A/N:

Disclaimer: Unfortunately for my bank balance, I don't own anything of Harry Potter. If I did that would be awesome, but all credit goes to JKR, who is a genius.

So, this is my first attempt at fanfiction, and I'm not sure how it's turned out, but though I might as well upload it and see how it goes. This is set in Deathly Hallows, but isn't really compliant with it. I'm not sure if it will be compliant with the epilogue yet, I'm sorta making things up as I go... anyhoo, here you go... oh, and it's Draco/Hermione! Gotta love the dramione :)


The noise of the key scraping in the lock made Hermione wince. She jiggled the key up and down, trying desperately to get through the door and in to the confines of her house before the tears came.

"Come on, come on." She muttered frantically, blinking hard. A tear escaped and trickled down her cheek. Hermione leaned all her weight against the front door, turning the key so hard her knuckles turned white. The lock clicked open and she fell through the door, not even attempting to prevent the strangled cry – of relief or sadness she did not know - that ripped through her body as she did so.

She slammed the door shut and leaned against it, taking in the emptiness of her childhood home. She wasn't even sure why she hadn't let herself cry until that moment, but for some reason it was only now that she felt it safe to let everything out, everything that she'd been keeping hidden inside for so many weeks. The emptiness of her home and the loneliness of her situation hit her hard. The secrets of her summer all came spilling out in sob after sob, each one louder and more despairing than the last, each one discernable only by ragged, gasping breaths.

Hermione was aware of her body sliding slowly down the door to hit the floor, her arms moving to wrap around her legs and pull them closer and her head falling down to rest on her knees, but she could do nothing to control her actions. She felt her body move of its own accord, slowly curling in to a tight ball huddled on the door mat, eyes squeezed tight shut as if to block out the nothingness that enveloped her. She felt her sobs rake through her until there were no more tears to cry; instead she began to wail, helplessly and uncontrollably, her whole body aching with sadness and exhaustion.

She didn't know how long she cried for, but only when it became nothing more than short, sharp intakes of breath, did Hermione open her eyes. They stuck with tears and she rubbed them, trying to wipe away all traces of her breakdown. Her whole body ached, and she realised that she had tensed up completely, braced against the sudden onslaught of loneliness. One by one, she relaxed her muscles and tried to even out her breathing.

It would be OK, she told herself, but the words sounded false, even in her head. How could it be OK? The war was coming. She, Harry and Ron were preparing to leave behind everything they knew for... what exactly? It was a journey, and what they would find on it none of them knew. Hermione could read all the books she wanted and gather together as much information as possible, but that would only help them so far; nothing could fully prepare them for what was to come. And it wasn't just the trio who were braced for change – the entire wizarding world was balanced on a knife edge, ready to tip either way. No one knew how the war would play out. One slip on their part and everyone would be plunged back in to the depths of evil. A single error for the dark side and the light could triumph. There was nothing in it. And at the same time, there was everything to play for.

This brought Hermione back to the present. She ran a hand over her forehead in a fruitless attempt to smooth out the frown lines that had been etched there ever since Dumbledore's death. She had to get going, but first... first she wanted to say goodbye to her house.

It was nothing special or particularly large, just a modest Victorian terraced house, with a long, thin garden and steps leading up from the pavement to the front door. Ivy from the neighbours' house was begin to stray over to theirs, partially hiding the red brick walls from view. But to Hermione, this house was everything. It was her home. Her parents had brought it several years before she was born and Hermione had never lived anywhere else. All her childhood memories centred around this house: birthday parties at the dining room table; Christmases around the fire; long, hot summers spent running up and down the garden.

And now, to see it stripped bare of everything, it felt wrong to Hermione. She longed to see her own face smiling down from the pictures on the mantelpiece alongside her parents. She wanted nothing more than to step in to the kitchen and see her mother cooking dinner, or to go to her father's study, lined with shelf after shelf of books, and look through the door to see him leaning back in his big leather chair, reading some volume or classic that he would later pass on to Hermione. She wanted to sit with them in the living room and tell them about her previous year at school over a cup of tea, as was their yearly tradition. She wanted to see their faces, proud and almost disbelieving, as she told them of transfiguring mice to goblets and matches to needles, potions that could change your appearance in a sip and spells that charmed objects to fly.

But this year was different. This summer had not been a happy one for Hermione. She had been preparing herself, not just for the war, but for what would undoubtedly be the hardest thing she would ever have to do. Something harder than hunting for Horcruxes or battling Voldermort, because it was so personal for her. So close.

Her parents had known something was up; Hermione had heard them talking in worried tones about her. They knew that Dumbledore was dead and that things in their daughter's world were changing - for better or for worse - but really they had no idea and Hermione didn't think she could bring herself to tell them of the dangers she was facing, or indeed the danger they themselves were in.

She had planned it, down to the finest detail. Nothing would go wrong. And they would both be safe. She had modified her parents' memories and watched from afar as she had disappeared from their lives in an instant. Hermione Granger no longer existed to them. She was nothing, not even a memory. She knew that they would be safely arriving in Australia in a couple of days, having assured that a sudden urge to move to the other side of the world made its way in to both their minds and two plane tickets to her mother's handbag.

They would be safe and that was all that mattered. It was near impossible for Voldermort and his Death Eaters to find them, their identities having been changed completely, which meant they were spared the certainty of torture and death because of their involvement with her. She had saved them from that.

Hermione repeated this like a mantra to herself as she wandered from room to empty room of her house, but it didn't stop her from whishing that they were back at home with her. You've done the right thing, she told herself crossly, as tears stung her eyes once more. They can't be harmed anymore.

But what if you lose? The voice in the back of her head whispered. What if you lose the war and Voldermort finds them and kills them anyway? What if all this is for nothing?

"That won't happen!" Hermione snapped crossly, before shaking her head. She was going mad, she was sure of it. First the crying, and now this – talking to herself out loud.

But what if you never find them? The voice continued, relentless. What if you win but you can't find your parents? Australia is a big place - what happens if they are lost to you forever? How will you cope? Hermione pressed her hands to her ears in an attempt to block out the voice, but it carried on regardless. What if they enjoy their new life so much they don't want to come back? What if you can't perform the spell to reverse their memories back? What if you die in the war? What if they don't recognise you? What if –

"SHUT UP!" Hermione shouted, tearing at her hair as 'what if' after 'what if' flew through her mind. She had to do something – anything – to distract herself.

Hermione had reached the last door of the upstairs landing. Her room. Would it even be there anymore? Hermione wondered. When she had modified her parents memories she had wiped every last trace of herself from their lives, so would she still have a bedroom to call her own? She took a deep breath and opened the door.

There was something there, but it wasn't the room as Hermione knew it.

The walls were bare – there were no pictures, not even paint. The floor was wooden and stripped. No furniture remained, nor any of her belongings. It was completely empty.

Hermione felt tears in her eyes and blinked them back desperately. She would not allow herself to cry again. That was done and now she had to focus on what was ahead of her. Crying wouldn't help to win the war any faster.

Hermione took a last walk around her room, pausing at the window to look out at the street below her. It was only late afternoon but already the sky was darkening. It was always dark nowadays, even though it was only midway through the summer. The road was deserted – most cars were now in their drives and some curtains had even been drawn already.

Even the muggles knew that something was wrong; they had begun arriving home earlier and earlier, staying inside and shutting themselves off from whatever was out there. Hermione knew how they felt. They couldn't see the dementors, and they knew nothing of the wizarding war, but they could feel it; the cold, empty feeling that seeped under doors and in to houses, searching for signs of human life to drain; the mist that seemed to close in on everything, coming nearer and nearer until it was difficult to breath; the despair and loneliness hovering like a dark cloud over everything.

Hermione felt it too, but for her it was all the more real. She lived, ate, slept, breathed the feeling. It was all-consuming, overpowering and very much her life now. She, Harry and Ron had the power to change it all and the sooner they got started the better, in Hermione's opinion. The quicker they destroyed Voldermort's Horcruxes, the quicker Harry could kill He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself, and the quicker the war would be over. Then her parents could come home.

Keeping this thought in mind, Hermione pulled from her coat pocket a small, beaded bag. Delving her hand inside, she felt through each item in there, quickly ticking off a mental checklist. The bag contained over half of Hermione's vast book collection, spare clothes and several viles of an assortment of potions and tonics that Hermione though may come in useful on their hunt for Horcruxes. Despite this, it weighed next to nothing and appeared barely big enough to hold a pair of socks. Hermione smiled to herself; it was times like this that magic truly amazed her. The Undetectable Extension Charm that she has placed on the bag at the beginning of the summer holidays, when she had first begun gathering any belongings she might need, ensured that it could hold anything, no matter how big, and as much as she wanted, without it getting any heavier. She had found the charm while skimming through one of her old Hogwarts spell books and immediately performed the spell with the hunt for Horcruxes in mind. When Hermione reached The Burrow, she planned to gather together spare clothes for Harry and Ron, along with the tent they had stayed in at the Quidditch World Cup, as she figured they would be no five star hotels to stay in on their journey.

Once she was certain that everything they needed was safely hidden in the beaded bag, Hermione turned and took one last, long look around her bare room. Sadness washed over her, but she pushed it back. She would not feel miserable. There was a job to be done and she would do it. No sadness. She would not permit herself to feel anything until the task they had been set was completed and everything could return to normal. Hermione promised herself this and felt a new determination fill her, something she hadn't felt since Dumbledore's death. With a last sweeping glance, she turned and closed the door behind her.

Hermione made it as far as the top of the stairs, feeling her way across the landing in the gathering darkness. Suddenly, the unmistakable creaking of a floorboard under a foot made her freeze. The noise was quite, barely discernable even in the loud silence of the house, but Hermione knew instantly that she was not alone. She thought about casting a Homenum Revelio charm, so she would know the whereabouts of her intruder, but decided against it. She would only be giving her own hiding place away.

Careful not to make a sound, she stowed the bag back in her pocket and drew her wand from her sleeve. She was sure that the noise had come from downstairs – it was too faint to have come from the same floor – so ever so slowly, she made her way down, warily avoiding the third step from the bottom for fear of it creaking and giving her away.

She could see no obvious signs of a break-in – the door was still shut and no windows were open or smashed. Then again, she thought, it was most likely that the intruder had used magic to enter her house, so there would have been no need to break a window to gain entrance.

Hermione gripped her wand tighter and moved forwards. She paused at the living room door, her hand resting on the door handle. Slowly, she pushed on the brass knob. The door swung back to reveal the empty living room. The breath she had been holding whooshed out of her and she lowered her wand. Just a fraction, but that was all it took.

A laugh - a low, hard chuckle - from somewhere behind her stopped her in her tracks. Hermione's whole body froze. She dared not turn around.

"Giving up so soon, Princess?" The voice was low, just like the laugh, and had an air of amusement to it, as though the speaker was enjoying himself.

Hermione clutched her wand tightly, but kept her back to the man.

"And 'ere I was thinking we could carry on playing a little bit longer, darlin'. Hide and seek?"

She could hear him moving closer to her, his footsteps on the wooden floorboards unnaturally loud. Still, she didn't turn. She didn't move a muscle, frozen in fear. Hermione didn't recognize the voice, but was sure that whoever it was couldn't be good news. He was even closer now. She could hear his heavy breathing not far behind her.

"I do so love to play, after all." The man's voice was barely more than a whisper as he advanced towards her, "And you are very, very lovely. Princess." Hermione felt his hands wrap around her waist and her breath caught in her throat. He let out another low chuckle. "I would rather like the chance to play with you."

His mouth was right by her ear and Hermione could feel his breath, hot on the back of her neck. She couldn't miss the double meaning in his words. She didn't move as he ran his hand up her side, gently, almost lovingly, although the feel of it made Hermione shudder in horror. She wanted nothing more to cower away from this hideous man's touch but terror kept her frozen in place.

"So. What say you, darlin'? Why don't you run and 'ide and I'll come and find you?"

Hermione felt herself shaking and internally cursed herself. She felt the man smile against her cheek.

"Scared, Princess? Would you rather I just caught you now? I won't lie, that would be a bit of a disappointment, love. I was rather hoping for a chase. I've heard you can put up quite a fight."

Hermione came to her senses. She snapped out of her terrified trance and in one swift move, brought her arm back to elbow the man in the ribs. Hard. She heard him curse and stagger back slightly, enough to loosen his grip on her and enable her to wrench herself away.

"Stupefy!" She yelled, spinning round to face him.

The man, recovered from Hermione's sudden attack, blocked the spell with ease.

"Confundo!" He turned his wand on her, but Hermione was ready; she sent the spell flying back at him and watched him duck as it rebounded off the wall, barely missing his head.

"Diffindo!" He growled, and Hermione had to throw herself to one side to avoid the spell.

She stumbled slightly, grabbing at the wall for support. The man gave another dark laugh and Hermione saw red. How dare he break in to her home and try to attack her when her back was turned? How dare he? She would show him that Hermione Granger was not a girl to be messed with!

"Expulso!" She shrieked, and it was the man's turn to dive out of the way. The spell missed him, but hit the spot where he had been standing only seconds earlier; the floorboards exploded, the force of Hermione's spell so big that it blew a hole several feet deep.

There was another chuckle.

"Angry, Princess?" The man sneered.

"Uurgh!" Hermione screamed in frustration. Why was he so calm? She would show him. She shot spell after spell towards the intruder, some ricocheting off the walls, others blowing more holes in the floor. The door was hit by a Diffindo charm, causing it to be blown off its hinges. It fell to the floor with a deafening crash, narrowly missing the man, whose expression had turned from amusement to worry and was slowly backing off towards the door.

"Surely you're not scared of a teenage girl?" Hermione adopted a sneer very much like his own. She kept her wand held high, warily watching for the man's next move.

A flicker of anger appeared on the man's face, just for a second. Then it was gone, replaced by an evil smile.

"I think I like it when you're angry, Princess. Makes you look... wild." He gave her a wink.

Hermione's chest heaved indignantly. Her hair was wild from the duel and she has several cuts and scrapes on her face and arms from diving out the way of rebounding spells.

"Who are you?" She whispered.

"The name's Scabior. No need to ask who you are, Princess. Hermione Granger. I know all about you."

"How do you know who I am? Why are you here?" She tried to ignore the leer Scabior was sending her way, and instead focused on his appearance, hoping it would give her some clue as to who he was.

"I've come to get you."

"W-what?" Hermione faltered slightly. Get her? To take where?

She took in the intruder's clothes – he was wearing a long coat that looked as though it was some years old, with big, black boots and fingerless gloves. Hermione was reminded of the homeless muggles you saw on street corners. His hair was long and black, tied back with a filthy piece of leather. His face was scarred and dirty – the overall impression was that of someone in need of a good wash.

"I'm taking you to someone, darlin'. They're expectin' you, so we'd better not wait much longer. Don't want to make them impatient, do we now?" He began advancing on her once more, and Hermione felt her anger dissolving to be replaced by fear.

"And who exactly are you taking me to see?" She tried to keep her voice steady, but it wavered all the same.

"Now now, Princess, don't be sacred." Scabior smirked. "All they want is a little chat. I'm sure you can manage that."

"Who is it that wants to chat with me, exactly?" Hermione could feel her heart hammering in her chest. She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer to her question.

Scabior stopped, less than a meter separating them. There was a hungry look in his eye that Hermione didn't like, but she stared back defiantly nonetheless.

"The Malfoys, of course. Pretty sure you've 'eard of them, darlin'."

Hermione froze, watching a smile spread slowly over his face. The Malfoys? As in Draco Malfoy, childhood enemy turned Death Eater and the cause of Dumbledore's death? And Lucius, well-known supporter of Voldermort, although rumoured to have fallen out of favour with the Dark Lord? Oh no. They couldn't want to see her – the whole family were known muggle-born haters, and Hermione's presence in their house would surely involve torture. The Crutiatus curse, maybe? Or something worse than that? What if they tried to kill her? Or give information on Harry? She simply couldn't see them.

"N-no." She whispered, stumbling back. She put a hand out to catch her fall, but before she hit the ground another hand snaked around her waist, grabbing her and pulling her upright. Scabior. She struggled against him. His face was only inches from her own and his wide smile was growing rapidly. Hermione saw his eyes flash.

"Yes, Princess." He murmured softly. With a dark grin, he turned, and the next second Hermione felt a sharp tug and her feet leave the ground; she was spinning, round and round, Scabior's arm holding her tightly to him. Too tight. He was too close. She tried to pull away, but the whirl of colour and noise around her was too much – she couldn't summon up the energy to do it.


So there you go. How was it? Reviews are always welcome :)