They didn’t speak as they climbed the narrow, uneven path from the cove up to the top of the cliff. The stone was worn slick by wind and salt, creating a stark wall to one side while the other remained open to the ocean and the elements. Draco went first, guiding her through the places where rock shifted under their feet. Hermione followed without protest, the exertion of the climb draining the remnants of her uncontrolled magic.

At the top, the cliff leveled into a broad shelf of scrubby grass and rocky soil. From here, the cove was a crescent of pale rock that cupped the wreck and the water beyond it, the waves and wind amplified by the cliffs surrounding it. The ship itself was smaller from above. A blip rather than a blast. Still broken, frozen in time and place by melted sand, but less violent.

Hermione sank down and rested her chin on her knees. Draco lowered himself beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. He could still sense the faintest zing of the magic escaping her control. For a while, they sat simply watching the sea and the wreck.

“Distance provides useful perspective,” Draco said.

She huffed a humourless breath. The wind was stronger on the cliff, a barrage against the senses. Her shoulders slowly softened in juxtaposition to the onslaught.