Author's Note: Thank you for reading! This is a fanfic that is jointly written by Ras and Ryn.

Disclaimer: We do not claim any ownership to the Harry Potter books or movies, we are merely borrowing characters and world setting, and playing with it for a while.

Trigger warning: This story revolves around very dark thematic elements. This very first scene involves underage non-con, graphic violence, and some disturbing themes that may unsettle many readers. If you prefer you are welcome to skip over the first italicized scene, and remember you are the one who chooses whether or not to continue reading this. If you do not want to read it, then don't.

Chapter 1

They came for them in the dead of night, around probably three o'clock in the morning, a time when very few were awake. Certainly none in her house were until the very moment the door blew from its hinges to slam against the opposite wall, and the men, shrouded in cloaks as dark and gray as an oncoming storm, rushed in.

Her father was down the stairs first, followed by her mother, and then she herself arrived last at the scene. By the time she was at the bottom step she heard her father's screams, caught the barest glimpse of him as he fell, writhing under the tallest man's wand. Her mother turned and began to usher her back up, whispering harshly for her to hide, to find the emergency portkey to her Uncle's house in the old jewelry box on her dresser. They'd known this was coming, really, but knowing is indeed an entirely different thing from experiencing it first-hand, and as prepared as they had claimed to be, all of those little attempts served no better purpose in the middle of an attack headed by some of Grindelwald's most prized wizards. Even if Hermione had made it back up the stairs, the portkey would have been useless anyway, as she could feel the wards that had been placed around the house.

It was so sudden. One moment her mother was screaming, demanding them to stop, and the next she knew she found herself stuck in place, trying to rip her foot from where it had seemingly sank into the floor. Seemingly in the next moment she was on her back, a wand at her throat as sharp, pale blue eyes locked with hers.

Hermione didn't know she could scream so loudly until that very moment. The aching noise seemed to tear at her lungs on its way out, burning in the back of her throat even as the cruciatus snapped and fired through her every nerve. It felt like forever, that she kicked and shook, convulsing beneath her attacker, before the pain ceased and she was left sobbing quietly on the carpet. She glanced to her left and she met the dead, lifeless eyes of her mother. The other had gotten rid of the "filth" as they called her, and she hadn't even noticed, so caught up in her own agony.

She tried to sit up, and reach for the wand that had fallen from numb fingers as she spasmed, but a heavy hand came slamming down upon her wrist, and she felt it crack beneath the force of the blow as it was snapped back against the floor, clenched to the point of bruising in the man's viselike grasp. Before she had the time to be shocked at this action, she caught sight of one of them dragging her father out the door by one foot, his body trailing lifelessly across the floor behind him. She screamed, and tried to get up to get him back, but her attacker kicked her forcefully in the side and she groaned and fell back onto the floor again.

"We're going to have fun, aren't we?" he asked, his face seeming to crack open in a wide, yellowed smile that drew bile to the back of her throat. She saw him draw a knife from his belt, and he played with it between his fingers, kicking or pushing her back down again each time she tried to fight her way from beneath him.

"It's such a Muggle way," he said, but this didn't seem to deter him any more as he lowered it, slicing his way across her nightgown, "but it's so much more personal than a wand, don't you think, love?"

There was nothing left. They'd killed her mother, and taken her father-but she found herself not giving up, but filled with fire. She snarled at him even as he cut through her clothes, fighting with every ounce of strength that she had left.

It wasn't enough to stop him, as the blade drew a trail of red down of her stomach, lazily drifting down across her inner thigh, just lightly enough not to nick an artery, but enough to make her feel the pain. She refused to give him the satisfaction of showing it, and she fought as much as she could, something in her gripping on as her world spiraled out of control.

She could barely remember what followed, save that it hurt more than anything she had ever dreamed herself capable of comprehending at the age of fifteen. Her thoughts were a mess of flailing limbs, skin on skin, and blood, blood everywhere. It felt like the blade was everywhere all at once. Tears leaked out of her eyes even as she snarled soundlessly at him. Her nightgown lay in tatters on the floor, amid a slowly-spreading pool of blood as he carved graffiti in red across every available surface except her face, like her body was his own personal canvas.

She hated him. Hated him more in that moment than she had ever wished to hate, and she memorized his features to memory-promising herself that she would survive, she would get out, and she would kill this man, she would cut out his sea-blue eyes, for what he was doing to her.

If she could only just reach, or roll over, she could get her wand. She knew, without looking, where it was, calling to her to use it and escape this hell. She waited, something desperate and predatory growing inside her even as he tore her to pieces. That small little window of opportunity would come, she thought as a sort of cool, inner calm descended. She was ice. She would keep calm, and she would wait. She would get it, and take, it, and he would die.

He grunted, rising to his haunches, and she knew it was now, or death. She spun over, wrist be damned, and grabbed her wand. His eyes went wider than she thought physically possible, as the spell exploded against his abdomen, and a mess of blood and gore spattered across the once-pristine persian carpet that she and her mother had spent weeks picking out to suit the room, years ago. He fell over her, clutching his abdomen in agony as he attempted to keep his insides inside. Furious, she blasted him again, and at that close of range he physically was flung off of her, landing with a dull thud some feet away, eyes wide and staring.

She had no idea how she stood up or how she found the strength to stagger to her feet, scrambling her way in behind the couch as best she could until her fingers found the edges of the small wooden compartment there, pressing it in. At first it didn't budge, and all she could think was come on come on COME ON OH GOD MOVE, and finally, the slats fell inward and she scrambled her way into the small, cramped hiding space, pushing it shut behind her even as she curled, naked and bleeding, in her little hiding place, crying quietly.

She heared two sets of footsteps, and her mouth went dry. She licked her lips, barely breathing as the thought came to her, 'oh god they'll find me', repeating in her head like a desperate mantra, as if the very act of thinking it would keep it from happening.

The angered shouts of the men's voices rose, and she clutched her hands tightly over her ears, fingers digging into her skull as she squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to scream even as she shut the sounds from her mind.

"Girlie? Where are you, sweetheart?" asked one tauntingly, and she could just imagine him pacing slowly around the room as his footsteps drew level with her hiding place, then, slowly, passed on by. And slowly, oh so slowly, they moved away, fading into other parts of the house. If she could dare, she would have sobbed out of relief.

She was dead quiet for hours, long after they had left. The light of a soft summer sunrise filtered through the windows, by the time she ventured from her hiding place. She found herself staring down at the floor dully at the blood that coated the inside of her legs and torso, shocked that the trail of it seemed to have disappeared, from the scene of violence to her hiding place.

She knew she needed to heal herself, or she'd die at this rate. She had medical knowledge from reading, but never had to use it. Distantly she remembered the little medical kit that her father always kept in the kitchen, just in case. Sluggishly stumbling to the room, her feet slipping in her own blood upon the wooden floor, she dug through the cupboard beside the stove, sobbing brokenly as her fingers finally closed around the handle. It wouldn't be enough, but it was a start, and some small sliver of hope was all she needed, to keep moving, to keep alive.

Unstopping a bottle of dittany, she loosely managed to snag one of the drying rags from the sink, dipping the bottle down over the cloth and padding her wounds with the mixture. The tears came fresh and full, then, and she cried until she could barely work up the strength to do even that much, but by the time she had reached the bottom of the bottle of dittany, the worst of her injuries were scarred over. Something hurt, deep in her stomach, but she didn't think that would heal so easily. Shuddering, she downed two blood replenishing potions before she began the daunting task of dragging herself up the stairs to the bathroom, and cleaning the blood and gore from her body.

The trip up the stairs was less her walking up them and more hauling herself hand over hand, grabbing onto the banister for support with each shaking step. She barely felt the cold chill of the bathwater as it rushed over her. Though her nerves screamed with each motion, her body had long since descended into a state of static numbness.

She stayed in the bath for a while, unable to gather the strength to get out again for a while, sitting in the darkened bathwater She slipped into unconsciousness at some point, only awakening as her head slipped beneath the water and resurfacing with a choking cough as the sick, cloying taste of copper filled her mouth.

By then she had enough tentative strength to remember and get up. She knew what they had come for, and if she could prevent them from getting it...tt was enough. Enough to get her up and teetering out of the bathroom, and to her room. She didn't think, as she grabbed up what clothes she could think to bring, stuffing them hastily into her enchanted bag that had made her father so proud, not caring about mismatched socks that her mother would have scolded her for, or whether her skirt had been from the dirty laundry or not as she hastily pulled a pair of thick woolen stockings over her feet. As many clothes as she could gather into the bag were quickly followed by all her bedsheets as she ripped them from the mattress, two pairs of shoes and every sweater and coat in her closet. Wrapping a scarf tightly over her head and shrugging into the last coat, she stuffed one last item into her bag; an old, well-loved teddy bear, its fur knotted and grayed with age. She thrust it into her bag, desperate to hold it and sob but knowing if she did then she'd never stop, never manage to leave the room before they came back.

She went to her parent's room, thinking that if she could get the portkey that had been hidden there, then she could use it once she was outside of the wards. However, she saw immediately as she shuffled in that they had ransacked the jewelry box, and the silver ring was warped and destroyed on the floor nearby. She stifled back another sob that wanted to escape at the prospect of just what she would have to do to get to safety. But she bit it back, turned around, and left the room.

Racing down the stairs as much as she was capable, grabbing a photo frame off the wall as she went, she reached her father's study. It was ransacked, but it was hurried and messy, and it seemed they hadn't found the compartment behind the bookshelf where her father's most jealously-guarded research was stowed. She pushed the hidden latch and it clicked softly open, revealing his neatly assorted papers and books.

She dumped them, without ceremony, as fast as possible into her bag. She felt it full-force then, the slowly rising panic at the thought that they would come back soon. And she needed to raid the kitchen before she hid again. She shut the compartment, vindictively satisfied. They may have taken her father, taken her mother's life, taken any last vestige of her innocence, but they would never have the information they were seeking...

Hermione startled awake with a gasp, her hand instantly reaching for her wand under her pillow, her eyes piercing into the dark. When she realized where she was, she laid back down with a pained sob at the remembered horrors of nearly a year and a half previous. But her eyes dried quickly, as they always did after a particularly unpleasant nightmare.

The past fourteen months had been Hell, fully realized in her waking hours just as much as those spent in fitful dreams, but at least now she was waking up in a bed rather than on the cold ground.

The stark white walls seemed to stretch endlessly, like a field of snow clouding her vision and deafening all sound. For once, the room was empty, and she was so relieved not to awaken to find her uncle seated by her bedside, or her aunt knitting over in that chair by the window and trying to pretend like she wasn't watching her from the corner of her eye every time she looked away, just waiting for her to break down in a panic for yet another time that day. And as much as it all shamed her, sometimes she couldn't stop the intrusive thoughts, needling at her skull and spinning out of control. They'd try to grasp her hand or hold her, and she'd just scream, desperate for the touch and closeness to stop or she'd suffocate in the memories.

But, for now, she was calm.

It had taken three months, to reach the point where she could bring herself to speak, though her words were short, clipped off at the ends when she sank back into her head. She knew she could speak, but it was like a wad of cotton had been shoved down her throat, as if the very thought of speaking was too dangerous to bear.

Make any noise and they'll find you...Considering that, many times a choice between silence or capture, it had been, it wasn't much of a surprise that she found that words were less forthcoming save in the most simple of formations, and she could barely hold the gaze of another for more than a few split seconds before looking away, but even this much was a great improvement from the day she had first arrived.

But not being able to speak didn't mean that she couldn't listen, and listen she did. She had been a brash sort of girl before, perceptive but naive. Not anymore. She soaked in everything she could hear, settling it in to contemplate over at another time.

Lately, she heard a lot of people discussing her discharge from the hospital, and apparently today was the day. Not that she was ready to leave, really; not that she was ready to be anywhere, do anything at all. She wasn't prepared, for life, again. Not yet.

And her auntie had been unusually chipper since the news, as if once they got Hermione "home" then she would magically be cured of this...internal deadness, a lead weight on her soul. But this knowledge didn't stop them from carting her off, and her aunt and uncle from apparating her back to the family home, quick as you please thank you very much.

Standing outside the Dagworth-Granger townhouse in a new, stiff dress with an itchy collar and Mary Janes and stockings that she never would have picked out herself, she never felt so out of touch with reality or surreal in her life. This wasn't her. The outside should reflect the inside.

"Right this way, dear, we've prepared your room in advance...I hope it's to your liking," her auntie simpered, patting her shoulder lightly. She flinched, and the motion was greeted with a deep frown from her aunt that disappeared as quickly as it had come into being, and she flounced down the hall to an open door.

It was...pink. And lavender. And every other pastel color possibility. Her old room had been in dark blues and greens and rich, earthen browns from the wood. Well...at least it was one small comfort, she supposed, that it didn't remind her of home in any sense of the word.

"Thank you, Auntie," she choked out tonelessly, knowing it would appease her. Short as her words were, they brought a wide smile to her aunt's lips, and she puttered about the room, chattering aimlessly as she went about showing Hermione all the new things that had been bought for her. It might as well have been pig latin for all she understood of it, not that she cared to listen. The world, sometimes, felt like she was separated from it, muffled and jumbled, but it would pass away just as it had come. She was too focused on the family photograph that had been neatly placed in a fresh new frame on the bedstand. They had been into her things.

And she wanted her gone then, for touching what was hers. What she had guarded jealously for the past year, the only thing pushing her to keep walking forward. And she wanted to let it out, scream and rage, but she just stood there, staring at the picture with the only evidence of her fury being the fire in her eyes. Her uncle seemed to note her discontent then, and ushered his wife out with a short, "I'm sure Hermione will find all the things you got for her, dear, why don't you go see that the elves are making dinner to specification?"

"Oh goodness me I'd nearly forgotten! We're having steak and kidney pie tonight, you like that don't you? I remember you used to always ask for it whenever you got the chance." With a polite smile, Aunt Edmina swept from the room with perfect haste, not so quickly as to seem impolite but not so slowly as to seem to dawdle.

Redgemond Dagworth-Granger cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I must apologize for my wife, she is only doing what she thinks will help you settle in."

"I know," she said, unable to say more. But it was enough, at least for her uncle.

Redge nodded at this, the movement stiff and courteous, before he broke a tentative smile. "I thought you might appreciate this, a bit more." He dug through the pocket of his vest then, and drew out a silver pendant on a long chain, a series of small opals inlaid into its surface at the center. "Been in the family for years, it has, just sitting in the vault. I thought you might find more use for it."
Hermione reached out for it, not terribly pleased at the prospect of jewelry, but upon touching it felt it's protective qualities. Her eyes widened, and the most expression her uncle had seen since her return to Britain spread across Herminoe's face as she clutched it in both hands, running her thumbs over the runes formed between the pattern of opals. "Aramaic?"

"Yes well, you would know better than myself, but I'm told it's quite powerful. I hope it is enough to help put your mind at ease, at least here in our presence. I'm glad you're pleased with it," he said, as she'd actually asked a question rather than just duly reacting.

"How old is it?"

"Old as our name, dear. Old as our name." Clearing his throat, he clasped his hands behind his back. "Is there anything at all that I can do, to help make you more comfortable, in our home? I know we are a rather...stiff, sort, compared to what you are used to."

"No," she said, and she wanted to add that it was fine, but the cotton was back and she couldn't get it out. She just stared at the pendant in her hands, unable to look at her uncle anymore.

"Yes well, um. Right. If there's anything at all we can get you, just call for Whimsy and she will fetch us straight away if she can't help you herself. If you need to approach me directly, the door to my study is just down the hall."

She nodded, knowing this already, and it was stiff. She heard his dragonhide shoes against the floor, and when it was gone she breathed a small sigh of relief. She closed the door wandlessly, having picked up some small skills in her time getting to Britain out of desperation. Germany, Belgium, France...they were all ugly, in wartime. She could remember many days spent in the countryside, though, that had once been happy. Still, like most other things before...before, they were vague thoughts.

Without anything better to do, she sat down on her bed, and, much like at the hospital, she just sort of faded out, letting it pass by. The numbness was better than remembering. She didn't break from her meditative stupor until the house elf designated as 'Whimsy' appeared in the room with a loud, ear-splitting 'CRACK'.

And Hermione raced for her wand, up and armed in less than a second, her eyes blazing and a spell half-formed on her lips even as the house-elf threw her hands up in fear, before falling to the floor and cowering, hands clasped over her long, floppy ears.

Hermione lowered her wand even as the small elf began to sob profusely. "Whimsy is SO SORRY Miss, Whimsy did not mean to be scaring yous. I has been bad, I is being sorry!" Just as the elf was about to bash her head against the floor in punishment, Hermione leaped over the bed, grabbing her hands and holding her steady. It was the sharpest movement she'd made in a while, and her scars protested, which she purposely ignored.

"No no, don't do that, it's okay!" she said hurriedly, shocked that she managed to say even that much, but desperate measures were required. She released the elf the very instant she was able, her hands falling flat to her sides as she shivered slightly. "Just...knock, next time. No apparitions?"

"None," Whimsy said desperately, gesturing wildly with her hands. "Whimsy will always walk from now on for Miss," she insisted, clasping her rather stubby fingers together tightly.

Hermione nodded, exhausted already and she hadn't even survived dinner yet. It was with more than great reluctance that she headed down the stairs to the dining room, ready for come what may.

Dinner was the worst. The muffled sounds of forks scraping over plates as they ate was the only noise that broke past the dead quiet that seemed to hang from every corner of the room slowly thickening in a suffocating, invisible shroud. The cotton was back, sucking the moisture from her throat and blocking her words. She was beginning to hate her own inability to speak, and their own inability to even mimic anything remotely close to typical dinner conversation, with her present at the table. They didn't even try, really, but in a way she was somewhat grateful that they didn't attempt to pretend that this, too, was a normal situation.

Every meal was like that from the first day onward, only occasionally broken by Hermione looking up to see her aunt and uncle smiling weakly at her, as if their smiles could infuse a bit of life into her. Much as they did mean well, their smiles served less as reassurance and more to ingrain into her that this situation would never, ever be normal.

The calmest-she would have said best, but was there anything that good out there anymore?-time of day was when she was reading in the library. She'd avoided her relatives entirely in the first two days in favor of sleeping, as she had over the months swung like a pendulum between insomnia and sleeping most of the days away. But the third day she'd left her room of her own accord, and had wandered down the hall a bit aimlessly, her mind restless. She had been on the run, constantly moving for nearly a full year, before she'd made it overseas; it was strange, to be almost...safe. Comfortable.

She didn't like it. If anything, the quiet peace of the Dagworth-Granger household put her on edge even more, just waiting for the soft silence to be broken by horrified screams, much as it had within her own home, over a year previous. And so she wandered (or prowled, would perhaps be the more accurate term) about the house, rolling her wand between her fingers loosely as she explored the house from top to bottom, until she knew every passage, every room, every floor.

Hermione didn't do this just once, but actually a few times. She had a feeling her aunt and uncle had noticed, but had chosen to ignore it for reasons of their own. Whatever they were, Hermione was grateful. She'd gotten to check the wards and all of the hiding places and had planned her escape route should she need it.

One day, she began her usual rounds, passing through the halls and observing the house with quiet precision for anything out-of-place, when her Uncle left his study upon seeing her pass by, and joined her, walking at her side with his hands neatly clasped behind his back as he followed her gaze, every motion as she swayed about the house.

"Everything well then, Hermione?" he asked, giving her an indulgent smile that only showed the smallest bit of strain; a considerable improvement from the usual weak, trembling curve of Edmina's lips.

Hermione glanced over at him, and while she had known perfectly well that he had been present, she hadn't looked at him until then. "I'm checking," she said finally, turning away and doing a spell to make sure the nearby wards were in place.

"Checking what, my dear?"

She visibly swallowed a couple of times, as if it were hard to get the words out, but when she spoke her voice was collected and calm, and stronger than he'd ever heard it. "The wards and the house."

"What for?" he asked, stooping slightly to look at her as they walked. Redge was quite tall, really, just like her father was...is, she corrected herself, just like he is, we don't know that he's dead yet.

She thought about it for a few moments, hoping it wouldn't upset him, but maybe it would be good for him to know these things. They had made it to the top of the staircase and were about to head down when Hermione stopped and pointed at the door.

"You have the highground here, but it also means that you have no escape route. This is the only stair down to the first floor, so unless you have a broom or leave through one of the upper story windows, then you're stuck. It's a good vantage point, but there's not much by way of cover unless you throw that wardrobe there over on it's side...and then your enemy will immediately know that you're there. If they reach the top, the best way to prevent them from getting to you is firing a spell that will knock them back down the stairs, since they're long and twist a bit, so there's a chance they might go over the edge and break their neck." It was the longest thing Hermione had said since...well, in a very long time,, and Redge looked entirely flabbergasted by the fact that she had said so much. Perhaps too much, in fact. She froze, closing her eyes. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be telling you that."

"No, no," he reassured hurriedly, waving his hands about before him as if to stop her from following that train of thought. "It's alright, really, I want to know. It's...useful information, right?" he said, offering her a small smile, slightly weaker than the first but still present, somehow.

After a moment of speculation as she took in the expression on his face, picking it apart and garnering his motive, she continued. "It depends on how safe Britain stays," she said, but she didn't want to think about that, so she descended the stairs. A year ago, she would have never thought to descend before her elders as if taking the lead, but now she didn't care for such frivolities. They were pointless, and served no purpose in keeping her safe and alive.

"So...what else have you er, discerned, about the house?" Redge asked, tugging a bit at his tie to loosen it as they moved once again.

Hermione normally went into the sitting room next, where Edmina was, but she had a feeling this conversation would upset her a great deal, so they moved past it. "I put wards around the sitting room," said Hermione. "It's the closest room to the front door and Edmina spends most of her day there. If anyone got in, she probably wouldn't be able to put her embroidery down and grab her wand in time to defend herself. The room has tall windows though, and those are good exit points, if you have the skill to apparate and are daring enough to break one and jump, but there is always the possibility of anti-apparition wards." She gulped slightly. "We had to deal with those, not that they were really needed..." She didn't continue on, and the strength she had been exhibiting in her voice died with each moment she mentioned the memory. Redge obviously took note, but said nothing, giving her an encouraging look.

Noticing, but not willing to mention anything further, she opened the cupboard under the stairs, unable to pass by it without looking in to see if anyone was hiding there. "The safest place is the kitchen-a good few places to hide and return fire, a heat source that you can direct at any intruder, and flour...flour is explosive in the right conditions, though you'd want to make sure you were clear of the area. Not to mention that, if need be, you can hide the entrance to the cellar and remain there in relative comfort for several days, since there's food, water, and other things. A lot of families had escape routes in their cellars, in Germany. We had a..." she closed her eyes, throat working soundlessly, before she forced herself to continue, "A secret cupboard, between the kitchen and the living room, behind the couch, since we didn't have a cellar. A good thing, because they tore up the floor looking for one when they couldn't find me."

Redge's face went a pasty shade that was just barely off-white, at this confession. "You managed to hide..."

"They left only one of them in the room with me, because really, what danger would a fifteen year old girl pose when she was already hurt? My wand was only a few feet away. I called it to me, and used the entrail expelling curse...I'm fairly certain he died, but it saved my life and gave me a few spare moments. I think my magic covered up the blood trail. If it hadn't they would have found me."

She had looked so far away, so haunted, at those memories, but then she unexpectedly smiled. Vividly angry, almost a bit wild. "But they didn't get what they wanted. Not all of it."

Redge stood, speechless and pale, and she could see that his eyes were trailing over the scars about her neck and hands. He leaned heavily against the wall in the hallway. "They came looking for Jace's work, then?" he asked, voice cracking.

"They took him alive. They came back for the notes, but I'd taken them by then and hidden again, though I'd prepared to leave when I could."

"How..." Redge looked to be choking back tears; his eyes were wet with them, and he held a hand to cover his lips. "How..." he couldn't seem to work up the words. Ah, yes, he had cotton in his throat too, she realized.

She knew what he wanted to ask, though, anyway. "I was lucky that he liked to play with his food," she relented, before turning away to continue her strange little 'tour'. She didn't look back to see Redge leaning against the wall, not even when she heard a small, repressed sob from his direction.

She wondered, after that, if he'd push her away. If he wasn't ready, to know. Some part of her still told her that he hadn't been, but another, stronger part, said that she hadn't been ready either. But time stood still for no one, and Redge deserved to know the truth, at the very least. He and his wife had been more than accommodating, and more importantly, had known well enough to leave her be for a time until she had adjusted. She still wasn't at that point, quite yet; she wondered at times if she ever would be, but these things took time and healing, and that wouldn't happen unless she allowed it to.

Hermione wasn't even sure if she could handle the thought of it for a while. Letting down her guard was painful in the most unusual of ways, and the idea of ending her patrols to ease the minds of her relatives just made her panic. That had been the reasons she had panicked at St. Mungo's mainly-all those strangers coming and going and not being able to get up and check everything to make sure it was safe.

But he didn't. He didn't follow her the next day, but when she reached the end, which was always checking the backdoor to make sure its wards were safe, her uncle met her on the stairs. He looked worried, and Hermione resigned herself to whatever was coming.

"I'd like to show you something in the library," he said, and Hermione nodded before following her uncle to the library that had been across the hall from his study. It was a bit stiff and dusty, as her uncle kept the books he used the most in his study, and it made her ache at how different it was from her home. Her family had lived in the library, it seemed, more than they did in their own living room. She could still vaguely remember her father climbing the ladder to get a book, when she was younger, only to have it fly off the shelf out of his reach, followed by the small giggle of a child in the midst of the best sort of mischief.

She followed him past the shelves, and found a back table with a couple of stacks of books on them. Hermione glanced at the spines, reading that the titles varied widely except for the overarching theme of protection, from wards to spells to amulet creation.

"I thought, perhaps, that you might find these useful," he said, and afterwards cleared his throat, not sure what else to say as Hermione moved them around to peer at the different titles. "I er, suppose I'll leave you to it then-"

"Stay."

He stopped short just as he was about to move through the door, looking back to her as she turned and met his gaze. "Please?" she added, the word almost an afterthought.

After that, Redge would spend a little while in the library with her, when Hermione was reading. They worked on their own projects and didn't talk much, but it was the first social interaction they really found themselves comfortable with, in each other's presence. Eventually, Edmina found them there, and would occasionally join them as she tatted yarn or worked through a stretch of embroidery. They'd sit there for hours like that, silence only broken by the pull of Edmina's needle on fabric and the flap of paper at the turn of a page.

In private, Edmina and Redge talked, and Redge shared what Hermione had revealed to him. Horrified as she was, Edmina voiced none of her concerns outside of the privacy of their rooms, remaining prim and proper as always, as she tried to find things that Hermione liked to do that she, too, could join her with. Eventually it came to be that Hermione was with them throughout almost half their waking hours, curled up on the sofa with a book after walking the halls with Redge, while Edmina began to embroider her dresses and shirts with old protective runes and other little comforts, at Redge's suggestion. It was a small thing, but the girl seemed to appreciate the gesture nonetheless, and wore those shirts and skirts almost every day, crisp and new as they were. Soon the thought crossed their minds that perhaps things were getting better for their niece, despite the horrors she had been through.

They realized, one day, when Hermione came down from her room to seat herself at the dinner table, that they had been incorrect in this assumption.

"Hermione, dear..." Redge began awkwardly even as Edmina fainted dead away in her seat, "That's quite the um, unique haircut you have there."

Hermione sighed, and her hand reached to fiddle with the ends of her new hair. She didn't remember why she had done it, exactly. One moment she had been brushing her hair lazily in the mirror, and the next she had been filled with such a desperate self-loathing. Before she'd known it, she'd taken a pair of scissors and chopped away most of her hair to hang unevenly around her ears. "It was too matted to take care of. It was always a pain, anyway." There. That sounded reasonable. Almost.

Redge glanced over at his wife, and quickly called Whimsy to get the smelling salts, before turning back to his niece. He wasn't sure, exactly, what to say, but it didn't seem normal in any sense of the word. The young girl he had known before her most recent arrival in Britain had, despite it being messy and a bit wild, loved her hair.

"Hermione," he asked gently, leaning over the edge of the table a bit, "Are you alright?"

What a stupid question was the first thing she thought, but it was immediately followed by guilt. He was just concerned and she knew it. "I...no, not really," she said quietly, and began spooning baked cauliflower onto her plate. "And I don't want to talk about it," she said with more authority than she felt. Something of that must have shown in the way her face twisted when she said it, because Redge went very silent then, pausing only momentarily to bring his wife out of her faint and take her to another room, before he joined her once more and they finished their meal in relative silence.

"I can have a barber trim the ends for you, if you like. Or I'm certain Edmina knows a good hairdresser. It could be a nice little bob cut, like those American girls are so fond of."

"...Could they come to the house?" Hermione questioned, ashamed for having to ask but the thought of going outside made her want to vomit.

"I think so," Redge said after a moment of speculation as Edmina slowly pulled her chair back out upon entering the room again, and took her seat. "Mina dear, do you think we could get a barber or perhaps one of your friends to come and trim Hermione's hair? I think one of those popular American cuts might suit her hair at this length, don't you?"

Edmina's lips trembled slightly as she raised the fork to her mouth, and chewed through a bit of stewed beef. "Yes I think that might be possible, I'll see if I can contact Bertha about it sometime tomorrow."

"Bertha Baginold? Oh good gracious, that chatterbox? Do you really think that's such a good idea-"

Edmina gave Redge a stinging glare that momentarily brought Hermione out of her stupor. "Bertha is perfectly sweet and contains the ability to employ utmost discretion at need, I will have you know."

Hermione almost smiled. Apparently, despite everything, if Edmina wanted something then that was that. But she didn't and instead just stored away that knowledge for later use and consideration. She was too...tired (she didn't think that was the right word but it was all that came to mind) to handle it now.

And so, the very next day Edmina floo-called her dear friend, who promptly bustled her way through the fireplace into the kitchen with a neat little box under one arm and a grumpy expression upon her face. She was rather portly (almost as if the name itself required it), but there was a certain glow about her that was almost comforting; motherly. The glow almost hid her sharp intelligence, but Hermione had begun to notice those sort of things by sheer instinct over the past year.

"Oh Lordy," Bertha exclaimed, dumping the box onto the sofa unceremoniously and sending its contents shifting and clanking about within the box. She came over close to Hermione, looking the girl over. Hermione, in turn, was rigid and met the woman's eyes, clearly resigned to whatever she would say.

Bertha took her chin in hand and she shied away at the touch, but Bertha grabbed right on and held her in place as she turned her head from side to side, looking her over. "Such a travesty. You have the Granger's voluminous locks and yet you chopped it all off."

"I didn't like it anymore." It was all the explanation she had to give, weak as it was, but she stuck with it. Repetition was key, with lies. Or maybe it was truth. She didn't even think enough to care for the difference.

Bertha just sniffed unappreciatively at Hermione's lackluster explanation. "Whatever your reason was, if you don't grow it out past this point then you'll send Edmina into a right tizzy and Lord knows Edmina in a tizzy is something to behold."

Hermione liked this woman. She was sensible and had a certain honest brutality to her words that almost made her smile. It was nice to not have someone walking on eggshells around her. Bertha didn't pretend that Hermione was a happy, healthy young woman. She didn't even touch on the subject, save to bop her on the head lightly when she shied away and snap, "You don't jump when someone is holding a pair of scissors by your ear, girl! You could lose it and then you wouldn't be able to hear Edmina's woes when she has a conniption! Actually, that might be a positive, but don't do it anyways!" and Hermione would reply reluctantly, "Yes Mrs. Baginold," and she would swat her shoulder and say "It's Bertha to you, you'll be seeing me about often enough."

Bertha stayed for another hour after that, having tea and biscuits in the sitting room with Edmina while Hermione sat idly by, absently fingering the short, neatly-trimmed ends of her new bob. She wasn't sure she liked it quite yet, and beyond that wasn't sure why she should care about such a thing. It wasn't important. A neat, tidy haircut wasn't going to keep her alive.

Edmina didn't cringe when she looked at Hermione anymore, though, so perhaps that was something to be thankful for at the very least.

After that incident, though, things ran smoothly. Edmina would chatter away incessantly at her as Hermione curled up beside her with a book in her lap, and she'd occasionally glance up when Edmina said her name, signifying she had to actually listen and possibly respond. Eventually the chatter became like white noise, and thus very relaxing. Hermione occasionally found herself nodding off upon the cushions beside her, noting from the corner of her eye the small, tentative little smile that graced Edmina's lips as she would reach out and tuck her short locks back behind her ear, and murmur about getting her a few pretty little hairpins to keep it from her face. And Hermione would always wake up covered in a blanket smelling of lilacs and crisp spring mornings.

The next time a wrench was thrown into their routine, it was with the arrival of two unexpected guests to morning brunch. Two people, in particular, that Hermione had hoped to avoid as much as humanly possible. The fact that Edmina and Redge had told everyone, including them, to not drop by unannounced (as it made Hermione defensive) only made her more annoyed.

Things were very tense between the matron of the Dagworth-Granger family and her estranged eldest son, Hermione's father, who had been partially disowned as a result of his insistence upon involvement with the magical world despite marrying a muggle and being a squib.

Hermione always thought her grandmother looked like she had a smudge of something nasty that nobody could quite see, just under her nose, that she was always smelling, because she had this weird sort of repulsed expression at every new thing that she regarded, and Hermione was no exception to this. When her grandmother stepped into the dining room and saw Hermione seated at the table with a book unfolded beside her brunch plate, the first thing to leave her lips was "Oh good gods she looks feral."

"Mother!" Redge exclaimed, a horrified look upon his face. Even Edmina, who saw the best in everyone, was not looking kindly upon her mother-in-law.

Hermione averted her eyes from the obnoxious woman, hating just how much they looked alike (Hermione hated to admit that she was the spitting image of this devil woman), instead choosing to regard her grandfather with a wary gaze. He smiled tentatively even as he hid behind the old crone, nodding politely. Perhaps, before everything that had happened in the past year, she might have returned that smile. Now she just looked down at her food, continuing to eat.

"Hmph." the Dagworth-Granger matron sneered, before primly seating herself beside Edmina. "She ought to learn proper manners or be switched for misbehavior, you've been negligent with your niece, boy." She glanced sharply at the gloves and scarf Hermione wore, which clashed horribly with her dress. "Take that foolish, inappropriate attire immediately, young lady.

Calmly, Hermione removed her gloves, and then her scarf, revealing the ugly scars that circled her hands and neck and that dipped into her collarbone and below, carving 'mudblood' just below. The Dagworth-Granger matron gave a horrified gasp, and a little exclamation of "How disgusting." Hermione almost moved to replace the scarf, but looking at the absolutely scandalized expression on her grandmother's face was more than worth the feeling of near-painful exposure.

Hermione coldly regarded the odious hag. "You honestly think after crossing two warzones and multiple countries on foot that I wouldn't have scars?"

The Dagworth-Granger matron muttered angrily under her breath and dug into the food that Whimsy hastily placed before her with unnatural fervor, though she picked over every piece of meat before eating it, obviously avoiding besmirching the 'pleasant' atmosphere by looking at the offending girl. However, her grandfather's gaze was not so averted-he looked clearly concerned, and his eyes never wavered from her face save to slip down to the blatant scars that even crossed over her knuckles and hands, no spot having been left without graffiti.

Brunch was a very awkward affair after that, the silence not broken by anyone for the next hour or so until everyone was done. As soon as her grandmother was done, she excused herself as quickly as she could and left the dining room as if Hermione's troubles were contagious.

"That wasn't very nice..." Edmina eventually managed to say.

"And what would you rather I do, hide my skin from the world for the rest of my life?"

"Not you, dear," said Edmina, "I was referring to the old bitch."

Hermione and Redge both gaped, completely not seeing that coming, and Hermione's grandfather choked on his pumpkin juice on what strangely sounded like a laugh.

"I ah, must apologize for my wife," he said tentatively, even as the floo roared from the other room signifying her leaving. "She does what she wants and anyone else be damned."

Hermione wasn't surprised, in all honesty. Not all wizarding marriages were made out of Dagworth-Granger union had been for both political and monetary reasons, and it was almost blatantly obvious in the way they behaved around one another. The Matron ignored her husband, and he quietly sat at her side, until she was out of the room. This seemed to be the basis of their relationship. And then, as if her very presence seemed to stifle him, he'd perk up and begin speaking and interacting, as if waking from a deep sleep.

Like sleeping beauty, Hermione thought as a small smile twitched at the corner of her lips, but went no further than that a very wrinkly, old sleeping beauty.

Her grandfather looked at Hermione with a sad smile, and Hermione was reminded so very much of her father that it hurt. They had the same eyes, and they had worn that same expression when Hermione cried at ten when they decided to have her privately tutored rather than send her to Beauxbatons.

"How are you, dear child?" he asked as Hermione helped herself to another glass of orange juice.

She wanted to sigh at how everyone seemed to ask her this question.

"Settling in alright? I know this house can seem rather big at times. But it's a nice townhouse. I was raised here, with my sister," he said, seeming to understand that Hermione wasn't going to answer his last question and he would settle for chatting at her. Much like Edmina, actually. "...and so I was thinking it might be nice if we could pop down to Diagon Alley some day and get you a few school things, just the four of us, mm?"

"School?" asked Hermione, taken by surprise. She glanced over at her aunt and uncle, not sure what to feel.

"Oh, I apologize...I didn't realize she hadn't been told..."

"Ah..." Redge began awkwardly, "We don't have access, here, to such a wide pool of potential instructors for you. Learning at home is possible, but not practical, so we figured that it might be for the best."

"No, I understand," said Hermione quickly, knowing it was expensive. "I just..."

"I know dear, it's a sharp change after such a long time, and I know you've never been in school before but it might do you good to be around a few boys and girls your own age...make friends, and the like," said Edmina.

"Hogwarts also has the largest library in Britain aside from that at the Ministry, and is well protected with ancient wards," said Redge helpfully, and while her grandfather looked a bit confused at why his son would mention that, no one else was surprised.

Hermione hated to feel it, but she felt betrayed. She had just been settling in and feeling...peaceful. Or at least able to rest some small amount without waking up screaming every night. She could still remember the first night, when Whimsy had gone barrelling across the hall to the Dagworth-Granger's master bedroom and sobbed that 'Miss is not waking and she is so scared', sending both her aunt and uncle bounding into the room in their nightclothes to comfort her, futile as the effort was.

Hermione looked down at her food, not eating but not able to look at her relatives. She saw, out of the corner of her eye, Edmina turn to her husband, concerned, but couldn't see her uncle's expression.

Her grandfather cleared his throat and pulled a bit at his collar. "Yes, well, thank you all for the delightful brunch, I apologize for dropping in on you so suddenly. And Hermione, dear, just let me know and I'd be more than happy to take you shopping. Maybe get you a pet for school, along with your supplies."

"Thank you, grandfather," she said, finding the cotton was in her mouth again and her words felt hollowed, but she managed to get that much out at least before it closed over the inside of her throat.

"Toodle-pip!" he said cheerfully as he popped his bowler over his balding head and walked into the sitting room to the floo, soon followed by the roar of the fire as he passed through.

The three of them sat in uncomfortable silence, only broken when Edmina piped up, "We were meaning to tell you, Hermione, we just...weren't sure what to say..."

Hermione quietly stood, pushing her chair in as she left the table. She didn't look back to see Edmina stand and reach out as if to stop her, or Redge lay a hand on his wife's shoulder and quietly get her to sit down once more. All Hermione wanted was to be alone.

"Yes well the girl is indeed a particularly special, unique case," an elderly, crackling voice echoed from the sitting room as Hermione crouched down just beyond the door, listening to the conversation of the strangers within. Her fine-tuned instinct, wire-thin as it was, had alerted her the very instant that they had guests in the house and she had crept down, silent as a snake about to strike, but instead leaning her head back against the wall and listening as the words filtered through the door.

"It's a fragile situation," another voice agreed, "And I think due process need not be entirely followed to the letter, if we are going to have Hermione be as comfortable as possible within the walls of our great castle," said another, slower voice that seemed to send waves of lulling calm with its very tone. Something about that set her on high alert. It was the sort of natural, instinctive magic that suggested power. Great power. "Hermione, I think, would not be comfortable within the dorms, regardless of what house she is placed in."

"But Albus," said the other, elder male, "It's entirely unheard of!"

"A special situation calls for special alterations to the rules, Armando," he said, and for all of the softness and politeness of its tone, it held authority that seemed to cow the other into silence. She could imagine 'Armando', as he had been named, nodding unconsciously in agreement despite his own discomfort.

Not to mention she had a very, very bad feeling about who "Albus" could be.

"She's still very...fragile," said her uncle. "Honestly, Edmina and I, since we told her, have wondered about the wisdom in this decision. She is comfortable here with us, and we will miss her deeply. And you know how children can be, especially since Hermione's trauma is very visible."

"Yes, there is that matter, isn't there?" Armando said, and she could just imagine him padding at his forehead with a kerchief. "I suppose some amount of leniency can be employed in this situation, she has never been in school before after all, and perhaps consistent attendance will not be such a heavy requirement. She's quite far ahead on her own, if these reports are correct," he chattered, and the quiet shuffling of paper reached her.

"We should consider that perhaps she isn't ready," said Albus quietly.

"Nonsense," said Armando. "Getting into the swing of life will be good for the girl!"

"Armando, she walked through a warzone over a year after her parents were murdered, when she herself was thought to be long-dead. The girl is not just 'any other teen', she has been through a great deal of struggle and is not yet acclimated to society. At the very least, we should do all that we have the capability to, to ease her into this setting. Hogwarts is indeed a rather boisterous place, when the children are about, and she should have some form of escape from that at times, I think."

"Yes yes," said Armando, his voice wavering. "Any other suggestions?"

"I don't know," piped up Edmina unexpectedly, and Hermione could sense the hardly suppressed tears in her voice. "I'm so worried about her, she barely spoke when she first came to us...she was like a ghost, just flitting about the halls and jumping at every little noise...I don't know if she's ready for this, Redge, I don't know at all and if we hurt her by doing this I-"

The shifting of fabric was followed by Edmina's quiet sobs as Redge hugged her tightly. "Now, dearest, she'll be alright. She's a strong girl, and if there's even the slightest hint that things are not well, we will bring her back and she'll stay with us.. I can teach her potions, at the very least, I am qualified in that. And we'll find some way for her to get her education. I won't deny her that, as brilliant as she is."

"Perhaps it would be wise, Armando, rather than to have her come at the beginning of the term, to arrive as the holidays start so she can become familiar with the school, and the locations of her classes."

"Oh yes yes, that would be perfectly acceptable," Dippet agreed, and she could practically see him nod sagely at this suggestion.

Hermione moved to step away, a hand over her lips as she felt a hot, wet tear slide down her cheek and wiped it hastily.

The floor creaked. Hermione froze in place, wand clenched in her hand, as the door cracked open and Redge peered out. "Hermione, why don't you come in, dear? We have some people here who would like very much to meet you."

Hermione nodded stiffly, and as Redge turned around she quickly wiped her watery eyes to remove the evidence of her weakness before entering the room.

A rather frail, thin old man perched on the edge of the couch, closest to the door, practically drowning in his voluminous robes of state. He had a short, neatly-trimmed beard and long curly white hair that fell loosely over his shoulders from beneath his fur cap. Across from him sat a tall man with fiery red hair, liberally streaked with gray and peppered hints of white and watching her shrewdly over his half-moon spectacle. He was considerably younger, but seeming to bely wisdom to the age of the man beside him. He, as well, was seated on the couch, but closest to the floo and with his wand neatly resting upon his lap. This man, she realized, he was a warrior. She stiffened her own hold on her wand unconsciously, and it seemed that this action did not escape the man's notice, as his eyes flicked momentarily downward before returning to her face. The smaller, older man, however, was very blatantly focused on the scar across her collarbone.

"This is our niece, Hermione," said Redge as an introduction.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, dear girl," the younger man said, eyes twinkling a bright, disconcerting blue. "I am Albus Dumbledore, the transfiguration teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the man beside me is Armando Dippet, our headmaster."

Hermione stiffened at Dumbledore's name, having somewhere known it was really him but even more nervous now that it was confirmed. She didn't even turn to look at the headmaster, instead keeping a wary

"I've heard all about you. You're the one Grindelwald wants to kill," she said, voice low. "You're the one he always curses at when his plans fail." And she knew other things, too, but she wasn't going to say them in polite company.

Dippet stiffened visibly, and gave a nervous laugh. "Haha yes well, that's neither here nor there-"

Dumbledore held up his hand just slightly, and Dippet trailed off into awkward silence. "Hermione," he said kindly, "We would very much like it if you joined us at Hogwarts, to complete the remainder of your education."

Hermione stood there for a moment, considering it. She didn't want to go, and that much she knew. However, she didn't want to be any more of a burden to Redge and Edmina than she had been since she'd arrived. They were well off, but private tutors had been an extensive drain on her father's inheritance, dwindling it almost to nothing. She didn't want to do that to the young couple-they were only ten years older than her, and surely wanted children of their own.

"I'll go," she said, and she saw Redge and Edmina smile from their seats across from her. Armando Dippet was saying something unimportant, basically saying how happy they were to have her at Hogwarts, and she tuned him out. It was Dumbledore who she was paying attention to-he was smiling at her acceptance, but yet there was a hint of sadness to him as well even as he held her gaze, his blue eyes seeming to burrow past her own into the deepest recesses of her thoughts, and for a moment she saw a different pair of blue eyes, one she had forced herself not to think of for many months.

"Very good then, very good!" Dippet piped up, clapping his hands loudly and jolting her out of her reverie as she tore her gaze from Dumbledore's. It had seemed, in that moment, like he was looking into her soul with those piercing eyes, and that twinkling little smile was beginning to annoy her.

Something told her that she was not going to like Albus Dumbledore very much, in the coming days.