Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

AN: Thank you very much to my reviewers: Smithback, Guest, Vera Rozalsky, lakelady8425, Annaface, Tom Riddle Minor, and Syd-of-the-Funny-Hat.


Chapter Eleven


10 December 2005, morning

A dream. I don't often have them, but this one is very clear: Neville and I are walking through the countryside in summer, no particular destination in mind. He talks about Hogwarts, about Quidditch and chess, and he looks at me with this smile that breaks my heart. It feels all too strange, although his presence is reassuring as it always is. His arm is in mine, and the sun is warm on our backs.

I stop because I see a sheep ahead. I point and we both watch it for a moment.

"It's so beautiful here," I say.

Neville doesn't reply; he only tugs my arm to turn me toward him. And there, in the grass and dirt, he bends down to one knee and pulls out a ring from his pocket.

"Marry me, Hermione," he says simply.

I'm too surprised and shocked to answer. I stare at the ring until it blinds my eyes and finally I look into his face, but it's not Neville anymore. It's Ron, and he is looking at me with that same smile, and I am rooted to the spot and I can't speak because I've gone mute. I open my mouth to scream, but I can't make any noise.

In the distance, the sheep runs off.


I awake, but it's painful. That desperate, awful feeling from the dream clings to my being without relent; for a moment I don't move and wait for it to pass, my mind reeling with images from the dream. It's always the worst ones that are the most vivid. And finally, after what feels an age, I gingerly sit up and get out of bed.

First thing this morning I know: I have no patience. I grab my wand and conjure some coffee. Another wave and some cream and sugar are in my cup. I take it to my table and drink it quickly, not caring it's scalding my tongue. It's not until I finish the entire cup do I feel human again.

I look at the mirror on the wall next to me, but I look away quickly. My reflection is not a comfort, especially first thing in the morning.

I bathe and dress, barely taking any time to tame my ridiculous hair. I don't know what's in store for me today. I haven't seen Neville or Harry since that day we ate dinner at the Leaky Cauldron. I make another cup of coffee, face burning with the memory, even still. I have tried to come to terms with the meeting, but I can't. Something is holding me back; something doesn't feel quite right.

Harry was a lot like I remembered him being. He's always been the more reserved one, but he opens his mouth when he feels he has to. But we're not scheming and plotting anymore, no - we were simply catching up, albeit awkwardly. I don't believe Harry knew what to say to me, not exactly. Once again I'm reminded that I caused this. Out of fear, yes, but now I'm starting to wonder if it was actually a foolish move.

Especially since that night - Neville and I walked home, and I know now how badly I wanted to touch him. But there is something separating us, I fear, something greater than I understand. Usually I am fairly straightforward with these things; all it takes is a little bit of nerve and then your intentions are clear. But with Neville…I just can't. It's a strange voice in the back of my head, saying Don't. And another part of me is afraid, too, that he would reject me. And now I feel like a teenager, really, because all these feelings sound like adolescent angst, even in my own head.

I stare into my cup, realizing I haven't taken more than a couple sips from it. The liquid is cooling fast. I wave my wand and it heats up again, and will stay warm until I finish it. I once again marvel at the ease and grace of magic. And then, a sort of twisted thought crosses my mind: Why can't magic fix me?

I stand and go to the window in the living room. It is snowing again, the sky an odd gray color. I sigh a little. I figured that seeing Harry would ease some of the tension inside of me, but it has only gotten worse.

I don't know what I truly want. I don't know how to feel. My thoughts are so muddled and sluggish; trying to work through this is like trudging through quicksand. And to add to the confusion, Neville has awakened a part of me I thought long dead. Even now where I stand I can almost feel his presence, can almost imagine the warmth of his hand on my shoulder. And yet…

He's not here. I put a hand on the window, feeling the cold glass soak up the heat.

"He's not here," I say aloud. Too loud. I lower my hand and sit on the couch, but all I can do is stare into the space Neville usually occupies. My chest tightens and I know there's a name for this emotion that threatens to surface. That has surfaced so many times since I saw him outside the restaurant.

Too restless. I stand and go to the window again, unsure what to do and then of course, unsure of why I don't know what to do. I feel like I have lost touch with myself. I used to be so sure, so confident that I had made the right choice. I used to be so comfortable, before.

But that's not right. I shake my head to retract those thoughts, because I wasn't so sure, was I? If I recall correctly, I was in fact questioning how much longer I could go on like I was, alone and in hiding, that same day Neville found me. And I have never been truthfully comfortable either, not really. I have always been paranoid the shadow behind me was an escaped Death Eater, that any creak in the flat was someone who had found me out.

Not good, these thoughts. I focus my eyes on the street below, watching Ordinary People walk about, wondering what it is like to have such normal, uneventful lives. Wondering what it must be like to have your worst nightmare be just that: a nightmare.

And then, for no reason at all, Neville's face enters my mind once again. Even when I close my eyes, he's there, stained on the back of my eyelids like some kind of tattoo. I touch the glass again, hoping the real physical sensation will block out these abstract ones surfacing as they often do when my thoughts trail in his direction.

I wish I could get in touch with him. Just to ask him how he is. This is one of those times I curse the barriers between the Muggle world and the Wizarding; it's not as simple as sending an SMS.

My eyes suddenly focus from the view outside to my face reflecting off the glass - it isn't something I want to see. I look strained, tired, and completely not myself. I wonder if this is what Neville sees when he looks at me, or if I'm being particularly harsh on myself. The part of me that wants to know everything is inclined to find out, the rest of me bristles at the thought. What if it is what he sees? What if this is what Harry saw?

I turn away from the window in disgust. I go into my room, grab the small bag of Wizarding money from my beaded bag, throw my coat on, and decide to do exactly what I shouldn't.


10 December 2005, mid-morning

My first thought when I Apparate is that I should have dressed warmer.

My second thought is that it smells like winter, here. I open my eyes and am momentarily blinded by the sheer whiteness of it all. I am a little shell-shocked, I think, because my heart is hammering in my chest and I cannot believe I have just Apparated into Hogsmeade. For a moment, I don't move, and I'm reminded rather forcibly of my inability to move once I had arrived at the Ministry. But I am stronger, now.

I take a step down the hill that leads into the village. I have Apparated a small distance away mostly so I could gather whatever thoughts I needed to. I have a clear idea in my head of what I will do, but all of my senses are on fire from the abrupt change in scenery and also the onslaught of memories associated with this place.

But I am not here to mourn.

I take the familiar path into the village and once again have the strange realization that this place is much smaller than I remember. There are only a few people about, and none of them give me a second glance. I arrive at the Owlery and walk inside, and purchase a bird and some parchment on which I write 'Three Broomsticks, as soon as convenient. -HG', address it to Neville, and send it off to Hogwarts, hoping it won't be a terribly long time before he comes. If he comes. He could be not there at all and I've just thoroughly wasted my time.

I exit the shop and take a good look at my surroundings. The village is as pretty as a postcard, and windy, too. I take a deep breath. My heart rate isn't quite normal, but I can honestly say that I feel okay. I walk into the Three Broomsticks, hoping a Butterbeer might calm my nerves.

Upon opening the door, I'm greeted by the warm rush of air from a merrily crackling fireplace. It's virtually empty; there's only a couple customers and neither of them look at me as I enter.

I sit at a table partially secluded but not completely out of sight so I can watch for Neville.

"What can I get for you, dear?"

I jump, visibly I fear, and realize I'm looking at Madam Rosmerta. I feel my face heat and I'm afraid she'll recognize me and I know I'm doing nothing to help my case.

"Oh - um, a Butterbeer, please."

She gives me a slightly amused expression but nods and walks away. I begin to tap my foot impatiently. Wondering if this was a bad idea. Worrying I'm wasting my time. Curious how Neville will react. And annoyingly hopeful he comes immediately.

A soft clink and a glass of Butterbeer is before me. I nod my thanks and pay up, fiddling a little with the coins because I almost forgot which is which. I see a spark of recognition in Madam Rosmerta's eyes but it is gone as soon as it comes. She shuffles away, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

I'm worrying too much. I'm painfully aware of each breath I take and try to distract myself with a hearty swig of my Butterbeer, but not even the warmth from the beverage can calm my nerves. I sit back in my chair a little, getting a better look at my surroundings, when someone catches my eye.

A man at the bar is reading what looks suspiciously like The Quibbler. He's a little too far away for me to be sure about this, but I feel my heart skip a beat at the sight. I hear him chuckle slightly at something and watch him shake his head. He puts the magazine down and waves to Madam Rosmerta.

"I'm off, love."

"Aye, I'll see you tomorrow," she replies, and returns to wiping the other end of the bar down.

He leaves, and my eyes are glued to the now abandoned magazine. I can't stop myself and get up, take it, and return to my seat.

My suspicions were correct: it is indeed The Quibbler, just printed yesterday. The colorful cover bears the words 'Crumple-Horned Snorkacks - Legend No Longer' with a picture of Luna Lovegood smiling serenely, holding an old fashioned camera. I feel my breath hitch in my throat and open to the main article. Another photograph of Luna sitting at a table with a cup of tea greets me, her camera resting close to her other hand. My eyes skim the pages, and there is a photograph of a small strange looking creature with a large horn protruding between its eyes; it is a brownish-green and has very short legs that remind me of a lizard's. It has very small wings and I remember Luna saying once that the Crumple-Horned Snorkack couldn't fly. Indeed, I can't imagine this creature being able to achieve flight with those. I laugh a little, mirroring the man who had the magazine before me - but probably for different reasons. I never believed in her, ever, and she has proven me completely wrong.

Rita Skeeter, The Quibbler. Luna Lovegood, the famous wizarding naturalist, has made it one of her life's goals to uncover the elusive Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. As I sit with her at her own breakfast table to a nice cup of tea, I am reminded that this small, delicate girl has not only proven the majority of us wrong with her discovery, but she also has more than proven her worth in other ways ('The Fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' ring a bell?) Luna is very polite, ensuring I have enough sugar and cream before attending to her own tea. Her hand is always next to her camera, as if afraid something will swoop in and snatch it - and rightfully so. It was this camera that took the picture of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack, and of every other rare creature she has studied.

RS: You must have had a lot of trouble convincing your friends that this was a valuable project to pursue.

LG: Oh, not really. You see, I've always just done what I thought was right. I never understood people who are so concerned with what other people think. Do what you believe, and if you're wrong, then you're wrong. But the journey is never worthless.

RS: But you weren't wrong.

LG: I was a little wrong. [Breathy laugh] My father and I always believed the Crumple-Horned Snorkack lived in Sweden, but after digging deeper I was lead to southern France. [Pause] Learning French as a child paid off, didn't it?

RS: Apparently so. How did you feel when you finally found it?

LG: Well…it was the most amazing feeling. It is almost extinct, and [my father and I] don't know much about them yet but we believe they're aware of it. We think they went into hiding to try to repopulate. It's all quite a mystery right now but we're very excited for the future of the project.

RS: So it's not over?

LG: [Laughs] Of course not. When dealing with rare creatures it's never over. I think that holds true to anything, really. Just because you've solved a problem doesn't mean you should shelf it and forget about it. I prefer to dig to the bottom of everything and walking away satisfied.

I stop reading because I can't see anymore. My initial shock has turned into remorse, remorse too deep to shove away and forget about. I clear my throat and wipe my eyes. I can't cry here. After taking a sip of Butterbeer - cold by now - I sit up straight and close the magazine, turning it over so I don't have to see Luna's face.

I hear the door chime and see Neville walk in, brow furrowed in worry. His eyes land on me and he makes a beeline to my table. I stand slowly, hoping I don't look as emotional as I feel. Neville puts a hand on my arm, and looks me up and down before allowing his face to relax slightly.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Then - I mean, why are you here?"

Neville gestures at the bar, his hand drops. I am too aware of the sudden absence, so I sit in effort to draw my mind elsewhere.

"I wanted to see you."

Neville sits too, his eyes searching mine, as if he doesn't believe my answer. Madam Rosmerta walks up and he orders a Butterbeer as well, hardly taking his eyes off me the entire exchange. I try to see myself in his eyes, but I can't.

"Really, I just wanted to see you, Neville. I…" I trail off, unsure how to end my sentence. I take another sip of my drink, grimacing at it. Butterbeer is not good cold.

"How long have you been here?" he asks, a ghost of a smile on his face. He waves his wand and I feel the drink heat through the glass.

"About forty-five minutes or so."

"You just came…to see me?"

I stare at his face. He's the only person I've ever known that is an open book but impossible to read. And the answer, Yes, I couldn't bear another moment without you, sits on my tongue but refuses to come out.

So I nod, because it is all I can do.

Madam Rosmeta comes back to give Neville his Butterbeer. He thanks her and pays, but she doesn't walk away immediately.

"You're Hermione Granger."

I startle, feeling the blood drain from my face. I see Neville stiffen, but I don't look at his face. Not now.

"I…am," I say quietly.

"Everyone thought you were gone," she says. "And here you are, in plain sight."

I drop my head, unable to look at her, at Neville, at anything but my hands in my lap. This is what I was afraid of - people finding out who I am and remembering what I did. Remembering that I was a coward. This realization hits me hard, almost knocks the wind out of me. It was so easy to tell myself that I was afraid of Death Eaters and things that went bump in the night to convince myself why I couldn't go back.

And once I left, it was so much easier to stay, because going back meant facing everyone and everything I ran away from.

"I'm a coward," I whisper without meaning to.

I look up at Neville, who is watching me warily. He shakes his head slightly, but Madam Rosmerta clucks her tongue.

"Coward? You? No." I look at her, taking in for the first time her brown dress and curly hair. Her red lips and the sparkle in her eyes. She walks over to me and rests a hand on my shoulder.

"You helped save our entire society. Thank you."

I open my mouth, but once again I can't find the words.

"I'm sorry for your losses. I couldn't imagine."

Is this really happening? I look over at Neville, but he looks dazed, too.

"Welcome back." She squeezes my shoulder and walks off.

I look at Neville, unsure what to say, but he is smiling. A true smile that reaches his eyes, and without thinking I reach over and grab his hand.

Without skipping a beat, he turns it over so he is holding my hand, rubbing the top with his thumb lightly. I try to control my heart, but I can't, so I stare at the movement, trying to figure out how such a small one could impact me so much.

"Hermione," he says, and I look at him, but his gaze is only giving me butterflies.

"Yes?" I manage. I will myself not to look away. Not to give myself away.

"Welcome back."