After the war, Hermione purchased a small cottage out in the country and spent several months constructing a labyrinthine system of wards and incantations around it. Her defenses borrowed charms from both sides of the magical spectrum: light and dark. The latter was well-represented, as Hermione had managed to get her hands on several musty volumes of dark spells confiscated from Death Eater estates. The resulting blend enabled her home to withstand a small siege, and only then did Hermione breathe a little bit more freely.

The secluded location fit her as well. No one was there to bother her, as only the few people she trusted had access. More importantly, she felt safe, even if the costs of security were periodic moments of suffocating loneliness. Most nights, she thought she had the better end of that raw deal.

It was at this cottage that four ghostlike forms appeared, clutching each other's arms. A set of lanterns, swaying in the frosty wind, lit up with bluebell flames at their arrival, casting long shadows across a rugged, unkept lawn. An owl hooted in the distance, and a small animal bolted through the underbrush, scampering over a bed of crunchy leaves. The disturbance didn't last long: a rustle followed, and a solemn shriek pierced the night. Lasting but a moment, it passed, and then stillness, like a thick, woven blanket, descended upon the surrounding woods.

This was the silence of the wilderness. Its embrace is almost deafening at first; it's the quiet you hear by stepping from out of a crowded street into the sanctity of a temple. You walk between the dusty pews, your ragged breath and hammering heart drowning out all other sounds. But then, a minute passes, and your ears begin to pick up the creak of old wood, the distant noise of the street, the murmur of a hushed conversation. These woods were a temple too, devoted to the ancient gods of nature. Its steeple was the sun and the moon, its roof - the sky, its floor - the ground, and any parishioner was welcome to wander its halls of oak and ash and pine.

When her heart ached, and a longing crept upon her soul, this was the place to which Hermione retreated. These woods were her refuge, and seeing them once again made her spirit soar. The pain in the back of her mind - the one she constantly carried - lessened just one bit, but even that was a blessing.

"I forgot how serene it was here," Ginny whispered. Any louder seemed like sacrilege and the two boys nodded in agreement.

The wards, sensing their master, flared a deep blue and subsided. Hermione could feel they had been tampered with, that someone had failed at besting her defences. She had locked her home when she left, leaving Harry and Ron unable to enter, impeding the investigation into her own disappearance. She had done herself no favor; in fact, it had been a grave mistake. They could have found her had she left her home accessible. Instead, it had been blind luck stumbling into Malfoy… Draco.

Still, she never imagined her magic would hold out so long; after all, the ministry employed several competent wizards specializing in gaining access to warded properties.

"Who did you say the Ministry sent to lower my wards?" she asked, stepping onto an overgrown path that led to her front porch.

Harry named two of the Ministry's top ward-breakers.

Hermione hummed in response.

"So even those two couldn't get through. Huh. Well, I am somewhat surprised," she said, not even bothering to conceal the undercurrent of smugness flavoring her tone. "Although, I did experiment with with several spell combinations, but I would have expected them to figure it out. For example, the obvious application of Molotkov's third theorem within the outer perimeter in conjunction with-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah," Ron cut in quickly, nipping a soporific half-hour lecture on the history of ward creation in the bud. After everything that had happened, listening to what shrooms 7'th century pagan shamans inhaled to guard their villages was low on his list of priorities. Especially, if said lecture ended with a quiz, which they often did.

Fortunately, many years of interacting with Hermione meant he knew exactly what buttons to push.

"You're brilliant, Hermione, we know," he said in an almost dismissive fashion.

The witch reacted just as expected, smugness and satisfaction transforming into irritation at the blink of an eye.

"It's not brilliance, Ronald," she snapped. "It's years of study and research, experiments and practice. You would know, if you ever read a decent book once in a while, instead of ogling the girls in Quidditch World. I didn't erect these wards-"

"Oh, tell me, was it hard? Erecting them?" he interrupted and broke out together with Harry into a fit of giggles. Hermione shared an exasperated look with Ginny. Girls matured earlier than boys, true, but one would think that fighting in a war would prevent these two from behaving like prepubescent-

"Children!" she huffed indignantly. "I am dealing with children!"

But she loved them, nevertheless.

Homecoming was strange. The door to her house swung open easily; everything inside was just as she had left it so many months ago. In fact, apart from a thin layer of dust and the husks of potted plants that had withered away, there was nothing to to say that she hadn't walked out just last night.

She stepped to side, letting her friends pass through. As they did, each froze in a state of shock.

Ron, the last one to enter, stumbled into his sister, before joining the group of dazed statues.

"Merlin's balls," he finally muttered, surveying the picture before him.

Hermione's living room, to anyone but her, seemed an unnavigable mess. Stacks of cardboard boxes reached the ceiling, while bits of parchment and paper were strewn over the floor in a mazelike fashion. All of this surrounded a giant map of Europe. Another map, of Great Britain this time, was plastered on the wall. Both of them boasted a colorful arrangement of red and yellow pins interconnected with string and wire. Some pieces of string led to other walls, connecting to hanging newspaper clippings, journal articles, some grainy photos and a set of 'Have you seen me' posters. Together, it was a picture of insanity.

Yet, to Hermione, the path from one end of the room to the other was as clear as a morning stroll in Hyde Park. This room was the final representation of months of work, all governed by an effectively meticulous system. She just needed to convince everyone else of that fact.

"Follow me. Carefully, please," she implored and deftly waded through the clutter. Her movements resembled a sort of dance; it had been rehearsed and perfected down to an exact science. One step here, move to the left, right foot there, and so on. Harry, Ron and Ginny followed her, circumnavigating the map of Europe, trying their best not to tread on anything of value. Which, knowing Hermione, could be anything.

The kitchen lit up with a cheerful glow at their entrance, revealing moss green walls encasing a rustic setting. The cabinets, table and chairs, decorated with a curlicue carved right into the wood, were all crafted by a local carpenter. A snow globe and a pair of small wooden sailboats - practically toys - rested on the countertop. The area over the table was adorned with two hand-painted reproductions of Turner's works: The Fighting 'Temeraire' and Peace - Burial at Sea. Between them, completing the decor, was a photo from Hogwarts. Harry, Ron and Hermione were all smiling within the cherrywood frame, their childhood forms looking happy, carefree, and, oh, so innocent.

"Well that was something," Ginny said.

"When did you do all this, Hermione? The last time I was here-" Harry began and then stopped. He realized he hadn't actually been to Hermione's place… in well over a year. Even before she went missing, she had become almost a recluse, peeking out maybe once a month with a visit to the Burrow. How had he failed to notice this?

"As you can see, I was rather busy," she answered. "It's a long story, so- no, Ron, don't open-"

Ron had gone straight for the fridge, and can you really blame him? He was a healthy male in his early 20's, had a trying week, and hadn't had a full meal in ages. Well, maybe not ages, but he was hungry. The fridge was barren, but the freezer had stacks upon stacks of small plastic tupperware containers. Ron took one out, ignoring Hermione's exclamation.

"Hey, Hermione, what's this?" he asked. "Pork? I'm sorry, but I'm starved. You mind if I-" He opened the lid, revealing some frozen gray tissue. It looked revolting. "Ew, what the fuck? What is this?"

Hermione stared at her friend. It was that trademark 'Hermione is disappointed' stare she gave to her friends when they asked to bail them out on homework (again), or when they pleaded to copy her essays for Binns' class (or any other one, for that matter).

"Well, why don't you read the label, Ron? You know, how civilized people do, instead of just ripping lids of unknown containers."

Chastised, Ron put the lid back on.

"Err… 'Alan Pierce, 29, Surrey'," he read out Hermione's neat, orderly script.

"Specifically, a portion of his right frontal lobe," she added helpfully.

It took a minute for that to sync in.

"Wait a bloody second, Hermione… are you saying I'm holding a piece of some bloke's brain right now?!"

"Not some bloke's - Alan's! Show some respect!" she said, and, noticing their shocked stares, quickly added, "Oh, don't look at me like that! He was already dead when I took it."

"You took a dead guy's brain?!" and "What the bloody fuck?!" came out simultaneously from both young men. Only Ginny seemed unperturbed, and had started brewing a pot of tea. They were going to need it, she thought.

It took several minutes before Harry and Ron cooled down to the point where they could express coherent thoughts. Hermione just bared the brunt of the storm, knowing full well that they needed to get it out of their system. Once the yelling started to subside with a last 'What were you even thinking?!' and 'Why always brains?!!', she raised her hand and calmly said, "Can I explain now?"

"I'd bloody well hope for a good explanation! This is downright ghastly, 'Mione!"

"Ok, Harry, Ron, Gin… let me start from the beginning."

But a sharp tapping sound from the window interrupted her. A shadowy form was fluttering outside, and letting it in revealed a small Boreal owl with a pale, brown-and-white plumage. Hooting eagerly, it flew towards Hermione and perched on her shoulder. It's claws were clutching a piece of parchment.

"Oh," Harry said. "It's Snows."

"You know him?" Hermione couldn't recall ever seeing such an owl.

"Well, not really," Ron explained. "We've just grown used to seeing him. He's been nesting near your place for several months. We saw him outside the Burrow once or twice too, but he never flew in. We called him Snows cause he looks northern."

"And he's never approached us, either," Harry added. "Always kept his distance."

"Look at him!" Ginny exclaimed. Snows was cooing, nuzzling his head into Hermione's neck, making her all tickly. "He obviously knows you! He must have been waiting for you all these months!"

Hermione understood the disparity between the owl's actions and her own recollections instantly. Despite all the work she and Frackenburger had put in, some memories - several weeks' worth, she estimated - were irreparably damaged. She must have befriended this owl during that time, she thought, rubbing Snow's' head gently. The owl seemed to enjoy that immensely and, giving her an affectionate nip, hopped onto the table. He dropped the parchment, which turned out to be wrapped around a long, thin object, with a thump. Hermione, suddenly feeling anxious, reached for it.

Everyone clambered around to see what it was as she unwrapped the parcel.

"That's…"

"It's mine, Harry. Walnut, dragon heartstring, 12¾ inches. It fought me for a little while, but now…"

She took the wand - the very wand Bellatrix had once used to torture her - into her hand, and a series of black, ominous sparks erupted from the end. The wand was content: it was happy to be reunited with its new mistress.

Hermione gasped, feeling a power coursing through her veins. She'd used both Harry's and Ginny's wands sporadically over the past week (Ron's didn't like her, and she reciprocated the feeling), but they always felt a little off. They were too pure. But this wand… it was damaged and dark, just like her. They fit very well together, now that it had learned to obey without question.

"There's something written here," Harry noted, picking up the paper the wand had rolled out of. "But I can't make it out."

Hermione tore her gaze away from her wand and examined the piece of parchment. There was a very faint trace of magic on it, and she recognized it as her own. A charm meant to preserve paper from basic elements like rain and snow. It had worked well: the letter - if you could call it that - was crumpled, but otherwise untouched, just torn a bit around the edges.

On one corner, in a hurried, almost unintelligible scrawl, were written only four words.

"Malfoy No Wand In," she read aloud.

They all looked confused, and Harry finally asked, "Well, what does that mean?"

Hermione felt a headache coming on. Another mystery, another riddle. She shrugged and answered.

"I don't know."


Once again, thank you kindly for all the reviews.

The two paintings hanging in Hermione's kitchen (should you like to look them up) are by William Turner. They are called (fully):

1) The Fighting Temeraire tugged to her last berth to be broken up (1838)

2) Peace - Burial at Sea (1842)