DEVON, ENGLAND
September 2001, seventeen months after Hermione's escape
As daybreak approached, birds began to flit from branch to ground, chirping and digging in a steep, wooded valley two miles south of Ottery St. Catchpole. Emerging undergrowth had been slowly and steadily resurfacing along the forest floor, though tree trunks were still black with soot residue from the previous summer's raging wildfires. Most of the native woodland animals had abandoned these woods about three years ago, when the first series of wildfires and natural disasters began－but birds, stubborn and carefree fellows that they are, continued to nest and thrive in the surviving trees.
The dip of the forest floor felt almost peaceful to Hermione as she lay in a bed of freshly-fallen leaves, and she slept on.
Her days were long as she put more miles behind her. Last winter had nearly killed her. Awakening to each gruelling day, she often didn't have anything at all to fill the void in her stomach and she always felt exhausted from the constant shivering. If she was hungry enough, she'd slowly try to chew white birch or pine bark. Warm months, though, were almost okay. Her first spring had been a season of rebirth for her. She would never forget slowly coming back to life, the dead brown of the countryside changing, reawakening around her, the playful birds and the bubbling springs thawing the wall of protection she had put up around her soul.
There was still fear, of course. Snatchers were a very real threat. She was wary of all strangers and existed only on the outskirts of civilization. Summer became her favourite time of year, the few months when she had enough to eat. Like a bear preparing for hibernation, she stuffed herself on wild berries, fruit when she could find some, dandelions, and clover.
The chill in the air, however, heralded another changing of seasons and autumn was fast closing in.
Since her escape, she had been trying to reach The Burrow, slowly but steadily making her way through Scotland and then England. Every ounce of determination within her drew her to the childhood home she loved and missed, but, as darkness had fallen the night before, she had grown too nervous to continue any further.
With no shelter in sight, she had burrowed into the leaves, trying to blend in with the broken darkness of the forest floor, and had fallen into an uneasy sleep.
As the bird calls grew more insistent, Hermione turned onto her other side, still asleep. Her first several months on the run, every sound had jolted her awake and into an involuntary defensive position despite her bone-deep exhaustion. Now, though, while she woke up often to check that there were no Snatchers searching nearby, she slept through the natural sounds of the outdoors because she was so accustomed to hearing them.
The pull of sleep warred with the risen sun, and after a few minutes, Hermione turned over again and grimaced, stretching very carefully to warm up her cramped muscles. She pulled herself up onto her knees and then to her feet. Several bones protested loudly as she started her morning stretch while she looked around warily. The land was sloped and from a distance one would really be able to appreciate the rolling hills. The ground was moist from a light dew and the early September wind was brisk, fervent, and ill-tempered. Hermione's teeth chattered and her jaw was aching. She shivered as she adjusted her heavy knitted sweater. She reached into her small crossover purse and pulled out an almost-empty bottle of water and a small handful of hickory nuts.
Oh, to have ham. Roast beef. Mashed potatoes. Gravy.
Breakfast more or less taken care of, she dusted her hands off, making her way down to a nearby stream. She paused as she dipped the bottle into the trickling water. The unkempt woman reflected on the creek bed was unrecognisable. Hermione's eyes darkened at the sight she made. She fingered her hair, always impossible, but now a mass of snarls, rat nests, and disintegrating braids. Her once warm cinnamon and cocoa eyes were now skittish, cold, and dim. Her face was thin and dark, tanned and leathery from so much exposure to the sun. Hermione set the bottle on the ground and felt her cheek, then sighed wistfully. Her throat started clogging up and she blinked rapidly to dispel the threat of tears. She rolled up her sleeves and scrubbed her face and her arms despite the frigid cold water until her exposed skin was red and blessedly grime-free. Tears again threatened as she tried to clean her fingernails, but she held them back. If she allowed herself to cry, she was not sure how she would ever be able to stop.
After drinking her fill, Hermione unsteadily rose to her feet, ordering herself to get a grip and to get moving. If she pushed herself, she could be at The Burrow in about an hour. Slipping on her sunglasses, she left the stream and headed south once more. She made easy progress across the rolling hills and meadows and she was only slightly out of breath when she recognized the orchard where many a spirited game of Quidditch had been held. Her breath suddenly started to hitch and her heart to pound and she increased her pace up the last hill.
Topping the rise, she jerked to a stop.
There was no patchwork house rising unsteadily into the sky. No overgrown garden, no broom shed, no chicken coop, no garage, no Ford Anglia. The Burrow and its surroundings were burnt to the ground, the scorched masonry and rock walls left behind overgrown by knotgrass and stubborn weeds, lingering ashes still shifting gently in the breeze.
Hermione's heart sunk. After a few minutes of stunned immobility, she moved forward slowly and investigated the ruins, convincing herself once and for all that it wasn't a glamour or a mirage or a hallucination. Spent, she made her way back down the hill, then stopped, too emotionally drained to go any further today.
She didn't cry. She sat and stared around the field until the sun began to set and twilight and then dusk enveloped the world once again. Still feeling numb, she acknowledged the evenfall by simply laying down where she sat and stared up at the stars until her eyes grew too heavy.