The human body is made up of bones, muscles and nerves. It is made up of tendons and ligaments, veins and arteries. Each part of it serves to make another one work well, in a balanced way. Like a piece to complete an intricate puzzle.

But if one of them fails, the pattern collapses.

The human body is made up of cells that together form tissues, which in turn are organized into parts or organs.

But the human body is not just a substance.

The human being is made up of vibrations, perceptions and sensations.

A great Greek philosopher claimed that human beings acted in certain ways because their soul vibrated in certain directions.

Is the soul then, perhaps, how the world moves?

The human body is also composed of the soul, touches of snow and smells of colour.

Though...

However, there is more.

If the human body is moved by the vibrations of the soul, then this means that all our choices are made with full knowledge of the facts.

But there are situations where you have no choice.

And then there is more.
An invisible line between the material body and the soul body.
Exactly in the middle, like the horizon.

꧁ ꧂

May 20, 1998.

The first thing that struck her was the cold that stung her bones. So thick and heavy that she felt it on her heart like a rough blanket, crushing her blood impulses with an insane weight.

The second thing that struck her was the darkness. It was also dense and heavy. It oppressed her breath making her gasp in search of freedom.

The third thing she heard was groans, the broken hisses of agony and anguish, the rattle of the iron chains scratching her eardrums and scraping the underside of her head.

The fourth thing she perceived was the old smell of dust mixed with the acrid smell of death.

And the fifth and last thing that came to her mind was the taste of bile running down her oesophagus. Bile that she promptly held back from her, pushing her down. Fighting her body she was rebelling to get her out of there.

The Auror standing in front of her suddenly stopped in front of a cell, but she continued to stare at the floor.

«There are no Dementors here.» She exhaled, the same weight as a breath.

«We moved them for you to pass safely, Miss.» The Auror's voice was firm and crystalline, with the tone of someone who wanted to reassure you.

Though, to calm down, she could not.

And it didn't matter that the Dementors weren't present at the time, because it meant they were there the rest of the time.

Flying beside him, a breath away, the same a kiss.

She didn't know why she felt this way about what had been confined to that cell, and that was why she was there.

She was there on the day of the inquisition. She was sitting among those armchairs listening to the thousand words and the thousand comments. She had heard so much, but more than anything else she had seen. And what she saw she didn't like.

She had testified too, though it wasn't enough.

She hadn't done any good, except maybe to make things worse. She had done it just to be able to save them.

The creaking of the door woke her just in time to hear the last part of the guard's speech:«...We'll be here if you need us. Do you understand, Miss? Well, he is here. » And there was nothing left of the reassuring tone he had used before with her, if not a breath of wind. It was as sour as a sour fruit as she spoke of him.

Her hands trembled just a little, and her breath caught between her throat and mouth, and it was she who took the first step across her threshold, wrapped in an anxiety different from the one with which she had learned to live together last year.

If the corridor had seemed dark and gloomy, she had to change her mind. As soon as she entered that cell she felt as if she had been torn from the outside world. It was a dark and frightening shell, so dark and silent that it scared her, over and over, for her life.

It was the cradle of her nightmares.

A book-sized window was the only glimmer of light that existed, but it was so dim and faint, and bordered by bars, that it was almost useless.

She tried in every way to get used to the dark, struggling with the curiosity to find him and the fear of seeing him really in there.

But when she found him, she felt overwhelmed with pain. She couldn't see him well, and the only thing that stood out in her eyes was his hair brushed by the light from the window, but even that was no longer the same, and that bright colour no longer radiated its rays.

«Go away.»

She took a tentative step towards that voice that had sounded so distant and faint, but she stopped shortly after, trembling with fear.

«I said: go away.»

And she screamed so loud that in an instant the Aurors were inside the cell and she was outside.

«Miss? Miss, can you hear me? Are you all right? What did you do, Miss?»

But Hermione couldn't hear, because the only sound that came to her mind was that of her voice screaming.

«I'll be back and ... Next time, let there be more light.»

«But, Miss ...—»

«Thank you, and goodbye.»

꧁ ꧂

June 1, 1998.

Summer was upon us now, and although London had never benefited from a particularly tropical summer climate, this year could feel a few degrees higher than the previous one.

That morning the sun had kissed her cheeks and her eyes but she hadn't returned it.

She got up at dawn, got dressed skipped breakfast so as not to risk wasting time and maybe getting caught, and ran out of the Burrow.

She had dematerialized in front of one of the many entrances to the Ministry of Magic and then hurried to join the Auror who would accompany her to Azkaban.

When she arrived at her destination, she handed the wand to the authorities, as required by law, and she allowed herself to be led through the thousand corridors.

She waited in silence for the guard to open his cell and she had entered, finding herself submerged in that dark limbo.

She felt her cheeks swell with anger and even before she could hold back she had turned behind her, finding the face of the wizard in charge of her to accompany her there again.

«I specifically requested more light.» She turns out to be threatening and hostile, but she doesn't care. The anger she felt at her flowing through her veins was so indomitable that she couldn't contain it. She didn't know how to explain it and she didn't want to think beyond her, focusing only on the Auror's face who hadn't looked at her.

«Miss Granger, we cannot discount prisoners.»

«But he didn't ...— »Her arm had slipped inside her, pointing to the shadowed figure of her, and her voice had risen a few octaves. But just as her voice had risen, so she came down in a whisper.
Because he was a prisoner.

She was silent for a split second, bringing her arm back to her hips, then pulling the edges of her shirt with her hands in an attempt to regain some composure.
She returned her eyes to the one who was now looking at her almost with a mocking smile and this only increased her anger.

«So, Mr...?»

«Auror Hartz, Miss Granger, in her service» The latter replied, adding a Muggle military salute, continuing to tease her.

But Hermione was smart, and she had learned the art of patience and her tenacity was never lacking. Plus, the War had changed her more than she could have imagined.
She smiled wryly and stepped forward, she raised her chin just enough to focus her eyes on the Auror and spoke again: «Well, Auror Hartz, at my service. How much does the Ministry of Magic want to put some light in there?»

Her eyes twinkled at the Auror's silence and she smiled more, then she turned away and asked for the cell door behind her, not before adding a: «Let me deliver the necessary documents to my address in the Muggle world, I have no I doubt the ministry has it. »

She was still smiling as the darkness enveloped her, glad to have brought another victory, albeit a small one, in her pocket.

She didn't know why she felt that way about him, but she felt she had to atone for that feeling

«I don't need anything.»

She abruptly stopped her footsteps and her breath was caught in her throat as his voice reached her ears.

«And I also said you had to leave.»

She was scratched and hoarse. Like when he hadn't used it for a long time, and even though she couldn't see around her, her heart tightened in a painful grip.

How did you fight the loneliness of the void?

«And where does a Mudblood like you get all that money?»

But her mischievous and mean tone of her had not faded. She remembered him so well that it would be impossible to forget him over the years.
And she marvelled at herself when the sense of peace that tone had evoked in her came back to herself.

He hasn't gone crazy yet.

«How are you?»

She didn't know where to look to see him. Even her shiny hair couldn't be seen in total darkness, so she stood still in what she believed was the centre of the room and she married her head left and right.
His hoarse, almost macabre laugh that reached her ears made her shiver, but it didn't stop her from turning her face to her right, in the direction she had sensed the vibrations of his vocal cords.

«You are here to see my end, tell the truth.»

A rattle of chains made her turn to her left and she twisted her mouth slightly into a grimace.

«Are you chained?»

He laughed out loud this time, mischievously and amused at the same time. The sound boomed in her head as if it came from different corners of the room and she no longer knew where to turn.

«When was I ever free, Mudblood?»

꧁ ꧂

June 5, 1998.

Everything she would have expected to see, but not what she saw.
She entered the cell and still found it dark but illuminated by four cobalt blue torches to allow her to distinguish her outlines.
The walls were of black stone, jagged like rocks, and the floor was damp and in some cases wet.

It looked more like a cave than a containment cell. But she had never seen a prison cell in the Wizarding World, and the only ones she relied on were memories of hers of some TV show he had seen with her parents.

There was an old thin steel chair to the right and a worn, uncomfortable bed to the left. And it is on the latter that she dwells, or rather, on the figure that is sitting on it.

He was hunched over his shoulders, his elbows resting on his knees and his wrists surrounded by thick metal bracelets, a crumpled white cloak and dirt mixed with dust. His dirty hair had lost that unmistakable bright colour and was now dull.

As dull as his eyes, his eyes that he had planted on her at that moment.

His haggard face was veiled with a slightly stiff beard and Hermione could even notice how thin he was.

«You never give up, huh?»

But even she didn't feel he, lost as she was in that limbo he had found in her eyes.
She had let in more light to illuminate the room, when in fact the real darkness was inside him.

She left three books on the floor, without approaching, then she turned to the door and shouted the name of the guard who had accompanied her.

«Miss Granger, what's going on?»

«He must eat.» She didn't care about Auror's irritated look at her or the voice of the boy behind her telling her to stop and not want her between his feet. She didn't care about anyone and she walked out of the cell, starting to walk down the corridor she had learned quite well.

«Send the invoice to the same address.»

꧁ ꧂

June 20, 1998.

«How did you know it was my birthday?»

Hermione sat down on her bed which creaked under her weight as she lost herself staring at the profile features of the young man sitting in the chair across from her.

«I know a lot of things.» She replied gently and saw a corner of her mouth rise in a mischievous, wistful smile.

«I know.» He answered her, still not looking at her and keeping his gaze fixed on her window.

The silence there wrapped like a warm blanket, and if the boy was used to it by now, he was not for her at all. She shifted uncomfortably on the bed and then spoke again.

«Did you like the books?»

«Why are you doing this?»

He turned so quickly to look at her that he was creepy for Hermione. His gaze made her waver as her dull grey eyes planted in hers, locking her in an iron grip, and preventing her from escaping.
She gasped and stammered something disconnected as she lost herself in that dark and infinite limbo.
He wasn't touching her, though she felt like her hands were holding her away from her shoulders, holding her seated for an answer.
He wasn't touching her, though she could feel his touch.
She was disoriented and like in a state of hypnosis she could not connect her mind to her mouth and she spoke before even analyzing what she was saying.

«Why are they doing this to you?»

This time it was the boy who destabilized, who felt hypnotic and pinned to the wall by those eyes of her.
Those eyes that looked at him were veiled by a sheet of tears.
She was about to cry for him.
He who deserved from her the most boundless hatred of her.
She, who was the only one who visited him, took care of him when he didn't deserve it.

«The books were very beautiful.»

꧁ ꧂

July 3, 1998.

«So are you telling me that for you it is the soul that moves the body?»

«In a way, I think ... yes.»

They were sitting in the same position as the last time they met: one on the chair and the other on the bed.
They sat down to talk about this and that, about the books Hermione had given them and to compare their ideas about it, like old friends.
Old friends who shared something in common.
They, in common, had only nightmares.
They had talked about those too, about how the night did not make them breathe and how when they woke up they realized that they were not only nightmares but horrible memories of a past that was still too present.

The young man had noticed her dark circles under the eyes of the witch and how thin she too was. And he hadn't been able to hold her tongue while he had advised her to eat, to heal, to ask for help.

It was followed by a moment of awkward silence, stopping both of them from breathing, and then Hermione smiled at him like she never did and replied that she would try. And he had felt a slight warmth in his breastbone. Unknown, but comfortable.

Hermione had brought him more books that day and now they were busy expressing their thoughts on those of the last time.

«Explain yourself.» He got up from his chair, making iron noises and, accompanied by them, sat down beside her, making the bed creak.

It was a sound of iron and metal for a few minutes but it was enough for Hermione to twist her lips. She didn't like seeing him chained. And she would never have believed that one day she would ever give birth to such a thought, though ...

«In the sense that: it is impossible to live without perceiving the life around you through the soul. All sensory perceptions, emotions, and actions are moved, unleashed and felt through and with the soul. It's unthinkable for a man to act without his soul deciding for him.»

Hermione smiled slightly as she found herself reflected in dull grey eyes.

But that answer cost a lot for the young man.
He would always be guilty in her eyes and he felt his heart tighten and the weight of her crush the pit of her stomach.
He had her in front of her and he didn't want to chase her away, not anymore.

Though immersed in her eyes, he felt suffocated.

He lifted both of his hands, bringing them one higher than the other of hers, limited by his heavy handcuffs and with his gentle touches, he moved a lock of her hair from her face, bringing it behind her ears.

Hermione felt a shiver under the boy's gentle fingertips as her cheeks pretended to be red. Her eyes widened to the size of a fawn and her mouth opened to hold back a sob.

His cold hand and thin fingers rested on her cheek, lightly stroking her with his thumb as she felt the other's cold knuckles brush her lips.

They had never been closer than this and he had never touched her, not even by accident.
Instead, he pampered her with sweet caresses with a bitter winter aftertaste.
Their eyes were chained in an indissoluble, almost painful grip, but neither of them wanted to break.

Then, he said: «I'll be damned forever, Hermione.»

꧁ ꧂

August 1, 1998.

The impossibility of being happy had now become an ingrained thought in the young wizard's mind since he turned eleven. When he realized that his father had arranged for Ginevra Weasley to open the chamber of secrets with various subterfuges. At the time he was too young to understand that his father's rash and mean act would mark the beginning of his end.

Years had passed since that day, and the more he grew the more when he woke up in the morning he didn't see the colors. The more he went on, the more a blanket of darkness enveloped him.

That is why being locked in that dark cell made no difference to him. He did not feel the change from the world around him to the world within him.

Though since Granger had had the torches put on, something had also lit up inside him.
A small flame, the size of a matchstick and not enough to heat him, though...
Though now there was, that light.
It was there and he saw it.

But that light was dim and she hadn't visited him for a month, and that flame needed to be fed.

And Granger was doing it every day.
First, the torches, then the food, her books on his birthday and now, periodically, an Auror would go to cut his hair and remove his beard.
He knows that she was also involved in the latter, and he could not refrain from wondering where she found the money to buy the ministry.
But above all, he couldn't help but wonder why she cared so much for him.

But he had never asked her questions aloud, for fear that she had withdrawn into herself and would leave him there.

The sound of the creaking door roused him from his thoughts and he snapped out of bed like a spring, unable to contend for the expectation.

Only when a tangle of long, unruly curls entered his field of vision did he release the breath he had been holding in his throat.

He only realized he had moved when the noise of the chains holding his wrists echoed throughout the cell. He came within a step of her nose and raised both of his arms, joining his wrists, and passing it over her head, he hugged her in his arms like he had never done with anyone.

He buried his face in her hair and let himself be lulled by the warmth of her body and the smell of white musk and snow.

It didn't matter if she wasn't hugging him, it didn't matter if he didn't know what he was doing.
It only mattered that she was there, with him. For him.

«You're back.»

꧁ ꧂

September 19, 1998.

«If my body is the soul, and that's what moves my actions, it means I'm a bad person, Hermione.»

That sentence sounded as bad as a spell cast badly on her ears.

Though this was the theory she supported.

She believed in that complex body-soul concept, she had exposed it to him only a few months earlier. So why did she, at that moment, she said, did she seem so wrong?

She wasn't a bad person. But she's not even a good person.
She knew it, only ... her soul had been corrupted by other evil souls.

They were sitting on the bed, their shoulders touching lightly and only their breaths to break the silence.

«It's too cold in here, I'll make you put something on.»

«Hermione, you don't have to ...—»

«Yes, I have to!» She turned to look at him and almost jumped out of bed.

They were closer than her when he'd imagined it and she could feel her breath tickle her lips. She was enveloped in the smell of pine and dust and she felt her cheeks heat up.

Her eyes merged into the boy's gray ones and she let herself be lulled by that tidal dance.
His eyes weren't the same anymore. Yet they weren't opaque. Not anymore.

«Happy birthday, Hermione.»

꧁ ꧂

October 17, 1998.

The bed was covered with heavy and soft blankets, the cell was warm and the thousand books that were now in a corner made it almost more personal.
Hermione had gone to great lengths to make this place more comfortable.
To try to atone for that weight she felt in her chest. But that did not cease to be, to exist.

Plus, today she was angry, frustrated and nervous.
Ron and Harry had discovered her and she, as much as she had always known they wouldn't understand her, hadn't expected that feedback.
Harry had kept silent, until the end of her explanations, then he had looked into her eyes and had turned away from her, coming out of the Burrow.
Ginny had followed him more to make sure he was okay than out of anger at her friend.
She knew Hermione, Ginevra Weasley, and trusted her and her judgment, but her wounds were still open.

Ron, on the contrary, had screamed, shouted and then ended with a scene of jealousy not relevant at the moment.
She also understood Ron, unfounded, and she had understood him throughout the speech he had made until he had resulted in senseless accusations based on a fit of unfair jealousy.
She didn't do anything wrong.

Though...

She now was sitting on that bed, in that cell, staring into space while the boy next to her looked at her worried.

«Hermione, will you tell me what ...?»

«You're not a good person.»

And it was as if a Dementor had entered the room, for the young wizard. He fell freezing and silence fell with her heavy weight.
His heart broke and at the same time, he began to beat frantically, as if immersed in the deepest fear.
Though he knew, that he was not a good person. But said by her, so, in that straightforward way, she had broken him.

He got out of bed and walked away from her as if there was live fire and he was burning.
He looked at her blankly and lost and then sat down in the chair and turned to look at the window. As in one of their first meetings.

He wanted to send her away. Move her away. He yelled at her that he never wanted to see her again. But he couldn't.
Because Hermione had become the only grip on reality that was left to him to keep from going crazy.
Who would take care of him afterwards?

«Though ... You are not a bad person.»

And it was the loudest whisper he'd ever heard.

꧁ ꧂

November 26, 1998.

«Can I?»

That day it was snowing and it was cold and freezing outside.
The cell was warm but not warm enough and Hermione wasn't well covered in her clothes.
The young man lay in bed, with his back turned, under the covers.
He didn't move for a while, then he turned and looked at her with a look he'd never seen stitched on him.
And she finally saw him. She saw him.
Wrapped in those blankets was a lonely and helpless boy who had lost his childhood and adolescence as she had lost them. And now he was lost, still in a limbo that seemed to have no way out.
And he saw her too, she saw her for what she really was: a woman. She was as magnificent and powerful as the world wanted her to be. But she was also a child. She was a child lost in a past that had been embroidered on her by the force of circumstances.

He lifted the covers with a gesture a little limited by his handcuffs and Hermione threw herself inside his, letting herself be enveloped by the warmth of the duvets and the warmth of another person's body.
She curled up better, slipping her head into her closed arms and hugged him, hoping to feel a warmth she hadn't felt in a long time.
And he let her do it because he needed her like he never believed.
And his heart started beating hard in her chest as the scent of moss and snow reached his nostrils and he held her in his arms.

«From tomorrow I'll have you take off the handcuffs.»

꧁ ꧂

December 25, 1998.

«You should be with someone who loves you.»

«You too.»

Hermione was holding a chocolate cake and a bag full of books as a Christmas present.
She would not be missed for anything in the world that day.

She walked over to him, having left her bag next to other books, and she dropped the cake into his hands, lightly touching them.

«Now will you tell me how you pay for all the precautions you give me?»

He asked rhetorically, placing the cake on the bed behind them.
He turned to her and took both of her hands, now free from those heavy handcuffs of his.
He couldn't hold back any longer, he had to know. And then he had taken her limbs as a precaution, hoping to hold her back if she ran away.
But Hermione didn't move an inch and, on the contrary, squeezed tighter as she told him how the Wizarding World and the Minister of Magic had given a speech to the Trio of Miracles and given him an unpredictable sum in compensation, for damages.

«As if that would bring the dead back ...»

Hermione kept her eyes down as her mind watched their hands collide like two different planets. So distant, though...

Under her sight, he saw the young man's hands slip away and away from her, and she nearly fell on him as she lunged to grab them in hers.

«Hermione...»

Her name came out with difficulty as if he had run a marathon and was panting with exertion.
And in a way, it was: the effort he made not to break himself in front of her was too great to speak well.

«No ... no!» she hastened to add: «You are not a killer.»

Drops of tears remained between her lashes and the most painful eyes he had ever seen. That's how she introduced herself to him, in that moment, Hermione.
Her lips trembled and a lonely tear ran down her cheek and opened her red jowl.

And how many times had he made her cry in the past so many times had he cursed himself, because if that was the vision of her crying, his heart could not bear it.

He picked up the tear with his thumb and brought it to his lips, kissing its salty taste like seawater.

Then he kissed her on the cheek of her and he pulled away slightly from her so he could look at her again, and he found her with trembling lids and narrowed eyes.

«Don't ever cry for me again, Hermione. Merry Christmas.»

꧁ ꧂

January 6, 1998.

«In the Muggle world, there is Epiphany!»

«The ... what?» He asked amazed, on the edge of the bed.

Hermione snorted because she was hot and tired and dropped a bag perhaps larger than her to the floor.
The girl had not yet gained a pound since he first saw her and her dark circles did not cease to exist on her face but she gave off such a beautiful and warm light every time she walked through that threshold it became easy for him to give her sincere smiles.
She kept feeding that match that had lit inside him, never letting it go out, never.

«I have to teach you everything, ah! Then, she is an old witch ... —»

She walked around the cell, starting a tirade on a certain old lady who flew on a broom like a wizards and gave sweets to the children who had been good and coal to those who had misbehaved all year.
The know-it-all tone with which he had known her had never left her, but he was too entranced to really listen to her.
He watched her walk, he watched her too-slender but long-limbed figure wrapped in a heavy sweater, in which she almost danced inside. Her legs were wrapped in black pants and her neck was covered in a worn scarf. Her long hair which reached past her hips, had grown so much, swayed with every movement of her releasing that scent that had become impossible for him not to smell.
She passed there once a month, but it was as if the walls of that cell had absorbed that scent making it persist over time. And that aroma now associated him with home.

A real, sweet, warm, loving and harmonious home.

«So do you understand?»

Hermione was standing in the centre of the room with her hands on her hips, looking at him with a sceptical expression.
She doubted he understood it, but she especially believed he would respond with something bad about Muggles or something.

But the boy leapt out of bed and shot towards her like a fury.
Hermione moved one leg back, not understanding what was happening, but she stopped when she felt his hands clench her cheeks.
The touch of his cold hands on the wind-chill cheeks had the effect of setting her on fire. She felt a flame burn in the centre of her chest and burn all over her body as she lost herself in that tide of grey eyes.
Their noses brushed and their lips were incredibly close, the same distance as a kiss.

The young man squinted at her and Hermione reflexively closed her eyes as if she was waiting not even she knew what.
She then felt a wet and moist touch on her forehead, but sweet, gentle, delicate and warm.
His hands were still closed on her cheeks, on which she rested hers.

«What did the witch bring me this year?»

«Candies. Many, many candies.»

꧁ ꧂

February 14, 1998.

He had been waiting for her for days, by now he had reread all the books she had left and eaten all the candies she had given him, and there were so many. She probably had emptied Honeydukes for all the candy she'd brought him.
He had been walking back and forth for days, it could be said that the floor of the cell was by now worn out enough to be able to plant some Mandrakes.

He still remembered when she had entered that cell on the first day and he had badly sent her away, and still how, with perseverance and constancy, she had returned days and days, carrying something and leaving much more. Especially inside him

He had resumed eating, realizing that Hermione was paying to make him bring healthier and tastier things. Certainly not the food that he was used to eating at Hogwarts or his house but it was so much to him what the witch had made that he couldn't complain about anything.
By resuming eating he had gained weight and, as the months went by, he had regained mass, and had begun to train. He was limited by the handcuffs before, so he could do very little, but since Hermione had taken that burden off him too he could discharge more. It was a monotonous routine, to tell the truth, broken and interspersed only from the days when the cell opened and rebellious curls entered and a warm smile for him.
But he liked it. He had built a small world inside that cell, with which he had shut the darkness and the nightmare of Azkaban out.

Hermione was giving him back one piece of soul at a time, helping him build it and find it.
Every time a piece of his soul was stained black at the sight of people killed in front of him, she superimposed a colour on it, thus making him a kind of kaleidoscope.

He who had long forgotten the colours, there.

Hermione had come in and won the night that fell on him.
She had travelled lightly, cautiously and sincerely, and she tore him out of the limbo in which he had ended up little by little.
She had come to her door dressed as the most charming of sins and he had fallen into it with all his shoes.
But he couldn't fight her, and in his heart, he didn't want to.
He had lived with wrong thoughts for years, dressed in awkward clothes and greased with mean words. Why deprive himself of the one thing that made him feel so ... alive.

I live in a place where the landlady, was dead.

«What are you doing?»

He slid his feet to the ground as if he had fallen off a cliff in a swoop.
She had entered dressed in light and adorned with a smile, as always when she went to see him and the young wizard instinctively let himself go running to her and closing her in his arms.

«I was waiting for you.»

꧁ ꧂

March 12, 1998.

«Are you still convinced that a human's soul dictates his actions?»

Hermione crouched against the young man's chest, heedless of his worn coat. She took a mental memo: She would talk to the guard about it and fix the problem.
It was so easy, taking care of him. If she thought of her from the past she could no longer see herself in a fight with him. Or rather she could see her, but she seemed so alien to that image.

She rubbed her nose on his white neck and took a deep breath of her scent. Pine and dust, so different from Ron's, though so good.

How could she feel so safe, in that bed, in those arms, immersed in that smell and that warmth. And she didn't feel that way when she slept in bed with Ron last night.
Ron didn't hug her like that, didn't hold her, didn't caress her hair with gentle touches, twisting the curls around his finger and looking at her colour as if it were a different shade each time.
Her nerves don't relax when Ron strokes her back.
Though she loved Ron, they had grown up together, they had gone through everything together.
But they had two different minds, different interests, different priorities.
With Ron, she never talked about books, science, or libraries where she could find adventures at the touch of her fingers. She couldn't even let off steam on her demons, because Ron wasn't strong enough to take his own.

But with the young man next to her, lying in bed at that moment, it was so easy.
And it looked so awfully right.

«I do not know, anymore.»

꧁ ꧂

April 4, 1998.

«A month and it will end, aren't you happy?»

«If, the court, they don't decide to extend my stay in this palace.»

Hermione patted him lightly on his chest, pushing him back a little, her face warped with an angry resentful expression.

«Don't say it. I won't allow it.»

The young man approached her and stroked her cheek, with a slowness so sweet that to Hermione I looked like honey. She instinctively closed her eyes and let her face rest completely, tilting it to the side.
She felt kissed on her cheek, and again that fire blazed in her chest, lighting up her cheeks.

«I don't doubt it, Hermione.»

꧁ ꧂

April 29, 1998.

Hermione ran fast, tears in her eyes obscuring her vision, preventing her from seeing where she was stepping, but she couldn't stop.
She had to run fast to get there on time.
At least this time, at least now.
Her lungs burned and her breath caught in her throat, her legs trembled with the effort and her hands touched the walls in the hope of a foothold to support herself.
But the part that hurt the most was her heart.
She felt it burning with flames and freezing with the cold of the North, in an infinite sequence of moments that did not give her peace.

Had she entered one of her nightmares?

She felt like a sharp iron blade piercing her from side to side, breaking her in two parts. It split her in half in excruciating pain that not even the worst of cruciatus could match. And she could say it well.

She flung open the cell, where she paused with her hands on the door hinges for support as her lungs demanded air and her eyes bathed in raging seawater made her see his back blurred.

The young man turned, slightly startled, to then recognize that smell and feel the same warmth as always hugging him tightly. Until he saw the conditions in which was the girl.

He ran to her, not knowing what to do, but he was stuck at the door by a spell, as Hermione had stepped back.

«What happened? Are you ok?»

Her eyes in his eyes, and the fear of the unknown to wear them down from within.

Hermione was in pieces, and she didn't make it. She couldn't stand it. She could never support him.

«You were sentenced to the Dementor's kiss.»

꧁ ꧂

May 2, 2000.

Exactly a year had passed.
One year since the day the wizarding world changed and the Magic history books were updated.
A year in which Hermione Granger had embarked on a journey to try to atone for sins, — something she most likely she had not committed, — and in which she had, in the end, fallen madly in love with one of the greatest.

A year in which she had visited him and in the meantime; she had understood many things about her private life and not.
A year in which she interspersed her meetings with him in that cell with the hearings at the Ministry to testify on his behalf, allosaurs di tutti.
A year in which she realized she didn't love Ron, in which she had left him and finally, in her last meeting at her Ministry, her testimony had fallen against the red-haired boy's accusation.
He was irritated, angry, and hurt, but he had behaved like the worst of snakes.

After a couple of days he had repented, realized he had been talking nonsense and begged for Hermione's forgiveness in any way, going to the supreme court to testify on behalf of the prisoner, but it was worth nothing.
By now the verdict had been approved and many of the judges were too happy and gloating to reject it.

The day had come and she was setting foot in that cell one last time.
She was dressed in resignation and bitterness. Of fear and pain. She entered that room, now so familiar, with light feet, but which she moved as if she were dragging stones.

She would never have succeeded.

She was greeted by an inmate dressed in a white shirt and black pants, elegant shoes and shiny hair.
He was standing by the chair and was adjusting the cufflinks to his wrist when he looked at her, and he gave her the most beautiful of smiles.

«Thanks for the clothes, these are more my style.»

And Hermione didn't make it, she let go of the bitterest tears and ran in his direction, hugging him with the same strength as when you hug the people you know you'll never see again. And, indeed, it was so.
She squeezed him even tighter and cried even harder, hoping to ward off the pain and release it with her screams, but this had only grown.

«Hermione, please, I don't want this ...»

He whispered, stroking her hair.

«You don't understand. I ... how do I do it?» Between her sobs, she hugged herself even more as his arms wrapped around her like a cloak.

«As you always have, Hermione. You are the bravest woman I know. »

The girl took a deep breath and looked up to rest on his face. She studies their characteristics and traits. She has imprinted his colours and shades of hers in her memory. She couldn't forget anything. She could never have done it anyway, but she didn't want to.

«The Dementor's kiss is something ...—»

The young man's gentle caress silenced her, and her eyes sparkled with tears and light as he began to touch her lips with his thumb. He then spoke, in a sweet, hoarse whisper, as she lost herself staring at his thin lips.

«The only kiss you will remember and I always carry with me, Hermione, will be this.»

It was the most overwhelming kiss she Hermione had ever felt. Passionate and poignant like the storms in August, which cool the air but leave a melancholy to deal with.
It was a kiss of unspoken things, unlived experiences and lost moments.
It was a kiss of colliding stars that explode as they collide.
It was the kiss of many things: the kiss when you find your person and the goodbye kiss you never wanted to give.

When they parted, they were breathing heavily and with their eyes closed. Hermione with shaking hands and he with red lips.
They opened their eyes together, leaving it to them to talk to each other and say the right words to each other. Those who would never have said it out loud.
They left them the bittersweet task of confessing and asking for forgiveness, of wondering if they had wasted time.

Then the sound of the cell door was enough to burst the bubble in which they were locked up.

«It is now.»

He kissed her forehead one last time, her eyes closed, and then he walked past her as Hermione's hand slowly left his.

He headed for the door, feeling her amber eyes pierce his back, then turned one last time to look at her.

She was so beautiful and he had seen her too late.

Hermione wiped her cheeks with her palms, smiled at him slightly, her eyes filled with new light, and then she spoke:

«Life isn't just about the body or just the soul, and you, Draco, are somewhere in between.»