Breath Mints / Battle Scars

Chapter 50: L

April 4th, 2001

She has poisoned herself at least a hundred times, and by now she knows what to expect.

If it's wrong - and it's always wrong - then within the first minute or so, the walls of her stomach will start to burn, sharp stabbing pains following shortly after. Her hands will start to shake and the blood will rush to her head, and if she's not quick about it, she'll pass out.

She's gone through more bezoars than she can count. Certain attempts have been so disastrous she's needed more than one just to soak up the toxins.

But today -

She exhales slowly, glancing down at her hands. No shaking, no visible tremors whatsoever. She presses one softly against her stomach, waiting for that inevitable shock of pain. To cramp or double over. It should've happened by now.

And when her hands do start to shake, a good five minutes later, she knows it's not from poison.

The effect is gradual. A fade of shadows and colors before her eyes - wisps not unlike the smoke of a Patronus charm casting themselves about the room. Shapes take form soon after. A familiar leather armchair she knows well. Drapes drawn across a window. And Theodore Nott, asleep on his sofa.

The cup she drank from slips out of her hand and shatters on the floor, remnants of the potion leaking across the tile.

He's clear as day - only slightly transparent. She can see his chest rise and fall, slow and even. Can see the clean line of the arm he's got thrown over his eyes. The journal left open on his chest.

Her heart starts to pound, and for a long moment she just stands there. Frozen. Staring.

At a certain point, it had started to feel impossible. A damned endeavor, a futile habit. So futile, she almost doesn't want to test it. The part that matters most. She has to work herself up to it.

Fingers trembling, she blows out one more nervous breath and reaches toward the wisps. Toward the apparition of Theo, still peaceful and undisturbed. If she's somehow miraculously gotten this right, he won't be for long.

The conjured smoke is cold to the touch - a teasing whisper against her skin - and when she curls her fingers and makes a fist, the world around her evaporates. With a small shriek and a rush of air, she's lying face first on the carpet of Theo's study.

He's up in an instant with a gasp, journal falling to the floor. He clutches his chest and stares at her, eyes wide and bleary.

"T-Theo..." she splutters, lifting herself onto her hands and knees.

"Hermione - what...what happened?"

"Theo." She's almost panting now, bewildered excitement catching up with her. "Theo, it works. It works."

There's a gap - a confused pause as he fully wakes up, fully comprehends, their eyes locked. And then he's off the sofa, scrambling to pull her the rest of the way up from the floor. He gathers her against him, warm and familiar and smelling like he always does. His chin drops to the crown of her head, and she feels his chest deflate as he lets out the breath they've been collectively holding for the past two years.

"Thank fuck."

They apparate back to her flat in London.

The mess has been piling up for a long while now, discarded bottles and shriveled herbs strewn about, books dogeared and stacked on every surface. Only the cauldron sits in relative cleanliness, away from the clutter. She couldn't risk contaminating it.

"What was it?" Theo asks, staring down into the milky potion, still bubbling away. He hasn't bothered to dress or comb his hair, and he's still barefoot.