SPOILERS: If you have not finished reading Deathly Hallows, or any of the other Harry Potter books, then continue reading at your own risk!
Foreword
This fan fiction has been written to fill in the gap between the final two chapters of Book 7 (Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows). Please be aware that if you haven't yet read this book, then it's not advisable to read this fan fiction, as it will contain many spoilers. I'm sure this general concept (filling in the gap) already has and will be done to death on this website, but hopefully you will enjoy this new story regardless. I have decided against altering any significant details that have already happened in the seven books – so if you're expecting to see Dumbledore come back to life, or Draco and Hermione getting together, then I suspect you'll be pretty disappointed.
Except for the idea of this fan fiction plotline, and the few new characters I've invented, (and obviously the writing of it), everything here belongs to J.K Rowling alone. I don't intend in any way to take credit for that. Thank you, J.K Rowling, for being so brilliant.
Note: Thanks to the highly observant, albeit anonymous, reviewer who pointed out the little inconsistency with Victoire's age versus the broomstick gift. It's now been fixed. Thank you.
Chapter 1: The Talking Glass of Butterbeer
An overwhelming sense of déjà vu could be felt in The Burrow on this particular day in November. The air was soft and balmy, quite unlike the nippy pre-winter weather everybody had been anticipating. Inside the house, it was tense and frantic; Molly Weasley was thoroughly agitated in her attempts to organise the entire Weasley family in time for George's upcoming wedding.
"Charlie, if I've told you once I've told you forty seven times-"
Charlie knew what was coming, and sniggered. "Forty seven times is a bit excessive, isn't it?"
Mrs Weasley apparently chose to ignore his remark, barrelling on. "Cut that ridiculous-looking mop from your head, or else I'll charm it off, and believe me, we don't need the embarrassment. And Bill –"
"Yes, mother?" Bill sighed wearily.
"Restrain that child of yours, please. I don't fancy a grandchild with missing toes or broken legs." She glared down at little two-year-old Victoire, who was zooming around the living room on a toy broomstick that Harry had given her for her first birthday (in tribute to the gift Sirius had given him as a child), happily dodging the minor, playful charms Bill was lazily shooting from his wand as he lay, strewn across the couch. "In fact, you can cut out your silly games altogether and go and find your brother. Heaven knows we don't need to lose our groom the day before the wedding!" With that, she slammed the door of her kitchen shut, and they could hear pots and pans whizzing out of their cupboards at furious speed. They could hear various grumbled mutterings which nobody could quite hear, but which they could all, with a little imagination, imagine.
"Okay, Vicky," said Bill, clapping his hands together. "No more broom riding for you today. Well," he said, his voice lowering, "not in front of
Nanna, anyway." He scooped up his daughter, whose legs were flailing about as though she were still on her broomstick, and plonked her in Fleur's lap.
"I weesh you would not call her Vicky," said Fleur irritably. "Her name eez Victoire." At the mere mention of her own name, Victoire turned around and patted her mother's swollen belly affectionately.
"Baby," Victoire gurgled happily in her hybrid British-French accent.
Fleur nodded wearily. "Yes, eet eez a baby in there. Now, let maman rest for a leetle while. Baby makes her very tired."
Charlie squeezed into the small gap between Bill and Fleur on the couch. His niece clambered from her mother's lap into his, springing up awkwardly onto her feet, teetering madly while gleefully squishing his cheeks and nose around his face like plasticine. Charlie sounded as though he'd just had his teeth pulled out when he spoke. "You know why she's acting like this, don't you?"
Fleur shook her head and Bill snickered.
"Eet's the baby," she snapped haughtily. "Eet's cutting off air to my brain. I cannot understand everything around here!"
"Anyway," said Charlie, ignoring the momentary spat, "something's gone wrong with Hermione and that crazy brother of mine. She's working herself into a great fat knot about it."
Bill sighed. "Oh, joy. Just what we need."
"What don't we need?" Mrs Weasley had suddenly reappeared in the living room, evidently having taken all her remaining frustrations out on the saucepans. Her face was now a rather normal pale pink colour, although nobody expected it to stay that way for long.
"Nothing," Charlie and Bill said, in unison, and much too quickly. Mrs Weasley was immediately suspicious.
"If you two are going to sit here and talk about me, or your brother, or his love life, behind my back, then that's fine, but I'm sure I could find something to keep you busy. Of course, if-"
"Yes, Mum," said both Charlie and Bill, defeated; they both stood and skulked into the backyard to finish weeding the flowerbeds, which had of late taken to strangling the garden gnomes.
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Harry and Ron were sitting in the Hog's Head, having downed their third Butterbeer. The pub was crowded with Hogwarts students, enjoying their excursion to the wizarding village of Hogsmeade. The pub door jangled open and next minute a gust of cool air blasted their skin. Harry shivered involuntarily. The next moment, he saw a figure slip onto the stool beside him, then realised it was Neville Longbottom, who had managed to disentangle himself from the cluster of avid Herbology students who had followed him inside.
"Hi, Neville," said Harry.
"Hi yourself! So," said Neville kindly, "how are things?"
Harry nodded. "Fine, fine."
Ron raised his Butterbeer glass to no-one in particular. "Yep. Bloody fantastic." He slurped the dregs and then let out a squeaky hiccough.
"Looks like you need another one, mate," said Seamus Finnigan, who had just recently joined Aberforth Dumbledore as bartender in the small yet very popular pub. "Here you go. It'll make everything better. Kill the pain a bit. Or you, possibly."
Neville looked rather confused. "What pain?"
Harry looked at him over the top of Ron's head, which was still bent miserably over the bar. He mouthed the word, "Hermione."
Neville still remained confused. "What?" Then it dawned on him. "Oh, Hermione," he said.
"Nice one, Nev," sniggered Seamus. He tapped Ron's empty
Butterbeer glass with his wand, making the remnants of froth vanish.
Ron moaned, his nose nearly inside his new Butterbeer. "Hermione," he muttered angrily. "Yeah, Hermione."
"Well, what's the matter?" asked Neville. "Where is she?" He looked around, almost as if he expected that she would Apparate in front of them, wander out of the ladies' room or, at a long shot, materialise from underneath Ron's barstool.
"She's in Australia," said Harry immediately, for he knew that Ron would most likely snap unkindly at Neville if he were given the chance to respond, "visiting her parents. Trying to convince them of who she is and to make them come home. Trouble is, there were issues with the spell she used to erase their memories back before we did away with Vol – I mean, You-Know-Who, and she's finding it really hard to reverse it." He paused. "She's having to show them photo albums and stuff to talk them into the idea that they have a daughter. Apparently they're really happy where they are, so it's a big job that she's doing." He wondered with a stab of hopefulness whether solely platonic references to Hermione might make it easier for Ron to survive the conversation.
"Where in Australia is she?" asked Neville politely, almost nervously, trying to make small talk, catching on to Harry's objective.
A faint mumble reverberated from the inside of the Butterbeer glass, which now contained half of Ron's face. "Who bloody cares?"
Harry grimaced. "Somewhere I can't remember the name of."
"Perth," the Butterbeer glass echoed again.
"And – uh – when is she due back?"
"Dunno," said the Butterbeer glass again. "She didn't say." The Butterbeer glass shuddered violently on the bar as Ron heaved deeply. "Doesn't know if she'll be coming back at all."
Neville gulped. He seemed wordless. "Well – I – uh…I'd better get going. You know, I think it's time to head back to Hogwarts, anyway."
He scraped his chair backwards from the bar and walked over to the table where his students had seated themselves. A moment later they stood, making their way out of the front door, giggling and chattering excitedly.
"Glad they're having a good time," Ron scowled, his face now lifted from the glass in front of him.
"You've had far too much of that stuff for one night," said Harry, snatching the glass away. "It's gone to your head. You're turning into a misery guts." He turned to Seamus. "How much do we owe you?"
"Nah, it's on me this time," he said. "But if I ever need my life saved, I'll be knocking on your door."
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"Oh, there you are Ronald!" Mrs Weasley proclaimed as soon as he stepped through the front door of The Burrow. "You're late! I need you to tidy your bedroom before everybody starts arriving."
Ron groaned and barged through the living room and upstairs. "Leamme alone," he muttered.
"Ron, don't talk to me like –"
They heard his bedroom slam shut, and Mrs Weasley knew not to press the subject.
"He's had too much to drink," Harry offered gently. "And Neville asked him about Hermione."
"Oh, no…" Her voice trailed off. There was nothing more to say.
Harry was about to say something, something hopefully clever or reassuring, but thought better of it. In that instant, Arthur Weasley appeared by their side, red-faced and cheery. "Look who the cat dragged in!"
That was when they noticed the figure standing beside Arthur. The figure sported an unmistakeable mass of dark blonde frizzy hair, red flushed cheeks, and the look of somebody who had just been caught raiding the biscuit barrel. Mrs Weasley gasped and Harry jumped.
"Hello, Mrs Weasley," said Hermione Granger, a little nervously, as though expecting that Molly would hit her over the head with a spare saucepan. "Hello, Harry."
Mrs Weasley took one look at Hermione and burst into tears, throwing herself around her shoulders. Hermione patted her awkwardly on the back.
"Oh, Hermione," said Mrs Weasley, her sobs now soaking Hermione's jumper, "whatever has gone wrong between you and Ron – just fix it, all right?"