AN: This is of course based on JK Rowlings wonderful work and was written for pure enjoyment and no profits.

I began this story in 2012 and posted regularly for a while in very short chapters. After getting nearly to the end (though I didn't know it then), I practically abandoned the story until last November. I did a large re-write and edit, condensing chapters and fleshing out some parts and finished it. I then abandoned the finished story and didn't think about it until nearly a year later. Here is the final, rewritten version, with merged, longer chapters. If you read an old version, I recommend a re-read since it's been ages plus I've made some minor changes. Please review, especially since this is my first, finished story on (though I've been on here dabbling since April 2001).

The walls crumbled around him, but he held up the heavy slab as if he were a superhero. Dragged his brother from the ruins, he prayed with all of his heart that this time it would be different - that this time he wouldn't be left alone. Just as his brother's eyes began to flutter, George Weasley woke with a start.

"Not. Again." George moaned and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, hoping to erase the dream from his memory. As he threw the covers off, he cursed under his breath in frustration. "This is worse than reliving what really happened."

George dreamt of rescuing his brother every night since the battle, of being there in time to catch the wall, to pull him to safety. One year of devastating dreams, of seeing his brother almost come back to life. It was no wonder that George always looked a little grey, with a frailness that made everyone around him hesitant and uncomfortable. And today, on the day of the one-year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, George looked especially worn out.

Emerging from his bed, George slowly began his morning routine. Shower, shave, brush his teeth, get dressed. Get back in bed.

He had collected an unreasonably large number of pajamas over the past year, with stripes, polka dots, fuzzy bunnies, rainbows and many more childish and uplifting patterns. He had a set that reenacted Krum catching the snitch and losing the Quidditch World Cup. He had a set that brewed potions and would occasionally explode lint if he moved at a crucial stage in brewing. He even had a set that his mum gave him that were chanted to sing him lullabies when it was dark out and shout for him to get up when it was morning. To say the least, George never wore those because they would interrupt his current pattern of get up, get ready, get back in bed.

For a year, George participated in only half of his life on any given day. Either he would sleep all day, in a daze between dreams, or he would hyperactively complete a week's worth of life-work (cooking, cleaning, reading every newspaper, every letter, every school book in their apartment, manically inventing and uninventing new products) in a state of undeniable insomnia.

This cycle of on and off ensured that he was keeping up the appearance of engaging in his life. From an outside perspective, it looked like he was keeping on top of his normal responsibilities. His family didn't see how he partitioned his life in halves. They were too distracted being glad he made it to Sunday dinner or that he was inventing again. But George knew. He could feel it. He never seemed to do everything in one day.

It was as if he could only do one half at a time. It was as if his other half was gone.

Of course, there was one person who noticed George's half-life. His brother, Fred.

Of all of the magical ailments, ghosthood may be the most frustrating. Unlike boils or pox, ghosthood is a total lack of sensation. There are no pains or cramps or burns. There is nothing but awareness. Although there are books and reports and Department of Mysteries' projects on ghosthood, it is still unclear why some people die and become ghosts. The common theory is that ghosts are persons with unfinished business. They're wrong of course. Everyone has unfinished business. How could you ever say you were truly done with life?

Fred didn't know this, however. He couldn't read the newer, more controversial papers on the topic. Reading, after all, required flipping pages and, as of his one-year-deathiversary, Fred could only manage a slight chill, not even an actual breeze.

The one ability Fred had managed was apparition. After he died, he spent some time following his family around (hiding behind things to avoid being seen), visiting his grave, even attending his own funeral. It was hearing his family's final goodbyes that convinced him he need to stay out of sight. He wanted to let them grieve and move on. That was the responsible thing to do, and Fred knew that sometimes, rarely of course, you have to be responsible.

Leaving the guilty behind, Fred took advantage of his new sense of 'freedom' and began to travel. He thought avoiding his family and friends would be easier if he simply left. He hoped that 'living' his death might help him move on to the beyond - that if he did the things he always wished he could, he might find his unfinished business.

Knowing that he had a loving family and wonderful friends, he thought, "Maybe I need to see the world. Go out beyond Hogwarts and Diagon Alley. Go see things I've always want to visit. If I stick to muggle sites, I won't risk being seen by a witch or wizard who might recognize me." He didn't know yet that his efforts were pointless. He couldn't be seen regardless of whether he wanted to or not.

It wasn't until Fred had visited dozens of his favorite places in Europe before he realized he had reached the limits of his tethering. While touring the streets of Venice, Fred suddenly hit a wall and could not go further. Feeling along the barrier, Fred realized it curved like the circumference of a circle. He was apparently stuck within a so-many-mile radius of his body.

"Well, didn't expect to be able to go absolutely anywhere, I guess. Makes sense why none of the Hogwarts ghosts are Chinese or Brazilian. Hmm.. though they could have traveled before dying and then be buried in Scotland..." Fred continued musing on the limitations of ghosthood on his way back to England. And then it hit him. Maybe he was supposed to go back to school.

Immediately after his return to Hogwarts, Fred felt a sense of home, of belonging. The familiar corridors and classrooms gave him a sense of peace that he didn't realize was missing throughout his adventurous travels. Within minutes of enter into the Gryffindor common room, Fred a much less peaceful realization. None of the students even looked up at his appearance, no matter how loud he shouted "Boo!" The school responded to his presence, rearranging the staircases so he could float around (having not yet learned how to fly as high as his fellow Hogwarts ghosts), which confused him but gave him hope. Seeking out students he knew, the last few classes of upper-year students that were at Hogwarts the same time as him, he hoped his old acquaintances might have some deeper connection, something to end his lonely silence. Unfortunately, very few of his old friends returned to Hogwarts, surprising him.

"Sure Ron wouldn't be back but what about Ginny and Hermione. I would have guessed they wouldn't be able to keep Hermione away from finishing her education."

What he didn't know was that everyone was doing exactly the same thing he was - trying to find themselves in a post-war world.

After the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry, Hermione, and Ron thought the pressure of greatness would had been lifted from their shoulders. While they finally felt like they could breathe without fear of being captured, none of the pressure of the war had dissipated. The question hovered in everyone's minds though. "Now what?"

Harry and Ron took some time to sleep, eat real food, play quidditch and generally laze-about until Kingsley showed up at the Burrow around the same time Fred inadvertently began his seventh year, again.

"Minister Shaklebolt, welcome. Can I get you anything, my dear? Arthur is still at work, but should be home for the day soon. The boys and Ginny are flying around here somewhere." Mrs. Weasley promptly greeted the Minister as he exited the sooty fireplace. She immediately gathered a teapot and set it on boil while laying out some freshly baked rock cakes (significantly less 'rocky' than poor Hagrid's attempts).

"Molly, it's a pleasure. And please, none of this Minister business; it's just Kingsley as always. Could you please see if you can find Harry and Ron. I have a few questions for them." Kingsley looked a little haggard. It was clear that his new job was more work than one man could handle. He had slowly put together his cabinet and had begun the rebuilding process after the war, but things were not going as smoothly as he had hoped.

"Harry! Ron! Minister Shaklebolt is here to see you! Come down from there this instance!" Mrs. Weasley's shrill cries zoomed through the air around the Burrow and eventually hit Ron and Harry with the full-force only a practiced mother could project. They appeared as little dots in the sky at first, but they rapidly grew larger until they were directly in front of Ron's mother.

"Yes, mum, of course. We're here. Do'ya know why he's here?" Ron asked as he stashed his broom on the porch. He grabbed a cake from the tray, walking into the living room with his mouth and hands full. After an awkward, crumbly greeting, the Minister asked both boys to sit down with him.

"Ron, Harry, my boys, it's good to see you. I hope you've both had a chance to relax and recover a bit after the Battle. I'm here, you see, to discuss a bit of trouble we're having. We need some help catching the handful of death eaters that escaped after Voldemort's death..."

After a lengthy debate with Mrs. Weasley and a series of pots of tea, Harry and Ron shook hands with the Minister. It had taken hours of planning and plotting, but Harry and Ron would begin gathering intel on Death Eaters the following Monday. Kingsley refused to agree to let them go into the field; they were still teens regardless of Dumbledore's (irresponsible) support of their skills. However, he did want their strategic minds working on reading through the intelligence gathered by trained, experienced Aurors.

Harry and Ron didn't mind being given desk duty. They were going to help the Ministry finally end the war; some time pushing papers would be worth it if it meant bring more Death Eaters to justice. After all, they could only relax after everyone had been captured. Or perhaps once the government was safely up and running again. Or maybe after the first set of fully-democratic elections following Kingsley's first term. Maybe then.

Ginny, still flying high above their heads, chasing snitches and beating back bludgers, was unaware of the going-ons below her. When she finally called it a day, she wearily put away the quidditch set and went in to get ready for dinner. She was immensely proud of her brother and boyfriend, but had no interest in being an Auror. She had enough chasing after and being chased by murders. But that didn't mean she didn't have a plan.

"Now that you two have figured yourselves out, I guess I had better tell you about the letter I received a few days ago. Headmistress McGonagall offered to let me return to Hogwarts, (Mrs. Weasley immediate squealed in delight), but I've decided I do not want to go back and repeat my sixth year (the squeal ended and turned immediately to the sound Mrs. Weasley makes right before a fight). Mum, wait. I owled her back and asked if we could begin some kind of apprenticeship program for the former sixth and seventh years, instead. I figure the fifth years and younger really need to finish their studies before they can move on, but the sixth and seventh years fought enough and learned enough in the war to try something a little different."

Harry smiled down at Ginny with such pride that she found the courage to go on despite her mother's protests that she should get a normal and full education.

"I've decided to go back to Hogwarts for an apprenticeship with Madam Pomfrey. Professor McGonagall agreed to create a small curriculum for those of us that return so that we can pass the N.E.W.T.s that we need for our careers, but we'll be spending most of our time as apprentices so that we aren't too behind. Most healers finish their seventh year and go on to a two-year apprenticeship before enrolling in the Healers program. This way, by the time I'm done with my N.E.W.T.s I'll be ready to go straight to St. Mungos."

Ron, of course, laughed and agreed she'd be ready to go to St. Mungos – "You'll have lost your mind after being thoroughly nagged by Madam Pomfrey for two years." Harry hugged her tightly and spun her around the living room with pride – "You'll be the best healer ever."

After many more teas and rock cakes, Mrs. Weasley grabbed her three children in a hug and kissed each of them on the forehead. "My babies are growing up too fast!"

============
It was on Ginny's first day back at Hogwarts that Fred realized his fears about disrupting his family's grieving were baseless. Running into her in the hallways, Ginny didn't even blink as Fred stood sheepishly in front of her, waiting for a fight. Nope, not even his family could see him. That was when Fred visited George for the first time.

By the time the one-year anniversary arrived, Fred as depressed as George. They moped around the house together, led their half-lives together, complained at the outrageous Daily Prophet articles together.

"The bloody ministry was useless! They weren't the 'great underlying force behind the golden trio and the Order of Phoenix.'"

" What utter bat-shit. Merlin's balls! Another book about the secret life of Harry Potter?"

" Poor kid... Wonder how the search is going... hmm, I guess I should go to the anniversary celebrations and find out... but these pajamas are so comfy." Fred and George muttered back and forth to each other – well George muttered to himself and Fred muttered back. Hovering behind George, every day Fred read the news and let George flip the pages. He had become fairly used to letting his brother do all of the work.

George didn't hear the tell-tale sound of apparition – he was too busy moaning on about how sleekeazy's hair potion made girls hair a tad bit too greasy for his taste. He was also criticizing the "Madam Malkin's Modern Robe Wear" column's newest trend (co-mingling house colors as a sign of patriotism). "Blimey, that shade of blue looks terrible with orange. Red and green just make you look like a Christmas decoration! What are they thinking?"

Fred, on the other hand, was much less interested in fashion and therefore went to investigate who had apparated into the shop below the apartment. George, distracted by all of the colorful pictures in Witch Weekly, luckily (or unluckily?) missed the half-life-changing discoveries occurring below him.

"Fred?"

"Hermione?"

"You're a ghost?"

"You can see me?"

Hermione Granger stood in the middle of the yet-to-be-reopened Weasleys' Wizzard Wheezes with her mouth open in shock. Her brown eyes were wide with questions and her brow furrowed with sadness – leaving her looking rather comically like a cartoon whose features had all frozen during extremely different emotions.

"Of course I can see you – you're a ghost! How come no one mentioned to me you were still around? I would have come back immediately to say- erm, well, hello, I guess." Hermione looked slightly uncomfortable as she realized she had no idea what to say to a ghost. It was one thing to talk to someone who has been dead for hundreds of years, like Nearly Headless Nick. It was quite another to speak with a deceased friend.

"That's the thing! No one can see me. You're the first person, living or dead, to speak to me in a year!" Fred was immediately overcome with emotion and was beginning to float directionless around the room. He had so much to say and so many things to ask, but he couldn't figure out where to begin.

"Wait, not even George? He doesn't know you're here?" Just as Fed was shaking his head, George popped down the stairs and asked, "Who doesn't know who is here?"

"George! You of course – that is, don't know that I am here. I was, erm, trying to get the courage to find you and force you out of bed. Yeah, um, I'm here to make you come to the Burrow before your mother kills all of us via too much food." Behind George, Fred was mouthing, "Thank you" and begging her not to say anything to George.

"Hermione! You look quite flustered. Mum can't be that bad. Well, yes she could be. Which is why I was planning on spending the day in bed." George jumped onto the countertop causing the cauldron on the left leg of his pajamas to explode lint.

"These are my favorite. Spelled them myself for- um well, either way, I don't particularly want to get changed. So, thanks for stopping by. Haven't seen you in a while. But now's not the time..."

Hermione took her first real close look at George and was heartbroken by what she saw. For as much as he looked clean, there was a dinginess to him. It was as if he stepped in the shower long enough to call it 'a shower' but then immediately toweled off and called it a day. He had always been skinny, but there used to be lean muscle to his frame. Hermione, not knowing what to do, started taking out a tea set from her small beaded purse.

"George, how about tea before I leave, then? It has been a while." She walked off towards the stairs without any regard for George's stuttering attempts to prevent her from making herself at home in the apartment. As she huddled next to the fire, she silently motioned Fred over to her. Facing the flames so that George wouldn't see, she whispered, "Fred, can you go somewhere else while I hang out with George a bit. It is really disconcerting having you floating behind him. I don't know if I can concentrate on him without accidentally talking to you... but you better come find me the next chance I'm alone. We must talk!"

Speaking so quickly, Fred only caught every other word, but he understood clearly enough. He couldn't afford to cause her to slip up in front of his brother on this day of all days. They would really need to figure out a plan before revealing his existence to anyone, least of all to George. That would just be cruel.

"Is someone flooing me? Are you talking to someone?" George leaned forward and careened his neck to try to see around Hermione.

"No. No. Just us. I'm still getting used to being around other people. That's all." She pulled the kettle off the fire just as it began to boil and promptly made them both a cup of tea.

Not knowing where to begin, George asked, "So, 'Mione, where have you been this past year?"

Hermione had changed. Everyone had changed, of course, but Hermione was utterly incapable of dealing with the change. After the final battle, Hermione didn't know who she was. She didn't know what she was doing, and she didn't know where she was going. So she left.

Hermione Granger is, at her core, a very sensible woman. Those kinds of sensibilities don't leave a person suddenly. She attended the funerals, memorial openings, celebrations. She shook hands, patted backs, held Ginny's hair after one too many fire whiskeys. She continued on as normal as possible for exactly one month. Then she called her closest friends into the Burrow living room.

"I'm leaving for a bit. I have some muggle errands like seeing to my parents things, selling the house, checking bills and bank accounts and all kinds of really mundane things. I don't know how long I'll be gone, but I'll write and stop by when I can." Everyone nodded and hugged her and agreed that made sense.

But they knew under her speech she had many not-mundane things to do. Like find her parents. Like decide whether to retrieve their memories. Like finding herself.

Hermione kept to her promise and wrote every week with some small detail about some small thing she was doing. She floo'd Harry and Ron once every other week and pretended everything was ok and that she was on the right track. They smiled back and agreed that the world was coming together nicely even though they were just as unsure as she was.

These smiles and nods weren't lies. They were therapy. All three of them knew they needed to believe the others were feeling better and that things were heading towards normal. The more they tried to convince the others, the more they felt like it was actually possible for the war to be over and their lives to begin.

Grieving and moving on are complex life experiences. Everyone faces them differently, and, for Hermione, she needed to face it alone.

After finding her parents in Australia, Hermione knocked on the door and pretended to be a new neighbor coming over with baked goods. She sat in the living room, smiled and made small talk until her father and mother seemed relatively comfortable. Then she asked them, "If you found out that you had a daughter but that she had erased your memories of her, would you want those memories back?"

The question was rather odd and her parents were very confused, but it triggered something. A rip in the seam of Hermione's spell. A rip she could either fix or continue to unstitch.

"A daughter. We don't have a daughter. You can't erase memories. Is this some new movie? Monica and I don't go to the movie much. We much prefer books by the beach."

"Yes, Wendell can never sit through a full movie. Always so antsy in theaters. Is this some new book series turned movie? Perhaps we've read the books. Every movie these days is based on a book we've already loved. Seems a waste to ruin all that with a poorly made movie. Except that David Yates, great movies."

"No, Monica, David Yates made tv miniseries. Not books to film."

"Hmm, are you sure? Anyways, silly adaptations, them all."

But as they spoke, they both had a strange sensation that what she was saying could be true. It might not be, but it could be. And that they had been told to answer such questions truthfully as if it were true, and something about this young woman made them feel compelled to be truthful, to give her their real opinions, regardless of how utterly insane it all sounded.

Her mother's instincts kicked in, and she found herself saying:

"Well, of course if this were a movie, we would love to know about our daughter and to meet her. To tell her how much we love her – after all, you say she'd be our daughter, right? But,... but wouldn't erasing someone's memory be wrong? I'm not saying that's possible, of course, but that would be a rather large betrayal. Perhaps, it would be better not knowing than always wondering if she would do it again. Maybe I'd rather have loved her as I did before but not know any better now."

It was almost as if the question was a party game and she was working through some backwards logic. Her father nodded and hmm'd and seemed to lack a better answer, or lack the ability to articulate any answer. Finally, he said,

"Well, couldn't she un-erase herself and erase us not knowing about her erasing us? I mean, erasing her, I mean, oh, but can you really erase a memory? Wouldn't that be an interesting thing. Terrible science, tough, terrible. You know, I read about how doctors are trying to map the brain to learn how to cross wire our brains to control us! Quite an article- let me tell you about it..."

And so the party game ended and Hermione nodded and smiled and oooo'd at all the rights places and ahhh'd when her father finished telling them about some conspiracy magazine. She showed the appropriate level of shock at the idea of messing with people's brains. After all, that would be quite the betrayal to change the way someone thinks.

AN: I'm also planning on taking parts of this story and creating a new story that starts similarly but goes down a more lighthearted and romantic path. Keep an eye for that story to come (hopefully sooner than a year from now, which sadly obviously my current pace of things). - Arime, Oct 2016