Sometimes he raised himself on his arms to look at her, his strokes becoming deep and powerful. And in those moments, she caught a breathtaking fragility in his eyes, like he was on the precipice of falling somewhere he had no hope of climbing out of.

He was the stranger in the pub. And she loved him.

As far as she is concerned, the war hadn't ended ten years ago but had simply gone silent, like a great, raging river disappearing into a cave. The other thing about wars is that they lived on in people, clinging to them like blood on bone. A story about love and redemption, loss and pain, and the memories that tie them all together.

A year after Draco and Hermione are sent on separate wartime missions, only one of them has returned home. In the cheer of Christmas Day, Hermione feels the stinging absence of the man she has come to love. As the day wears on, she starts to fear that the devastating rumours are true. (Oneshot, rated M for mild smut)

He's seen her too and it's too late now for her to look away. Memories begin to flood her traitorous mind. Memories she's convinced herself she doesn't have anymore. His breath ghosting against her neck. The moonlit glint of his signet ring as his hand rises up her thigh.

She is there, in a cottage on an island on a great grey sea. Moving around in her white dress like she hadn't a care in the world.