Hi. I've had this story in my head for quite a while now. I had never really given Hermione my full attention, however after reading 'Chasing the Sun' by Loten (a truly incredible read if you have not found it yet) I began to give her some more thought. She's an interesting character because so often people just portray her as the smart one, who miraculously seems to have answers to everything, and because of that always seems so sure of herself.

But really, if you were that intelligent I doubt even that would save you from having an absolute breakdown, and perhaps you would look at the life you could have had with your innate skills and you might even feel a bit of jealousy for that life that you have missed out on. What I'm saying is, what if Hermione suddenly woke up to the fact that in the magical world she's a genius, but that in the muggle world she's the equivalent of a high school drop out without qualifications. That the only place that can now accommodate her is the magical world for exactly that reason.

And what if, on realising that her only future lies in the magical world she begins to rebel against this thought. After all, what has the magical world done for her except traumatise her? What if she decides she's had enough of it (especially if post-war reforms aren't quite what she was expecting).

So yes, this is going to be Hermione-in-the-muggle-world fic, and I plan to introduce a bit of OC romance along the way just because I can.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter or anything you recognise from the Harry Potter world. Ms Rowling owns that...lucky her!

All but Death, can be Adjusted

by Emily Dickinson

All but Death, can be Adjusted -
Dynasties repaired -
Systems - settled in their Sockets -
Citadels - dissolved -

Wastes of Lives - resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs -
Death - unto itself - Exception -
Is exempt from Change -

Chapter 1:

Hermione stared balefully at the plate in front of her.

"Spaghetti again Ginny?" she said, glancing up at the redhead still dishing out serves of meatballs and cheese laden pasta, after all they had had spaghetti and meatballs for the last five nights. She was rewarded by a piercing glare by the other witch.

Hermione sighed and look down again at the table.

It wasn't so much the repetition of the meals she had been having that was getting her down, it was the reason behind why they had these meals.

In the past, ever since the very first time she was invited to the Burrow, the home of the Weasley's was one of the most comforting and welcoming places she could think of. And at its' heart had always been the kitchen. Hermione could easily recall sitting in the very same place she now sat and watching Mrs Weasley potter about over a cup of tea. The Weasley matriarch's kingdom was, without question, the kitchen. She knew where every single item lay in wait, she multi-tasked in a way that Hermione had watched with envy and tried to mimic in her own studies, and more importantly Mrs Weasley managed to monitor the lives and problems of those around her. All from her own personal control centre in the kitchen.

The kitchen itself wasn't anything particularly grand. Hermione looked around her and found it had changed very little in the years she had been friends with Ron. There was a gas oven that was old and, as Hermione had once found out, quite prone to spurting fireballs when one let down one's guard. The fridge and the cooler box were always filled with anything one might wish, and one of Hermione's greatest pleasures was the full cream milk that Mrs Weasley had always managed to get from a neighbour who owned her own cows. The wooden breadbox always held a freshly baked loaf, and the eggs in the egg basket were always fresh from the coop in the morning.

And at the centre of it all was Mrs Weasley. She would pat the stove affectionately as it spurted flames, and seemed to master the ability of whipping up a fresh batch of scones with jam and cream whilst pouring out dozens of cups of tea for her guests.

It had been truly idyllic, Hermione thought with a twist in her heart.

Because now, the truth was, this quaint little kitchen that had always provoked such warm and happy memories now seemed lacklustre. In Hermione's view it seemed as if the life had been drained out of it.

Mrs Weasley had barely emerged from her room since the Battle of Hogwarts five weeks ago. When she did emerge it was in a state that had the household holding their breath. She would come out of her room without warning, make her way to the kitchen and would then start some menial housework such as washing the dishes or putting the kettle on, until something or someone inevitably triggered something in her.

Those watching could never tell what exactly set her off. One minute they would be watching with baited breath as the Weasley matriarch, so often figure of strength and fortitude to her children, seemed to be clawing her way back from her despair, then the next moment something would happen - a sound, a sigh, a visual cue - and Mrs Weasley would break down into racking sobs. Those standing by would watch in helpless agony as they watched her crumble, collapsing into a chair.

Hermione had been present for a number of these episodes, and at each one she felt more and more helpless and miserable. She knew Ron and Ginny had no idea how to handle their mother in this state, and more often than not nowadays they would simply leave her in the kitchen, sitting silently in the living room until the sounds of someone shuffling upstairs were heard and the door to Mr and Mrs Weasley's room was clicked shut.

Ginny had taken on the mantle of chief housekeeper, and had been cooking for them all after Ron and Harry had claimed they would never eat another of Hermione's 'experiments'. It was true, Hermione thought with an internal smile, while camping with the boys she had discovered this one impenetrable truth - she had no aptitude for the art of cooking. She could happily appreciate the skills of others, but her own talents in that department were next to useless.

Ron on the other hand, had discovered he had inherited his mother's knack for putting together a meal from the barest of ingredients. When he had left Harry and Hermione during the hunt for horcruxes she and Harry had acutely felt the loss of his ability to mix and match spices. Harry had been able to dabble with the spice bag they carried with them, and had turned out some reasonable cooking attempts, but the artistry and subtle flavours that Ron produced had been absent.

Ron did not, however, enjoy the act of cooking. At all. He much preferred the end result. And because of this it was Ginny who had been left to take over the majority of the household chores. She had quickly learnt to adapt herself to the position, and Hermione had been quite impressed at the rate at which Ginny seemed to have picked up minor household spells. Hermione helped where she could, of course, but she had also been extremely busy in the aftermath of the Battle and didn't seem to have the same innate sense that Ginny had for running the Weasley household.

Even so, Ginny did not match Ron in the culinary skills. And thus their main nourishment came in the form of pasta every night, with an occasional roast chicken. Harry sporadically cooked omelettes for them all, but even that got tedious after a while.

Hermione watched Ginny from beneath her lashes. The young witch had certainly matured since the trio had left her at Bill's wedding so long ago. Hermione did not know the full story of what had happened at Hogwarts over the past year, and Ginny didn't seem like she was going to reveal anything any time soon. Hermione had asked Neville at one of the funerals they had both been at, however Neville's eyes had seemed to grow dark and he had told Hermione that it was business best left unsaid, and that he hadn't done much and that most of it was Ginny's story to tell anyway. Hermione had decided, upon seeing Neville's darkened face, that perhaps it was better not to ask questions.

"Yum!"

Hermione turned her head to the new arrivals in the kitchen. Ron's eyes lighting up when he spied the piles of food in his bowl. Hermione rolled her eyes. The only thing that ever seemed to lighten up Ron these days was food. His own tried and true comfort. In truth, Hermione was not just a little relieved at the way Ron's relationship with food served as a distraction when he began to get lost in his own thoughts. She was more than happy to pile up the servings on his plate in exchange for a smile, or a moment's rest from the near-constant sadness that was in his eyes.

The Weasley family had lost a part of their soul in this last war. With Fred gone, George and Mrs Weasley had fallen apart. George stayed in his room here at the Burrow, but never emerged. Each day one of the four would unofficially volunteer to carry his meals to him. They would venture into the room, their gaze directed anywhere but on the empty bed in the room - still made up as if its owner was only a floo-call away. They would leave the dish by George's bed in which a his shadowy lump stayed stationary, and when they returned to pick it up they would carry it away just as silently.

More often than not it came back untouched.

Hermione often paused in the room when it was her turn, holding her breath to check that the remaining twin was still breathing.

Mr Weasley had started back at the office. Hermione thought she had heard mention of a promotion, but if that was the case then no one was celebrating it. In fact, there had been lots of promotions amongst Ministry staff, but no one was in a festive mood. Most of the promotions were due to positions being vacated "de facto mortality" and so getting a promotion was often just a reminder of tragedies.

His hours had increased, and he usually returned long after supper. He would grab the plates left out for him and Mrs Weasley, kept warmed by charms, and make the long and weary journey up the staircase to his room. The thing Hermione hated most was the look in his eyes as he did so - it was the look of a man who had been stretched beyond hope. Hermione had not been impervious to his physical state either. She could do naught but watch as he lost weight, as the bags underneath his eyes grew more prominent daily, as he developed a fine tremor that she noticed when he poured his tea.

Bill and Charlie had returned home to their respective countries. They had other lives to retreat to, and Hermione hated herself for envying them. They had the luxury of escaping this version of hell. They had stayed after the war for a week, during which they had helped the others rebuild the physical structure of the Burrow and strengthened their wards with complexities that Hermione had no hope of understanding only this far into her wizarding education. She strongly suspected they had mixed some blood ward magic in as well, and she was happy that after such a terrifying year she now felt relatively safe in bed at night.

Harry had, like Ginny, matured over the past year. Hermione had watched him turn from the moody and easily-angered teenager into a more mature young man who had, over the past few weeks, attended more funerals than anyone their age ought to have attended. He was often given the dubious 'honour' of speaking at the funerals, and Hermione had to admit that despite Harry's susceptibility to tempers and tendency towards mood swings (albeit less often and less forceful than before the Battle) he was a remarkably charismatic man. She supposed it was a role that he had never asked for, and certainly had never wanted, but Harry was proving to be a pillar of strength to the magical community in these tragic times. She had seen more than one young mother bring her child to Harry when he was out in public. The first time he had been approached thus it had been obvious he had no idea what to do. But Ginny had been by his side and had engaged the young mother in conversation before guiding Harry to perform a sort of blessing on the child.

It was unwanted attention, but Harry seemed to have resolved himself to his fate. He seemed, in Hermione's eyes at least, to have accepted that his name and infamy would forever follow him. Unlike in the past where Harry had resolutely run from any public outing, now he simply seemed to resign himself to the experience. Hermione wouldn't say he enjoyed it, but she could see that he would bear it without (much) complaint. He was growing up, she thought with a sad smile. It was just a pity that he had to grow up into such a role, that he couldn't have the quiet little life surrounded by naught but family and friends that she knew he had always wanted.

Ginny had forgiven him for leaving her to go on the hunt for the horcruxes. Initially she had been furious, but Hermione suspected it was more an act than anything after they had reunited after the Battle happy and whole. Ginny had, with everyone else, watched as Hagrid had carried Harry's limp body at Hogwarts. And she knew that it was an image that would be burnt into Ginny's eyes, just as it haunted her own dreams at night. After going through the whirlwind of emotions when they thought he was dead Hermione was hardly surprised that Ginny didn't hold out on her grudge.

In truth, Hermione couldn't remember the last time she had seen Harry as happy as he had been recently. The moments only lasted minutes, when he had Ginny curled into his side by the fireplace and baby Teddy tucked under the other arm. But in those moments Hermione could see that Harry's demons had now gone. She could tell instantly that his future would be a bright one. Harry had only ever wanted one thing; family. Now it seemed as if his dream was closer than he had realised.

And as for herself, she knew she had changed since that last battle. How could she not have? To have witnessed so much murder and bloodshed. To have seen torture. To have been tortured herself in Malfoy Manner. To watch Hagrid bring the lifeless body of her best friend out of the forest. Yes, she knew she had changed, although she could not pinpoint exactly how.

Maybe she had become disillusioned with the whole idea, she mused. She had seen first hand how destructive magic could be, and how prejudiced and ignorant the wizarding world was. This world, so reliant on magic, so shut from the rest of the world. Had any of them realised what globalisation was achieving? Had any wizard realised that phones existed and were a much easier method of long-distance communication than sticking one's head in the fireplace and often ending up with a sooty nose?

The war had made her question aspects of the wizarding world she hadn't thought to question previously. It made her see it all in a new light - although what exactly that light revealed she couldn't quite find the words to express. She still felt wonder and excitement at the idea of magic, and she appreciated that to be able to wield such magic was a gift, but now it all seemed somewhat polluted in her mind and in her heart. All her feelings were a jumble but she couldn't quite work out what her thoughts about it all were. Instead, she would have to slowly wait as that bundle unravelled at its own pace and allowed her to sift through things one at a time.

Ginny finished serving the pasta onto their plates and dinner continued with the same heavy atmosphere as it did every day. It was only the four of them at the table each night, and here in the burrow the tangible feeling of loss was never apparent than at dinner time. Each of them would sit quietly eating their meals, each lost in their own ghosts of times past, of previous occupants of the seats around them. They recalled past conversations, the dim memories of laughter and fun and pranks, of herds of redheads stuffing themselves with mountains of food with the echo of their mother's chastisements in the background.

BANG

Hermione startled out of her chair, and the four of them all stood suddenly, wands drawn reflexively. Mr Weasley opened the door, letting himself in. It had obviously been raining as he was sopping wet, and he hung up his dripping raincoat quickly by the door before turning around. He raised his eyebrows as he took in the defensive stance of the foursome and raised his arms in surrender when he noted the four wands trained on him.

Hermione was the first to sheepishly lower her wand. The reflexes that war had driven into them would take a long time to fade, and even sounds such as a door banging closed or the loud pop of apparition tended to result in the automatic response of 'wands first, questions later'.

The others resumed their seats, and they watched at Mr Weasley as he quickly cast a drying charm on himself and went to pick up his and Mrs Weasley's meals that Ginny had left in their bowls by the sink.

"Not much to report from the Ministry" he said. His face was drawn, and Hermione noticed that his shirt was crumpled. Every movement he made seemed to be laced with a bone-deep weariness and Hermione could only watch as the man who had once been so full of life, so excessively enthusiastic at the smallest things, seemed to have been drained.

She didn't know how much longer he would be able to cope, she only hoped it was long enough. Surely there would eventually come a time when Mrs Weasley and George would be able to face the day. It was just a matter of time.

Even so, the war had aged Mr Weasley as it had aged all of them.

A great war leaves the country with three armies; an army of cripples, an army of mourners and an army of thieves Hermione remembered reading the quote in a book many years ago, and it had always stuck with her. How true she thought, and unconsciously rubbed the scar stretching down her left forearm. Nobody escapes war, even those that survive.

Ginny curled up within Harry's arm on the couch by the fire, a book resting on her bended knees. He sat rhythmically stroking her hair. He seemed to have zoned out, watching the flames in the fireplace curl upwards.

Hermione nestled herself next to Ron, whose arm came around to bring her closer to him. She laid her head back on his shoulder and tried to relax. It was difficult. Since the war had ended Ron was filled with tension, she could feel it in the knots of his back and the rigidity of his shoulders. She supposed that she also was likely full of tension. She certainly felt tense. She felt as if she couldn't relax, couldn't let go of the memories, of the thoughts, and of the thousands of things wrong in the world that she wanted to fix.

But it was no use. She couldn't relax. Not now. Not when so many things were wrong.

"McGonagall wants us to go to Hogwarts tomorrow" she said into the silence.

"She's starting the rebuild later this week and wants to put everyone in working parties. She suggested we come along and help. She said our presence might be added incentive".

Harry snorted. He may have made peace with his public role, but he would never enjoy the frank admiration that thousands, despite never meeting him, had for him.

They fell into silence once more, each of them watching the wood crackle in the fireplace.

"I don't know if I want to go back" said Harry softly, and Ginny stirred against him.

"I haven't been there since...you know".

Hermione glanced up at Ron, who was sitting very still and watching Harry. His mouth drawn into a tight line. She knew what Ron wanted to ask because she wanted to know the same thing. Neither of them had broached the subject of what had happened in the forest, and although they had discussed it amongst themselves they decided they would wait until Harry decided to let them in.

"I...he...I don't know if I want to go back to that place" said Harry again.

Ginny turned around in her seat and held Harry closer, burying her face into his shirt. Harry was staring into the distance as if lost in a memory.

"Harry...we meant to ask earlier but it's been so hectic recently" she started. Ron squeezed her shoulders a little and she hoped that it was a squeeze of encouragement and support, not a warning.

"Do you think you could maybe tell us a bit about what happened in there? It might help you, and us, deal with it all." she asked quietly. She wasn't sure if she was playing with fire, and past experience had taught her that such personal questions and provoking personal memories had the ability to send Harry off into one of his rages.

"Yeah mate. I mean, we've not wanted to ask until now. But maybe, if we're going to go back tomorrow and all...maybe it's an idea to let us know a bit more about what happened" said Ron, squeezing her shoulder again. She was thankful she had him by her side.

"You know, because even though it was a bloody long battle once things started happening it was all over pretty bloody fast in the end, and then you...in the forest..." Ron trailed off.

Hermione knew what he was seeing in his mind. It was the same picture that plagued her at night.

The woods were dark in the background, the battleground before them stretched for miles and was littered with shadowed lumps that were the remains of the witches and wizards that had given their life in this culmination of everything that Harry, Hermione and Ron had been working towards over this past year.

The earlier sounds of battle had softened, and a temporary truce seemed to have been reached amongst the Hogwarts' survivors and the Death Eaters. Those within Hogwarts walls had moved onto collecting the bodies of loved ones, moving them en masse into the Great Hall.

Hermione's stomach lurched when she saw the mountains of bodies, her mind conjuring up similar images she had once seen in a muggle history book about the second world war.

She had left Ron with his siblings, quietly mourning over the loss of Fred. She had asked Ginny if she had seen Harry, but Ginny had simply looked at her with tear streaks on her cheeks and an almost vacant, deadened expression in her eyes that Hermione decided she did not want to explore at that moment.

She had found Neville and together they had found a spot to rest outside, amongst the rubble and debris that was what remained of the great castle that had once stood there. Hermione hadn't been able to find Harry, she knew he had gone off on his own and just prayed that he wasn't stupid enough to listen to Voldemort's 'negotiations'.

As if Voldemore would ever let them all live, even if Harry did turn himself over.

But another part of Hermione told her that, knowing her best friend as she did with all his heroic tendency and desire to protect others, that he may well have done the unthinkeable.

There was nothing she could do but wait.

Much later, with the sun now long past its' zenith and on the homeward journey west, Neville imperceptivity straightened in his seat and Hermione could feel his muscles tense beneath her head. She looked up, and spied the movement that was happening at the edge of the forest.

Quickly casting her Patronus and sending it to fetch Ron and the others, knowing that the others in the Great Hall would follow suit, she stood up and unconsciously wiped some bloody gunk off the seat of her pants.

The figures drew closer, and Hermione could see one figure whose gigantic stature was unmistakeable.

She squinted...Hagrid was carrying something?

She heard Neville's breath hitch next to her a second before she realised what she was seeing before her eyes.

Harry.

Dead.

Harry Potter. HER Harry Potter...dead...no...

For a moment she couldn't breathe. Quite literally was not able to draw air in or expel it out as her chest seized in horror. Her world started to spin, every noise seemed to become both louder and softer at the same time. The world seemed to be a contradiction of states - everything was too clear, to bright, yet all too confused and jumbled for her to make sense of.

A second later she felt Neville's hand on her arm.

She heard Ginny's desperate cry then, mixing with the gasps of those around her as they, too, recognised the body within the half-giant's arms.

She grabbed Neville with her other arm, clutching him to regain some sense of stability in a world that had just been turned upside down.

A comforting warmth moved behind her, and she felt the unmistakeable weight of Ron's head as he buried himself in her hair, hiding himself from the horror they were facing.

Harry.

Dead.

Voldemort had won.

Although it had been a whole five weeks since that moment, it was all too easy to recall the utter despair she had felt as her world had come crashing down, as she had believed in that moment that everything they had worked towards had been ruined.

Of course, when they had realised the truth, unbelievable though it was, she had been filled with an relief so profound there were not words to describe it.

Harry sat in the silence. For a long time Hermione wondered if he had decided to, once again, brush their questions aside and refuse to recount those moments where he had wandered away to fight battles of his own.

"I died" he said simply, still staring into the flames with a far away look in his eyes that suggested he was far removed from the cosy living room in which he physically sat.

"Voldemort killed me. Avada'd me. And I died." he repeated.

Hermione held her breath. Beside her she could feel Ron let out his own long, deep breath, shoulders tensing.

"And...I dunno...I guess I ended up somewhere, the place where you go before the next...ha, I always thought it'd be all rainbows and clouds and munchkins..." he chuckled darkly and trailed off. Hermione glanced at him, he seemed mesmerised by the flames, though his hand was stroking Ginny's hair while Ginny was staring fixedly into the distance now, lips taut with a white line outlining them.

"...and apparently I was a horcrux" he said finally, then let out a laugh that was harsh and contained a despair that Hermione knew he would never reveal through words.

Ginny had stiffened in his arms, seemingly frozen in place.

"A horcrux? But you couldn't have been...surely because you were human..."

"No. I was a horcrux. Definitely. Nagini was one so why not me? So when Voldemort shot the killing curse at me he ended up sealing his own fate apparently." Harry said, his lips twisting at his words.

"Neither can live while the other survives" he spat, "how ironic."

Hermione felt ill. The very thought that Harry had had a part of Voldemort's soul living inside him! It was impossible. Unthinkable. Yet now she thought about it, it made perfect sense in this screwed up world.

How had he turned out so well? He would have had to have had it in him since that Halloween all those years ago, and yet he'd turned out to be compassionate and loving and generous and all the things that his soul-mate hadn't been (and she thought that term was the most hideously appropriate phrase and vowed right then never to use it again).

"And when he hit you he killed his own soul...but how did you...did you know..." Hermione trailed off, working through the scenario as it must have played out. If Harry had gone to face Voldemort alone it meant he probably knew there was a reason, he would never have simply trusted Voldemort's offer to trade him for the other's lives. So if he knew he was a horcrux...

"How did you find out?" she asked, her voice quiet but in this sickening silence it seemed to echo off the walls.

"Snape."

Silence.

Over the past few weeks Harry had seemed to take on a personal campaign to rid the world of all its negative portrayals of the late potions master. He had told everyone that Dumbledore had left memories to him which revealed that Snape had truly been on the side of the light the whole time. Hermione found it difficult to believe, especially the part about him having pre-arranged with Dumbledore the headmaster's final demise.

In fact, most people were paying little heed to his words, despite the fact that as Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, and as the pupil who was well renowned for being bottom of Snape's very long list of unpleasurable company, was the one who was now standing up for the deceased man.

But Harry had been most persistent, and eventually McGonagall had relented and added Snape's name to the list of the deaths attributed to the light side. Harry was also in the process of getting the officials to put Snape's body next to his mother's at Godric's Hollow.

Hermione and Ron had been speechless when he had first told them. But the look in his eyes told them that it was not negotiable, and they had supported him in this as they supported him in everything. They hadn't yet heard the true account for the reasons behind this sudden change of heart.

"Snape leaked his memories to me as he was dying - Voldemort killed him just like I told McGonagall. And I watched the memories and saw that he had been on our side the whole time. He...he was a good man" finished Harry softly.

Hermione could tell Harry was reliving the moment. She glanced at Ron who was looking worringly at Ginny, who had not yet unfrozen from her shock over the revelation that Harry had been a horcrux. In fact, she was completely pale, eyes wide, and her lips seemed to be whispering something that only she could hear.

Hermione looked back at Harry who was oblivious to the turmoil the young witch in his arms was going through.

"And the other thing it showed was that I was a horcrux. Plain and simple. Dumbledore knew, of course" Harry's lips twisted again in distaste as he shrugged,

"Dumbledore knew that there was a possibility even all those years ago...so in the memories it showed that he had made sure I would be raised in a way that would mean I'd be happy to sacrifice myself."

He looked up at Hermione, who was now the one frozen in place. The ramifications of what Harry was telling her were too cruel to consider, but the way he looked as he told them...she couldn't help but believe him.

"Oh Harry" she whispered.

How manipulative, scheming, rotten, evil...and here they had been thinking that Albus Dumbledore was the greatest man who had ever lived! Harry had spent his years at Hogwarts idolising Albus as the mentor he himself had lost as a baby. All in one moment Hermione realised that the entire time the calculated and underhanded plan that the man had been brewing...raising Harry as a lamb for slaughter.

It was, Hermione thought to herself, on par with the Dark Lord himself.

She almost wanted to say 'good riddance' to both the old bastards, but knew that with all the respect that had been ingrained into her she would feel blasphemous to say that about Dumbledore's death...even if it was true.

Ginny suddenly sprang to her feet and steadied herself on the mantle above the fireplace. Harry rose to comfort her, but to Hermione's shock - and to Harry's - she pulled away from him.

"Don't!" she said, turning away from him.

"Don't. I know...I know that it wasn't your fault but...Tom...he was in you...and I..." she glanced back at Harry and Hermione could see her face was still pale, her freckles standing out against her pallor. She looked ghastly. She looked like death.

"Harry...just for tonight...please don't come near me" she said, choking on her last words as she almost sprinted from the room.

Harry was left standing with a look of utter dejection on his face as he watched her go.

Ron gave Hermione a last squeeze before heading off after Ginny, not even bothering to glance back at the pair left in the living room.

Hermione stood up, wanting to comfort Harry. But Harry simply turned away. His face was now stony grim and he put his forehead down to his clenched fist that rested on the mantle.

She went to touch his shoulder, but as she brushed the fabric of his shirt he wrenched himself away. He slamed his fist down hard against the mantle and without a glance backwards headed out of the room.

She let him have his space.

Hermione sank back onto the couch and buried her head in her hands, her fingers running through the wild bushy mess of hair.

How had she ended up here?