Author's Note: Hello lovely readers! Somewhat shorter chapter than the previous, but I'm hoping it'll be only another week or two until the next one, which should be... somewhat more fun. I can but convey what the characters feel like they've gotta do, you know? I'll shepherd them through their own idiocies as quickly as I can.

I wanted to say thank you particularly to everyone who's been leaving me reviews! I can't reply directly to those of you who leave guest reviews, so I wanted to mention as a special shoutout that those guest reviews have been super helpful, and that I read and greatly appreciate every one! Thank you all so much for reading.

Ch. 10

Hermione woke up in what could barely be called the morning anymore, to the worst hangover she had ever experienced. She was not typically a heavy drinker, so that wasn't saying all that much. Still, the clogged, aching feeling of her head was… not pleasant.

Something similar could be said for the state of her mind.

She managed to survive a stealthy trip to the hallway bathroom–the last thing she wanted was to run into another human being right now, much less Sirius, whose room was down the hall, as she had been reminding herself in a panic since waking. Having successfully gotten back to her room with a large glass of water, she tottered back to her bed and crawled under the covers again. This was a moment for wallowing and contemplation. Her mind was at war with itself.

On the one hand, the deep and wretched guilt. She kept imagining what Ron's face would look like if he found out. He would go pale. He would think he was angry at first, but this would dissolve quickly into bewildered hurt and self-doubt. His blue eyes would begin to fill with tears, which he would blink away in embarrassment as he did his best to hold his composure together. He would want to know what he had done wrong. Since it was impossible for her, the wise and gentle Hermione Granger, keeper of his heart's allegiance since they were children, to have done something as randomly hurtful and unjustifiable as… well, practically wrapping herself around another man like a wanton kitten.

And that line of thinking was the other camp currently doing its best to establish supremacy in her mental battle this morning. Hermione had thought her crush on Sirius was a problem before. Now she was… overwhelmed. Her mind kept supplying her with little sensory tidbits from their encounter last night. The solidity of him, when she had been pulled into his lap, knees around his waist, and they had been pressed every inch together. The feeling of his fingers digging into her thigh, or the way his lips had worked their way hungrily down her throat. She was fairly sure she had even dreamed about him, as she had woken up flushed and aroused, with only the faintest fading memory that whatever her subconscious had been up to had been both unspeakable and very much involving Sirius's mouth and hands.

Hermione was forced to admit to herself that she had never felt like this before. More specifically, that she had never, ever felt this way about Ron. To put her feelings about Ron into the same category now felt like almost an insult to both men. Hermione had always wanted to love Ron. To be there for him–to be affectionate, and to value each other.

What she wanted to do to Sirius could not be expressed in polite language.

And so, she was faced again with her realization from last night. She was going to have to give Ron up. It was the only fair and honest way.

She got out a piece of parchment, and she spent a great long time figuring out what to write to Ron. All she really arrived at, though, was that she would have to talk to him in person.

Dear Ron, she wrote, I'm sorry that we split on the note that we did last night. We didn't get to talk at all. Do you think you could come back tonight for a bit? I know the Ministry border control will be annoying about it. But, I want to see you. Please come?

She began to end it Yours, Hermione, and then replaced it with Love, Hermione. That, at least, was true. She would never not love Ron. She was just coming to understand, now, what kind of love it actually was.

Before she could second-guess herself or give in to her trepidation, she went up to the attic to find their household owl, Hugin, and sent the letter.

After that, there was nothing for her to do but stew. At a certain point, she worked up the courage to move downstairs to the library, where she could at least work on some reading. Her stomach was filled with butterflies at the knowledge that, at any moment, she could run into Sirius around the house. She was dreadfully excited, but also nervous. Was he still thinking about what had happened last night? What was he thinking about it?

As it happened, though, she did not run into Sirius at all. She sat reading in the library for hours, and made a few trips around the house and to the kitchen to see if he might be lurking there. She almost asked Harry, who was playing gobstones in the kitchen with Ginny, whether he had seen Sirius. The trouble was that if she asked, Harry might ask why she wanted to know… Had Sirius even left his room today? Hermione was reaching the point where she felt tempted to ask Kreacher.

This particular question was answered, finally, when Hermione, Harry, and Ginny had sat down to dinner and they heard the front door open, and the sounds of Sirius coming in.

He trotted down into the kitchen a few moments later, looking almost… chipper? There was something unusually clean-cut about the collared shirt and slacks that he was wearing.

"Evening, everyone," he said, sliding into his usual seat. Hermione was smiling at him helplessly, though her smile dimmed a bit when his friendly look around at the three of them seemed to skate over her without pause. Was he avoiding her eyes?

Her smile was eradicated entirely by the words Harry said next: "Nice to see you, Sirius. How was your date?"

"Was nice," said Sirius, with a shrug and a small smile, and Hermione very suddenly lost all her appetite. And her excitement. Though not, thankfully, her composure, to which she was clinging with iron strength. She even managed, through a fog of sinking hopes, to nod encouragingly and to plaster a new smile onto her face while Harry and Ginny extracted more details from Sirius.

Who was the woman? She owned an antique shop in Diagon Alley, and they had met a couple of days ago when Sirius went to see about offloading some heirlooms that he particularly disliked. Her name? Gwendolyn. (Gwendolyn. Like some kind of fairy from a nauseating children's book.) Did Sirius like her? She seemed… nice. (Hermione was starting to hate the word nice.) Was Sirius going on another date with her, did he think? A shrug. And then: "Sure. Why not?"

Ginny and Harry seemed very pleased by this development, and Hermione got the impression that they were excited to see Sirius "getting out there." Meeting people. Setting up a new life as a free man. Grinding the tender shoots of Hermione's hopes into the unyielding ground.

All highly overrated activities.

Dinner was, mercifully, over fairly soon. Hermione helped clear the table, ignoring Kreacher's muttered protests more firmly than she usually did. Sirius didn't comment or tease her about her treatment of the elf, which added to her general feeling of doom.

Harry and Ginny left first to go upstairs, which, for a few moments, left Sirius and Hermione alone. When the door shut behind them, Hermione turned from the sink to look at Sirius, and he paused, looking awkward and, possibly, a little bit stricken. Like a student cold-called in class.

"Well," he said, "I think I'll head up too. …unless there's, um, anything you need help with?" His gesture took in the sink full of dishes that she had wrested from Kreacher's custody.

Hermione blinked at him, and then shook her head. "No, I'm good," she said. She picked up a plate, to demonstrate how good she was.

Sirius nodded. "Well, um… 'Night, then, 'Mione." A strangely jocular half-salute type of wave. And then he left.

'Mione? She winced, and put down the plate, staring into the sink. It seemed pretty clear, at this point, that Sirius was not planning to address what had happened last night. In fact, he was acting as if he was pretty determined to pretend it had never happened at all.

If it weren't for the reproach that she could imagine in Kreacher's eyes, Hermione would have broken the plate. She was beyond embarrassed. Who had she thought she was, to imagine that Sirius Black would be attracted to her, the frumpy, frizzy-haired nerd friend of his godson? That a drunk fumble in a moment of impulsiveness and vulnerability was anything other than a passing mistake, and a testament to the state of mind he had happened to be in, combined with the strength of the firewhiskey? He could date real women, who were established, and confident, and knew what they wanted. Single, and unimpeachably eligible. Who owned property, and businesses, and multiple sets of formal robes. Who had something to offer him other than a whole lot of superfluous book learning and a sackful of pathetic emotions. And who didn't spook and scramble out of his embrace like a frightened child.

Merlin. And Ron should be getting here any minute.

Ron found Hermione sitting on her bed–their bed–telling herself that she was not, under any circumstances, going to cry.

"Hey, 'Mione," he said, sitting down beside her and kissing her on the cheek. She leaned towards him, and he pulled her into a one-armed hug against his side. He was warm, and his arm around her shoulders ever so secure. "What's up?" he said. "You seemed a little upset in your letter."

This was it. Out or in. She owed Ron honesty.

The only thing was, she was no longer convinced that the events of last night mattered all that much. To anyone but her. Sirius would sail on past them, and it didn't seem like anything similar was particularly likely to occur again in future. Ron would be dreadfully and unnecessarily hurt if she told him. And she… could eventually persuade herself to forget. In the meantime, she could at least live with it. And Ron was so good to her, really. Shouldn't she do her best to stick it out, at least until she was very sure that she couldn't? Maybe she could fall in love with Ron all over again. Didn't she owe it to him to try?

And so, in response to his question, she just leaned in so that she could hug him more properly. "I miss you," she said, "and I was just sorry that we didn't get to talk last night. I'm sorry… that I got sick."

"Hey, no need to apologize," he said, squeezing her shoulders reassuringly with his arm. "It's not as if you did it on purpose. And anyway, here I am again. So let's talk now."

They settled back against the headboard, side by side, and talked for what turned into a couple of hours. Ron seemed to be loving Paris. His face lit up when he told stories about his training program, and how gratifying it was to be one of the best in the group there. He seemed very fond of Fleur's family, in a way that he was possibly a little bit embarrassed about. Given the veela blood in the equation, Hermione only rolled her eyes, mostly fondly. She was glad that Ron had Fleur's parents there to make sure he had everything he needed. If she remembered properly from Bill and Fleur's wedding, Fleur's mother was almost alarmingly capable and efficient. Mrs. Weasley had apparently taken to sending Ron almost daily care packages, in a somewhat aggressive display of maternal providing. This amused Hermione more than it did Ron.

They eventually reached the part of the evening where it was time either for them to go to bed, or for Ron to leave. He had training work in the morning.

Hermione had twined her fingers with his, and she was trying very hard to appreciate Ron's presence. The way his legs stretched out down the bed so much further than her own had once amused her and made her feel pleasantly delicate and small. The sweetness of his kisses had warmed her. She knew exactly how their lovemaking would go, from fumbling, familiar start to… rhythmic… end. And wasn't there something comforting in that?

Ron was looking at his watch.

"You can stay, if you want," Hermione said. "I won't mind if you wake me up in the morning to head back early."

Ron tilted his head, looking apologetic. "I'm… I'm actually thinking that I should really get back. Tomorrow is supposed to be a pretty important day, so I need to get good sleep. It was," he added, with almost a little bit too much enthusiasm, "really good to see you, though, 'Mione. Sorry that I have to scoot out."

"That's fine," Hermione heard herself saying. "No worries. I'm glad that you're being so responsible about the training." She smiled at him.

"Finally, right?" He smiled back at her, and then leaned in to kiss her. On the forehead. And then, gathering his coat up, he departed.

Hermione was left alone on the bed, feeling small–though also fat, probably, and ugly–and extremely unwanted. Had she done this? What had she done?

She had some trouble, then, maintaining her resolution not to cry.

…

In the days that followed, Hermione's chief solace was to throw herself back into her work. If she couldn't fix whatever it was that she had done to her own life, perhaps she could still make right what she had done to her parents'.

She was free from Delac duty this week, as Priscilla and Dorian had gone with Luna on a trip to collect stones for the Veil, and Fenshaw had agreed that Hermione probably wasn't needed for what sounded like a fairly mundane process. They would be locating the stones at the sites of ancient barrows in Wales and Scotland because, according to Dorian, these stones had absorbed a useful kind of familiarity both with magic and death over the course of many centuries.

Hermione was intrigued by his confident belief that stones could absorb such a thing, but not enough to want to go dig the stones up by hand for several days. Dorian, with an almost irritating enthusiasm, did not want to "corrupt their mood" by using new magic to extract them from the ground–this being, apparently, also the reason that the original stones could not be reused. They had been pushed "out of tune" by the Veil's destruction. Dorian's translation amulet seemed to have some trouble with the idioms whenever he tried to explain this.

Privately, Hermione's chief satisfaction about the trip was less the break from the Veil project, and more the fact that Priscilla had little choice about participating in the digging. She did not seem like the excavating type, and Hermione would have bet money that Priscilla had made Dorian collect the stones himself the first time around.

Still, it was good to be getting back to her own work. Or it would be, if she wasn't gaining the increasing feeling that most of her research was only leading her in circles. Today she was reading about the differences between muggle and wizard brains, with a pair of the appropriate organs in tanks for direct reference. She had had to keep the tanks separate, as the wizard brain seemed determined to attack the muggle brain when given the chance, rather like a beta fish. Hermione liked to imagine that the brain had belonged to a particularly snobby pureblood, which made her feel better about zapping it with spells every now and then to see what it did.

The muggle brain, by contrast, required significant delicacy when she wanted to work with it. It floated motionless, cushioned in several layers of protective magic that kept it full of living fluids and electrical impulses, though, according to everything she could find to read on the subject, this was only an approximation of a fully functioning brain, sluggish and somewhat unpredictable at best.

The trouble was that there was simply no way to keep a muggle brain truly alive in isolation, even with magic. This was because of a fundamental difference in the biology: where muggle brains functioned fully by means of electrical impulses, wizard brains infused and even replaced many of the same processes with magic. This magical "infusion" was present to higher and lower extents in different magical brains, which explained the difference in energy levels of the brains in the main tank, and of the ability of the few most powerful to create tangible tentacles out of their thought intentions.

A high saturation of this kind of thought-magic–Hermione was trying hard not to mentally refer to it as "brain juice"–also gave wizard brains significantly more plasticity than muggle brains: where a muggle brain cell might stay in the same place for a great long time, and at some point die permanently, wizard brain cells seemed to do peculiar things like move, grow, and even heal.

It was this last ability that Hermione was trying to learn more about. Magic gave wizard brains the ability to change. But what, exactly, did it have the ability to do to muggle brains when it was used on them?

Memories, she had determined, existed in the same area of the brain for both muggles and wizards. This made sense. The brains were structurally identical, it was only that magic got into the systems of wizard brains and mucked up any expectations past that point that she might bring over from muggle medicine.

What Hermione was stuck on was this: if memories, in a muggle, resided physically in connections in the brain, that meant that something lost in a muggle mind was lost forever. The cells or synapses would be gone, in most cases, unless a connection had just been temporarily switched off (as might be the case in an illusion-type spell). This was why Obliviators were so carefully trained–the erasing they did by Obliviating was final in muggles, and any new memories they inserted would, in most cases, have to be carefully crafted illusion spells that would sit in a muggle's mind and imitate a memory, permanently.

The trouble was that Hermione had done something different, because an illusion spell could simply be switched off again–by, say, a skilled Death Eater. Hermione had cast a Rementire spell, which had grown new memories in the place of her parents' old ones, based around some guiding suggestions she had built into the spell, but formed by their real brains. There was no way at all to "get back" an Obliviated memory, but what about a memory that had been–regrown?

Nobody seemed to know. The outlook did seem grim, in that the physical memories were no longer in her parents' minds–those parts of their brains had been physically reformed into their new memories. But Hermione was thinking, now, about the kind of magics that the Ministry seemed to know little about. Dumbledore had once talked about the ability of primal magics to leave a trace–the scar on Harry's forehead that behaved so unpredictably was there by sheer force of love. If the strength of feelings like love left a trace, might there be a way to find the traces of those true feelings in her parents' minds?

Only, how would she tell the true feelings apart from the false? Who and what else might Wendell and Monica Wilkins have come to love, in the time since they had been Hermione Granger's parents?

Having built up her theoretical research to the point where she needed to do tests to find any answers, Hermione was now working with St. Mungo's again, doing some gentle testing on patients in their memory ward. This had involved a somewhat uncomfortable reunion with Gilderoy Lockhart, but little else of note. All of her results only seemed to confirm what Hermione officially knew–that memories that weren't physically there, weren't there.

Still, at Fenshaw's urging, Hermione had agreed to move into what was necessarily the next phase of her project. Not quite able to face doing it herself, she had allowed the Department to contact a colleague in Australia to perform a simple suggestion charm, and the Ministry had pulled a few strings here in England. Wendell and Monica Wilkins, as of Wednesday morning, lived in London. They would need to be nearby, if Hermione was to gather data from them conveniently and regularly, without having to navigate international wizarding law every time she needed a hair sample for a potion or spell.

They had been set up in a very normal life. Wendell Wilkins was working in a pharmaceutical lab, and Monica Wilkins had been hired as a hairdresser–which was, apparently, what she believed to be her lifelong passion. The Ministry had deemed these professions strategically best, since both jobs would make it fairly easy to get biological samples from the couple unobtrusively, and both were repetitive enough that minor inconsistencies in their memories would not stand out horribly if any Obliviating became necessary.

Hermione hadn't asked Fenshaw, because she did not want to be told that she should not, but she had been forming a plan ever since they arrived. She wanted to see her parents. She waited until the weekend, partially because this would mean she didn't need to hurry in or out of work and possibly seem suspicious to Fenshaw. Or to Fenshaw's cat, Nero, who sometimes seemed like he knew when you didn't want to mention a thing. But it was also because she was not very sure that this plan was a good idea.

By Saturday morning, it was less that she had talked herself into it logically, and more that she couldn't stop herself. She had been largely isolating herself in her room at Grimauld Place all week, and with no Sirius or Ron to distract her, and no Ginny, Harry, or Luna to lighten her load, she was left with the growing need to poke at her own wound. It had been over a year now since she had last seen her parents. She had to see again what she had done to them, face to face. She had to see that they didn't know her at all.

She had decided to start with her mother, partially because it was logistically easy to set up an appointment with her. She hadn't yet come up with a good plan for getting into her father's lab. But she couldn't help also feeling that seeing her mother first was an impulse born of some kind of primal hope, deep within her. Her love for her father was strong, but it was a love born of getting to know someone over a lifetime, and of becoming the truest of friends. Her love for her mother was less extricable. Hermione had grown inside her, had breathed and been fed and become a human being under her care. Could all of that truly be gone?

She arrived at the hair parlor and was greeted by a young woman who, though very friendly, was a complete stranger, as was the woman who had Hermione sit down and began to wash her hair. Hermione had not, so far, seen her mother anywhere, and she was trying to be very patient about it.

Strangely, it was the feeling of having her hair washed that wormed its way under her veneer of calm. It had been years since Hermione had had her hair washed by somebody else. She had taken to cutting her own hair using glamour spells, since it was more consistent than muggle hairdressers, and she could correct mistakes whenever she didn't feel confident about it. There was something inexpressibly soothing, though, about having someone else press their hands to her scalp, massaging and cleaning all of her heavy, tangled hair. With her eyes closed, the rest of the parlor faded, and she felt every gentle movement of the woman's hands. It was an inherently caring, almost tender thing. It asked for nothing. It only gave.

It almost made Hermione feel more tense than ever to know that this was the closest she had come in months–years, maybe–to truly just… letting go.

She was inching towards allowing herself to really enjoy the experience when she heard her mother's voice. Nothing important. Casual words. "Rhonda, is that–oh, lovely, thanks. Yes, I'll just wait over here, you can send her over when she's ready."

Like a lightning bolt out of a clear blue sky, Hermione suddenly began to cry.

She tried to hide it, controlling her breathing and hoping that the tears that slipped down the sides of her face would blend with the water around her hair. The woman washing her hair seemed not to notice, or at least refrained from reacting when she prompted Hermione to sit up and wrapped her head in a towel.

She led her over to a rotating chair and a mirror in front of a short, mildly plump woman, who, if Hermione was being honest, barely looked recognizably like her mother as they approached.

Her hair, which had been showing some gray these days, was now dyed a merry red and was cut at a jaunty, modern angle. Her clothing was… bright. And flowing. She looked like the type of woman who had attended a great many rock concerts in her youth, and who probably had a crystal collection. Nothing like the clean-cut, collared shirts and slacks, Sunday school and pearl earrings Phoebe Granger that Hermione knew. Monica Wilkins smiled a magenta-lipsticked smile at Hermione, and gestured to the chair.

Hermione had seized control over her composure, and she sat in the chair with a tight smile. Her mother leaned around her and gathered Hermione's hair back with her hand in order to fasten the hairdresser's smock around her neck. The familiarity of the feeling of her mother's hand, gently against her neck, hit Hermione like a punch in the stomach. She blinked rapidly, feeling her throat grow tight again in spite of herself.

Monica Wilkins met her eyes in the mirror, and for a moment they looked at each other. Then her mother's face suffused with sympathy. "Oh honey," she said, "are you alright?"

Hermione opened her mouth to say that, oh, she was fine, thanks. And her voice caught on the first word. And the tears clawed their way back up her throat. And she found herself saying, "N-not really. I'm s-so sorry, I d-don't usually do this…" as sobs pushed their way through the sentence.

Her mother produced a tissue box from out of nowhere, and she rubbed Hermione's arm in a soothing gesture that made Hermione's heart clench with recognition. "You wanted just a brush and a trim?" she said. Hermione nodded, blotting at her face furiously with a tissue as the tears continued to fall. "Well then," said her mother, "why don't I start brushing your hair, and you can tell me all about it, hm? It might be easier that way. You'll be doing me a favor, I wait days to hear about things that aren't the weather or the news." Her words were playful, but the smile she was giving Hermione was gentle, and it warmed Hermione like the rays of an almost-forgotten sun.

"I'm so sorry," she managed, though her voice quavered. Her mother nodded encouragingly. "It's just… I've had so many things going on in my life that I don't know what to do about–things that I have no experience with, and no answers for. Like…" she searched wildly for a moment. What could she talk to a muggle about? "Like, um, my boyfriend. And my… uh, not at all boyfriend. It's so confusing. And, you see, my…" she took a deep breath. Her mother's brown eyes looked back at her from the mirror, as brown as her own, and the feeling of the brush moving through her hair felt like every morning of her childhood. With a wobble in her voice, she finished, "My parents passed… passed away, a couple of years ago. And there just hasn't been anybody–anybody that I could really talk to about it, who would be just on my side of it all. You know?"

"Oh, I know," said the very red-haired, but very brown-eyed Monica Wilkins. The smile she gave Hermione was just slightly off, and wrong for her face, but its warmth was not off at all. "That," she said, "is exactly why we have priests and hairdressers."

Expertly wielding the hairbrush, she coiled Hermione's hair on top of her head, and pulled out a pair of scissors. "Now," she added, "tell me about these boys."