A/N: The witch who leads everyone inside Hogwarts is Susan Bones. Unlike a lot of canon characters, she doesn't have a "hook" to introduce her appearance, and since Hannah left school when her mum was killed, I've decided Susan was appointed prefect in her place.

Hugh, already in bed, looked up as Jean turned out the light in the en suite.

"What was that private conversation with Hermione about earlier?"

Jean hung her dressing gown on the back of the wardrobe door and sat on the edge of the bed. "I wanted to ask her to stay with us."

"And? What did she say?"

She twisted off her rings and picked up the tube of hand cream.

"She wants to do a privacy charm."

"A privacy charm?" Hugh repeated. "Whatever for? No, wait, don't answer that."

"It's not what you think," Jean said. "She's been having nightmares."

The bed shifted as Hugh sat up.

"About the war?"

She nodded, wringing her hands together long after the lotion was well-absorbed. She felt his hand on her shoulder but didn't turn around.

"What else, Jean?"

"She was tortured," she blurted, watching her own knuckles turn white. "Our beautiful Hermione, she—they were captured, and—"

Hugh pulled her into his arms, and Jean let loose the wail that had been twisting in her chest since Hermione uttered those same words. She felt Hugh's cheek resting on top of her head, his hand stroking her back, heard his heartbeat under her ear, but above it all was the crack in her daughter's voice, the tears in her eyes, the pain Jean had been unable to prevent. A pain she very much suspected still continued. She pressed her face tighter into Hugh's neck only to find it already wet.

"Hugh?"

He wiped her cheek with one thumb, ignoring the tears glistening in his own eyes. "What happened?"

Jean sniffed and shook her head. Reaching out to grab the tissues off her bedside cabinet, she took one and passed the box to Hugh as they settled shoulder-to-hip against the headboard.

"I don't know, exactly. I didn't trust myself to ask any questions without completely losing it." She blew her nose. "She just said they were captured and taken to Voldemort's headquarters and—and—"

He squeezed her shoulder.

"You should have seen her, Hugh, she was so brave," Jean said. "She said it didn't last long, only a couple of hours and—" She broke off at the sound from her husband, like a wounded animal, and gripped his hand harder. "She doesn't want to bother us—"

"She's our daughter! Of course she bothers us!"

Jean snorted, then covered her mouth. "Sorry, I'm sorry, it's just—"

"I meant she's not a bother because she's our daughter. Even if she were doing something bothersome. Which this isn't."

"I know." She laid her head on his shoulder, following as he slid down in bed and pulled the covers over them.

"Is she okay?"

"She says so," Jean said. "Ron's family—the brother who was in Egypt, what's his name?"

"Bill."

"Yes, Bill, he and his wife took good care of her, she said. Apparently his training as a curse breaker was helpful."

"So, that story about Easter holiday and the Weasleys having to flee their home…."

"Took place on the same night, yes, I think so," Jean said.

"Good lord, no wonder they didn't want to drop that bombshell just before dinner."

"Quite."

"So," Hugh said after a few minutes of silence. "Hermione wants to use magic to…."

Jean wrinkled her forehead, trying to remember how Hermione had described it. "She called it a 'privacy charm' and said we could 'cross it,' so we'd still be able to enter her room."

"But not hear anything from it?"

"I think so."

His chest expanded and his breath washed over her hair in a sigh. "All right."

"Thank you!" She raised up on one elbow and kissed him.

"I want to be there when she does it, though."

"Me too," Jean agreed. "She said she would show us."

He turned off the lamp.

"Hugh?"

"Hmm?"

"She also said it's why she had to send us away. So something like that didn't happen to me or you."

Hugh said nothing, but his arms tightened around her in the darkness.

()()()()

As Percy climbed the winding drive towards Hogwarts, he was surprised to see a group of people, mostly pupils, gathered in the grassy area in front of the open oak front doors. His instructions from Professor McGonagall had said the pupils would be Flooing into their common rooms and meeting in the Great Hall.

Maybe they dreaded entering that space as much as he did.

As he approached, he recognized the wizard talking to Bill and Fleur. Bill kept a straight face as Percy approached his best mate from behind, reaching a long arm around to tap his right shoulder while standing at his left.

Oliver fell for the feint, giving Percy a gentle (for Oliver) shove.

"I thought you weren't coming," Percy said. Then Oliver turned, revealing a short blonde witch, and Percy grinned, knowing exactly why Oliver changed his mind.

"Aye, well, Katie found out about it and wanted to help, so I figured if she was going to be here every Saturday, I might as well be too." Oliver shrugged, then slung an arm around his girlfriend's shoulders.

Muggle-born Katie Bell had spent the last year in France. Percy wasn't at all surprised his fellow Gryffindor wanted to help; rumor had it there had been a major row with Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet before Oliver convinced her to leave the country at all.

"You're a perfectly capable wizard, Oliver Wood," Katie chided.

"That's true," Percy said mildly. He'd spent a good portion of their seven years at Hogwarts trying to convince Oliver lessons were as important as Quidditch.

He'd failed, of course, but considering the end result was free Puddlemere tickets as long as Oliver was on the team, Percy didn't mind. Much.

"What's everyone doing out here?" Percy said, scanning the crowd. "I thought McGonagall wanted us to meet in the Great Hall."

"She did," Katie said quietly. "I think the kids are afraid of the castle."

"Bloody hell," Percy muttered, taking a closer look.

At first glance, it seemed typical—clumps of teenagers chatting with one another, breaking off and reforming like the changing patterns in a kaleidoscope. But they stood unnaturally close to each other, some of the younger girls were holding hands, and lots of sideways glances were thrown over shoulders towards the gaping Entrance Hall.

A tall, dark-haired girl in cat-eye glasses climbed the steps, cast a Sonorus, and announced it was time to go inside.

"Don't worry. The Entrance Hall is still a bit of a mess, but the Great Hall is fully restored," she said with a smile.

The pupils followed her readily—a prefect, Percy surmised, and possibly a member of Dumbledore's Army as well.

Inside the Great Hall, which was indeed restored to normal with the enchanted ceiling mirroring the sunny sky outside and the fireplaces dissipating the morning chill, only two tables were set up, offset so they were in neither the Ravenclaws' nor Hufflepuffs' usual places. The kids filed in and sat down without being told, waiting quietly for instructions.

Definitely not normal.

Percy hung back with the other tutors, seeing several familiar faces of people who had been both ahead of and behind him during his time at Hogwarts, not to mention—Ginny would flip!—Gwenog Jones, standing near the doors with a group of witches and wizards Percy recognized from the sports pages, including some of Oliver's teammates.

Oliver elbowed him in the side. "Look who it is," he hissed.

Percy followed his line of sight, saw a familiar mane of blue-black curls, and his heart rate doubled.

Penelope Clearwater had survived the war.

Percy didn't realize he was moving towards her until he felt a hand fist in the back of his robes. He glanced over his shoulder and scowled. Honestly, sometimes Bill really let being the oldest go to his head. Bill looked pointedly at Professor McGonagall and back again. Percy made a face and stepped back beside Oliver and Katie.

He would wait until McGonagall was done speaking, but no way was he waiting an entire morning to speak to his ex-girlfriend.

()()()()

In the chaos of shuffling pupils as fifth- and seventh-years separated by level and lesson as directed, Percy caught up with Penny and laid a hand on her arm.

"Penny?"

She turned, and her beautiful blue eyes lit up. "Percy!"

She reached up for a hug and he obliged, happy to hold her and reassure himself she was all right.

"I'm so, so sorry about Fred," she said gently when they let go. "How are you doing?"

He swallowed. "Okay. Thanks." He kept thinking it would get easier, that he'd find a more graceful way to accept people's condolences, or he'd get used to it instead of the other's sympathy feeling like a stake to the heart.

"And George?"

"Not so okay." Percy gave a wan smile.

"Yes, of course."

"So, where have you been? I—" He felt the back of his neck start to prickle and hesitated, not wanting to give the wrong impression.

Oh, to hell with it. Penelope Clearwater was his first love, his first lover. Of course he cared whether she lived or died.

"I watched for news of you but couldn't find out anything."

"That's a good thing, isn't it?" She stepped out of the way of one of their fellow tutors and pulled Percy out of the aisle. "I was in Canada. The whole family. I did my last year of Healer training there."

"You graduated? That's fantastic! Congratulations!"

Her toothy smile had always made Percy smile back. "Cheers," she said. "I saw the advert McGonagall put in the Prophet and was relieved. It feels good to be doing something to help."

"The kids are lu—"

"Mr. Weasley, I realize it has been some years since you and Miss Clearwater courted in this very hall, but surely you can wait a few more hours before resuming the ritual?"

As a ripple of laughter came from the pupils within earshot, Percy turned to see McGonagall peering at him over her square spectacles.

"Yes, Professor," he muttered.

"Your group is waiting for you in the middle of the second table, if you please," McGonagall said. "We'll break at 10:30."

"Yes, Professor."

Percy dumped his rucksack in the center of the table and sat down in the empty space that had been left for him.

"Is she your girlfriend?"

"McGonagall? No, she's not my type."

A mixture of rolled eyes and chuckles.

"No, not McGonagall, the pretty one. The one you were talking to."

"She used to be," Percy said, digging for his list of who was revising for what. "Not anymore."

"Why not?" The speaker was a fresh-faced Ravenclaw, complete with wide eyes and freckles.

Percy was pleased to discover the same look that shut up nosy little sisters worked on other nosy brats as well.

()()()()

Hermione opened the door to her parents' flat and kissed Ron hello.

Ron returned the kiss, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a manila envelope. "It came."

She gasped and snatched the envelope from his hand, opening it even as she walked down the hall to join her parents in the kitchen.

"Mum, Dad, Ron has his passport!"

Mrs. Granger turned at once. "Oh, good! I was getting worried."

Hermione waved the burgundy booklet. "Now we can buy plane tickets," she said.

"There's a letter too," Ron said.

"There is?" Hermione blew into the envelope to open it, then reached inside. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I just got here," Ron said, amused at her excitement.

Mrs. Granger went to the bookcase and pulled out the pocket folder Ron recognized as the one Hermione had made for her parents' documents. "Let me get my diary."

She and Hermione sat down side-by-side at the dining room table, which was soon covered in papers, both official and non.

"Have a seat, Ron," Mr. Granger said, waving his spatula at one of the stools at the island. "We might as well eat—they're going to be a while."

()()()()

Hermione lay in the curve of Ron's arm, one hand on the warm skin of his chest and her bare legs tangled with his.

"We're not going to have many more mornings like this," Ron said.

She sighed, watching his right nipple tighten in the wash of her breath. "I know. Three weeks, probably. And a lot of those will be tied up helping Mum and Dad make arrangements."

His hand closed around her shoulder and squeezed. "It's been incredible, this time with just the two of us. Finally."

"Mm-hmm." She nestled her head more comfortably against him and closed her eyes.

"It will be our last chance to be alone together for a while. Since you'll be living with your parents and then leaving for Hogwarts."

And you're not, Hermione thought, but all she said was, "Mm-hmm." Why did Ron keep talking about this? She wanted to savor the time they had left, not mourn its passing.

"So … I was thinking…." Ron fiddled with the strap of her cami. "Maybe we should take advantage of it."

Hermione turned to face him, propping her chin on his chest. He winced and slid his hand underneath the point of her chin.

"We are taking advantage. We're taking advantage right now," Hermione said. She sat up on one elbow. "Unless…."

Ron raised an eyebrow.

"You want to have sex?"

"Only if you do," he said quickly. "And if you don't, that's okay, I just—" He swallowed. "I don't know when we'll have another chance. After this, I mean. After Australia. It doesn't have to be today."

"What's wrong with today?"

It wasn't like the thought hadn't occurred to her. Time, privacy, space, comfort … they had everything they needed right here in Ron's hotel room. All right, it wasn't the most romantic setting, but it was considerably better than the treehouse. Or—Hermione suppressed a shudder—Ron's room, with its bright orange decorations, Chudley Cannons posters, and Pig fluttering about.

"N-nothing," Ron stammered. "I just don't want you to feel rushed, or pressured, or anything like that."

"I don't."

"Okay then."

"Okay."

They stared at each other for a moment, then broke into laughter.

"You're mental," Ron said, pulling her down with a hand on the back of her neck.

"And you love me for it." Hermione's mouth hovered over his, their eyes locked.

"I do," he whispered. "I really, really do."

It was not a gentle kiss; coming on the heels of their regular pre-lunch snogging session, emotions and hormones were still running high. Ron slid his hand over the curve of her hip, under the hem of her cami and on up her back. Hermione broke the kiss and sat up, crossing her arms in front of her to pull the snug garment up and over her head. He eased it away from her face and down her arms, then tossed it aside. Hermione would have laid down again (the better to hide herself) but he stopped her.

"No, let me look at you." He trailed the back of his fingers from her neck, down between her breasts and onto her stomach. "You're so beautiful."

Hermione swallowed, goosebumps rising in the wake of his touch. "They're small." And ghastly white contrasted against the golden brown of her arms, shoulders, and chest, courtesy of the Australian sun.

"No, they're not." Ron shifted, covering her breast with one large hand. "You've always had curves, now more than ever."

"That's not true." Somewhere in the back of her mind, Hermione knew she was being unreasonable, but she couldn't help it. Her need for precision and accuracy, combined with her nerves, was causing her to shift the focus away from what was really happening between them. "My bras are a little loose. I lost weight this year."

"You know what I meant."

Ron had been touching her this whole time, smooth, sweeping circles around the tip but not over it, and Hermione leaned forward to kiss him again. He lay back and pulled her on top of him, chest to chest, and she felt his erection pressing into her stomach. She squirmed, enjoying the sensation of his chest hair against her nipples, and in a blink she was flat on her back.

She gasped against his mouth, surprised. He was big, filling her field of vision—not frightening, just … male. Taller than she—his back was hunched to kiss her neck, and her toes pressed into his calves—and wider, despite the leanness of his frame. Hermione was surrounded by Ron; his scent, his skin, his strength. His hair, trimmed after the Battle but still long and shaggy, brushed against her face and she inhaled a deep breath, thinking of her Amortentia smell. But Ron didn't stop kissing at the base of her neck, or her collarbone. He continued with soft, open-mouthed kisses, right over the mound of her breast and onto the tip.

Hermione gave a long, low moan. Her breasts ached with fullness, her nipples drawn tight and tingling, and as Ron suckled one into his mouth, laving it with his tongue, she arched her back, increasing the pressure. She could feel warmth being drawn from deep in her chest through her breast and spreading downward, low in her belly. He began moving to the other side, the same soft kisses down one curve, lingering a moment over her breastbone, and up the other, the same wet pressure and gentle warmth. Hermione grabbed the back of his head, holding him against her even as she spread her legs and gripped his bum with her free hand. Ron broke away from her with a curse as his groin settled against hers.

"Off," she demanded, sliding both hands inside his pants and pushing them down as far as she could reach … which wasn't far enough.

He rolled away from her and finished the job, then settled against her again, cupping her face in both hands and kissing her deeply. Hermione stroked the length of his body, all naked skin and muscle from shoulder to bum to thigh. She arched against him and suddenly realized she was still wearing her knickers.

"Hermione?"

"Yes," she gasped. She didn't care what the question was, the answer was yes, a thousand times yes.

"I think you should do the spell now."

"What?" She blinked, shifting her focus from the removal of her underwear. It sounded important….

"The spell," Ron repeated, stretching a long arm out for her handbag on the nightstand. "We need—"

"Oh, that." With an extra wiggle, her knickers cleared her knees and she worked them the rest of the way off with her feet. "I already did it."

He stared down at her. "You did? When?"

"Um…." Hermione felt her face flush. "Before I left."

Ron's mouth dropped open. "But—we hadn't—we hadn't decided anything yet."

She shrugged. "I've been doing it every day for a while now. Just in case."

A slow smile spread over his face. "You're bloody brilliant, you are." A hard kiss. "In that case…." He stroked the newly exposed skin of her hip, his thumb tracing the join of her thigh, almost ticklish. "I'd like to make you come first."

She flushed deeper, remembering the handful of times she'd climaxed during the last three weeks, since that first spontaneous decision. "Okay," she said, knowing it wouldn't happen during the sex itself.

Ron adjusted their position, lying on his side beside her and sliding his left arm under her neck to wrap around her side, snugging her against him even as she lay on her back. Feeling secure and treasured, Hermione reached up and kissed him, taking her time, both of them breathless when they finally broke for air.

"You're sure?"

She nodded and drew her left foot up, letting her knee fall out into a passé. Ron's long fingers encompassed her thigh as he ran his hand from the inside of her knee, slowly up her leg, and cupped her mound. Hermione blew out a shaky breath.

"Okay?"

She nodded.

One finger stroked the seam of her labia, gently, feather-light, before increasing the pressure and slipping in between. His teeth closed over her earlobe, and he murmured, "I love the way you feel."

Hermione shivered, even as a second finger joined the first, sliding easily up and down. She turned her face for a kiss, hyper-aware of what it suggested when his hand was there. His brushed his thumb back and forth at the very apex of her legs, and she broke the kiss with a sharp gasp, falling back on the pillow. His thumb traced in hypnotic circles, firmer than his previous touch, and Hermione lifted her hips to increase the pressure still.

"Easy," Ron said, their faces pressed close together. "There's no rush. We have all day."

He drew the vowels out, and the idea of lying here, in bed with Ron, while he touched her like this all day…. Hermione moaned, lifting higher into his touch. It still felt strange, giving in to her body's cues, expressing her sexuality so obviously, but a lot of the awkward firsts were over, and he expressly said he wanted to make her come, and they were going to—

She cried out.

Ron had slid two fingers inside her, something he'd never done at once, and after her breathy, "yes," moved deeper still. Hermione arched her back and groaned, shifting her weight to press down harder, brain overloaded with sensation. It was foreign and intrusive and the pressure was deliciously sweet, and she rode Ron's hand for some minutes, feeling the tension gather and coil in her pelvis, her lower back, her groin, an ache she wanted to both draw out but also end. Ron planted little kisses everywhere, her face, her jaw, her neck, and as the pleasure heightened towards an intense peak, her body arching and pushing against his touch of its own accord, not requiring any thought, Hermione scrambled for Ron's free hand at her side, needing something to hold on to, to anchor herself.

"Ron—"

"It's all right," he soothed, fingers twisting, sliding, pressing deep against her inner walls. "Just a minute more."

Hermione took a stuttering breath and nodded. It felt so good, like nothing else she'd ever experienced, and she wasn't thinking about what she looked or sounded like anymore, wasn't thinking about the "right" thing to do, and it was magical, freeing, like floating underwater, but it was scary too, not being in control of her own reactions, overwhelming and intense and—

"Shh, you're thinking too hard." Ron's voice had a trace of humor, and Hermione opened her eyes—when had she closed them?—to find his were barely blue, pupils wide and dark, and even through the haze of sensation, the idea that Ron was aroused just by touching her, by watching her…. Hot little tingles raced up her spine, and Hermione gripped his hand harder.

"Please, Ron!"

He'd been holding the rest of his fingers away from her, but now he lowered his thumb to rub alongside her clitoris, brushing against it with a firm, steady rhythm that matched that of his hand inside her.

"Oh, Merlin, I—" She was going to come. She'd only experienced it a few times, but the prequel was unmistakeable and instantly recognizable. "Yes, there, that, please—"

The pressure increased, centered, and Hermione moaned as the pleasure burst outward in a series of spasms, starting deep within. She trembled with the sudden release, her muscles involuntarily tightening against Ron's hand when he pulled away from her.

"Mmmm." She sighed, the delicious warmth and relaxation enveloping her whole being.

"Hermione?"

She met his eyes and smiled, bringing one hand up to cup his face as she kissed him. "Come here."

She felt his hand move on the sheet between her thighs, then he shifted over her, bracing one hand beside her shoulder as he guided himself with the other. It took a moment to find the right angle, and then they both gasped.

"Hermione," Ron panted.

"It's all right." Well, sort of. He was considerably bigger than his fingers, even two of them, and her opening stung with the stretch. But behind the sting was a deeper stretch, a greater pressure that instinctively told her it would be worth it to get past the mild pain. She shifted, bending both knees so her hips opened wide, and that helped.

"Okay," she said, wrapping her arms around his back.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, leaning down to kiss her as he pushed forward.

Hermione cried out against his mouth, her fingernails digging into his skin. Now that hurt, a sharp burn almost frightening in its visceral location.

"I'm sorry, sorry, sorry—"

She shook her head. "No, it's all right. It can't be helped. Just—don't move yet, please."

His forehead dropped to hers, eyes closed as he breathed deeply. She did the same, and after a moment, felt Ron's hand run over her shoulder onto one breast. She hummed, welcoming the distraction, the pinch and gentle tug of her nipple changing her tone in a way that had Ron laughing into her neck.

"Better?"

"Yessss."

Her sigh turned into a hiss as he shifted, pulling out and sliding into her again, past her torn hymen, and this was … okay. Somewhat uncomfortable, but completely tolerable. Hermione relaxed into the mattress, enjoying the sight of Ron propped over her, the muscles flexing in his chest and arms. He withdrew again, and the friction began shifting from pain to pleasure, her nervous system starting to process other sensations, like the weight of his body and the warmth of his thighs between hers. This might be more than okay, Hermione thought as the motion continued, Ron pressing deeper still, deeper than his hand, making her incredibly aware of her body in a way she'd never felt before. It made her feel intensely feminine and sexy, and she let her hips rise to meet his. His breathing was short and fast, and she could feel the tension in his back as he kept his movements gentle. Hermione stroked his back and buttocks, feeling them clench and release with every thrust, the soft grunt he made whenever their bodies came together.

"Hermione—Godric, I—"

His rhythm changed, faster and erratic. Hermione gripped him tighter with her legs and arms as he shuddered and came with a rough groan.

Ron rolled to the side, pulling her to face him. "I love you."

She smiled. "I love you."

He brushed her hair away from her face. "Are you okay?"

"Mm-hmm."

A soft kiss, then two.

"Wait, where are you going?" Hermione asked when he sat up.

"Just to the loo." He leaned forward and kissed her again. "I'll be right back."

Hermione heard a cupboard door open and close, water running, and Ron reappeared with a wet flannel. He sat on the edge of the bed beside her, slid his hand under the covers, and reached for her leg. Hermione flushed and resisted, keeping her knees close together. He raised one eyebrow but didn't protest, leaving the flannel draped across her thigh and walking around to his side of the bed. Then, before she could protest, he put one arm under her shoulders and one under her knees and pulled a squeaking Hermione over to a fresh section of sheet. Ron slid into the small space that remained between her and the edge, reaching for the flannel again.

"Let me. Please?" His hand was heavy on her thigh and the flannel was soothingly warm.

Still flushed—somehow this seemed even more intimate than what they'd just done—Hermione consented without a word, trying not to wince at his careful cleaning. When he was done, he pitched the flannel over his shoulder into the open bathroom doorway.

"I need to see for this part, I'm sorry."

"What?"

"Healing charm."

"No, it's fine, really—you don't have to do that—"

But he ignored her protest, gathering the sheet in one hand and drawing it down her body, then reached back onto the nightstand for his wand. There was a pleasant tingling coolness, then … nothing. No soreness, no ache, just the warm relaxation of satisfaction.

Hermione stared. "How—"

Ron smirked, setting his wand aside and gathering her into his arms more comfortably before reaching down and pulling the covers up over them both. "Five older brothers ought to be good for something."