was missing, a sad reminder of the promise she had forced on him the day they had met by the Quidditch shed.
"I know you're off to do whatever you think you have to do, but a mailing address would be nice..."
He sighed.
"A weekly letter would be ideal..."
"Granger, I-"
"Hell, I'd settle for a postcard every month. I'm not fussy."
He had tried to tell her, hadn't he? She had felt quite the fool to know that wherever he was, he was there by choice. He had left her by choice. That had hurt a great deal, even though she often thought she understood why he had done it.
There were sudden spots of warmth on her bare thigh. She glanced down and noticed the splatter of tears in her lap where her dressing gown had parted.
Hermione brought her fingers to her face and was startled when they came away wet. No, she was not crying.
She would not cry. Not anymore. There was nothing to cry about, really. Two admittedly eventful weeks in her life when she was only eighteen were hardly worth getting upset over, all over again.
Being adamant counted for nothing, in the end. The tears fell anyway. She was older now and more seasoned, but she was still the same Hermione who got wistful over particularly pretty sunsets, ecstatic over the birth of the latest Weasley grandchild and accused of being a busy-body every time she inquired over the state of Harry and Ginny's ongoing, turbulent love affair.
After thinking deeply for a minute, she walked to her closet and retrieved a small, hinged wooden box that was buried under shoes she hardly ever wore, suitcases and a pair of rollerblades her father had given her for her sixteenth birthday.
Her work with the Department of Mysteries was concerning the power of symbols. The research and its potential implications was very promising indeed.
Not to mention enlightening.
And so she knew what she had to do and really, she had given herself enough excuses to not do it.
There were several items inside the box. A walnut. A small monogrammed towel from the Cobblestone Inn. A receipt from the Sushi Hut on Euston Street. A note that was dog-eared and folded so many times over that it was all lines and creases. A t-shirt with a peeling rainbow and a thoughtful-looking frog sitting beneath it.
The fire in the living room was still lit, in anticipation for Hermione's Floo trip to work. She walked up to it and tossed the entire box plus contents into the flames.
After that, she set about getting dressed and packing her lunch for the day.
There was a lot to be said about routine and the comforts to be derived from it.
Chapter Fifty-One
Harry Potter's townhouse at Grimmauld Place moaned and complained as only an old, wizarding home could. It creaked and cranked and occasionally whinnied in the strong wind.
It had started with rain, the kind that threatened to concuss if you were daft enough to venture outside without an umbrella. Muggle weatherpersons had predicted hail as well, but that had yet to eventuate.
Wind soon followed the rain. It had obviously found a breach in the aging roofing and was currently playing tag through the house's corridors.
Potter was probably used to the noise. It wasn't that the place was uncomfortable. Sirius Black's old residence was certainly hospitable, in a creepy, derelict sort of way. Draco was accustomed to living amidst the creepy and oftentimes macabre, what with being raised at Malfoy Manor.
It was just that it'd been some time since he'd had slept in a bed.
With a mattress.
And four squashy, goosedown pillows that smelled of lavender.
And a blanket he didn't have to share with bugs. And sand. Merlin, he would never forget living with all that sand
As it was, the soft mattress was doing its best to swallow him up and Draco had had enough after the fourth hour of hopelessly tossing and turning and once, flailing.
He sat up in bed, cast Lumos as he flicked open his battered, travel-worn silver pocket watch to scowl at it. Habit made him wear it to bed, even though thieving bandits who robbed you while you slept probably wasn't a likely occurrence at Harry' s home.
Potter appeared to be sound asleep, judging from the snoring that was filtering down the hallway from his room.
Draco slept with the room door ajar. He attributed this to the fact that he had grown so used to sleeping outdoors that the thought of being confined by four walls and a