My first new story in a really long time so please be kind! It might be start a bit slow in the beginning, but it'll definitely pick up. (5/1/08-Just edited a bit, thanks to BatmansBabe, I really appreciate the assistance!)

Hermione Granger was going to die. She had faced Death Eaters, perplexing hexes, vampires, dark lords and years countless years of embarrassingly hideous hair dauntlessly, but this was an entirely separate matter. Those had been mere trifles, mere trials for her inevitable demise.

She raised her hand toward the door frame, hesitating before decidedly resting the palm of her hand on the oak soundlessly.

When it became clear that she was too much of a coward to knock, her counterpart did so for her, sparing her an exaggerated eye roll in the interest of silent expression. A tight-lipped smile was all that she could muster at the moment while her blood ran hot and her skin was glistening with a light sheen of sweat.

In desperation she clasped to thfe hand of the man she loved, staring straight forward as he offered a reciprocating squeeze. "You look like you're about to have a conniption," he laughed, amused. Hermione, however, could not find anything mildly humorous in the situation.

"Remember what I told you..." he nodded, cutting her off with a knowing look.

"I know, I know. No back-talk, no quippy remarks or clever anecdotes, no touching any part of your body that doesn't have fingers..." He stated with embellished exasperation.

She raised her free hand outward, pointing accusingly with her index finger. "And no provocation or retaliation. I don't care who starts it, who deserves it, who's begging for a blazing row. You're just going to have to take it like a man, even when and if they turn on me. No machismo defenses, that'll just alienate the lot further! Do you think they hear us at the door?" She exclaimed breathlessly, pounding energetically for good measure.

"I'm pretty sure they heard that in Ireland, love." It was still strange, the 'love' part, but she was getting used to it.

She went on, knowing she was being dramatic but incapable of stopping, "try to avoid eye contact, not because of fear but in the interest of survival. We're walking into the lion's den, here. They will eat us alive without any--" And with that, the door swung open and Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy found themselves looking death in the eye.

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THREE MONTHS BEFOREHAND

Four hours and twenty-six minutes in Hermione was cursing anything and everything in sight. Stupid bus, stupid bus driver, stupid unpaved roads, horrifically obnoxious squawking chickens and children! She gingerly rubbed her temples, hoping that it would all come to an end soon.

She felt herself turn green as the bus tipped precariously around a sharp corner. I will not throw up. I refuse to throw up, she chanted to herself, wincing as the three baby orchestra of screams came back from their intermission full throttle, and Hermione wondered exactly how much trouble she would get in for hexing innocent Muggle babies in a crowded area in an obscure section of Romania.

Her wand was stashed safely in her leather patent bag, and the rules were clear: she was not to do magic without provocation, and she highly doubted loud, shrieking children annoying her was reason enough to break the rules.

When the ancient bus finally lurched to a stop Hermione was so eager to escape that she missed the first step and stumbled, bags and all, onto the rocky terrain. "Bullocks," she muttered, brushing debris from her sweat-drenched T-shirt and clambering to her feet, knees unstable from hours of inactivity. A man caught her elbow, helping to steady her with boundless eagerness.

"Mrs. Granger?" He enthused, moving from elbow to hand in order to pump her arm in greeting. "So good to finally meet you." His words were heavily accented, but years in foreign relations had numbed Hermione to linguistic dissimilarities.

She smiled halfheartedly, not bothering to correct his error in her name. "You must be Mr. Heliade, it's a pleasure." He finally released her hand only to clamp his fingers on her shoulder, guiding her unnecessarily forward.

"It's Mihail, please. No formalities! I just got off the phone with your Minister, and he was most flattering of you. Here, Ion, luggage!" He shouted, and a young boy materialized alongside him, quick to bow and snatch the bags and even quicker to sprint away. "I look forward to working with you, I've heard the stories. You're Potter's woman, no?"

She smiled at the mistake, but nodded nonetheless, "something like that. When can we meet with your Board of Muggle Relations?" Minister of Magic Shacklebolft found it fit for her to travel the Muggle way throughout the country in order to make a good impression. At the time she had wholeheartedly agreed, but it had only taken her a few hours of rocky transport to change her mind.

Mihail frowned at the question and she was on the verge of rephrasing when he replied, "another day or so. Maybe more, not less. They recommended another professional to discuss with, and it may take time for the Ministry to provide transport. I'm sorry," he said, seeing the ill concealed dejection quickly spill across her face.

"Oh, well, s'alright, I suppose. Could you direct me to my lodgings, I'm a bit worn-out." She said, quick to hide her disappointment. She supposed that she was being unrealistic, hoping to be in and out of here within a day. Shacklebolt had known her well enough to refrain from expressing doubts when she had informed him of her expectations.

Mihail nodded quickly and began to jog through the center of town, ignoring exasperated passersby. "I hope you'll like it here, the inn is nice. Not much English to be spoken, however. And no magic around here, either, it's a 'Muggle,' as you call it, town through and through."

"That's charming," she lied, unable to face the reality that after fifteen plus years of being in the wizarding world, living outside of it was a daunting task. She presumed that, along with her own personal issues, Shacklebolt had assigned her this under the pretense that she would be more comfortable in a mostly-Muggle surrounding than any of the others. Now that she was here, friendless, with only a basic knowledge of the language and the terrain, she felt more alone and isolated than ever.

"Here you are, Mrs. Granger!" Mihail said proudly, waving her toward a quaint building with a wide smile across his face. Hermione was startled and hadn't even realized their progress, but was quick to catch on with congratulations on the charm of the building and the friendliness of the townsfolk.

He seemed satisfied and left her to herself, bags already propped against a wide bed, toiletries on top of the dresser. She had managed to neatly tuck her socks away into the topmost drawer before she broke out in tears, left in solitude to pity her self, her situation, and her choices.

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She and Harry Potter had been 'together' for upwards of eight years; only three months a week and four days shy of their ninth anniversary. For five of those nearly nine years she had worn his ring, as a promise to marry him. Then, one day, she did what she was renowned for doing; over thought things. There was no catastrophic fight, other man or woman. He wanted to marry her, and for the first time in a long time she didn't know what she wanted.f

And that was it. The next morning she flooed to Ginny's, where she stayed until Kingsley Shacklebolt conveniently decided to send her on her first solo mission, to discuss the growing vampire problem that the ministry suspected the Romanian Ministry of Magic was not only aware of, but was encouraging.

He had given her two days notice, which was barely enough time to pack and practice living magic without magical assist, let alone get the gist of the native language.

Besides clothes and necessities, all she could afford to carry with her was a pocket sized tourist dictionary with helpful phrases like 'I don't speak Romanianian' and 'where's the market?' Kingsley insisted that is would make a poor impression to bring an infinitely more helpful magic book, making and overly excited English-Romanianian translator necessary for any and all negotiation that would transpire.

She had an illogical eagerness to get back home, get out of this strange place and go back to her friends...or what she had left of them. The bossy and decisive eleven-year-old inside of her knew that she had made the right choice and was applauding her. The adult and currently crying Hermione, however, did not share in this certainty.

Had Hermione Granger been able to grasp the gravity of the situation she was in, it was very unlikely that she would waste time and tears on times past.

Please review, I just would like some feedback.