Putting the world back together was an ugly and disjointed affair. After all the upheaval of Voldemort's take-over of the Ministry, there was room for unprecedented restructuring and evolution of magical society. Rather, in fear, people tried to cling to things that they knew and were familiar with. But the corruption of the Death Eaters, who had wormed their way into every part of the Ministry, had rotted it to the core. Trying to piece together a functioning government was a nightmare, and people had begun looking to her, the brightest witch of her age, to hold it all together.

To be quite honest, she was too tired to do it. She was too shattered to return to Hogwarts, too horrified to think about becoming a mediwizard, too scarred to become an auror. The bright future she'd dreamed of for so many years, was tarnished now, tainted by all the people who'd had to die to give it to her.

So instead she'd hidden at the Burrow, pretending that the outside world didn't exist, letting her ugly red scars fade to silver. Time helped with the nightmares, with the cold sweats and mood swings. She stopped dropping dishes in a sudden fright (which Molly was happy for), and her attention span grew so that she could read a whole book again. Before the war, which seemed like another life, she would have gone crazy to sit around for days and weeks and do nothing but lounge in the garden, drink tea and read nonsense books. But now it was a blessing, to listen to the silence and forget the screams.

Ron was the first to go stir crazy. She didn't even notice his quiet brooding for the first few days, his sighs when she simply left meals without explanation, or the way that he looked at Harry, who was even more broken than she, trying to fit the jagged pieces of his life back together. She only heard him yelling at his mother one afternoon, didn't hear what he said. He came storming out of the Burrow, eyes flashing, and pulled up short in front of her, chest heaving. He grabbed her upper arms, looked into her eyes and then crushed his lips against hers.

If he had tried something like it a few months prior, her panic would have made her claw at him and push him away. Now she was too numb to do much of anything except to let him kiss her. She remembered feeling so much exhilaration at the thought that she and Ron finally had some common ground, that he could be the kind of person who she could see herself with. Their first kiss, standing on the precipice of real war had been wonderful, warm and sweet and ripe with promise.

But something fundamental had shifted inside of her, and they didn't quite fit together anymore, like mismatched puzzle pieces. She let him kiss her, but it was nothing more than the movement of his mouth against hers. Her heart was quiet and cold in her chest. Eventually his lips stilled against hers, and he pulled away. He looked at his shoes.

"I guess its over then, eh 'Mione. Good luck." He turned on his heel and walked away, apparating when he was beyond the wards that still protected the house and garden. She just watched where he had gone until Ginny came up to her elbow, placing a warm hand on her shoulder.

"He needed to go. He just needs... he needs to do something else and try to move on."

"I understand... I... There wasn't anything here for him." Hermione turned, letting Ginny's hand fall off her shoulder.

She was grateful for Ginny, could never repay her for the help that she gave to Harry. Harry had died, had been possessed with a piece of the soul of a murderer, had seen his friends and loved ones lay down their lives for him. Ginny was gentle but firm, leading him out of darkness with loving hands. But their closeness was as much a source of isolation as it was a source of strength. Hermione was unsurprised when they left, not in a rush like Ron, but with much wringing of hands and packing and unpacking. Molly was distraught. She sniffled through dinner, a few stray tears dripping into the mashed potatoes she'd so lovingly made.

Nevertheless, she let him go, with a crushing hug and promises that they would be back every week for Sunday dinner. Then it was just Hermione, Molly and Arthur, haunting a house made for 9.

She was reading by the pond, letting the weak late winter sun warm her face, wrapped in blankets and bolstered by a quick warming charm, when she heard the back door open and close behind her. Molly generally left her alone, only bringing snacks and drinks out to wherever she was hiding that particular day, saying nothing if the trays were left untouched. But this intruder was loud, boisterous even, laughter sounding from behind her, from a conversation she wasn't privy to. The sound of it sent a wave of goose pimples rising on her flesh.

"Hiya, Hermione!" She didn't need to look around to know that it was Fred, but she did regardless, to see his face. His blue eyes were sparkling with mirth, and his face was set in his familiar grin, but she could see the shadow of concern in the set of his eyebrows. He had grown out his brilliant red hair, to cover his ears, just like she imagined George had. Still, they would never truly be identical again, with fresh scars bisecting his right eyebrow and cutting through his left lower lip, lending his smirk a more sardonic edge.

He strolled over, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a biscuit out to her, a few crumbs on his jumper evidence of his own snacking. "Mum's been worried since you didn't eat breakfast, so you should have some. It'll get her off my back." She tried to smile, to graciously accept what she was sure would be a delicious biscuit, and chat with Fred about the darkening sky, which she thought might be threatening snow. But she couldn't seem to school her features in the right way, achieving something closer to a grimace. Fred's eyebrows furrowed, and the outstretched hand fell to his side.

"Fred..."

"You know, I was thinking," he interrupted, a new grin on his face as if nothing was amiss. "George and I are reopening the shop, but there so much to do... we could use some help."

"You're reopening the shop? Now?" He looked at her seriously, his blue eyes searching her face.

"Now," he nodded, "don't you think the world could use a little laughter?" She hadn't laughed in months, couldn't remember the way it felt in her mouth. "What do you say 'Mione?" She managed a small smile this time, managed to feel it too.

"How could I refuse?" She started to rise, but stumbled and nearly fell onto the soft earth. She had some occasional numbness and weakness in her left side, some loss of feeling in her left fingers and toes. Side effects of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus curse. Fred's strong hand grabbed her wrist, keeping her from falling, fingers touching the skin just beyond the edge of her sleeve. The force of the magic that swept over her pulled the air out of her lungs, sent her heart racing. She wrenched her arm away, nearly sending Fred reeling, who was looking at her like he had never seen her before.

"Static shock," she offered weakly, smoothing her blouse down and gathering her blanket and book, all while ignoring Fred's eyes burning a hole into the back of her head. "when do I start?"

"Monday," he offered, his voice hollow. She didn't turn, tucking her things under her arm and scurrying toward the house.

"See you then!" she called over her shoulder, leaving a rather started Weasley standing in the garden, staring at the closing door.