It had been three years to the day, three long years when Harry had knocked on her door. She'd opened it in her nightclothes with red, tear-stained cheeks and asked him inside, always to the point she then asked him why he was there.

"I've been watching you for a while Hermione,"

"What?"

"I know you told everyone not to look for you but I needed to find you." She raised her eyebrow and gestured him to continue. "Ron died; I didn't think you wanted to miss out on the funeral."

"Is it true?" he nodded, "How did it happen?"

"He got a bad case of Chicken Pox, largely unheard of in the wizarding community." At Hermione's curious glance he elaborated. "His daughter brought it home from school, the Medi-wizards at St. Mungo's were powerless, they had no idea what to do, you know those muggle diseases can really mess with a pureblood's physiology?" She nodded sadly,

"When is it?"

"In August...the 15th." She nodded sadly again. "I've been watching you for a while Hermione...you have a son,"

"Yes I do,"

"And a husband,"

"MmHmm,"

"A whole family…I feel robbed because I wasn't part of it, I wasn't at your wedding, I didn't watch your son grow up,"

"Neither did his father Harry. We've all been robbed."

"Who was the father?"

"My first husband of course,"

"I was hoping for a name,"

"Keep on hoping," he nodded, she had become secretive during the war, Moody had become slightly paranoid about it, kept insisting she wear short sleeves so he could monitor her arm and the lack of a Dark Mark on it. She offered him a drink and went to get changed while he carefully examined the room. A small cosy house this was by far the largest room on the bottom floor, a large lounge room mostly filled with smiling waving photographs. He tried in vain to find one of the first husband but only Hermione, her new husband and her son. She re-entered the room with a clean face and fresh clothes, "Hermione?"

"Yes,"

"Why are there no pictures of your first husband?"

"Well, John doesn't really remember him so we just act like Sam is his real father."

"You lie to him?"

"No, he never really asked, I assure you we will explain it to him before he goes to Hogwarts himself."

"So what do you say when he asks why his father isn't in any of the photos?"

"I tell him the truth, I say his father didn't really like photographs, he usually took the photos. I say he loved to take our photos, thought we were the two most beautiful people on Earth. I never lied to him." She sighed in defeat,

"So where is your first husband?"

"Unfortunately he died, when John was three, he was killed in a robbery."

"I'm sorry Hermione,"

"He died three years ago today actually," Harry nodded, there was a slight pause, "Well I'd love to sit around and mope but I have to pick John up from school, you're free to join me if you like?"

"No thankyou, I think I'll wait here,"

"Alright, well I shouldn't be more than twenty minutes; I'll see you when I get back Harry."

"Yes, see you."

Once she was gone he went exploring hoping to catch even a glimpse of the secret first husband in a picture. Fifteen minutes into the search and hope seemed lost until he found the corner of a black leather bound book under some tissues down the side of the couch. Journal, The cover read in silver embossed text. Was it hers? He asked himself, it was wrong to read it, he couldn't possibly.

He flipped it over in his hands contemplatively. The letters on the back shocked him, 'Property of Hermione Malfoy'. He felt down the side of the couch again and frantically pulled out everything else; a photo album, a small box of souvenirs and a Slytherin Scarf. He opened the photo album slowly, swimming into his view were first pictures of himself and Ron with their arms around Hermione's shoulders or having a snow fight or eating at Florean Fortescue's. The next page was obviously Draco courting her, then they moved in together and married, soon enough there were candid shots Hermione had managed to take of Draco holding his son, kissing his wife, loving his family. He suddenly felt like an intruder, he quickly stuffed everything back under the chair but not before he heard Hermione across the room.

"Harry? What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry, I'm just sorry, I have to go,"

"Harry, what were you doing?" he left out the front door and she followed him out into the yard, "Harry!" but before she could utter another word he'd apparated away.

As he lay awake in bed that night watching a stolen photograph of Draco and Hermione sitting, reading in the grass under a willow tree with their small child secretively eating grass not two feet away he thought about how much of an outsider he really was in Hermione's life, he should have obeyed her wish to never seek her out. He had prospectively ruined her life as she knew it in one hour.

The only question left unanswered is whether or not she would come to the funeral.

AN: A don't mind this fic, it kind of came to me the other day. I'm thinking about writing a sequel about the funeral.

C & C (comment and criticise)

() Dramione27.