In the days that followed the final battle, Hermione Granger, not knowing what to do with herself, took up a few habits.
The first was work. Almost obsessively, she threw herself into her career at the Ministry of Magic in the Department of Magical Creatures. Most considered this appropriate considering her school preoccupation with house elves and left her at it, thinking this might be healthy to her emotional healing. Although this was almost certainly not true, the job did make Hermione feel better. Something about the way she could spend hours researching and filing numerous little facts and ancient cases made her relaxed. It gave her a little peace in a world that was spiraling hopelessly out of her control.
The next was cooking. Taken under wing by Molly Weasley, she spent hours in the tiny kitchen of the Burrow concocting meal after meal with the elder matron, who seemed just as misplaced as she. Hermione's favorite thing to cook was treacle tart. It was the first dessert she had ever tasted at Hogwarts and remembered it to be a favorite of both Harry and Ginny's. It reminded her of simpler, happier times.
Her final habit was perhaps the oddest of all. After the battle she began wear her hair tied up in a large tight bun. Gone were the days of her wild mane of curls, waves, and frizz. She made sure that not a hair would fall out of place. It shouldn't. She also always tied it with the same black silk ribbon, (which now, after four and a half months of use, was beginning to show some definite signs of wear). Hermione knew that if she could keep up her traditions, keep up her appearance, that weakness or hurt wouldn't touch her. And that was what was most important.
One rainy, miserable day, in the heart of January, Ron Weasley made his way out of the bowels of the Department of Mysteries and knocked on Hermione's office door.
"I'm afraid I am too busy for any disturbance currently," came her monotone voice through the wood. "If you could please leave a message in my box or come back later. You could also send a memo."
Ron thought she sounded uncannily like the recording of the witch in the telephone booth that was the visitor's entryway to the ministry.
"Too busy for me?" He called lightly.
Her voice was softer now, and she stammered a bit.
"Well, no. C-come in then, Ron."
Ron went in slowly; taking in her appearance was easy enough to do discreetly during this action. A quick once-over confirmed his guesses. She was unnaturally pale, the rings under her eyes a rather sickly purple.
"How are you, Hermione?" he asked softly. The question was automatic.
She met his eyes for a moment, and the question was answered easily.
However, she said, "I suppose I'm fine, and you?"
"Well, you know."
"Yes, I know."
Silence furled around the office like smoke, winding into the shadows. So many cries of anguish and hurt could be wrapped up in that silence. Ron remembered a time when the silence between was good, weighted with happy promises. When a future of love stretched ahead.
With all their family and friends.
Ten minutes passed.
So far had she fled into the depths of her mind that Hermione started when Ron spoke again.
"What should we do now, Hermione?"
It wasn't a question of work, she pondered. Ron meant more than that. He was asking what was going to become of them. Were they going to spend the rest of their lives here in this limbo, going about with their useless tasks? Pretending like nothing was wrong?
Pretending like they could live without Harry and Ginny?
Couldn't they? Hermione looked at her ever growing stack of parchment and books. Dates and names to be filed. Like a great puzzle, that you could spend your life picking at and dancing around, but never finish.
She couldn't live like that. She wouldn't.
"Well...I," she began, and, shocked by how much emotion came into her voice in her words, quickly attempted to bring back the monotony. But that too, was impossible; for one of the few times in her life, Hermione Granger gave up.
"I don't know," she whispered at last. "I don't know at all."
He looked at her, sitting there among her many books, hiding from the world. "Let's go for a walk."
"Ron." Hermione began, "It's still work hours you know..."
He just raised an eyebrow and she knew what he was thinking. In the eyes of the public, they were heroes. Not legend, earth-shaker, heroes like Harry and Ginny had been. Everyday heroes, who helped manage patients at St. Mungos while it was under attack. Who helped to fight the many Death Eater battles in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. No, they wouldn't be affected by one day's cutting out from work. Everyone would simply shake their heads sadly and whisper about "giving the poor dears time to heal."
Still, Ron was fairly surprised when she said, "Let's go then."
"Good," He replied softly and waited as she pulled on a water repellent charmed silk blue cloak.
"Where to?" she asked.
He considered their options, and finally said, "the Burrow."
She nodded slightly, and they left the office.
The trees were thick, green and wet in the woods behind the Burrow, and the trail they had picked was wide and more like a river than anything else. As the Rain lashed down hard on their heads, Hermione actually had to smile a bit. Ron meant well, she knew, but squelching through the mud in the downpour on a day like this was the farthest thing from romantic, if indeed, that had been his aim. She peeked at him next to her, bright brown eyes peering from behind the large hood of her cloak.
He was looking at her too.
"Why did you bring me walking here, Ron?" she asked.
He sighed and took a deep breath. "I think you should quit work."
"What?"
Ron turned from her, gazing into the deep woods. "You're not happy, Hermione. Neither am I."
She snapped. "Well, obviously! How could we be happy? Quit work? It's ridiculous! We have to grow up!"
Ron remained silent, simply gazing at her; she deflated slowly under his look.
"I...I just couldn't, Ron."
"And why not?" He asked, "You've got all the money from the Ministry rewards that you could ever want. You have a nice flat. You have what you need..."
Hermione felt an unbidden sob rise in her throat. "Do I, Ron? Do I really have anything left to make my life worth it? Ginny and Harry are gone. Neville and Luna might as well be gone for all that we see them. I'm an empty shell Ron! What do I have?"
He was still and she saw a tear streak down his face. "You have me," was all he said. But in that moment, it was exactly what she needed. Trembling, he swiftly crossed the small gap between them. "You will never stop having me."
"Do you mean that?" She whispered.
"Yes!" he said hoarsely.
With that she cried. Tears of pain and joy streamed down her face and she buried her face into his shoulder. He stroked her tightly bound hair and then, hesitantly, untied that black ribbon that bound it up. She tensed, and made to put it back, but he caught her hand.
"No," he said. "You need to let go."
She hesitated, her scalp aching slightly from the released pressure, but, she thought, on the whole, it felt so much nicer. The ache would subside, and then the wild curls would return. Hermione was ready to live again.
"Alright." She drew in a deep breath and kissed him softly. When they broke apart, Ron held her gaze firmly.
"Will you please take some time off work?" he asked again.
"Time off?" she laughed. "I will never set foot in that office again."
Ron smiled and squeezed her tight. She was unbound.
An Epilogue of Sorts..."Mummy!" shrieked Ginny. "Harry stole my crayons."
"DID NOT." Said Harry.
Hermione sighed and rubbed her eight-months-pregnant stomach. "Please just share, alright? Mum is very tired. Daddy will be home soon..."
"Daddy's home now," called a voice as Ron appeared out of thin air in the kitchen.
Hermione smiled with relief and turned to kiss her husband on the cheek. "I'm so glad you're home," she murmured.
"Me too," he smiled before turning to the twins. "And what did you two do today?" he inquired.
"We colored!" they chorused, argument forgotten as they quickly found their drawings and began to present them to their father.
Hermione watched with a proud smile on her face. It was moments like this in which she remembered why it was that she bothered having children, and when they came they always made her infinitely happy.
She rubbed a hand over her swollen belly again. Ron was positively sure that it would be a boy.
"Our having Ginny was a bit of a fluke. Weasleys breed boys! That's just how it goes..." He'd often say. "I think we should call him Bilius, what do you think dear?"
His wife was not so sure. A boy would be wonderful of course, but somehow she thought that this would be another girl. And if so, Hermione would name her Hope.