UTHOR'S NOTE: So, I have no idea where this is going (okay, maybe I do. sort of), but I'm really excited for this story. It's basically Deathly Hallows AU, where Hermione doesn't join Harry and Ron on the quest of finding horcruxes, but I'm trying to follow the original plot as much as possible, so yeah. It's also my first Fremione ever, so we'll see how that goes lol. I hope you enjoy it and please, keep in mind that English isn't my first language and I rarely use it to write ffs. Please don't bite. Also, reviews are awesome.

DISCLAIMER: Sadly, I don't own anything. Not even Hermione or Fred. Meh.

"I visited many places,
Some of them quite
Exotic and far away,
But I always returned to myself."

Dejan Stojanovic

CHAPTER 1. THE DAY

It doesn't feel as though anything has changed. At least at first.

It feels so utterly ordinary – sitting beside the window, like she always does, looking at the hills on the other side of the field and thinking about nothing, and everything, and just being here, peaceful. She likes it this way, she always has; her perfect little bubble, one of the few that she'd created for herself and perhaps the only one she has left. For a moment she tries to pretend it's a dream (and what a lovely dream it is), but she can't, so she gives up and the bubble is here, and she's still here and nothing is different.

Hermione takes a deep breath, her body shaking slightly, because of course, everything is different. She knows this too well, but being in denial is pleasant and safe and she doesn't want to get out, not yet. So she stays silent when Ginny asks her if she misses them (because Ginny does, she misses them a lot). Hermione does too, but she just shrugs, not a word escaping her mouth.

"They will be fine," Ginny says, patting her shoulder in a comforting manner. "They're not exactly the toughest blokes, but you know how they are. Always manage to somehow stay alive."

Hermione cracks a smile, because what she's saying is true – she could have never explained it, but the two of them have had their way of getting out of troubles and that thought makes her feel a little bit better. (Damn, she misses them. She misses them so much.)

"I know," Hermione mutters, not looking at Ginny. "It's just that— do you think they will succeed?"

"Well, it's hard to decide when you don't even know what they're actually doing," Ginny looks at her hopefully, but Hermione just shakes her head and nudges her, so she goes on, "but they promised to come back, so they will. And I suppose it's enough, yeah?"

It's not, but that's what she tells herself when she falls asleep this very evening. They promised to come back and that's enough for now.

...

The breakfast at the Burrow is quite frankly her favourite part of living there during the summer. It reminds her of Hogwarts, the buzz and the fuss that she grew to enjoy and she just loves it a lot. Back at home, it used to be just the three of them – her parents and her, eating in silence with the TV playing in the background. When another toast flies through the air and Charlie screams something to his sister, she becomes pretty sure that the Weasleys would drown out the sound of TV without a single effort.

"Can you pass me the roll, dear?" Mrs. Weasley's hand reaches out to her and when she does, Mrs. Weasley gives her a small smile. It doesn't reach her eyes, though; they're full of worry and it makes her wonder when was the last time she'd seen her happy.

Hermione looks around the kitchen, her eyes running all over the room. The spots usually taken by them are awfully empty, but they're not the only ones that are missing – the chairs that belong to Bill, Percy, Fred and George are unoccupied as well and it makes her feel uneasy, so she quickly looks away, trying to focus on chewing her bread. Nothing's changed. Not that much.

"So, Hermione," Mrs. Weasley approaches, cutting her roll in half. "Have you heard anything from Harry and Ron?"

Hermione stiffens a little, because oh Merlin, she's not ready for this conversation, not yet and she doesn't want to speak of this and she's tired and please, just leave her alone. (She would've never said it, she can't fulfill Mrs. Weasley's expectations even if she wanted to). "No, I haven't," she replies truthfully. "They said they won't be able to owl me much. They don't want to risk getting caught."

She almost mentions how they probably don't miss her yet anyway, but she stops herself and the words get lost on her tongue.

Mrs. Weasley scowls. "That's what they said to me, too. Foolish kids, thinking they can take care of themselves…"

She's talking and talking and talking, and Hermione focuses on chewing her bread once again. She knows that Mrs. Weasley's situation is possibly far worse than hers (it's her son, Granger, you stupid swellhead) and she feels selfish for thinking that she's the only one that had been put in a difficult position, but she can't help feeling tricked so she resists it no more.

"We're lucky to have you, though," Mrs. Weasley adds, her voice softer now. "I still think you're too young to be in the Order, but you're almost eighteen so I reckon there's nothing I can do to change your mind. . ." It's a statement, but a question marks still hangs in the air.

"What about me, Mom?" Ginny exclaims from the other side of the table, giving her mother an angry look. "When will I get to join the Order? I want to help as much as—"

"Oh, please," Mrs. Weasley snorts under her breath. "You're not even sixteen yet."

"But—"

"End of discussion," Mrs. Weasley says firmly, getting up of the chair. "In other news, as we all know, the wedding is in a few days and Bill, Fleur and the twins are coming over tomorrow already, so Ginny, Hermione, I'll have to ask you to share your room with Fleur—"

"But that's not fair!"

Hermione doesn't listen to the rest, but as Ginny continues to argue with her mother and her tea cools down, she agrees with her silently. Life has never been fair, not the way she wants it to be and one day, she shall accept it. One day.

...

"Bloody hell, it's freezing here. Can we go inside now? You know, she doesn't want to be found anyway, so there's no use in dancing around the garden at midnight."

"Eh, you're probably right. I'm just worried about her, Charlie. She's been so down and quiet since Harry and Ron left and now she sneaks out in the middle of the night. . ."

"Cut her some slack. She just wants to be alone now, can you really blame her for that?"

"No, I suppose not. It's just so strange, all of it. Why didn't they take her with them? She's million times better than they could ever be, so why leave her like that?"

"And that's exactly why the Order needs her. She's extremely talented and in possession of some valuable information, you know. At least that's what they say."

"And you believe them?"

"Don't you?"

"I don't know. I mean, of course, she's brilliant and all, but it doesn't make any sense. I'm sure she'd rather be with them than here, with us."

"Maybe. Maybe not. She's going to be alright though, you'll see."

"You think?"

. . .

"Come on. Let's go inside."

...

It's the middle of the summer and she's freezing, sitting on the unkempt grass, at the backyard of the house. She doesn't remember the last time she had felt this cold, but she's too lazy to get herself a cozy jumper (dishonor, dishonor indeed), so she just stays like this for longer than she would admit.

It's quiet here, and the stars are there, so she will survive.

...

Why didn't I come with them?

The words echo in her head, and she can't shake them off and she's just so, so tired. She has no energy to duel on anything other than— well, she has no energy to duel on anything really, but it doesn't stop her, because has it ever, anyway?

She closes her eyes and God, she should have come with them. She should be there with them and it's killing her and she made a wrong choice. She remembers their faces quite clearly, she remembers telling them that she's sorry but she has to stay, she's going to miss them like crazy, but she has to stay and she wants them to understand. Right now she doesn't even understand herself and it makes her want to scream.

They don't understand either. They wouldn't admit it, not in the million years, but the disappointment in their eyes spoke for itself and the pity in her stomach comes back to her when she remembers these looks. Not that she didn't explain it to them, she did and she was crying while doing so, and then they were crying together. But at the end of the day, just before she had walked away, their eyes were gloomy and her heart was broken and why, why did she leave them like that?

She has her reasons, of course. At least she thinks she does, but as the winds crawls through her skin and she takes a deep breath, she's not so sure anymore. Will they be okay? Was it selfish of her, leaving them on their own to their fate? She knows how they are sometimes, how reckless, how impulsive, how bloody unpredictable and hot-headed these boys can be. How are they going to escape the troubles if she is not there to fix their mistakes?

And yet, she can't manage to picture herself at their side, no matter how hard she tries. She loves them so, so much and she would do anything for them, but this time, this one time, she puts herself first because they have their mission and she has hers. She feels selfish – what she's doing seems like a trifle compared to the burden they'd decided to bear, but does the little things matter in a war as big as this one?

She's crying when she falls asleep on the unkempt grass at midnight, with the words echoing in her mind and the wind still crawling through her skin.

...

When Hermione walks through the kitchen doors, she looks like a giant mess.

She had never been much of an outdoorsy person – most of her childhood she'd spent curled up on her bed under the tons of warm, cozy blankets, reading her books and sipping the tea. She never had many friends either, but then again she never really attempted to get them, so she was fine with the children playing on the playground outside her window. She had her own worlds and her worlds were much better than bruises on her legs or sand in her shoes.

That being said, she walks past the mirror hanged in the corridor – she doesn't have to look at it to know that she probably has grass in her hair, livid bags under her eyes and clothes that look like pulled out of a dragon's throat. Instead, she makes herself a coffee and sits down, and sighs deeply, and her head hurts so much and then she hears voices so loud they make her cringe and Merlin, can this get any better.

She listens to them nevertheless, either because she wants to know who they belong to, or because she's too tired to cover her ears. (The second one. Definitely the second one.)

"—just want to know if we're sure about this."

"Don't be stupid, George, of course we're not sure about this. As I said, it's a death wish, but it's a very noble death wish, and we happen to be very noble young men—"

"—Yeah and imagine their ugly Death Eater faces, tripping on their skulls trying to figure it out—"

"—And think how bloody helpful it would be—"

"What would be helpful?"

They see her before she can see them, but she knows their voices too well at this point to mistake them for someone else. She would've recognized them anywhere and she feels like she hadn't heard them in forever, so she stops and waits for them to be in her sight.

And then they are, and she looks at them for a longer moment, because they didn't change that much, not the way she expected them to. They're still taller than nearly everything in the room, their hair is still messy and ginger and the smiles light up their faces when they look at her teasingly (is that a scratch, on Fred's cheek, though? It could be). They don't seem to be taken-aback by her question, and if they are, they have no intention of showing it.

"Nice to see you too, Hermione," Fred greets her casually, walking past her and pouring himself the coffee she had just made. Then he takes the place on the other side of the table and, while studying her with a smirk, he says: "Is that a new look you're testing or should we see the other guy?"

Hermione ignores him, sending him an angry look. Merlin, she's tired. "Don't try to avoid the question. What are you up to?

"And now she's talking balderdash," George's voice joins from the behind and he himself takes a sit next to his brother. "You should probably go get some sleep, you look a bit. . . tired."

"You would too, if you spent the night on the backyard of your house," Hermione mutters sulkily, unable to stop herself. She sees Fred's raised eyebrow and an amused look so, before he can say anything, she goes on, "Are you looking for troubles again? Don't you have enough to worry about? There's a war going on, for God's sake!"

Fred rolls his eyes, raising a cup to his mouth. "Your deduction skills are truly impressive, Hermione, but who said we're up to anything dangerous?"

"I heard you. You were talking about Death Eaters."

"Maybe we just want to treat them with chocolate."

"Quit it," Hermione snaps, not aware of her raising voice. She just want to sleep, and sleep and then sleep once again, but she's too exhausted to even close her eyes. "Look, I don't know what have you both gotten into your head, but I'm serious. It's not a time for games, you may get seriously hurt."

She doesn't know if she expected any reaction, but if she did, it was just a wishful thinking. They don't seem to be moved nor interested with her words, casually drinking their coffee in the way that's driving her crazy.

She wants to add something, but has no energy to do so, so she doesn't.

"It's really sweet of you, but I wouldn't worry much if I were you, my dear friend. Everything's under control," Fred says (or was it George? It's so much harder to tell them apart when she's so, so tired,) "Now, I'd suggest you to go get some sleep before you pass out on the table." And they both get up and just before she can register what's happening, they seem to be walking away.

She groans, but doesn't stop them, lying her head on the table top again. She's trying not to close her eyes, but they're made of sand now, so she resists it no more and it feels so good she may stay like this forever.

"Fine. Don't tell me. I'm going to find out on my own sooner or later," she mumbles, trying to sound dangerous, but failing because of the yawn getting out of her mouth halfway through.

"Whatever you say."

Hermione hears them laughing and it's the last thing she hears that day.

The day her bubble started to break, the day she'd remember while crying herself to sleep many, many days from now, and the day everything got out of control.