When Hermione opened her eyes, her first thought was Wimpole Street. (1)

Her second thought was that she felt one hundred percent well.

For a moment, she believed she was dreaming, but as she sat up in her bed without feeling the slightest bit of soreness or tenderness Hermione knew that it was real; she truly did feel better. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed and standing, she relished the feeling of the carpet beneath her toes. It had to be a miracle, she knew, for something this wonderful to happen so quickly.

Hermione heaved a sigh as she stretched out her arms, wondering what she should do. It had been so long since she'd stirred from her bed-prison, and now she was at a loss. Suddenly, it occurred to her that Harry would want to know how she was doing, and chancing a glance at the clock, it confirmed that it was still early enough for him to be around the Minister's Mansion. She rushed out of the room as fast as her legs could carry her.

The layout of the mansion was almost unfamiliar to her, since she had spent so much time cooped into that singular room, but Hermione managed to steer her way about the impressively large house and find the kitchen, where Ginny was humming to herself contentedly as she stirred her morning coffee, still in her housecoat.

"Ginny!" Hermione said with vigor, throwing out her arms wide to show the red-head the full extent of her recovery, "I am well, can you believe it?"

Ginny studiously ignored her, bringing the coffee to her lips and lifting a copy of the Daily Prophet up, as if to put a barrier between them. Hermione sighed at her former friend's reaction; she'd so hoped that Ginny would realize that she would never try to ruin the sanctity of marriage and come around, but she knew it was about time she began to accept that Ginny and she would never be friends again.

Dropping her arms to her sides, Hermione muttered, "Sorry for disturbing you." Then, as she turned on her heel, she began to cast an eye around for Harry. It surprised her that he was nowhere to be found, but then he was Minister of Magic, and it was probable that he'd been called in early. Satisfied with that explanation, Hermione ran up the steps back to her room and picked out an outfit that had been gathering dust in the closet. She slipped on the comfortable jeans and red long-sleeved shirt before searching around her room for her wand, which was nowhere to be seen. Giving up and deciding to ask Harry where he'd kept it when he came back, Hermione went back downstairs and opened the front door.

"I'm going out, Ginny!" she called over her shoulder, not caring if the other woman heard her or not. It'd been so long since Hermione had been outside, and she could not wait to stand in the sunshine.

--

Draco Malfoy woke up with his head in a dirty puddle and the words Wimpole Street echoing in his mind. As he pulled himself into the sitting position, spitting the disgusting water out of his mouth and wiping off his face, he wondered why the strange sounding road was being replayed again and again in his mind. Deciding that he'd probably read it in a newspaper article or something like that, Draco ignored it, standing up and brushing the dirt from his clothing.

He wasn't sure what had happened or how long he'd be unconscious, but Draco knew that if he didn't return to his friends soon, there would likely begin to look for him. Walking in the direction he'd come from, Draco began to worry that perhaps they'd already started. He and his friends had entered into a dangerous lifestyle, one that required that they constantly look out for each other.

A few days before the final battle of the Great War, Draco had decided to turn against Voldemort and fight for the Light Side. It hadn't been a change of heart, but more of a way to save his own skin; he'd known that the side he was aligned with was doomed to lose. So he'd grabbed Blaise Zabini, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Theodore Nott, explained the situation to them, and they had gone to Harry Potter to offer their insights into Voldemort's plans for the battle.

It was because of this very information that Harry Potter had won the conflict, though not without a great loss of life. Hagrid, Ron Weasley, even Scrimgeor, the Minister of Magic at that time, had fought and died. And after the battle was done and Potter had saved every British wizarding soul, the Ministry decided that he should continue to lead them all and bestowed upon him the title of Minister of Magic.

The only problem was that the Ministry insisted on giving other heroes of war positions of power, also, and not all heroes were as convinced that Malfoy and his gang of friends had truly converted to the Light forces. An example would be Alabaster Frink, who'd managed to kill Bellatrix Lestrange and had shot himself into instant fame. He'd been given the title Head of Defense, and the first people he decided the good wizards and witches needed to be protected from was none other than the very same deserters who had come to their side and saved everyone's lives.

Any and all former Death Eaters who had renounced their ties to the Dark Lord prior to the final battle and who served to help the Light Side were given amnesty to the Dementor's Kiss and to any death sentences as a direct order from Harry Potter. But Potter was a busy man, and didn't have time to watch his Head of Defense's every move. Frink knew that, and acted upon it, seizing groups of people who had given up Voldemort and who should have been free under the rules of Harry Potter, and sticking them in the worst cells of Azkaban.

Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Theodore Nott had been granted special privileges by Harry Potter due to their useful information during the war, which irked Frink to no uncertain end. The Head of Defense made sure that, though they were free, there was never a moment when they forgot what they had been; Frink had them followed day and night and sent them threatening letters frequently. Though not the harshest of all treatments, it was certainly bothersome, and the five men began to feel as though their contribution to the Light Side, as well as their fellow deserter's contributions, were being ignored.

Frink's harassment provided a common link that held Malfoy, Zabini, Goyle, Crabbe, and Nott together: hatred of that same man. Soon, the five of them had returned to their roots; they were plotting. Draco became their leader, much as he had been the Slytherin Prince back during their school days, and at first, he had resisted a vigilante solution. Clearing the Malfoy name had taken most of the Malfoy funds, and he was in no hurry to do any more damage than had already been done. He had tried to talk the four of them into peaceful solutions. He had urged them to write letters to Harry Potter, asking him to control his Head of Defense. Each time, Potter would say something to Frink, and each time Frink cleaned up his act for a few days before reverting back to his old ways.

Soon, the people who depended on Draco began to call for some action, for something to happen. They wanted to remove Frink: permanently. If Harry Potter was not going to do it, then they wanted to do it for him.

It had taken a long time for them to persuade Draco, but years went by and nothing changed. Frink was as much of an obsessive stalker as before, and Draco knew he would never mend his ways. Things had only escalated when rumors had begun circulating five years earlier of a dark wizard gaining power in Russia. Frink began to make speeches weekly in different parts of the country, reaching out to the citizens to assure them of their safety.

And it was during these speeches that Alabaster Frink created moments when he could easily be assassinated.

The plan had been a long time coming, but it was nearly to fruition. Frink, the fiend, would be speaking the next morning, and Draco and his gang had meticulously planned out what would hopefully be his demise. Months ago, Gregory Goyle had secured a job as security detail for Frink, using a false name and a few appearance changing charms to disguise his true identity. For being the Head of Defense, Frink had certainly not checked thoroughly into the backgrounds of the people who were supposed to be defending him. During speeches, the guards typically stood in a cluster to one side of the platform, and it was planned for Goyle to give all the other guards a silent Petrificus Totalus so that one of the other four sitting in the audience could send a killing curse in Frink's direction.

Did it make Frink right about them, Draco often wondered, for them to assassinate him. Were they nothing but cold-blooded killers who had managed to skive punishment, and who were still very much a threat to the order of society? He knew the answer to the question—no, Frink was wrong. He and his friends were not dangerous to anyone in society but the Head of the Defense. They may have been Death Eaters at one point, but they had been reformed; this was a political assassination, not a random and senseless murder.

Which isn't to say it wasn't murder, of course, it just wasn't random and senseless.

As Draco made his way down the dark alleyways, he rubbed his forehead; he had a splitting headache, and the words Wimpole Street would not stop bouncing around in his brain. He turned the corner, passing Zabini, Goyle, and Crabbe, who were standing in a huddle, talking in low tones. Draco called out a hello, and though no one acknowledged him, he knew they'd heard him and would not worry about looking for him later. Usually, their lack of a greeting would have bothered Draco, but he welcomed it at that moment. The three of them were so on edge about the impending assassination, and their constant worries were starting to grate on his nerves.

Not that they weren't worries founded in reason because they were; it had been careless, to let Nott out on his own after dark. He had always been the most spineless member of their group, and Draco should have known that he would be the most easily compromised. Shaking a bit of blonde hair from his face, Draco almost regretted treating the boy so harshly; it would be impossible, now, to know what he'd told the group that had cornered him. Draco cursed his temper, berating himself for letting his anger surpass his rationality. Would it still be safe to go forth with the plan they had set up for tomorrow? What had that little coward told them?

Kicking a rock, Draco reached a hand up to his sore temple. His headache wasn't getting any better, and having Wimpole Street replay in his head time after time wasn't doing him any favors. Shrugging his jacket tighter around him and shoving his hands into his pockets, he began to wonder where, exactly, this Wimpole Street was…

--

After a few minutes of watching her husband weep over the death of another woman, Ginny Potter pulled together her last remaining strength, crossed the room and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Come now," she said, softly, "She wouldn't want you to cry like that."

Harry stifled a sob, lifting his head from his hands and running his sleeve across his eyes. He remained facing Hermione, not turning toward his wife, but lifted his own hand to hers, gripping it tightly. "She—she's gone, Gin."

"I know, darling." Murmured Ginny, stooping down so that she was eye level with Harry. "But she was suffering a lot. This is a good thing. She's not in pain anymore." The words and tone were comforting, but Ginny's eyes betrayed the slightest bit of satisfaction at seeing her supposed rival's lifeless body lying on the bed.

However, all Harry heard was the reassurance, and he gave his wife a grateful smile. "Who knows?" he said, hopeful, "Maybe she'll become a ghost."

Ginny's sweet smile faltered.

"Yes, maybe she will."

--

Hermione stood outside, head tilted back and eyes closed, just enjoying the feel of the sun on her face. She had forgotten how comforting and warm the sun's rays felt when they touched skin. Her joy was almost tangible.

The only thing that truly ruined the moment was the constant echo of Wimpole Street, Wimpole Street in her head. Her chin tilted back toward the ground as a frown traced its way across her mouth; though she could never remember hearing of the street before, she suddenly had a very strange feeling that she knew where it was. Almost without her permission, her feet began to walk down the street, and intuitively she knew when to turn left, or right, and was soon in the heart of London.

The streets seemed more crowded that ever before; in fact, Hermione felt as though there was scarcely room to move. She walked, knowing and yet not knowing, where she was headed, marveling at how many people were out and about. Most of the people in the crowd simply brushed by her, not noticing that she was even there, but as she walked she noticed a peculiar man studying her with a smile. Though she returned the smile, Hermione quickened her pace and trained her eyes on the people directly in front of her.

A mother and her very young daughter were walking, hand in hand, down the middle of the sidewalk, and Hermione felt her eyes drawn to them. They were so picturesque as they made their way toward their destination, mother scolding daughter for splashing in the puddles left over from yesterday's rainstorm, and daughter explaining to mother that puddles were the best part of the rain. Mother and daughter were so caught up in their discussion of puddles that they did not notice a man clad in dark clothes steal out from the shadows and slide behind them on the sidewalk. Neither of them saw as he crept his hand towards mother's purse, reaching down inside and retrieving his prize: a wallet. Hermione, however, watched the event in horror, shouting out, "Ma'am! Ma'am, you're being robbed!"

The young mother continued to tell her child that puddles were not to be jumped in, completely ignoring Hermione's protestations and pleas. The man pocketed the wallet, smiling to himself before disappearing into an alleyway.

"Please, someone help! That woman was robbed!" Hermione cried out, trying to catch the eye of someone walking past her. No one spared her a glance, or listened as she begged for their assistance. Mother and daughter continued walking, completely unaware that they'd just lost all their money, and Hermione had soon lost sight of them. She ran down the same alley as the thief in an attempt to catch up to him, to no avail.

On the other side of the alley, however, she found Wimpole Street.

--

By the time Zabini, Goyle, and Crabbe reached Draco Malfoy, he had been dead for a few minutes. For a moment, they all stood in silence, looking at their fearless leader who was lying facedown in a puddle of mud. Then, as if connected by one brain, all three surged forward, running at full speed toward the corpse, flipping over their fallen leader and slapping his face a few times to see if he would revive.

"It's no use," Blaise whispered, his voice a terrible mix of hopelessness and fear, "He's dead."

Goyle glared at Blaise. "Don't say that—he's not—he can't be." He reached forward and pinched Draco's cheek, before giving it a smart slap, "Draco, wake up. Wake up!" When Draco didn't stir, Goyle stood and backed away, "Oh Merlin, what the hell are we going to do? What about tomorrow?"

"We can't do it without him, Blaise." Crabbe stated, casting a glance down at the body of his former friend, "I mean, he's the one who planned everything."

Everyone was quiet for a long time, before Blaise finally collected his thoughts. Taking a deep breath, he said, "And that's exactly why we're going to go through with tomorrow as planned."

Crabbe shook his head. "No way, Blaise. First Nott gets captured and says who knows what to who knows who, and now Draco? It's a sign—this isn't meant to happen."

"So what?" Blaise retorted, "We give up? We back down? We let everything we've planned for five years go down the gutter?"

"He's right, Vince." Goyle interjected, shifting uncomfortably around on his feet, "All of us put too much into this—Draco put too much into this—to give it all up at the drop of a hat." He motioned toward Draco's corpse, "He'd want us to go through with it."

Nodding in concession, Crabbe tried one last time to convince his friends. "But what about what Nott told—well, whoever it was? What if the authorities already know?"

"Who cares?" Blaise whispered, kneeling down to Draco and shoving a hand under the body so he could lift it, "If we get caught, so what? At least we will have gotten the bastard, right?" Grunting, he tried to lift Draco on his own.

Goyle stooped to help him lift the corpse. "Where are we taking him?"

"There's a huge field a few miles away from Malfoy Manor where Draco and I used to play when we were little. Pretty much abandoned, I think. We can bury him there." Blaise answered. "I'll apparate over there with him and come back for you two in a second, okay?"

He waited until the two other men had nodded, then Blaise was gone with a pop.

--

After walking for a half hour in an attempt to clear his head, Draco Malfoy found that he still could not rid it of the name of a street he'd never heard of. Though he tried to convince himself that he needed to return to his friends, his curiosity was refusing to let him rest; it wanted to know what Wimpole Street was and why it seemed so important.

Draco knew if he turned around went back to the tiny flat he shared with Blaise Zabini (oh, how he missed the Malfoy fortune!), he'd find a group of very nervous former Death Eaters with a lot of questions he couldn't answer. He didn't want to be bombarded with queries about Nott, and what the little bastard had and had not said, when he himself didn't know. Nott's cowardice could have cost them five years of planning, and Draco did not want to return home and have to tell everyone who had worked so hard for so long that it had all been for nothing.

So, instead, Draco turned off his brain and let his feet bring him where they wanted to go. Pushing his way through the crowded streets (were they always this crowded, Draco wondered), Draco's feet took him from the main road through a series of dark back alleyways. When Draco began to pay attention to his whereabouts, he felt slightly nervous, realizing he was somewhere he'd never been before.

His anxiousness abated, however, when he noticed the sign emblazoned Wimpole Street and saw Hermione Granger standing amidst a crowd of strangers.

1 - Wimpole Street is an allusion (albeit a very small one!) to the book Portrait of a Lady by Henry James. It's one of my favorite books of all time by my ABSOLUTE FAVORITE AUTHOR EVER. Seriously. I should have been born earlier so that Henry James and I could have been BFFs. I highly recommend PoaL—it's a wonderful book!

A/N: …and almost a year later—I update! Finishing one of my other stories (called "Pure Blood"—check it outtt!) motivated me to actually finish the things I start…what a concept, right? Anyway, I re-read this and found that I liked it and wanted to continue. And here we are. :D This story won't be TOO long. I'm thinking 7 – 10 chapters at the most, and maybe not even that.

If you have any questions, please ask them! I am always willing to answer questions, whether in an A/N (if I think more than one person likely has that same question) or in a PM. Please, comment and give me constructive criticism. I love a good, intelligent critique. :D

Thank you for reading and please review!