Since the end of the war, Hermione had lived alone, claiming the need for some personal space. She put it down to having camped in a tent - regardless of magic's civilising influences - with Ron and Harry for months, and sharing a dorm with others for years. At first she relished the solitude, and then it had become commonplace, like the ottoman one skirted in the dark without conscious thought; however, in a scant two days, that acceptance had changed, and it had everything to do with the company.

Charlie was humming to himself - that same tune she thought she should know, but couldn't place - while he showered.

She'd declined his offer to share, opting to take a bath to soak her aching muscles. Charlie had grinned unrepentantly and produced a small paper bag which contained a fist-sized ball of bath salts and magical herbs, including powdered Murtlap essence.

"This should take care of your aches."

"Where - when did you get this?" she'd asked.

"It's from my stash at the reserve. It's great after a day spent in a hide halfway up a mountain." He'd leered at her suggestively. "And it's not just for your leg muscles, either."

She'd flushed, accepted the bath balm, and was now leaning her head back in the hot water as the Jacuzzi jets caused bubbles. Charlie had been right, her muscles - all of them - were completely fine now. Her legs and feet had been quite tender when they'd returned to the apartment. After unloading their finds (fresh produce, a half chicken, and several trinkets for James and Victoire,) Hermione had hobbled to the stairs, groaning at the thought of climbing them. Charlie had tossed her over his shoulder and carried her up the steps.

"It's your fault," she'd complained, eyeing the fit of his jeans. "If we'd followed my plan--"

"Yes, but didn't you have fun?"

Hermione had certainly enjoyed the view from her position, and she'd given into temptation, reaching out to touch his very fine bum. He'd frozen mid-step, one hand grabbing the banister, the other gripping her legs tighter.

"Don't do that!"

Hermione had giggled. "You're quite tempting."

She'd felt the rumble in his chest and he reached the landing in four more strides, then he'd slid her to her feet, claiming his reward for coming to her aid.

The kiss, like every kiss between them, had quickly become heated, but when Hermione hissed in pain, Charlie had broken their embrace. "Hot water! Shower with me?"

"I'd love to but for two reasons."

"Two?"

"One, I think I'd like to soak in that hot water for a bit, and two, have you looked at the size of the shower stall? I don't think we'd fit. I'm not sure you will." Hermione's hands had measured the breadth of his shoulders, moved laterally to where he could see them and then closed their distance - by about six inches. "See? I think you're wider!"

"Witch!" he'd teased and kissed her again.

Next, he'd drawn his wand from its holster, tackling the too small shower stall - she'd been right, his shoulders were too wide for any degree of comfort. Afterwards, he'd charmed Hermione's bathwater to remain hot, then he had unceremoniously shed his clothes in a heap on the floor.

She tskd and laughed when he'd cocked his head, then dropped her jeans, knickers, tee, and bra atop his clothing prior to poking one toe into the tub. The water was perfect. "Thank you," she'd said as he grinned and stepped under the rainfall showerhead.

Dropping the bath salts into the water, Hermione had slipped into the oval tub, sighing with relief.

A softly reminiscent smile curved her lips as she eyed the path of the tile's wavelike pattern. She and Charlie had walked everywhere that day, exploring different neighbourhoods and taking in some of Bucharest's best known sights; Hermione liked the Arcul di Triumf better than Paris' Arc de Triumph for some reason. Her normal occupation didn't require a great deal of physical exertion - unlike others she knew -- and her muscles protested the extraordinary amount of exercise she'd engaged in during the past two days (and nights.)

Charlie's humming changed to a tune Hermione had heard before; it was a song Ron used to whistle occasionally. Remembering some of those circumstances took her thoughts to less contented paths.

The shower shut off and Charlie grabbed one of the nearby towels. Idly she watched his movements, enjoying the beauty of his water-slicked body, but her mood had darkened.

Years of observing temperamental creatures had clearly paid off as Charlie wrapped the towel about his waist and sat on the commode facing her. "What?"

"That last song you were humming reminded me of Ron. He used to whistle it during those months we were in hiding. He didn't do it often, but ...." She shrugged.

"It's a lullaby Mum used to sing to us when we were little. I think we all use it when we're thinking of home --" he held her gaze "-or feel as if we are at home. I don't know why Ron was whistling it, but I don't wish to be anywhere else - rather, if I were anywhere else, I'd want you there with me."

In spite of her sudden melancholy, his statement warmed her heart. "You know that's terribly sentimental, and I might tease you about it if I didn't feel exactly the same."

She shook her head to clear the sticky cobwebs of thought before sitting up to rise from the water, but Charlie put one work-roughened hand on her damp arm. "You don't have to force yourself to change moods on my account. If you're upset I want to know." He pointed to his ears. "I'm still in possession of both -- and I know how to listen."

This time her smile was wholly genuine. Then she gathered her courage and settled back against the charm-warmed porcelain. "I suppose there's no time like the present."

"It's not a prerequisite, Hermione."

"I know, but I don't want there to be any secrets between us, and I'm not talking about birthday presents or things like that, but the important things." His expression was serious and his eyes were calm and direct, and she knew that after their conversation about her scar -- and his -- she could tell him anything. "You know that we broke into Gringotts that last day before the Battle for Hogwarts--" She glanced up through her lashes at him, but one of Charlie Weasley's best traits was that he knew when to keep quiet "-and I took Polyjuice to become Bellatrix Lestrange--" She shuddered involuntarily; instantly his hand found hers and she slotted her fingers between his. "We had her wand then, and I used it to prove my identity. I hated it. I hated the feel of it in my hands. I know now our magic was wholly unsympathetic, nor had I won the wand's allegiance, but then it just felt wrong."

She paused for a moment, searching for the right words, and she closed her eyes and leaned back, resting her head on the edge of the tub. "It's a wonder we were able to do any of it at the time, but I think we were numb to the circumstances by then and fairly desperate.

"I've had nightmares since then . . . of . . . of my time at Malfoy Manor. In them, I'm both Bellatrix and myself . . . and I'm cursing me and screaming in agony at the same time. It's rather horrid, actually."

Charlie's grip tightened on her hand, but still he remained quiet. She took a shaky breath. "I don't even know what happened to the dragon after we jumped from its back. It was partially blind and its skin was so very pale. We were terribly afraid, but I've always wondered if it survived."

"You gave it freedom," he said softly. "When it died, it was on its own terms. No animal, sentient or otherwise, asks more than that."

Like the salt balm for her sore muscles, Charlie's words acted as a balm for her soul, and as if the floodgates had been opened, Hermione told him everything. She told him about the fight in the Department of Mysteries, and about luring Umbridge into the Forbidden Forest, "I had to get us out of her office. She was about to Crucio Harry. I knew centaurs didn't like adults, but I never really considered the centaurs' reactions -- I was just desperate to save us."

And a little later, "I ran after him as soon as I got my Shield Charm out of the way, but he was already gone. I called and called, begging him to come back." Charlie made a sound which might have been a growl, but Hermione was learning just how cathartic confession could be. "It was only after he returned weeks later - he saved Harry's life that night - when I learned Ron had listened to me crying and begging .."

She never would remember exactly when he lifted her from the tub, wrapped her in a towel and carried her to their bed, but mid-way through her explanation about Snape's death, she realised Charlie was braced against the headboard -- the yellow pillowcase complementing his gleaming bronze hair -- and that she was nestled in his towel-clad lap.

Snuggling closer to him, she laid her head against his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart. "The worst thing of all was modifying my parents' memories." Her voice was barely more than a whisper, years of anguish and regret making it tight and thin. "I just couldn't let them be a target, and while I might not have been on anyone's list but Umbridge's, my friendship with Harry was well-publicised. My parents would have been defenceless if someone was enterprising enough to try to get to Harry through me. I would have done anything to save them - and I remember -" she straightened up suddenly "-I'd forgot - Ron was horrid to me about it. Simply horrid. He acted as if casting complex Memory Charms on my parents had been immaterial to me, as if I hadn't cared at all.

"It was dreadful. I was terrified I'd done it wrong - and I wasn't sure how to replace the memory strands in their heads later, or even if I could because they're Muggles."

Charlie's arms tightened around her, and he spoke then. "I never knew you modified their memories."

"That's why I went to Australia that summer - and Harry came with me. Ron was furious that I asked Harry to go instead of him, but he'd been so unsympathetic, I just couldn't ask him to come with me."

She straightened, shifting until she was facing Charlie, her knees bent so her legs were leaning across his upper thighs allowing her to look directly into his face; in any other circumstances it would have been an intriguing Kama Sutra position. His expression was attentive and concerned, but there was no hint of condemnation or repugnance, and his blue eyes were guileless. Emboldened to continue, she explained, "When I knew I wasn't going to return to Hogwarts for a seventh year - even if there would've been one for me - I told my parents everything. They wanted me to go into hiding with them, but finally understood I couldn't leave Harry and Ron on their own. They agreed to let me modify their memories if we used a Pensieve to store some of the most important ones, and to keep a record of our decision. Dad wanted me to have proof that I hadn't done it to hurt them, in case anyone ever considered taking action against me."

Charlie's thumb brushed her cheek, wiping away a tear that had fallen. Hermione leaned into his broad, warm hand, allowing his warmth to penetrate all the way to the hidden recesses of her heart.

"In any event, they were right where they were supposed to be, and I gave them the letters of introduction they'd prepared for themselves. They have most of their memories back - although there were some I damaged in the removal process . . . like the one of my birth."

And then, suddenly, she was crying.

Charlie pulled her to him, crooning into her ear.

Several minutes later, Hermione hiccupped, pushed herself off his chest, and sheepishly wiped her tears from his chest. "Sorry."

A blunt-tipped finger tilted her chin. "I'm not. I have several things to say to my youngest brother when next we meet, but I'm deeply honoured you would trust me."

"And you don't think less of me?"

He kissed her in a gentle benediction, then settled her against his now dry chest saying lightly, "If I could read Mum's smut about you shagging sex-god Percy and it didn't put me off, then nothing you've told me now has got a chance."

Intensely relieved, she actually snorted. "I still can't believe your mum wrote those books."

"I think it was a case of wishful thinking. If she couldn't have you as a daughter-in-law in real life, she'd sort it out some other way."

"And you've read them all?" Hermione asked, her tone taking a lilting turn toward playful.

"Mostly. I didn't like the one of you with George, but I slogged through it."

Hermione angled back, bracing herself against his chest. "And? What's your conclusion?"

"Fantasy is over-rated." He tipped her backwards onto the bed and lunged. Their lips met in a quickly-stoked kiss, and with one thought between them, their towels were tossed to the floor.

Their coupling was different this time, it was no longer introductory sex, filled with heat and frantic need, or enthusiastic exploration; this time, there was more emotion fuelling their desires . . . this time it was lovemaking.