Recognition

Recognition

He stood in the doorway, unable to move, rooted to the spot. His mind was a whirling chaos, her name, her real name echoed in his ears as if he had said it aloud, and how the hell could it be her?

That was the moment when she looked up, saw him, and smiled. "There you are. Are the children asleep? Come to bed, please. It's cold without you."

He needed to grab the doorframe for support. Opening his mouth, he found that not a word would come out.

Hermione Granger. Good gods, he thought desperately, how could I not recognise her sooner?

Eyes wide, she pushed herself back until she touched the bed's headboard – she must have sensed that something had changed. Frowning, she looked at him. "Carlos. What's wrong?"

"Everything," he wanted to say and, "I'm sorry," and, "You should have told me." Instead, he took a step towards her, towards his bed where she sat and now pulled at the blanket that covered her breasts. He couldn't have said why he was sorry, only that he had an urge to apologise for not being Carlos, for not always having been a winegrower, for having to hurt her in a moment or two. Because hurt she would be, hurt and shocked and quite possibly disgusted. After all, he had been the terror of her years at Hogwarts. And everyone believed him dead.

Shock didn't last long – even after all those years, he was still far too used to secrets getting unravelled. But unlike his reaction in younger years, he didn't become cold and aggressive at the fact that someone had lied to him. Here, he needed to know. Everything. Therefore, he came to the bed, knelt down and took her face between his hands. A tiny, nearly unnoticeable charm tingled at his fingertips; it had been there all the time, but he hadn't felt it until a moment ago.

"Finite Incantatem," he whispered, running his hands through her hair. In the wake of his touch and as a result of his spell, the magic melted, and her hair grew longer, darker, and a lot bushier.

She gasped, looking equally horrified at the fact that he had just woven magic and because he had changed her appearance. "How do you... Why do you know... Who are you?"

Stammering, she tried to get away from him, and he let her. There was no use holding someone back who didn't want to stay; he had learned this lesson early in his life. At the farthest corner of the bed she now sat trembling, white as paper and crumpling the sheet in her fists into sweaty balls.

"I know you," he said quietly. "I know your name or at least knew it some years back. Hermione Granger. The man on the phone was your husband. Ronald Weasley, I assume. I heard you saying his name. I recognised you. You have looked familiar for days. Now I know why." Unhappily, he wiped a tired hand across his face. This night had been wonderful so far, but just a few more words and she would run from him.

Tears born out of bewilderment ran down her face. "Who are you? Why do you know me?" she whispered. Despair and fear laced her questions. Very clearly fear. Hearing it hurt.

He wanted to touch her face, the lips he had kissed only a little while ago. "You know me," he stated. "You have known me since you were eleven years old. I look familiar to you as you looked familiar to me. But ten years is a long time. I guess I changed as much as you did."

And because he couldn't stand seeing her cry and as the bed wasn't that big, he reached out and wiped her tears off with a careful hand.

"You... are a wizard," she began, stating the obvious like so often when she had been a child. It made him smile, although he hated to remember those dark times.

"Yes. And you know me. Look at me, Hermione."

She did. Her eyes wandered over his hair, his face, brushed across the scar along his jaw and examined the crooked bridge of his nose. Lingered when she looked into his eyes, those very, very black eyes he usually covered with sunglasses.

Her voice nearly broke when she said, "This is impossible. Simply and absolutely impossible." Hesitantly, and as if to assure herself that he was not a dream, a nightmare, a ghost, she leaned forward and ran a fingertip across his cheek.

He didn't move and didn't flinch from her touch. It was highly unlikely that she would touch him again once she had accepted the truth. "You said it yourself: I reminded you of someone. Of someone from your past. Someone you disliked. I never as much as guessed that I could remind you of myself."

"He is dead." Clear words, spoken to reassure herself. "I saw him die. Harry and Ron saw him die. He is dead, he's buried, and you can't be him." Impatiently, she wiped off some more tears, which constantly ran down her face. "I cannot have fallen in love with my former Potions professor. That would be cruel. Please, Carlos, tell me you are not him!"

He had to close his eyes for a moment, gathering his strength. He would have never expected that it could be so very hard to be recognised. Sometimes, he had hoped he would bump into someone who knew who he had been, who shared a past with him. Sometimes, it was nearly unbearable, not being able to talk to like-minded people. No one here on the island knew that he was a wizard; no one knew he had once been a spy.

She knew. Now. And the knowledge had just destroyed what had begun to grow between them.

Clearing his throat, he said, "My name is not Carlos, and you know it. I don't use magic when I'm at the beach. My house is filled with Muggle books simply because I always chose a Muggle woman to come here with me, and... And I am sorry, Hermione. Had I recognised you, I would have never gone near you."

Her head snapped up, and now she pulled back her hand. "Do you regret it? Do you regret you have met me, have taken me here? Do you consider it a bad decision, now that you know who I am?"

Goodness, but she was as beautiful as a warrior princess when she was angry. Seeing her jumping up and pacing the room stark naked was a most extraordinary sight. Her hair, not enchanted anymore, reached down to her waist and whipped through the air. Her skin was flushed, her teeth and fists clenched. He could do nothing but sit and stare and try to keep his idiotic, aching heart in check.

Furious now, with all tears gone, she rushed over to where he sat on the bed. "How did you survive? And who saved you? Tell me. I want to know. I need to know, and I want you to tell me everything!"

"May I get dressed first?" He couldn't help the sarcasm creeping into his voice.

"Forget it," she snapped and threw one of the pillows towards him. "Talk. Prove that you really are who you claim to be."

That made his lips twitch. He remembered her as a child and as a teenager, naturally, as she and her friends had made his life profoundly complicated. She had been brilliant in every way, and she had never known when to better keep her ever-talking mouth shut. Demanding, short-tempered, tart – all those attributes broke free, and he was at the centre of her wrath.

It could be worse, he mused. She could have stormed off ten minutes ago.

"First: you didn't see me die. You saw me fall into a coma from which I didn't wake for three months. I expected the Dark Lord's attempt to kill me. I never went near him without a Bezoar in my pocket – Nagini was his weapon more than once, and I wasn't really that surprised that he used her to finish me off. But in the end, it was Amycus Carrow who found and rescued me. He considered me useful after the Dark Lord's death, apparently hoped I would vouch for him after a year in my employment. The Bezoar neutralised the snake venom; Carrow dragged me to a Muggle hospital, where they took care of the wounds Nagini had ripped."

Her jaw dropped. "A Muggle doctor? And they really managed to save your life? I wouldn't have expected that."

He was amused about her consternation. "They are capable of basic medicine," he said with a smirk. "You as a Muggle-born witch should know that."

She pulled a face, but didn't comment on his words.

"When I woke, Amycus told me that I was believed to be dead. His sister had died at the battlefield, and he planned to leave the country before he was found. He advised me to stay dead, and left. I was of no use to him, as I was too weak to even eat on my own for weeks after I'd woken up. I was glad to see him go. He was a cruel man and a lousy teacher, and I wouldn't have known what to do if he had demanded assistance in his plans."

Did he just see pity in her eyes?

"My arm was useless, and I didn't know where to go and what to do. Unable to wield magic, I briefly considered killing myself before I decided that such an act would only be further proof of my pathetic weakness. Therefore, I fled the hospital as soon as I could stand on my legs, left the country and began travelling."

She had stopped pacing and settled on the floor a few feet away from him, hugging a pillow to herself. They possibly made a ridiculous picture, but he didn't care. It was so very good to be able to talk without having to watch his words; it was a relief to tell someone the truth.

"What do you mean, your arm was useless and that you couldn't use magic?" she asked and nodded towards his shoulder. "You seem to be fine. Your shoulder and arm definitely feel all right and look strong and healthy. You just have used magic, finishing the charm on my hair. What was wrong with you?"

He was sitting on the bed, cross-legged; she was sitting on the cold, hard floor and had to look up at him; a disturbing sight, as it reminded him even stronger of their days at school. "Come over here," he begged. "Sit on the bed with me. I don't want you to catch a cold."

"Sure," she grumbled, but did as he suggested. "Your arm? Your magic? Does the tattoo have anything to do with what you are telling me?"

Still insisting, she was. Never gave up. Back then, it had annoyed him. Here, tonight, it was a soothing thought that some things never changed despite time, circumstances, and first impressions.

"Nagini's venom had destroyed muscles and nerves," he explained. "When I woke at the hospital, my arm felt like a dead piece of wood, and it hurt to an extent that I would like to forget. The Muggle doctors didn't know what the problem was, I couldn't tell them, and I feared I would be crippled for a long time. When I tried to use magic – at night, when everyone was asleep – I found I couldn't. So after I left the hospital, I went to my house at Spinner's End, gathered as many medical potions as possible, and tried to figure out a way to get my strength back and to keep the pain at bay." Tentatively, he flexed the fingers of his right hand, remembering the long months of suffering. "The tattoo is what I came up with. I found the solution in an old book in Hungary, copied the picture, and went to find someone who could tattoo the magic into my shoulder. In combination with the bracelet, it works well. The runes in the jewellery support the magic in the tattoo, the tattoo covers the scars and nullifies the pain. Without either, I would be unable to work or swim or butter my own toast. With them, I can even use magic as long as I don't exaggerate."

She edged a bit closer, and his heart sang. "There should be scars," she murmured, touching the sunflower with a single finger. "I've seen the wounds; they were nasty. But there are no scars. Fascinating." She looked up. "Show me," she demanded. "Take the bracelet off."

"It's not a pleasant sight," he warned her. She just waited, so he murmured an opening spell and let the bracelet drop to the sheets.

Slowly, the bright colours of the sunflower faded. The skin turned lighter, appeared thinner. With every breath he took, his right shoulder became more prominent as the scar worked its way to the surface. Simultaneously, he felt his elbow twitch and his wrist when the first portent of pain shot from fingertips up to his neck.

She placed her hand on his upper arm. "I can feel it; the magic as well as the damage. Had Mr Carrow taken you to St. Mungo's, this might have been preventable. But obviously that was not an option."

He shook his head once and absently circled the pale skin round his wrist where the bracelet usually covered his skin. "By the time he found me, he didn't know I was Dumbledore's man. He considered the Muggle hospital the safest place for me. Despite being a Death Eater, he was not stupid, and at that time he hoped I could help him if only I survived. His grandmother was a Muggle – a fact he hid well from the Dark Lord – and he knew they would medicate me without questions at the hospital. When it turned out that he was better off without me, he was gone like the wind. Luckily."

She nodded and picked up the bracelet. Turned it in her slender fingers, read the runes her son had seen before her. "Perfect. Absolutely wonderful. What is the effect when you take it off?" She held it out to him.

Gratefully, he took it. "My fingers get numb nearly immediately, and if I don't wear it for more than two or three hours, I can't move my arm anymore," he explained. "For some reason, the pain prevents me from using magic as well, so getting rid of the pain brought my magic back. Both results were... a relief." With a small sigh, he snapped the bracelet closed round his wrist, not telling her how horrible the months had been whilst he had been travelling and searching, seeking out libraries and books. The pain had nearly brought him to his knees, and most times, he had been reading all night through as he had been unable to sleep anyway. He didn't tell her how close he had been to madness at the thought that the pain would stay forever and the prospect of having to live a life without magic. Shaking his head to get rid of the memories, he added, "And of course the bracelet covers the Dark Mark." Turning his wrist, he showed her the black abomination, less prominent on his tanned skin and already fading as the magic began to work.

She ran her fingers across the spot, now unmarked and smooth. Shivers went down his spine, and he decided it was time to change the subject. "Tell me why you call yourself Tessa."

That made her smile. "It's my cousin's name. I always liked it, and when you asked me, it sort of dropped off my lips before I could help it. Everyone has asked me for my name from the minute we had arrived, and I was tired of it. I felt like a stupid tourist, so... well."

"Your hair? Why blond? Why short?"

Another smile. She definitely had relaxed. Hope fluttered in his chest like a caged bird.

"Well, it's quite hot here, and long hair is not too comfortable. As you have found out by yourself." She brushed her palm over his head. "Besides, I wanted something different. I thought the colour would suit me, and brushing this mess of so-called hair costs me at least half an hour every morning. Rose has inherited my hair, and I feel sorry for her, believe me."

Slowly, so very slowly he touched the brown mass. "Stupid woman," he said, affection lacing his words. "Your daughter is a beauty already; I thought so when I first saw her, but assumed she looks more like her dad. Your hair and hers is wonderful. I never go after blond women; they are not my type. Nearly, we didn't even meet. Just because you looked so sad, and because something drew me towards you, I said hello. Not meeting you would have been a tragedy."

"No regrets?" Slowly, she dropped the pillow, sitting before him naked again. "Look at me, now that you know who I am. After my marriage, I grew another few inches, but somehow I didn't put on more flesh. I turned from averagely sized and nicely rounded to tall and scrawny in less than three months. Madam Pomfrey says it happens every now and then and that I should be glad to have the body of a model. Ron was less happy. He prefers the Rubens form in a woman."

Snorting, he threw his pillow aside as well. "Mr Weasley always has been extraordinarily stupid. How on earth could you marry him?" With a fingersnap, he dimmed the light. It was easier to talk about personal matters when one couldn't see every movement in the other one's face.

She lowered her head. "We kissed the night Voldemort died. From then on, everyone assumed we were together. And he was devastated at Fred's death. He leaned on me, needed me, and I didn't have the heart to tell him that I wanted to study at Camelot University rather than travelling the world. We married. He was offered the Goal-Keeper's post on the England Quidditch team." A sigh. "I got pregnant. He kept playing. You know the rest. And now you tell me how we should go on from here."

Surprised, he raised an eyebrow. "Are there options? More than the obvious one that I sleep at the beach whilst you stay with your children for the night, then leave in the morning and never come back?"

Thoughtfully, she put her chin in her hand and let her eyes wander across his body. It felt even more intimate than a touch, and for some reason he remembered that this was exactly what he had been craving: to know her, to find out who she was, and what she dreamed about. To learn about her fears and her hopes. He hadn't expected that there was that much to find out.

Did it really matter that she had been his student once? That a decade ago, he had disliked her, had wished her as far away from him and Hogwarts as possible because she had made spying, his job to bring the Dark Lord down, harder than it already had been? Now, here in his bedroom, she was someone else. She had matured. She was married, had children. She would...

"Definitely more than that one option," she interrupted his thoughts. "I could Obliviate you. I have my wand in that bag, but you don't have yours. One flick, one spell, and you wouldn't remember anything." She held out her hands, palms open. "But you might like to prevent me from doing that."

He closed his fingers round her wrists and pulled her a little closer. Their knees touched, and he couldn't prevent the image of her legs wrapped round his waist from crossing his mind.

"Don't Obliviate me," he said simply. "I don't want to forget you. And yes, my wand is at home in the mountains where I live the better time of the year. Using magic still tires me quickly. I only use my wand for potions making and at the final stage when filling my wine into bottles, adding a bit of... Well. Magic, I suppose."

Her face lit up. "That your wine is magical is obvious even to me. What potions do you make?"

He could smell her scent, warm and flowery. He could hear her breathe and saw the pulse beating in her throat. He would tell her anything if only she stayed for a little while longer.

"Healing Potions, mostly, and extracts that prevent my vines from insects. The sun lotion is my creation as well," he said. "The sun is strong here, and I was burned badly from the moment I sat foot on the island. Conchita told me that even the natives get a sunburn every now and then. And of course I couldn't just heal myself – it would have caused too many questions. So I procured a cauldron and began to brew a proper lotion. It is the base of my income. Most tourists find out soon enough after a swim in the ocean that their stuff doesn't work properly."

This time, she laughed. "Always the Potions master." Then she wrapped her arms round his neck. "I could sleep upstairs until morning. We could have breakfast together. You could take all of us to the waterfall Rose was so excited about. Then I could take my children back to the hotel, trying to explain to them why you don't visit us any longer."

She thought about that for a moment with her head tilted and then clearly discarded the idea. "No. Wouldn't work. They like you too much. Therefore, the last possibility is the easiest one, too. Everything stays as it is until our holiday is over."

"Everything?" His words were full of longing. His body reacted to the warmth she radiated, her smell and the sensation of her hair touching his legs.

"I guess I could convince myself that you are nothing but a winegrower, Carlos," she whispered and leaned in to kiss him.

********************************

Ten days later, when she and her children sat safely in the plane back to England, his heart hurt so badly that he considered earnestly giving up his life here on the island. To go back, to make it public that he was still alive. To follow her and to tell her that he loved her.

To ruin her marriage. Her life. To take her away from her husband and to separate her from her children. Ron Weasley would go after full custody for Rose and Hugo, and if only because his mother would order him to do so.

He could destroy her simply by following his heart.

He hadn't told her he loved her in the past weeks, and he wouldn't do so now. She had to go back to her real life, to her husband, her family. He was certain she wouldn't forget him. He was equally certain that what she felt for him now would vanish quickly if he pushed into her life. Better to let her go.

He watched the plane disappear. Then he turned and walked back to his hut and from there, went back into his mountains, to his vines, to his life; a changed man, once again.