clapped his hands and she looked up at him. He was standing over where she was sitting on the grass, his smile warm and encouraging. “Are you ready?”

She stared up at him blankly. “I don’t want to.”

“Oh come on, Hermione, you have to walk at some point.”

“I’m tired.” This was not entirely true, though she tried to persuade Charlie of the fact, faking a big yawn for effect. She really just wanted to go back to bed, to crawl under the covers and into its darkness. She didn’t want to sleep so much as she wanted to burrow and hide away from the world.

Charlie frowned down at her.  “Yesterday you managed to stay awake for six hours straight. And last night you slept for twelve hours. I’m ninety-five percent certain that you have enough energy.”

“That still leaves a five percent chance for you to be wrong.”

“But that’s a very, very, small probability." 

She huffed out in frustration. “Can’t we just try tomorrow?”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “You said that yesterday.”

“I want to enjoy the outside some more.”

“You enjoyed it for two hours yesterday. There’s only so much outside one can enjoy without walking.”

“I don’t want to.” She repeats. She pictures the bed and the soft blankets and their dark shadows that cover her body completely. “Whatever the patient wants, they get.”

“A) that’s in terms of food and books. B) if you don’t walk soon your legs will grow firm and then it’ll be even harder for you to walk. C) if that happens I’ll be so pissed at you that I’ll take away your books. So, D) whatever the healer says, the patient does.”

She rolled her eyes. She was about to tell him that his points were invalid,  that there dozens of ways to heal her legs magically if it came to such an extreme, that she couldn’t even read her books for more than an hour before falling asleep so his threat really didn’t matter, and that his last point seemed like a grey area. But then she looked up, and her gaze became locked on his.  

Charlie’s eyes were big and kind, just like they’ve been since she woke, his smile full of encouragement and care, despite how sour she was towards him. She thought briefly of his expression, how it was always full of care and kindness when addressing her, even when she was being difficult, when her moods changed violently like the currents of the storm, when she refused to eat, refused to walk, such as now. Charlie was never unkind to her, despite how she treated him; he was stern when he needed to be but never cruel, never mean. 

Her sourness lessened at the thought, her mood shifting gently like the wind. She did not want to walk today, did not want to move her legs or lean on Charlie for support she would certainly need, did not want to put her hands in his, touch her hands to his. But, despite herself, she found herself compelled to trust Charlie. And also found that she did trust Charlie, completely. 

Charlie who had cared for her for the past several weeks, who had looked over her, had made her safe and comfortable. He out of anyone was the most deserving of her trust and she felt herself wanting to give him that trust, not just out of obligation, but out of her own care for him too. Because among the compulsion to trust him, she found as well the compulsion to make him smile, to make him laugh, to make him happy. She wanted for once to provide him with a sense of comfort, instead of the other way around. 

So with this trust and desire to make him happy, she nodded her head, strained her lips into a small smile, and said, “Ok. I’ll do it.”

*****

At Hermione’s words, Charlie sagged his shoulders in relief. He had been certain that he was about to lose that argument again. He had failed every other time he’d tried to convince Hermione to start walking.

 It’s been a little over a week since Hermione came out of her coma and a little over a month since they’ve arrived at the cabin and with each day that Hermione remained stuck in bed, Charlie became increasingly concerned about her legs and their lack of movement. The last thing he wanted was for Hermione’s muscles to grow so stiff that she wouldn’t be able to move without pain, and while there were magical remedies for such things they were all useless without appropriate exercise. 

Charlie had tried a couple of times to get Hermione to walk a little around the cabin (with his help of course), encouraging her to stand up and take little steps from the bed. But Hermione had shook her head every time Charlie suggested it, and would then proceed to close her eyes and pretend to sleep until he left the room. 

He had thought a change of scenery might encourage her more and so yesterday, with her begrudging agreement, he’d carried her outside and placed her sitting on a grassy patch just outside the door. But once outside, it soon became clear that Hermione was more interested in the open air and mountain landscape than on the task of walking.

Hermione had sat on the grass and had looked around, her eyes wide as they took everything in. She gazed at the far away mountain, the fields of flowers, the birds chirping nearby and the bunnies hopping around. Her feet had been bare and a shiver had rippled through her as her toes combed through the grass. She had leaned her gaze upwards, towards the sun, allowing it to bake her pale skin. She gazed and stared and studied everything around her for an hour and Charlie, not wanting to spoil her delight, didn’t dare bring up the subject of walking during that time. He sat quietly next to her on the grass as she took in her surroundings.

But when Hermione had laid her back down to the grass, closed her eyes, and folded her hands across her chest, Charlie stood up, and held out his hand to her. His body blocked the sun and his shadow fell across her, making the sunlight she had been bathing in disappear. “Hermione.”

Hermione opened one eye to look at him but when she saw his hand, when she recognized what he wanted, she closed her eyes again and turned her face away from his shadow. 

“Can we just try walking tomorrow? Let me rest in the sun, Charlie.” Hermione said. Charlie would have protested if she hadn’t opened her big brown eyes once again and had asked him, in a soft voice, “Please?”

Charlie felt his heart beat pick up as Hermione stared at him and his resolve immediately crumpled. He nodded, his voice suddenly choked up, and sat back down next to her.

Hermione gave him a small smile in thanks before closing her eyes again. Charlie couldn’t help  but stare down at her in awe as she began to doze off and his feeling of triumph at making her happy quickly overshadowed his worry about her walking.

But when Charlie had carried Hermione back inside an hour later, placing her carefully on the bed so that she wouldn’t wake from her nap, his sense of achievement quickly dispersed when Bill cornered him as he left the bedroom. 

“Well?” Bill asked. His tone was hushed and Charlie wondered if it was because Bill knew Hermione was asleep and didn’t want to wake her or if Bill just didn’t want Hermione to hear his voice so close to her. 

“Well what?”

Bill huffed. “Did she walk or not?”

Charlie shuffled his feet and stared down at them sheepishly. “No she- she wanted to enjoy the outside.”

“Merlin, Charlie,” Bill hissed at him. “You have to be more strict with her. You’re the one who said she’d have trouble walking if she doesn’t get up soon.”

“I know what I said.” Charlie growled back. He was getting angry now, both at himself for failing to get Hermione to walk even though he knew the importance of it as a healer and at Bill for pointing it out. “Since you’re so concerned as well, Bill, maybe you could help and-”

Charlie stopped himself. He was about to say that Bill could always go near Hermione and that would get her to stand up and walk so she could get away from him. It was a cruel thing to say, a cruel thing to even have thought of, unfair to both Bill and Hermione. Charlie closed his eyes and took a breath. He was frustrated, he was tired. It would do no good to take it out on Bill.

“Tommrow.” Charlie said, opening his eyes to meet his brother’s gaze. Bill’s eyes were narrowed at him but he thankfully didn’t seem too interested (or too angry) at Charlie’s unfinished sentence. Charlie noted briefly how red Bill’s eyes looked, just as red as they had looked the day before and the day before that. “Tommorow I’ll get her to walk.”

Bill nodded, satisfied, and walked towards the kitchen to prepare Hermione’s dinner, leaving Charlie alone in the hall. 

Charlie had worried extensively that night on how he would get Hermione to walk, thinking of endless incentives and encouragement without coming up with any real conclusions. Bill had told him to be more stern, which Charlie agreed with, but he also didn’t want to be too cruel or do anything that would cause Hermione to resent him. He wouldn’t force her to do anything but he also didn’t want to be too pliant. The most extreme plan he could come up with was carrying Hermione to the middle of a wildflower field and making her find her way back to the cabin by herself. But even that seemed too severe to Charlie- she would need help with her first steps, he couldn’t just leave her alone like some heartless monster.

So it was almost a Godsend when today, without much argument, Hermione agreed to start walking. 

Charlie grinned and clapped his hands together. “Yes! OK, this will be great, Hermione, believe me.”

“Sure.”

“Once you start walking, you’ll be able to go to the fields with the wildflowers you love, we can go to the stream, there are some really pretty fishes, the mountain’s really beautiful, especially since it’s almost summer…” Charlie babbled as he turned, looking through the nearby bushes. I swear I placed it here…aha!

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “What is that?” 

“I found a walking stick for you!” Charlie proudly displayed a large stick, which looked like it had been a discarded branch of a tree. It was about three inches tall and very thick. It was quite the miracle he found it at all as there were hardly any tall or thick trees around the mountain tops. 

He discovered it near the small stream and figured it must have washed up by accident. 

“A walking stick?” Hermione asked, her expression unreadable, and Charlie began to wonder if he had done something wrong.

“Well, um, you know,” Charlie stammered out, his face suddenly flushing red. Shit, was this a stupid idea?  “Since you don’t like touching hands and I, uh, f-figured you’d need help getting help…so I got you a walking stick. You can pull yourself up without us, you know, touching hands.”

“Oh.” 

*****

She felt a blush creep over her cheeks and she had to look down at her lap so that Charlie wouldn’t see. She observed her hands carefully, which were trembling a little. He had noticed.

Well, of course he had noticed; she didn’t really make it a secret that she wanted to hide them away from Bill and Charlie. But the fact that Charlie had worked around it, had made it so that she wouldn’t have to cross that line…

Her heat beat began to pick up and she had to force herself to meet his gaze again. “That’s very sweet of you Charlie. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Charlie grinned down at her and she wondered what it would take for him to stop smiling at her like that all the time and then wondered why she would ever want to remove it in the first place. “Ready to try?”

She nodded and leaned over to place her hands around the base of the stick. She looked nervously down at her feet.

“You’ve got this Hermione,” Charlie said softly. She looked up, her eyes meeting his. He winked at her and the rush of her heart beat was enough to lift her up to her feet. 

*****

“Will you have to leave soon?”

The sand was soft beneath her feet and the wind ran softly against her face and neck. The beach was nice and cool, but not too cold, nor too hot. She stopped to wiggle her toes in the sand and he stopped beside her.

“No,” Hermione answered, looking up at Bill. She smiled. “I can stay for a bit longer.”

Bill smiled back. “Wonderful.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her to his side. She wrapped her arms around his middle and rested her head on his chest. He hummed happily and she could feel the vibrations against her ear. It was dawn and the sun was starting to appear and they were both quiet as they watched. As the sun began to dip beneath the water, Hermione tried not to think of the growing pit in her stomach, churning violently at the lie she just told.

The truth was that she did have to leave soon- she and Harry and Ron were meeting that day, were going to plan, and then in about two months all three of them would be gone, untraceable to those around them. She’ll have to leave Shell Cottage soon… she’ll have to leave him.

Hermione looked up, her eyes settling on Bill’s face. He was staring out into the ocean, and she could tell that he wasn’t thinking of anything in particular, that his mind was just wandering. While his gaze was cast away from her, she observed the focus of his blue eyes, the serious line of his lips, the red glow of his scar, which was still healing and raw-looking.

Tears began to prick her eyes and Hermione buried her face in Bill’s shirt so that he wouldn’t see. His arms surrounded her in response, holding her tighter to him.

She needed to get going soon. She would have to meet Harry and Ron, they would have to make a plan, she would have to get supplies, meet with McGonagall one last time, and then they would have to begin the mission and leave everyone behind. Hermione needed to do all of this and she knew that she needed to do all of this and knew as well that it was better to do all of this sooner rather than later.

Yet, for once in her life, Hermione ignored the list of things she needed to do. She could do all of that later. But first, there was Bill. 

*****

Bill stirred the wooden spoon, absentmindedly watching as the porridge spun around the pot. The beige oatmeal simmered mildly, its thick consistency swirling on and on, the same way it had yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before that…mixing together in an endless dull loop.

For the past couple of weeks, it seems Bill has done nothing more but watch the same type of oatmeal boil and simmer the same type of way each morning. Which isn’t entirely true, of course; he’s also watched the same soup and beans and canned chicken and vegetables cook the same way. The dull endless loop can be very versatile. 

Bill sighs as he lowers the stove’s heat. He wonders whether his frustrated boredom is really just pathetic self-pity in disguise. Because Bill wasn’t being forced to cook and watch food stir in a pot all day, nor was he also forced to clean the cabin, which he did when the pot was empty. He didn’t have to exist in this domestic purgatory, didn’t have to only cook and clean while Charlie took care of Hermione. Bill was more than capable of doing more. He could have helped Charlie, done some of Charlie’s tasks, taken over a lot of Charlie’s tasks. But just because Bill could have done all of that, didn’t necessarily mean he should have. 

Bill would have been more than happy to help out Hermione and would have gladly done so… if it weren't for the fact that Hermione clearly didn’t want him to. She all but shrunk at the sight of him, burst into tears or hid away or feigned sleep every time he tried to talk to her about m what had gone wrong, what he had done wrong. For Bill couldn’t understand it, couldn’t understand why Hermione reacted to him the way that she did. And it shattered his heart every time Bill experienced it. 

He thinks back to before, to when she woke up, thinks over what he had done or said to trigger her so. When he comes up with a blank, he thinks back further, to before she was in a coma, when Bill had last seen Hermione. 

It had been just before the Battle of Hogwarts. He had spotted her from across a room, their eyes meeting over a chaotic crowd. There had been no time for words, no time for them to rush over to each other and meet in the middle of the storm. But their eyes had met, and a smile had spread over Hermione’s face, small but full of relief and longing and Bill had smiled back, feeling happiness for the first time in months.

What could have happened between that moment and Hermione’s coma to make her react so harrowing towards him?

Charlie had told him to give it time, that Hermione was still recovering, that it was normal for patients to experience emotional distress after a long catatonic period. 

But that was easy for Charlie to say, Bill thought bitterly. Charlie, unlike Bill, had had no relationship, no emotional connection, to Hermione until they had arrived at the cabin. And yet, Hermione trusted him, put herself in his care, and, Bill believed to be the most important, allowed Charlie to be near her. 

For the past few days, since she began walking again, Hermione and Charlie have been outside for most parts of the day, going on endless hikes around the mountainside. It was good for her health, good for her legs and muscle, and while Bill was grateful for that fact, he couldn’t help but be jealous that it was Charlie, not him, who Hermione was going on endless walks with.

Their outings made Bill recall his time with Hermione, the endless discussions, and endless afternoons, and endless readings and piles of books. The recollections, combined with the sight of Hermione and Charlie walking out the door together every day, made Bill want to push for more. He wanted to talk with Hermione, wanted to have a real conversation, where he could figure out what had gone wrong between the two of them, what had happened to make Hermione behave towards him like so. 

Last night Bill had talked to Charlie, asking his brother if it would be okay if he went on a walk with Hermione instead of Charlie.

“I’ll ask her of course,” Bill had said. “But I just wanted to check if like, I don’t know…medically speaking she needs you.”

“She should be fine.” Charlie had replied, not looking up from his task of sorting potions. “She can walk well on her own now, without my help.” He then paused. “That is…if she’s up for it.”

“I can only hope,” Bill muttered, walking out of the room and missing the look that passed over Charlie’s face.

This morning, during breakfast (since walking again, Hermione had transitioned from eating in bed to the kitchen), Bill had finally decided to jump the gun, after a night of fervent overthinking on what he would say and how he would say it. The three of them ate at the dining room table, and sat together in a sort of stilted, awkward silence that was only interrupted when Bill left the room and Hermione and Charlie descended into a quiet, familiar conversation of their own, another factor that never failed to pierce Bill’s heart. 

But Charlie had been the one to leave the room, excusing himself to the bathroom after Bill had met his gaze with an entreating look. Hermione remained silent as Charlie left, her eyes focused on her bowl of oatmeal, and Bill had watched as she slowly spooned food into her mouth, her bowl nowhere near empty.

“So I was wondering,” Bill began, trying his best to sound casual and not as desperate as he truly was. “If instead of Charlie walking with you today…I could go with you and we could walk around the mountain together.”

Hermione said nothing at first, just slowly spooned some more oatmeal into her mouth. Then, “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Hermione,” Bill said, her name coming out more like a plea than a statement. “Don’t you think we should spend some time together? I want to talk to you, I want to know what went wrong, what I did wrong. Please, Hermione, can we just-”

But Hermione stood up abruptly, stopping Bill in his tracks.

“I’m sorry,” She whispered, in such a soft tone that Bill barely heard it. Her eyes were downcast and Bill realized then that she had managed to go the eternity of the meal without once looking him in the face. “But I’d rather go with Charlie.”

She left the room quickly then, abandoning her breakfast and Bill at the table.

Now, presently, Bill stirs his wooden spoon, hours having passed since Charlie and Hermione departed. The sun will start to creep down soon and after Bill cooks with this porridge he’ll have to get started on dinner. He hadn’t been particularly hungry for porridge, his appetite dissipating quickly after breakfast, but it was something to do, something to keep his mind off the harsh memory of the morning and to keep his eyes from welling with tears.

Bill concentrates on the porridge, watching as the brown oats twist and dance, on and on, in their endless dull loop.

***** 

The mountain air is fresh and crisp, carrying with it the promising heat of summer. It breezes softly against her face, flowing gently through her hair and Charlie’s. The air is scented with flowers and dirt and grass and its earthliness, its tangible connection to nature, reminds her of the hunt, with Harry and Ron, of the days and nights spent in the outreach corners and forests and moors and beaches of England.

She tries not to think too much about them, about Harry and Ron, and the idea that they’re both dead, both gone from this world. The thought always makes her eyes well up and distracts her from the present, from her meals, from her walks, from her talks with Charlie. It only reminds her of what she’ll need to do to get them- Harry and Ron- back, which she doesn’t want to ponder any time soon. 

Instead she focuses on the memory of the air, what it was like on the hunt. It was crisp, just like now on the mountain, but cold, oh so very cold. It was especially freezing during the winter, when Harry and Hermione were abandoned by Ron, and their rations were at their lowest, and they were both too weak to cast advanced food multiplying and heating charms.

She remembers how they would huddle close in one shared cot, both of them wearing all of their layers of jumpers and socks and scarves and robes, closing their eyes against the frost. She would first try to dream of hot coco, the one with whipped cream her mum used to make for Christmas morning, and the thought would curl her toes up with delight. But then her stomach would rumble and, not wanting Harry to hear her body cry out for food, she would make herself think of something else.

She would dream of a fireplace, well-stocked and cozy, its warmth enveloping her in a soft embrace. She dreamt that in front of the fireplace a couch was placed, where there were piles of heavy, fleece blankets. And that she would be curled under those blankets, wrapped up in their and the fire’s heat.

But in addition to the fireplace and the couch, she dreamed that there was a body beside her, cuddled up next to her. She imagined a lean but toned torso, where she would rest her head against. She imagined strong arms wrapped against her, providing her with further heat, further comfort.

And when she looked up, away from the fire’s hot glare, she would imagine Bill’s face looking down at her, smiling at her. His stoic features, his pink lips and blue eyes, the red scar that ran like ivy down his face. She would then imagine that those blue eyes of his would close, and that those pink lips would come down and press against hers in such a soft and tender and warm  kiss that she would forget that she was ever cold, ever dreaming, in the first place and fall into a deep, blissful sleep. 

She remembers those dreams, those imaginings, even now, even when she is far, far away from the cold corners of England, and the sun warms her skin and her body and she goes to bed without a shiver from the cold, even now she remembers how she used to dream.

But just like the memory of Harry and Ron, such dreams too, with Bill at their centers, brought more pain to Hermione than comfort. His face, the face she loved, loves, oh she really does love it, but she can’t…it’s just-

She can’t remember it, can’t see it without recalling the memory of-

She halts in her steps, turning her head away so that Charlie doesn’t see the sudden tears that appear in her eyes. He pauses too, the story he was telling of some (very mischievous) baby dragon stopping too as he waits patiently for her to collect herself. When she turns back, looking at the ground as she continues her walk, Charlie resumes his story, not acknowledging further her sudden stop.

It was one of the things she most liked about Charlie, and one of the things she was most surprised by, which was how he almost always knew what she needed most in any given situation. Whether it was unprodding patience, comforting silence, or, and this is the one she still can’t wrap her head around, a walking stick, Charlie always seemed to know just what she needed. He was always there and ready to support her, and even during the worst of her moods, bratty and uncompromising over trivial things, he was unflinching, wholly resolved in his care for her. 

She and Charlie walked on, their footsteps marking the bright green grass, side by side, as they hiked next to each other. They’ve walked this path before, when she first started walking again and she was determined to go as far as she could without needing to rest, her opposition to the task quickly having morphed into a resolution to prove that she was strong enough to do so.

The path took them behind the cabin, through the fields of wildflowers and into the bright green slopes of the Alps. It avoided the sharp descent from the cabin’s doors to where Charlie told her the site where she, Charlie, and Bill had apparated was. 

The path was the only one they’ve walked, and really the only one they could walk on, with its natural dirt path providing a decent enough road through the scenic yet wild landscape of Switzerland. But they never got more than half a day’s journey on it before the limits of Bill’s wards prevented them from going any further.

But though they had walked it every day for the past couple of weeks, she never grew tired of it, was never bored by the sight of the wildflowers and the rolling hills and the luscious green grass. The setting was like something out of a fairytale, which she was gladly relieved by after her endless months of nightmares. She also never got bored with or grew tired of her walking partner.

Charlie was not only a patient man, but an entertaining one, providing her with endless stories of his time with animals, not just dragons, but his rudimentary training with hippogriffs and nifflers and phoenixes. She had never noticed before how funny he was before, or how smart and kind and insightful he was, never talked to him enough to understand how delightful he was to be with.

As the days had passed, and their walks had continued, she found herself more and more enjoying his company, more and more looking forward to walking with him, to being with him.

She looked at him now, her eyes scanning his face, his neck, his body. He caught her looking at him and smiled with his teeth and she looked quickly away, towards the ground, a furious blush spreading over her cheeks.

The wind shifted in the air, flowing from the left to the right. The two of them stopped, the hazy outline of the wards a couple of yards away from them. She turned around, measured out how far they’d come, how far away the cabin was, a distant speck on a distant plain. She felt the air again, fresh and crisp, blowing against her face and through her hair. 

It was a bit bemusing that the more that she thought about the air and the cold nights during the hunt and the face she dreamed of for comfort…the more she realized that she was still having those visions, even now, when she went to sleep in the cabin, alone in her big bed, Bill and Charlie’s cots on separate sides of her on the floor, her blankets and their shadows her only companions in bed. 

It was especially bemusing, she thought, because as she recalled the visions of her correct dreams, she realized that those visions were changing from their original. Oh, the fireplace, the hot chocolate, remained the same, as did the strong body she laid against. But when she would look up, the face shifted- the eyes turned from blue to brown, freckles multiplied on the skin, the red scar disappeared and a well trimmed beard took shape. 

The visions had been slowly shifting for a while but she was only just now noticing, just now acknowledging it in her consciousness. But they didn’t always shift completely. It would often transform, but sometimes the visions remained the same. It jarred her a little, to have these visions she’s been dreaming of for the longest time (or what has felt like the longest time) change all of a sudden. But what jarred her the most was that sometimes, oftentimes, the vision wouldn’t change completely. It would stop in the middle of its transition, resulting in half the original and half the reformed, her dream ending in the company of some type of portentous in between.