You gave me a tight smile when you caught me staring; your cheeks bunched into strained parenthesis. You hated when I looked at you like that, like a puzzle to solve. But I knew how hard you were trying, how even if you didn’t know what to say you always did something. That was enough for me; I thought we would be all right, Draco.
Six years after the war, Hermione parents are dying and her marriage to Draco is crumbling. Nothing seems logical in her life anymore. Her healer tells her to start writing about it, so she does, as a way to figure things out, and remind herself along the way.
