Hermione had spent the next week searching the local Muggle library's section of old newspapers, trying to find mention of her birthparents' names. She eventually gave up, deciding that the wreck must have been too insignificant to warrant a write-up, and that her parents must not have been very well-known, as there wasn't even an obituary to be found. She was determined not to give up, but her job at the Ministry lamentably kept her from spending every waking hour doing research.

The next Friday evening found her sitting at the table in the cozy kitchen of the Burrow, having dinner with the Weasleys and Harry.

"What's up, Hermione?" Harry asked her, dutifully looking away from Ron's display of table manners, which hadn't improved much since school.

"Huh?" Hermione asked stupidly, tearing her eyes away from the half-masticated piece of meat in Ron's open mouth.

"You've been too quiet tonight," Harry explained, turning in his chair so his back was to Ron. "Either there's something on your mind or you've been Confounded."

Hermione managed a weak laugh before answering quietly, "I haven't slept much this week, that's all."

Harry arched an eyebrow at her, waiting for her to elaborate. When she didn't, he asked simply, "Why not?"

"Er, problems at work?"

Harry gave her an expression that clearly read "try again."

"I'm in love with you?" she guessed.

Harry snorted. Several ginger heads turned in their direction. Hermione laughed, a genuine laugh, the first one in a week for her.

Everyone turned back to their conversations, and Harry said in a low voice, "As much of an ego boost as that would be, I know you're just spouting rubbish to get me to lay off. But I know you better than anyone, and I know you want to tell me what's on your mind."

He was right, and she knew it. Sighing, she told him the whole story. His expression changed from shock to concern as she finished, and then he was silent for a whole minute.

"Wow," he whispered finally.

"Yeah," she said, turning to poke at her mostly-uneaten dinner. Everyone was starting to take their plates to the sink, and there was only the two of them and Ron left at the table now. Her was still stuffing his face, Hermione noticed. Again she laughed.

"What were their names?" Harry asked gently a moment later.

"Moira and Phillip DeMont," Hermione replied, not bothering to lower her voice this time.

"My goodness, Hermione, why on earth would you be talking about Phillip DeMont?" a voice from behind them said suddenly. Hermione looked around, where a rather bewildered-looking Mrs. Weasley stood clutching a dish cloth over her heart. She looked as if she'd just seen a ghost.

"Do you know him?" Harry asked so quickly that Ron finally lifted his head and took notice.

"Whassgoinon?" he mumbled, mouth still full.

"Know him? Of course I do! He was in our year at Hogwarts! But what are you lot doing talking about him?"

The next few moments were a jumble of things all at once, as Harry jumped to his feet to question Mrs. Weasley, Ron insisted to be informed of what they were talking about, and Hermione fell out of her chair into a dead faint on the floor.


Hermione was running along a corridor; she was late for Charms, but she needed to find something first. The only trouble was that she couldn't think what it was. She rounded a corner and ran headlong into the brown-eyed man from her dreams and Mrs. Weasley snogging next to one of the suits of armour. Mrs. Weasley stopped to look at her.

"Hermione," she said, and even though they were standing only feet apart, Mrs. Weasley sounded miles away...

"Hermione," someone was saying from overhead. Why was she lying down? How did she get on the couch? Her eyes fluttered open and tried to come into focus.

Seven sets of eyes were all looking at her, mixtures of concern and shock evident in all of them. She tried to sit up.

"Woah, slow down, Hermione," Mr. Weasley said, as Mrs. Weasley gently helped Hermione to a sitting position.

"Hermione, I had no idea you were falling for Harry," George said, winking at her.

"Sorry bro," Fred added, clapping Ron on the shoulder, "but love just isn't for the faint of heart."

"I-I fainted?" Hermione asked, straightening her robes and running a hand over her mussed hair.

"Yes, dear," Mrs. Weasley said, handing Hermione a small flask. "Now drink this; it's Pepper-Up Potion."

Hermione obeyed. It was best to do just as Mrs. Weasley said when she was in mother mode. She felt the potion slide white-hot down her throat and spread quickly through her body. Suddenly she was wide awake.

"You knew Phillip DeMont?" she asked immediately.

Mr. Weasley's eyes snapped to his wife's face, then back to Hermione. "What in the world?"

"Yes, we knew him," Mrs. Weasley said to Hermione. Turning to her husband, she added, "They were talking about him in the kitchen."

"Why?" Mr. Weasley asked his wife. "Why?" he asked Hermione.

"I--er--read his name somewhere," Hermione answered, not untruthfully. This seemed to appease Mr. and Mrs. Weasley--slightly. She took advantage of the momentary silence to pose another question.

"Who was he?"

"He was the last of the DeMont family," Mrs. Weasley began. "They were a long line of purebloods, the DeMonts, and typical purebloods, you know, big supporters of the Dark Arts, and eventually You-Know-Who. But Phillip was...different. He was in our year, do you remember, Arthur?"

"Yes, the git. No, I didn't like him, Molly, no matter what you say. He thought he was so smart, that one..."

"Well, he was, wasn't he? He was in Ravenclaw, and Head Boy our 7th year, too--"

"Yes, yes, and your little 'fling' with him in fourth year has nothing to do with anything, does it?" Mrs. Weasley blushed scarlet.

"Arthur Weasley, you know I only went out with him to make you notice me! Besides, he only ever had eyes for Moira Astell, and if you'd think a moment you'd remember that!"

There was a moment or two where Mr. Weasley stared at his wife as if he'd never seen her before, Mrs. Weasley tried to regain her temper, and Hermione's head spun at a furious pace. Moira? But that was her mother's name!

"M-Moira Astell?" she ventured when she thought it was safe. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley seemed to remember there were other people in the room; he cleared his throat and she sighed and continued.

"Yes, right. Well, Moira was in Griffyndor, a year under us, as a matter of fact. Very pretty, too. She was the last of another long line of purebloods, the Astells. There was a nasty feud going on between the DeMont family and the Astell family. Something about arguing over which line descended from Slytherin himself."

"As if it mattered, because somewhere down the line all pureblooded families are bound to be," Mr. Weasley added.

"As a matter of fact, I think Moira and Phillip were the first in their families to be sorted into a house other than Slytherin," Mrs. Weasley said thoughtfully.

"What happened next?" Ginny asked, apparently enthralled with what was quickly becoming a Romeo and Juliet story. Everyone else was listening intently too.

"Well, Moira wouldn't have him," continued Mrs. Weasley. "She too, seemed to think he was a know-it-all git." Mr. Weasley inclined his head as if to say thank you for this concession. "But he loved her so, and never gave up pursuing her. Around the time of our 7th year she began to soften to the idea, and by the time we left school, they were together, and deeply in love."

Hermione and Ginny signed. Mrs. Weasley smiled appreciatively. After a moment, Ron spoke up.

"But didn't their families find out and kill them or something?"

The spell was broken and the girls groaned, but Mrs. Weasley continued.

"Well, they certainly weren't pleased; they told them to break it off immediately, but Phillip and Moira wouldn't listen. Phillip had worked too long and hard to give up his love so easily, and Moira was just too stubborn to listen to her parents."

"What did they do?" asked Hermione, already knowing the answer.

"They eloped. Ran away and left the wizarding community forever," Mrs. Weasley answered wistfully.

"It sounds like a fairy tale," whispered Ginny. "What happened to them?"

"No one knows," answered Mr. Weasley. "They disappeared almost 25 years ago, and no one's seen or heard from them since."

But Hermione knew. She stood shakily to her feet and excused herself, saying she was tired and needed to get home to her bed.

"Oh, no, dear, you mustn't leave yet," Mrs. Weasley fussed, standing up now too, but Hermione shook her head firmly.

"I'll take her home, Mrs. Weasley," Harry interjected, and Mrs. Weasley grudgingly agreed, but wouldn't they be careful and send her an owl when Hermione was safely in her own bed?

Ron rose to leave as well, still not satisfied that he knew everything the others did, and and announced he was going home, too. He kissed his mother's cheek and bade them all goodnight as he swept out the door after Harry and Hermione.


"Woah," Ron said softly. Harry had just finished telling him the full story. Hermione had gone to bed, insisting she'd be fine after a good night's sleep. Harry was now writing a letter to send by owl to Mrs. Weasley.

"Woah," Ron said again. Harry rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Ron, 'woah,'" he said, fighting a grin as he rolled up his note and sealed it with his wand.

"But that means she's a pureblood now, too, not Muggle-born," Ron replied, staring at Hermione's bedroom door. Harry frowned. He hadn't thought of that.

"You're right," Harry mused as he fumbled with tying the scroll to the leg of Hermione's owl. "I wonder if it'll change anything."


Hermione tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Harry and Ron had left hours ago; she knew because she had been listening at the door.

Her mind just wouldn't stop working long enough for sleep to come. Her father had been a wizard; her mother had been a witch! Her father was Head Boy at Hogwarts! Her mother had been in Gryffindor!

She went from knowing nothing about her birthparents, save their names, six hours ago, to knowing how they met, fell in love, and defied their parents by running away together. She could sing. She could cry.

She had been crying for the past two hours, off and on. And like it or not, it had occurred to her that she was now a pureblood. Rub Draco Malfoy's nose in that. But she couldn't deny that now she felt a bit...lost.

So much of her existence, who she was, was built around the fact that she was a Muggle-born. She fought so hard to be the best because so many people were expecting her not to be. She even had begun to own the term "Mudblood," wearing it was a badge of honor instead of one of shame.

And now that was gone. In a way, she had found her identity, but she had also lost a vital part of herself.



A/N: Thank you to everybody who sent in their reviews, and to anybody else who read the last chapter. I honestly had no idea that anybody would read this...but I'm so glad all of you did!

The title. Yes I know, but I honestly have no idea. I'm seven chapters in and I've still got no clue. Any suggestions would be more than welcome!