the magpie // tomione

xx.

"Is there no way out of the mind?"

— Sylvia Plath

Like most mornings, Hermione is up before the sun.

She has her coffee on the porch, watching as the grey water crashes against the cliffside below. The salty air is crisp as she inhales calmly. In these moments of serenity she can almost forget that she had lived through a war, or fought her way through a cruel surreality. The nightmares became less frequent, the visions of Tom slowly disappearing from her periphery. But the trauma is still there, the ghosts are still there.

She had joked with Harry once about seeing a muggle therapist. It was an interesting experiment in half-truths and boundaries of the statute, but slowly lost its novelty. Parvati suggested a mind healer instead, and it helped. The storms inside her mind more easily soothed. The gaping wounds in her heart reduced to dull aches.

A pair of warm arms wrap around her from behind (and she doesn't flinch anymore). Draco leaves a kiss on her temple, a languid smile pressed against her skin.

Pale fingers reach for her mug, the cool air meeting her warmed palm in its absence. She watches as Draco brings the mug to his lips, scrunching his nose at the sugary taste. He does this every morning, as if expecting a different outcome each time. (The definition of madness, she thinks with a smile.)

Still holding the cup of coffee, he stands for a long moment, glancing out at the brightening horizon. She follows his gaze, leaning into his side as he lazily combs through her hair. His fingers trace down to her shoulder before resting atop the wooden deck chair.

As he sets the coffee down she should know what will happen next, what always seems to happen on their quiet mornings.

"Is this seat taken?"

"Draco, I told you not to—"

Before she can finish her thought she is hoisted into the air, legs dangling over the crook of his elbow as he smirks. His lips are on hers, tasting like mint and coffee. Hermione still in his arms, Draco seats himself in the desk chair, letting her adjust her position across his lap.

"Seat's still warm," he whispers in her ear and she bites her cheek in a familiar mixture of affection and annoyance.

They married on a spring day by the sea, not far from where they eventually made their home. Hermione wore a white cotton summer her mother had worn on her own honeymoon and carried a bouquet meticulously assembled by Luna.

On their honeymoon they traveled to the Adriatic Coast. They sunbathed in Bari before catching a portkey to Tirana. From Tirana they traveled into the Skanderbeg Mountains, hiking until they reached where the Mat river had carved its way through the range. It was a quiet boat ride, the mist over the lake making it difficult to see beyond. Hermione had clung to him, as if to ensure he wouldn't disappear.

Eventually they had arrived at a thick forest of beech trees. As they walked deeper into the dense covering of twisted, ancient trees, Hermione could sense that familiar swell of magic.

But it was weaker. Muted.

The mountains had swallowed the cave, the forest reclaiming it through a dense brush of leaves and bark. If there had ever been a hag, or a basilisk's skeleton, it was long gone.

Fenrir Greyback sits in her kitchen holding a cup of tea. He looks a little out of place, but neither seem to mind.

They had met like a few times while Hermione built the courage to tell him about Marion. He seemed to trust Draco unconditionally, and Hermione by extension, so had never questioned any of her invitations. Eventually he told her the stories he had kept locked away, not knowing who would listen or who would care. He told her about the wars across Europe, about his family, about Nathan and Rivka. Nathan Goldstein had died in a standoff against a group of aurors, leaving behind his wife and two children. Rivka was arrested and sent to Azkaban, where she received the dementor's kiss, a fate worse than death. Her family in Bulgaria had petitioned the British Ministry for years before finally learning the truth of her fate.