Ottery St. Catchpole was a very clean, quaint village. Its inhabitants were friendly enough, offering half-hearted smiles and curt nods as they bustled to and fro; Hermione forced herself to smile and nod in return, desperate to mask the panic fluttering madly inside her. It was a warm day, typical of mid-July, but the sun remained hidden behind a thick veil of clouds. It was appropriate, Hermione thought, though the muggles of Ottery St. Catchpole seemed blissfully unaware, going about their business as though Voldemort and his followers weren't running amok all over Europe. But they didn't know – in fact, they were strictly forbidden from doing so – and the thought made Hermione anxiously shift her weight, tightening her grip on the rucksack slung over her shoulder. Her mouth was bone dry, and she swallowed hard before glancing down at her watch for the umpteenth time that afternoon. It was one o'clock. With wide, anxious eyes she counted the streetlights again. One...two...three...

"Four," she murmured, directing her gaze to the skinny metal light swaying above her in the breeze. She had arranged to meet Ron at the fourth streetlight from the church entrance at one o'clock, and he had yet to appear. A small family, all with ginger hair, moved past, but they weren't Weasleys – they weren't nearly freckled enough. Fidgeting closer to the streetlight, Hermione looked again at her watch. It was three minutes past, and she felt droplets of sweat prickle to life on her forehead. 'Oh, please, it's only been a few minutes,' she told herself, but her panic steadily increased, forming a lump in her throat that she tried fruitlessly to swallow past. Her rucksack was beginning to feel heavy despite the fact that it looked to be no more than half full, and with trembling hands she hoisted it over her opposite shoulder, swiping a rogue strand of hair out of her face as she did so. She returned, in her mind's eye, to that morning, and her fingers twitched and her palms grew damp as her muscle memory recalled the way she'd frantically stuffed things into the sack. Everything was laid out and ready to be packed, just as she'd planned, but she found that after doing the deed all semblance of order was sent careening out the window. Vision blurred by tears she sprinted up the stairs, tripping on the topmost one; she stumbled into her bedroom and wasted no time dispelling its contents into her rucksack, only slowing when her fingers closed around a beaded purple bag. It was the only thing she took care to place strategically (besides Crookshanks, of course), and a pang of guilt struck her beneath the streetlight, floating along on the warm mid-summer breeze lifting flyaway bits of hair from her face. She'd planned on packing carefully – she'd planned on keeping her head, on being keenly aware of what she'd packed and where it was supposed to go – but all the planning in the world didn't prepare her for the way her mother and father's eyes glazed over, and it certainly didn't prepare her for the way it would feel.

Despite the heat, she felt a chill run down her spine. Gulping, she glanced again at her watch, but she didn't make note of the time. Instead a flash of red caught her eye, and a wave of relief washed over her so strong that she wrapped a hand around the streetlight pole to keep from folding under its weight. A bit of sunlight was peeking out from between the clouds, and it was catching Ron and Bill's bright ginger hair in a way that made it glow like fire amidst Ottery St. Catchpole's cozy shops. The two Weasleys were convincingly dressed, looking not at all out of place as they sauntered alongside the cobblestone street, Bill's stride slower and less urgent than Ron's. Hermione took note of the color in their cheeks, though she couldn't be sure if they'd hurried or if they were simply sunburned. Brown eyes met the familiar blue of Ron's; his face suddenly split into a grin, and even though it didn't stretch as far as she was used to, Hermione allowed a similar one to flicker across her own pale face. Something stirred within her and she shifted away from the streetlight, but she fought against the itch in her feet, the pull that wanted so badly to draw her straight across the remaining block between them. Bill's gaze moved between the shops to his right and the quiet street to his left, and as slow as his scanning was, it reminded Hermione to keep herself in check. This wasn't meant to be a joyful reunion, at least not here, and the thought made her grin disintegrate, one corner of her mouth remaining lifted in a sad sort of smirk as the Weasleys steadily closed the distance between them.

"All right, Hermione?"

She blinked up at Bill, surprised that he was the first one to speak.

"Yes," she replied, much too quickly, but she was spared providing an explanation by the one-armed hug Ron gave her, his head turned to the side in what was clearly feigned indifference.

"Sorry we're late," he murmured, and when he released her she swore she felt his hand squeeze her shoulder.

"I would normally blame Ron, but it was my fault this time," said Bill, and he offered her a soft, apologetic smile before gesturing back the way they'd come. "Wedding plans and all that. Anyway, go ahead."

Hermione noted that his signature fang earring was missing, but it was unclear whether or not that was a conscious choice; he looked tired, and the deep gashes criss-crossing his face were raw and red. They stretched every time he moved his mouth, and if Hermione hadn't known better, she would've assumed he'd gotten them that morning. Wedding plans were not to blame for his tardiness, she realized, and in an effort to mask the pity on her face she cast a glance down at her watch, an unconscious tick that didn't escape Ron's gaze.

"'M sorry," he said again, "I told Bill a hundred times that we should get here early to make things easier, but he's been preoccupied lately. Everyone's been a bit...off."

Hermione didn't need to ask why. She shook her head, flashing him a reassuring smile as they passed the second streetlight from the church entrance. "Ron, it's okay, really. I was just worried. I didn't know if something had happened, or..."

"Nah, I figure they're smart enough to keep from attacking people in broad daylight, much less a pair of tough, strong blokes like Bill and me," he cut in, and Hermione laughed for what felt like the first time in ages. It was half-hearted at best, but it was real, and the warmth that took hold of her was more welcome than she could ever hope to describe. A brief silence fell between them after her giggles subsided, interrupted by the occasional passing muggle and the sound of Bill's footsteps a few paces behind them. She wanted to say something, especially after she realized she hadn't even offered them a "hello," but Ron beat her to it. He straightened suddenly and turned his head to face her, looking as though he'd just remembered something he needed to share. "Oh, Hermione, do you...? Your bag?" he said, and the palpable confusion on her face made his ears redden. "I mean, do you want me to take it?" To solidify his offer he held out a hand and gestured to her rucksack, and Hermione's confusion evaporated just as quickly as it had appeared.

"Oh! No, I'm...I'm quite all right, thank you," she replied, and when she shifted the bag once more out of habit she was struck by another pang of guilt, one that caused a dull pain to ebb behind her ribs. Her lips made to curl into a smile, but all she managed was a grimace; averting her eyes, she trudged on in silence, trying to ignore the feeling of Ron's gaze upon her. It wasn't as though she didn't appreciate his offer, but the bag slung over her shoulder contained virtually everything she had left – of her home, of her parents, of whatever life she'd left behind the moment she erased herself from her mum and dad's memories. She trusted Ron, of course, but she wasn't ready to let go yet, something he would likely understand if he had any idea what she'd done. Her face grew hot as they passed through the low stone wall encircling the village's perimeter, and she found she was grateful for the shade of the trees overhead. Their leaves whispered in the breeze and filled the silence among the travelers below, but it wasn't long before a louder, more urgent sound erupted from the pack clutched in Hermione's hands.

"Goodness, Crookshanks, I'm sorry!"

Ron stopped short beside her, one eyebrow raised as Hermione set her rucksack gently on the forest floor. Upon opening it, she plunged her arm in up to the elbow, and when it returned, Crookshanks' wicker basket swayed from her fist. The cat was growling, clearly unhappy with the arrangement, but the moment Hermione set down the basket, he leaped out of it and galloped down the path of beaten brown earth before them, bottle-brush tail held high.

"He knows where he's going, I assume?" mused Bill, but Hermione could only heave an exasperated sigh in response.

Crookshanks wanted to get to the Burrow just as badly as she did, but he had four legs and a very keen sense of direction. The forest seemed to go on forever, and Hermione remained unmoved by the sharp, fresh scent of earth and the dancing patterns of sunlight that dappled the forest floor; by the time they reached the top of the hill hiding the Burrow from view she felt as though she'd been walking through the same tunnel for hours, but the silently sour turn her mood had taken vanished at the sight of the Weasley abode. It looked the same – tall, lopsided – but for some reason that fact alone – the fact that it hadn't succumbed to the torrent of change surging through the world – touched her. She'd succumbed to it, for Merlin's sake, so it was comforting to know that there was still familiarity to be found.

"We've got protective enchantments all around the place, otherwise we would've Apparated," Bill piped up, jolting Hermione out of her reverie. She blinked, warring against the tears threatening to cloud her vision, but when she spoke her words hobbled unconvincingly from her lips, her voice hoarse.

"Right, that...that makes perfect sense. I don't mind."

She knew Ron's eyes were on her once again, but she refused to look at him. If she caught a glimpse of his face right now there was no guarantee that she wouldn't lose whatever composure she had left, so she stared determinedly at her feet as they moved through the tall grass, daring to look up only when they reached the Burrow's garden gate. Crookshanks had already made himself at home; he was darting back and forth between the gnome holes that dotted the garden, following noises only he could hear. The trousers on the clothesline fluttered in the same warm breeze that drifted through Ottery St. Catchpole, but two seconds of tranquility was all Hermione was afforded before the front door burst open in Molly Weasley's wake.

"Hermione, dear, we're so glad you're here!" she exclaimed, but even though she beamed in a genuine fashion it was obvious that she was stretched thin. The bone-crushing hug she enveloped Hermione in was not lacking in sincerity, however, and Hermione returned it with as much gusto as she could muster. It wasn't much, she was afraid, and the feeling of a pair of loving, maternal arms about her person made her swallow hard. That all too familiar lump bobbed in her throat, but she fought stubbornly against it, forcing her face to split into a smile when Mrs. Weasley released her. "I'm glad to be here too."

"I'm afraid it's a bit of a zoo around here," Molly explained, "what with the wedding and all, you understand. But, we've got a camp bed for you up in Ginny's room - she'll be pleased to know you're here."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, she needs someone to save her from Fleur."

At once, Molly and Bill both took a shot at him, Bill with a balled-up fist and Mrs. Weasley with the stained dishrag she was holding. "Oi, why don't you stop running your mouth and get Hermione settled?" Bill quipped, though even he couldn't hide the smirk on his face. With a nondescript gesture and a glance in Hermione's direction, Ron led the way past his mother and through the front door, using a finger to hold it open until Hermione passed over the threshold. The Burrow even smelled familiar, but she didn't have time to properly take it in; Ron was moving with purpose, and his strides were so long and swift that she had to hurry to keep up. He wanted to know what was going on, but he wasn't about to ask her in front of his family, something that made Hermione's heart swell with gratitude. Still, she wasn't keen on having to explain herself, but it didn't seem like she had much of a choice. Her rucksack felt even heavier than before, and as she mounted the stairs and followed Ron to Ginny's room on the first floor she felt very much like a criminal being walked to the gallows. They reached the landing in what felt like record time, the floorboards groaning beneath their feet; Ron tapped open Ginny's door and waved Hermione inside, but the moment she reached the camp bed in the corner she heard the door click shut.

"What's up?"

A shuddering, halting breath slid through her lips, and she glanced over her shoulder to see Ron hovering near the center of the room, his brow furrowed. He looked pale – the freckles on his face were especially prominent – and Hermione hesitated. The silence between them stretched on, each soft tick of the second hand on Ginny's bedside clock reverberating in her head like a gong. Her knees trembled, and she sank onto the camp bed's mattress, suddenly horribly aware of a burning sensation behind her eyes. Ron hurried forward; he crossed the room in no more than two steps, and by the time he sank onto the mattress beside her she could no longer see him through her tears. Her heart was beating madly against her ribs and she struggled for breath, clamping a palm over her mouth to quiet her sobs.

"Hermione..."

The tone of Ron's voice was a hybrid of concern and incredulity, but Hermione didn't get a look at his face; he tugged her into his chest instead, long arms wrapping her in a tender, gentle embrace. It was warm and safe, but the thought of her mother and father made her hysteria persist. Burying her face in Ron's shoulder, she shook with body-wracking sobs, the noise stifled by his shirt. For a long, long time they sat there on the camp bed, Hermione crying uncontrollably while Ron held her fast, his face screwed up in a strange mix of determination and confusion. He waited her out, and after what seemed like ages she pulled back ever so slightly, fixing him with red, puffy eyes still leaking tears.

"I-I..." she stuttered, and she paused to suck in a deep breath before continuing. "I had to protect them, Ron, I h-had to."

His eyebrows twitched toward each other, but before he could ask who she meant...

"My parents," she said, and with a gulp several more tears trickled down her cheeks. "I erased their memories, I...I replaced them with ones I'd invented. They d-don't know me anymore, and...and they'll move to Australia shortly. T-Tom and Monica W-Wilkins."

Her face grew hot with every passing second, but she stared straight into Ron's eyes nonetheless. She couldn't place what she saw there...Was it utter confusion? Admiration? Horror? A bit of all three? His lips trembled, and after a moment he finally spoke up.

"It'll work. That's...brilliant, really. There's no way any of...his followers will track them, but..."

He trailed off, but he didn't stay silent for long. Hermione's eyes searched his face, her own brows slightly furrowed. 'But...?'

"I'm sorry."

It was as though a great serpent had coiled around her heart and was squeezing the life from it. Her eyelids fluttered, sending another tear careening down her left cheek; however, it was wiped away almost as quickly as it had fallen, and her gaze rose to meet the redhead's beside her. A very small, reassuring smile tugged at his lips, and with surprising resolve he squeezed one of her hands in his.

"It'll be okay," he said, and Hermione felt her heart sprout wings, fluttering from the snake's suffocating clutches to bounce against her ribcage. She wasn't stupid; Ron didn't know if everything would be okay, and his assurance was not enough to convince her that it would be. There was something about the way he said it, though, and the way he looked at her (and touched her) when he did, that made her feel something akin to hope. Her tear-stained face cracked into a smile and she sniffed before pulling back completely, slipping her hand out from beneath his to wipe her eyes. At that moment, Molly called from downstairs.

"Ron!" she cried. "Your father needs you in the chicken coop!"

Irritation was evident on Ron's features, but he did as Hermione had and increased the distance between them (albeit begrudgingly). He emitted a long, heavy sigh and heaved himself to his feet, and with one last look at Hermione he stumped toward the door. An urge took hold of her then, one that had something to do with the compassion for her fiery-haired friend currently swelling in her chest.

"Ron?"

He stopped just short of disappearing around the edge of the door frame, leaning backwards to peer at Hermione with his eyebrows raised.

"Thank you."