The Remedy Of Love

1. Remembrance

Title: The Remedy Of Love
Author: Crystal
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. It's hers. *points to JK Rowling.*
Summary: Under the peeling ceiling of another wasting hotel, her smile plagued him, taunted him, the way the corners of her pink lips would quirk up softly, the sweet indent he could almost feel under the sweeping of his own.
Dedication: To the Nitya, because I loff her very much.


Author's Note: As Nitya said, Harry really, really wants - and needs - to be with Hermione. So I declare this fic my first chaptered H/Hr. *throws confetti* But don't worry, fellow D/Gers. My other fics are still being worked on.

--

She was always there, a faint figure in the background of his mind, whispering behind emerald eyes fixed in the distance of space.

Hermione.

How she could be so sudden in his thoughts struck him as odd, a swirling confusion he hadn't faced for years.

Hermione, young and beautiful, ranting about homework or rules or tests or his insane obsession with Quidditch, honey-brown eyes twinkling with laughter, or worry, confusion, realization, with thought. Hermione.

Sitting on a muggle train bound for another expanse of possibilities, Harry could only remember her, the images stark and almost cruel in their vividness.

Under the peeling ceiling of another wasting hotel, her smile plagued him, taunted him, the way the corners of her pink lips would quirk up softly, the sweet indent he could almost feel under the sweeping of his own.

Picking out mudane but necessary groceries, the sound of her voice would caress his ears from memories, low and tranquil, the way it gentled when she was sleepy at the day's end or became rough and pleading, panicked when he went off to do something stupid and heroic.

Her hair, the shine of it under yellow sun when he stepped into the shower, the way it felt underneath his fingers, sliding between to absentmindedly rub the skin of her neck. Her laughter, the reverbating sound flowing through his very core at his touch.

Sipping morning coffee, the bitterness staining the back of his throat as he recalled the worn-out mittens she used to wear to Hogsmeade during winter. Her grandmother had made them for her, with careful diligence and love. She'd magicked them numerous times when a disrespectful hole grew here or there, forehead creased with concentration.

Shivers prickled up and down his spine in the night, feeling the heat of her body he had imagined long forgotten against his, the imprints of curves against bed sheets.

Hermione.

How she hadn't been a recurring thought struck him as odd then, the powers and tools of denial useless against the renewed onslaught of memories... Her laugh, smile, eyes, mouth, the slope of her neck and the feel of her skin.

Where had she been vacationing from him?

Where had she gone to, leaving the never-ceasing ache in his heart, the empty spaces between?

And sitting on the muggle train bound to nowhere, the torturous images twisted his heart around with a determined force. Turning and pulling and tugging.

Hermione.

He didn't want to think of her, the way she moved or talked or smelled or looked. He wanted her gone from his mind, forever locked away with a key only he could possess. And yet, he could only close his eyes against how beautiful she looked even when she cried or frowned, or how she purred in his arms or the way she simply held a quill, scratching away assignments.

A deep, shaky breath filled his insides, not cleansing him of coherent wonderings of mind as he hoped, and only filling him with more links to add on, to build off of.

Hermione.

Out of his grasp, unreachable and untangible. If only he could strain his limbs to make the distance... He could see her in his mind's eyes, dream her sitting next to him, fingers entwined with his own. Off on an exciting adventure and not running from his past of war and blood and choas.

With him, finally, after too many years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds.

And when Harry opened his eyes to the hypnotizing sway of the train and quiet chatter of passengers, all that greeted him was that. No one and nothing but what he had closed his eyes to.

--

2. Buried

Title: The Remedy Of Love
Author: Crystal
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. It's hers. *points to JK Rowling.*
Summary: He had always known what he had done. He had always known, and it haunted him and punished him even when he hadn't grasped the knowledge. The truth, once distant, had always been in him, buried so very, very far but never far enough.
Dedication: To the Nitya, because I loff her very much.

Author's Note: I know I said the next chapter would explain a lot, but I have a feeling it just causes more questions. ;)

--

The air was humid with the coming late-summer storm, leaves of green casted in grey shadows and few turning dull reds and yellows under the creeping fall. The changing of seasons, an everlasting cycle more beautiful with age greeted the Earth, so unnoticed by rushing occupants, intent and focused on themselves.

Harry felt the first drop of the cool rain as he stepped off the platform, hands buried in his pockets and shoulders hunched. The train hooted its departure, grinding against the metal tracks with a feirce grumble.

He breathed, surveying the surroundings around him, and with a detached aura he wiped the stray bits water that had caught his glasses in their journey to the ground.

He wondered if she missed him. His heart blossomed, opening and spilling with an ache at the question that posed itself unexpectedly, and he fixed his spectacles precisely, controlling the shake that entered his fingers.

It had been five long years since he'd last seen her. In the deep recesses of his mind recently brought to light, he knew it felt like an eternity of simply existing. Town to town, hotel to hotel, the necessary transfiguration of worthless objects to money. He was gone before the temporary magic wore off and a few leaves as opposed to dollars appeared in the cash register. Far-a-way amusement bubbled up in his throat, immediately stifled by the loneliness crashing into him.

Loneliness that consumed him with not an ounce of warning or prior inclination after a long dormancy.

Harry couldn't seem to understand why the memories would come back to him now, and with only the knowledge that they did, it frightened him. Had he not destined himself into this bleak routine, this endless running? What had he been running from?

Hermione.

Emotions swamped him, dragged him unmercifully into the undertow.

Hermione. Danger, death, betrayal, and love mixing together to form something sharp and stinging.

He tried to remember the time when his school years rolled into a blurry image, imposed and wanted, but all that came to him was the clarity he realized why he'd wanted to live without.

The smooth, drawling voice of Draco Malfoy entered his mind, the swirling blue light that hit him, leaving him to find the strength to get up and leave all of it behind.

One word that changed him forever. Four syllables he was only too welcome for.

"Oblivate," Malfoy had willed, indecision clouding silver eyes, even as green hardened in assurance. A small whimper resonated from the red-headed Ginny Weasley as the spell worked its magic, the last he heard before fogginess took over.

He remembered magic. Spells, charms, incantations, hexes and jinxes, how to hold a wand and fly a broomstick, all perfectly.

He remembered school, and friends. He remembered a blurry vision of The Dark Mark in the sky. He remembered the sweet smile of a pretty, bushy-haired girl. Faintly, he had remembered everything else.

But only faintly.

And now the memories were clear and haunting his steps.

With bitter acceptance, he realized they had always been as he lived that nomadic, emotionless life. Had he made a new life in this absence? No. Had he found the peace he seeked through the haze of ignorance? No.

The truth had always been in him, buried far but not far enough.

Steps resounded against the asphalt, a pounding rhythm designed to beat the thoughts of his forgotton past out. Futilely, they came unhibited, little moments and factoids popping up out of no where, unwanted.

Voldemort, dying, cursing, the black, inky darkness that seeped from the open wound, from his slashed heart.

Ginevra Weasley, little sister of his best friend, pale fingers entwined with the hooded Draco Malfoy's, silver eyes warily watching as Harry dictated orders. Orders. He had given orders, commands, sent out his willing troops that he had witnessed die.

Rain pelted down beads that wet his face like tears and seeped between his locks of hair for warmth, holding on for dear life, tugging and matting wild strands over his scarred forehead.

Footsteps grew to a faster pace.

Hermione, her honey eyes strained with worry, glimmering with water, little hands grasping handfuls of his robes.

"Please, Harry. Don't die on me. Don't- you- die-..."

He didn't quite understand how he remembered the exact shade of purple that welted under her eyes like tattoos of horror and exhaustion. A bell jingled harshly under his unmerciful shove through the glass door, rebounding back and slowing as it was made to.

"Can I help you, sir?"

It always came back to Hermione, he realized, swallowing back a rebeling lump in his throat...

...Always.

"I need a room for the night," he explained hoarsely, pulling out the faded wallet.

"I love you, Harry..."

"Single bed?"

"Please."

"I loved you, Harry..."

The transaction of money and key was a dreamy haze of reality through the blinking gaze of his mind's eye.

"I loved you, Harry..."

His forearm burned with memory, reaching up his arm and into his heart, weaving through his veins and arteries, reaching every cell and soaking into his eyes. Fingers grasped the locks of wet hair with desperation, and he pulled in gasping, starving breaths, collapsing onto his rented bed.

He had always known what he had done. He had always known, and it haunted him and punished him even when he hadn't grasped the knowledge. The truth, once distant, had always been in him, buried so very, very far but never far enough.

With the practiced flick of her wand, Hermione Granger's curtains rattled against the metal poles that held them up, releasing the sun into her room. It flooded every crevice, including into her eyes which squinted under the glare, desperate for darkness once more. She yawned leisurely, laying back inton the warm, soft sheets and flittingly thinking of the day to come. White walls, blue curtains, and patients that filled up her next hours.

She sighed, smiling and snuggling deeper.

She was pleased with the job she had taken, working alongside her best friend, Ron's sister, Ginny Weasley, as a prestigious mediwitch at St. Mungoes. Many had pegged her for a different job, many had offered her high ranking Ministry placements after the war, but Hermione had found her passion right in those halls, where she had spent caring for the war victims after the dust had settled and Voldemort was dead. It was a strange and almost foreign thought to leave.

With a last nuzzle into her mattress, Hermione rose from bed, shuffling to the kitchen and setting the coffee on with another twist of her wrist. She had a quaint, nice apartment in her name, in London where she now lived, with the easier distance from both St. Mungoes and in walking distance of Ginny's place, which she also shared with Draco Malfoy. She had a living room, a bath, a big bed and an adequately-sized fridge. She had books upon books litering the tabletops and bookcases. Hermione Granger had everything she could ever have wanted.

Absolutely everything.

A smile that was more of a grimace adorned her lips, and with her usual routine, she got ready, completely unaware that it lingered.

The heels of Hermione's worn, white sneakers squeaked across the busy floor of St. Mungoes, heading towards her office on the fourth floor. She was her usual self this morning, dressed in her white robes, poised and ready for the day's work. Walking gracefully into her secluded office, she closed the door to fellow coworkers only to find red hair and a matching set of cloth sitting at the edge of her desk.

"Mornin', 'Mione," Ginny greeted with a weary, troubled smile, chewing a sugar quill between her teeth.

"Good morning, Ginny," she replied, stopping in concern.

"Have a nice night?" she inquired absentmindedly, jumping off a small pile of paperwork.

"It was relaxing. You?"

Ginny plopped into an armchair reserved for patients and guests, eyes trailing her friend as she, herself, sat primely into her own chair.

"All right," she answered, playing with the hem of her robes and removing the sweet from her mouth.

Perplexed at Ginny's behavior, Hermione frowned. "What's wrong?" she asked softly, eyebrows furrowing.

Ginny licked her lips, the slight shaking in her fingers betraying distant gaze. "Draco- Draco didn't come home last night."

"What?" The hiss escaped between teeth, befuddled words stammering out. "What do you mean, Ginny?"

"I mean... just that. He didn't come home."

"Did he leave a note?"

"No, but he- I-" A guilty, aching look flashed across her features, and she looked away, trying to conceal the instant tears that flooded her eyes.

"Oh, Ginny-" Hurriedly, Hermione rushed to her side, clasping hands with her. 'What happened?"

"Hermione- he- he had mentioned it before-" she stopped, shaking her head, "I didn't think he'd actually do it- but I think he- Hermione, I think he-"

Finally, cinnamon eyes found honey brown ones, stark in the penetrating, trustful gaze, even as fear wove into the lines of color. "I think he went to find Harry."