The Painted Past

by Adelaide E

"To be fair, we're all a bunch of teenagers," she added generously when she spied his taken offense. "Hormones and the like. Add post-war trauma to it and you're bound to have mangled soap opera plots worthy of the daftest of heroes." RW-HG-DM

25. What's Comin' Will Come

The Painted Past

Chapter 25: What's Comin' Will Come

(and we'll meet it when it does.)

"The end of the something I did not want to end

Beginning of hard times to come

---

The flat was a mess. There were plates with half dried food still sitting in the tiny sink. A mound of laundry waited to be folded on the sofa. And both flat-mates needed baths, despite being up for hours.

But as Lawrence shrieked out a laugh, Hermione cared very little for tidiness. She smiled fondly at her son, and gently plucked the plastic triangle from his chubby, overly dimpled hand to pretend to eat it herself.

"Om nom nom nom nom," she growled, dramatically hungry.

"Err-rur," Larry said in protest, for he wanted to eat that triangle!

They were playing his favourite game. He could not fit the colourful shapes into their obvious holes of the plastic ball nearby, but he was very skilled at trying to shove them into the holes of her face. She sat him on her chest, just below her neck—a position that simply begged for a potty accident, as the past had taught her time and time again—as he reached for the stray pieces laying amongst the frizzy curls of her hair on the floor. Then he tried to fit the star into her right eye, and the crescent moon into her left ear. Lawrence never succeeded, but her baby was nothing if not determined.

It was such a fun age. He had bottom two teeth pushing up, but from this angle he still had a gummy, joyful smile. Crawling was still a bit of a challenge, but he could scoot himself an impressive distance if there was no obstacles. Now that he could grab and react, Crookshanks had taken a liking to him, shedding that cold indifference he had shown before. When Hermione was not with her baby, Crookshanks kept guard, for Lawrence's safety.

("For Lawrence's body heat," Arthur liked to correct, and Hermione had to admit that that was also a possibility).

Larry was a fat baby, which might've worried Hermione before. All the wrong things had worried Hermione before Lawrence's scare. But the healers had given her some literature, as well as the business card of a respected midwife witch who had semi-retired. She rarely assisted in births anymore, but she did specialise in assisting mothers with post-partum depression.

Lawrence dropped a toy on Hermione's mouth, which smarted, but the young mother said nothing as her baby began to blink slowly, and grabbed at his eyes. He was knackered, the poor tike. Last night had not been restful because of his teeth. Within minutes, she was laying him in his carrier beside her desk. He snored a little, remnants of a little cold. It was adorable.

She thought back to that day, when she simply stared wide eyed at the nurse with the sympathetic face. The words had been on the tip of her tongue (What are you on about? I'm not depressed. I've read all about it.) but Hermione could not force them out. Instead she had nodded numbly, accepted the pamphlets, and returned to Larry's side.

It had taken a week, during which she should have indignantly ranted to Harry and Ron, she should have consulted with Poppy and Molly, she should have done her own research at the libraries but…

She couldn't. She didn't. And so, after another week of just feeling out of sorts and still oddly heartbroken about Larry's brush with death, she visited this healer. And then visited again, after the woman had the nerve to suggest that Hermione's recent trauma of rediscovering her parents' deaths, and then the ongoing turbulence with her baby's absent father, as well as the guilt laden way she had dealt with her ex-fiance's return well…

Maybe those things had hindered her from reaching her full potential of late.

Not even as a mother. As a person.

Despite her adamant ("Adamant" Ginny began mocking her in a teasing way, since she had said it so often) stance of the woman just being wrong, Hermione found herself making another appointment. And then another. And then another. Until here she was; a mother with a messy flat, no job, and the happiest, best baby in the world.

Christ, she loved him. Hermione thought that she had before, but, after talking it out, she realised that she loved him in not quite properly. Her focus had been caring for him; who would mind him while she did this, was she giving him the right amount of nutrition, what about his cognitive development—all of that meant ensuring his health and his future. But she hadn't allowed herself to focus on him, as a person, in the present. About what it meant to love him, to speak to him, and not worry about his existence as a cause or as a reaction, and not worry about her plans for him, about the rules of raising a child, with nutrition, and stimulants, and development. This was a being, whose little personality shone through little by little each day, and she had almost missed it because she hadn't seen him, truly, until he was nearly snatched away from her.

She didn't quite understand what saved Larry from SIDS when so many others had died, but she was grateful for it. Naturally, she tried to do some research, but it was difficult to read the statistics and numbers without feeling hopeless, and she couldn't stay studious for long. One theory she liked above others was the Kangaroo Care one, in which holding a baby close to oneself was thought to revive infants who are sick or near dying. In his disjointed, rambling explanation of what had happened, Ron explained that he had done just that, albeit without thought, as he rushed the baby to the hospital. Hermione could never express how grateful she was to Ron's instincts, and likely would never have enough time to thank him, even if she lived forever.

She set the carrier on the floor next to her desk, and then laid down next to it on the dusty floor. It was absurd; there was so much to do, so many unsolved issues that needed attending, and Hermione was quite content to while away the hours watching her son.

That was her position when Poppy and her daughters stopped by from a trip to the zoo; Harry arrived a few minutes later after parking their rental car. Poppy understood Hermione's endless fascination with the inert infant, but Harry jokingly tsked.

"This place is a tip!" he declared in a perfect imitation of Mrs. Weasley. Gently, he swatted at his friend's head with her own post, which prompted her to reluctantly sit up to open the envelopes.

"Another rejection?" Poppy asked as Hermione opened one letter and frowned.

Hermione nodded and sighed, finding comfort in gently sweeping Larry's red hair from his forehead. These days Hermione found herself checking and rechecking his existence every few minutes.

"Well, Hermione, it was bound to happen some time, our lucky streak," Poppy said. Hermione widened her eyes at the impossible word "lucky" as her friend settled on the second hand couch. The girls were all in Hermione's room, taking a nap after their exhausting day out. "I mean, there was no way I could go on supporting the girls with my salary, even if I did add another route. And there was no way you could keep using your connections to get jobs you weren't properly qualified for. At least this way, you know that the post-war favouritism isn't working any more."

In a way, it was true, and she was relieved for it. As lovely as the teaching position at Hogwarts had been, it wasn't what Hermione loved, and it made her uncomfortable to know that she hadn't earned it, not properly.

And she wanted to show Lawrence and herself that she could live independently, not because of her war experience and not because she had friends in high places. She was sending out CVs and letters of application for Jane, her middle name, and Shelby, her mother's maiden surname. And Jane Shelby had no experience and had barely scraped by in education. It was not looking well for her, but at least she was honest.

For now, she lived off of her parents' emergency fund and what was left of the house sale and auction. Poppy, much to her chagrin, began receiving funds from Sir Nic's Weasley investment, and was looking far less stressed these days, despite actually allowing her gray hairs to remain.

"Perhaps I'm aiming too high," Hermione said, pulling out a piece of parchment and quill.

"I thought you were applying for entry level positions?" Harry asked as he wiped his hands on his jeans, just returning from the loo.

"I am. But maybe I ought to seek an internship first. I've practically nil in the experience department."

"Internship; that's a nice, professional way of saying 'slavery,'" Poppy warned and for once, Harry agreed with her.

Things were odd between the two, but Hermione had little time to contemplate why. When they arrived at the same time at her flat this morning, they exchanged civil greetings before the girls attacked Harry with make believe battles. Poppy lamented Hermione finding a place south of the river, and Harry reiterated his offer to share Number Twelve with her.

(She never could, not again. The house, already rife with bad memories and smothering atmospheres, was now unbearable to her. Besides, it was easier to keep track of Crookshanks here, who was pleased with his dominion of the small flat and the fire escape outside her bedroom window. There were no magical wormholes through which he could escape to another home. It was still a bit crowded, since Hermione had taken everything that she hadn't sold off from her home, Number Twelve, and the Burrow, but it was a bit fun, unpacking and showing Larry bits of her past.)

Lawrence sneezed himself awake and, after a moment of silent surprise, began to whimper. Before Hermione could move to comfort him in his bassinet by her writing desk (found on the pavement with the rubbish; Lord how wasteful people were these days!), Harry appeared in a flash.

Then Harry began to mock her son.

"Waaaaahhhh!" he caterwauled at the same time Larry attempted to. The baby was at first confused, then curious about the synchronized wailing. After a few more minutes of "Waahhh" "Waaahhh!" and so forth and so forth, et cetera, et cetera, Larry was tired enough by the exchange to resume his nap, while Hermione and Poppy attempted to quiet their tearful laughter with some success. Larry's godfather bowed with flourish.

"You doing maths?" Harry asked, looking over Hermione's shoulder.

"Yes. I'm calculating how I'd manage my budget for the next three months if I managed to get this one internship. It says they'd choose the top three interns for an entry level position at the end of the program. It's for copy editing at the BMMJ."

"Well, if you've ever had a strength, it's correcting people when you shouldn't," Harry remarked blithely. Hermione stuck her tongue out at him.

"Considering your spiel to me about how accepting help from my ex's family isn't admitting defeat, I really think you ought to petition to get Larry's daddy to help out. You did say he was wealthy, right?"

"All right, bull in China shop, let's shelve that conversation for another day," Harry suggested, the usual malice missing from his tone. It was just gentle enough that Poppy understood she had better avoid that topic.

By silent understanding, they opted not to tell Poppy what had transpired after they left her flat. The milk woman was already so emotionally unhinged that the news of Larry's health scare would have provoked a flooding of guilt from her, and the news of Draco's unseemly return would have provoked a murderous protectiveness as well. Also, neither of them were comfortable retelling the harrowing events.

And truth was: there was not much to tell. Hermione and the others had completely forgotten about Draco until well after Lawrence had been stabilised. Harry left them for a few hours to try to ascertain what Prewett had done after apprehending Malfoy, but there was no information to be gleaned. It was as if the fugitive had vanished into thin air.

Potter thought that Prewett had magicked him away to his private residence somehow, but could not prove it unless he found a way in. Hermione refused to think about it—Draco Malfoy's actions and life was something outside of her control. To fret about things outside of control was borrowing trouble, and she refused to do so any more. In order to be happy, Hermione chose instead to worry about the things she could control: her actions, and her life. And maybe, then, she'd find peace.

They all braced themselves for the press barreling down on them now that Malfoy had returned, but in the days and then weeks that followed, everybody except the Weasley family, Harry, Hermione, and some medical staff, seemed totally ignorant of the great tumult at St. Mungo's.

A little tap, tap, tap on the window alerted them to the presence of Pig. Hermione wasn't sure if Ron had somehow trained the bird to do this in respect to Larry's sleeping habits, or the tiny noise was all the little thing was capable of doing. Harry let him in and accepted the letter while Poppy cooed adoringly at the miniature messenger.

"Molly's planning a lunch, and wants to know when you're free. Reckon she sent one to me as well?"

"More than likely," Hermione agreed, taking out a new sheet of parchment. "I'll write for both of us, then?"

"You know, food itself doesn't scare me," Harry sighed as he dropped the letter onto Hermione's desk. "But when you females decide to organise an event around eating…well, I've learned it just means trouble."

---

Molly Weasley, she of the infinite wisdom and scary looks, waited until things had settled before taking what she deemed an entirely necessary course of action.

She waited until the trauma of Larry's health scare had abated. She waited, in vain apparently, for the drama of Malfoy's return to infect and fester in the press. She waited until Bill could get leave from work, until Charlie could manage a long stay in England, and until the twins and Percy had proper coverage at the shop. She did not have to wait to let Ginny know what she was up to—longtime conspirators that they were—and her youngest child and only daughter helped nag, cajole, and threaten the boys.

In the end, she waited for a few weeks, until she booked a private dining room at Ottery St. Catchpole's only inn, and asked her family, Harry, and Hermione, to a supper.

The walk was pleasant from The Burrow to The Rose and Dragon Inn, which was just off of High Street in the town center. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley went ahead of their children, trusting that they would follow, and enjoyed the rare chance to be alone on a relatively nice day. Patches of light blue peeked through the blinding, pale clouds, and the air was damp with eager rain, but none fell just yet.

As her offspring ambled in, alone or in pairs, she noted their damp coats and jumpers with a sigh, and saw that they did not heed her warning of the weather. Their eyes glowed at the sight of waiting baskets full of bread rolls and popovers, and Molly saw Harry and Hermione pushing Larry's pram by the only window, which faced the porch of the inn. Harry's jumper was inside out, bless him, and Hermione's was a bit small for her—in fact, it looked like something she wore in year six. Very likely, Molly concluded, as she knew that Hermione's flat was inundated with boxes, all full of old clothes, books, and sentimental items she was trying to sort through.

They were the last, and she asked her husband to draw the curtains so that only the outdated chandelier above them provided the light, transitioning the dark wood paneled room from one assaulted with white glaring light into one bathed in warm, faded yellow rays. They were all wearing a jumper or cardigan she had knitted, even without her asking. She wasn't sure if they were doing so to please her or if this was the only town in which they were not embarrassed to be seen wearing them. They knew that this was something of a special occasion, as Molly did not think any inn's food to be superior to her own cooking, but not so special that they disdained wearing their third best trousers, or their faded jeans. Harry was missing an eyebrow, but she couldn't dwell on that anomaly right now.

With a clearly subdued Arthur by her side at the end of the long table, Molly cleared her throat as the bread was being passed around.

"Arthur and I nearly separated," she said clearly as she buttered one roll. Conversation quieted, but not enough. It took monumental news to get her brood to quiet all at once. "Just after the Dark Year ended. It was all so much, you know, and we had grown apart while trying to cope."

Finally the last of the chatter faded, due to sharp elbowing and urgent, uncomfortable shushing. Her children looked at her as if she sprouted another head. It made her uncomfortable to see them so uncomfortable, and she pasted on her brightest smile.

"But we're fine now, because we saw a counselor. We've been seeing a counselor, regularly—"

"Well, irregularly," Arthur corrected with a gentle grin, and clasped his wife's hand where it rested on the table. "As much as my old work schedule would allow."

"Yes, your demotion helped greatly," Molly said appreciatively. She viewed her listeners with pity. "And it's been very lovely. I used to be very cynical about speaking about one's personal problems with a perfect stranger, no matter what their expertise, but…when something is so broken beyond your repairing capabilities, there is no shame in seeking assistance."

"Hang on," Bill finally found his tongue to speak up. Molly guessed that, even at his age, it was difficult to hear about one's parents' marital troubles. "I think we would've noticed if you'd been seeing a head doctor on the regular—or irregular."

"The gist of it: we lied." Molly smothered a grin, noting how her husband never seemed to have any qualms of offending or insulting their children. "You didn't really think we went to so many events honouring Ron, did you?" Arthur continued reasonably. "The boy was only in the war for all of an hour."

Ron made an indignant noise, and the boys cackled delightedly.

"Mum!" George scolded. Those two. Always willing to find a reason to tease her. They were ignoring the crux of the matter, sure, but her boys would find their way to it in a bit. "Using Ron in that way? For shame."

"It was my idea," Ginny spoke up around a large piece of bread, barley understandable. Molly sighed as her daughter struggled to swallow. "I knew that you lot wouldn't be too suspicious if it was anything to do with Ron."

"Why does she get to know everything before us?" Percy asked righteously.

"I didn't tell her," Molly explained patiently. "She's just observant and figured it out on her own."

"Yeah, that does sound pretty routine," Ron remarked wryly.

"Females can spot relationship problems miles away," Charlie agreed sagely, and the females at the table admirably tolerated this bit of gender stereotypes.

"In any case," Arthur persevered, "we've concluded our cycle with our doctor, and it's come to our attention that…well…"

"We're not the most…open family. When it comes to these sorts of communications. We're…we just…"

"We're English," Fred summed up simply, and that was that.

"But I know it's been a very trying two years for everybody," Molly said, "and I wish—I should have…"

"Stiff upper lip, love," Arthur half whispered encouragingly, and she nodded.

"I wish I could have been more available, to all of you, when you needed somebody to talk to. We both do, actually. I know that you all grieved in your own ways, and sometimes they weren't the healthiest…"

"Show me a doctor who says repression isn't healthy and I'll show you a quack," Harry announced haughtily, and winced when Hermione elbowed his ribs.

"And we gathered you here today just because we want you all to know that, despite our probably insensitive jokes about your mad great aunt—"

"Jilted at the altar, and only half mad. She's sound enough when she needs a loan," Bill informed Harry and Hermione helpfully.

"We want everybody to know that it's all right, if any of you do feel a bit off kilter. And if you'd like to talk to us. Or a professional? We have the contact information for our doctor's practice. He knows specialists, people who deal with post war afflictions and such…" Molly trailed off uncertainly, for her children were behaving in exactly the ways she feared. They shifted uneasily, avoided their parents' gazes, and fiddled with their bread. Only Lawrence seemed completely relaxed, and he was napping.

"And they can help with grieving lost loved ones, and change in general," Arthur added. In the ensuing silence, he sighed. "Look, we just wanted to clear the air. It's so rare that we're all together, even the ones who live in the country, so we figured , if any of you lot would like to start getting help, or just talking to us in general about anything at all, just say so. Today, or later in private, if you prefer."

Percy busied himself with cleaning his glasses. Fred cleared his throat. Charlie poked at the ice in his glass of water with the straw. Ron and Harry seemed to do that secret eye conversation thing they sometimes did, but offered nothing. Ginny rolled her eyes at her brothers' reluctance to discuss this. Hermione met Molly and Arthur's worried looks with a small comforting smile.

"You know," the young mother began gently, "they recommended for me to see somebody, after the rescue…and I didn't want to because I had thought I could do it on my own. I think…I think I got a bit arrogant, after being alone for so long. But now, after everything…I think I might have made better decisions, if I had just started talking to a therapist sooner."

"Sooner?" Ron repeated in surprise. Molly knew that they were still tiptoeing on eggshells with one another, but it felt different now, somehow.

(She felt some guilt at preemptively nudging them into marriage by sending Hermione that jumper for Christmas, and, looking back, they had been entirely too young, just as Percy wisely warned. But she had loved Hermione so much, and it really seemed like a sure thing. Molly had married right out of school, and her mother before her. It was a long standing tradition, but one that Molly was glad had been broken of late.)

Instead of bashfully blushing like a school girl at Ron's attention, which she had done prior to Larry's hospital visit, Hermione smiled and met Ron's gaze head on.

"Oh, yeah…" Hermione might have normally elaborated, but, uncharacteristically, she remained succinct. "Well, the point is, I think it's a good idea, Mrs. Weasley." Hermione switched her gaze from Ron to Molly. "I'm glad that you've been honest with us."

It was clear that nobody had really considered half of the things that Hermione just hesitantly admitted, Molly being one of them. She had never suffered any sort of mental illness after her births, but she knew of old warnings about the "baby blues." Once again, Molly felt a familiar sinking feeling at not catching it, but tried to remember that she could not catch everything with so many children to look after.

"Thanks, Hermione," Ginny murmured thickly, and sincerely. She offered a genuine smile, and the girl smiled back. "Anybody else?" she asked jokingly.

"Erm…my uncle died," Harry added, unperturbed enough to continue spearing at the tomatoes on his plate. "Not of a heart attack, can you believe it?"

Nobody said "I'm sorry" or "My condolences" because nobody wanted to lie to the poor boy, but it did seem tacky to allow silence drag on for so long.

"Oh?" was the only word Molly could muster with sincerity.

"Yeah…took Poppy to the funeral. She was my only way in, actually, on account of her being one of those aristocratic arses they like to talk about in the society papers. The Dursleys cared about that rubbish, I remembered. Otherwise, I think Petunia would've called the coppers on me."

"Why'd you even go?" Fred asked rudely, and if he were nearer, Molly would've pinched him.

"Oh, I needed some information Petunia had hidden from me about my mum's accounts. Papers, certificates, et cetera. I thought it better to sneak it out rather than endure another confrontation."

"I must say Harry," Arthur began hesitatingly, "that this was very mature of you." The others agreed; they were bewildered by the decision, but still, they agreed. "There may be hope for you yet."

Harry nodded his thanks, though frowned at that last bit.

"Whilst we're in the sharing mood, I've been sacked," Bill admitted.

"Hey, me too!" Charlie said with a laugh and, to Molly and Arthur's total bafflement, they high-fived.

"You do have prospects lined up, right?" Arthur prodded.

"Oh yeah," they both offered, not at all assuring. Molly couldn't summon much disappointment, for perhaps this meant she'd be seeing her two eldest more often.

"Consider yourselves lucky. I've just been employed by two of the biggest idiots," Percy said with a suffering sigh.

"You think you have it bad! We have to see your face every day," Fred laughed, throwing an affectionate arm around his older brother's neck. Percy winced and tried to hide his grin.

"Oliver and I broke up," Ginny announced, and rolled her eyes at the predictable sarcastic cheering.

Molly knew this, as she had helped Ginny build a fire to burn the mementoes. Ginny was very much a sensible girl, but even she sometimes engaged in such cliché dramatics.

Molly cleared her throat. "Thank you for everybody's candor, but I just want it clear that any type of a listening ear or a shoulder to cry on is available, all right? Professional or familial?"

"Right" "'Course" "Yeah, we know" and the like filled the air as the waiters came and placed large platters of food on the table. Charlie looked as if he might want to say something, but was distracted by the meal. He'd probably want to talk to somebody, for he had been the most difficult to read after Ron's death and during the twins' imprisonment. He never stayed home, throwing himself into the search. Bill was the same way, spending far too much time at work. Yes, chances were they'd ask for more details in private.

Percy—no. He wouldn't bring himself to talk about these matters with a stranger. But…she watched as he scolded George and then, quite unlike himself, stole a chip from Fred's plate…perhaps he was coping in different ways. Fred and George had each other, and she figured she'd worry when they didn't.

Harry needed help—he was so wayward now, but hopefully Remus could persuade him to settle. Hermione—oh thank goodness that Hermione was already seeing somebody. And Ron…

Molly fretted that real conversation was a lost cause now that the food arrived, but she was surprised when, after the muggles left, George said around a mouthful of mushy peas:

"I dunno if I need to see a doctor, mum, dad, but I figure I'd let you lot know—I've met the woman I'm to marry."

The shoveling of food onto plates slowed noticeably at this casual announcement. "Yeah," he continued brightly, "she's brilliant at paper stuff…stationery, origami, kirigami—which is a thing, apparently—calligraphy, all of that rubbish. And funny. And gorg, naturally. And muggle, but I've already told her about everything. And flexible. And—"

"Wanted in Spain for forgery," Fred finished flippantly.

"What?" Molly squawked. She had just had her hopes skyrocketing that George had found somebody who could help settle his wicked ways.

"Flexible?" Charlie repeated.

George rounded on his twin while the others looked on with interest. "How the bloody hell did you know?"

"You mean she told you?"

"Course she did, she's pretty honest! Except for the petty crimes bit. How did you find out?"

"I had Ron follow you to find out where you were sneaking off to. Found her shop, her name, and her criminal history. Standard vetting procedures."

George sent a caustic look to his younger brother, who developed a sudden interest in the wooden light fixture above them.

"We had to," Harry said, not helping one bit. "We all thought you were on drugs."

The twin sent Ron and Harry a two fingered gesture which immediately earned censure from Arthur. "I just didn't want to let you all know about her until I knew how she'd handle being with a wizard. Why don't you sort out your business with Johnson before sticking your ugly nose in my affairs?" George grumbled unkindly to Fred.

"He does realise that's his identical twin, right?" Bill asked the others worriedly. They laughed before they tried to bombard George with questions. Charlie wanted to know what kind of forgeries, Percy inquired of her family, and Ginny gushed at the thought of an outlaw for an in-law.

"Look mate, I ain't saying she's not worth marrying," Fred said, chewing sloppily. He had smarted from the Angelina Johnson comment for a bit before recovering. "In fact, I thought her right boring until I found her aliases. But just 'cause she's your lady love is no reason to be investing in her paper products."

"Yeah well, Percy thinks it might be a good idea, if we magic them up, so—"

"Percy thinks it's a good idea!" Fred repeated, aghast.

"Egad, the world's ending," Harry said dramatically, clutching his heart.

"Oh shut up Harry," Fred said, wagging his fork. "You'll do well to stay out of twin business—er, well, twin and Percy business. Blech." Fred stuck his tongue out as if the very phrase tasted horrible.

"You'll do well to avoid another ASBO for scrapping in a muggle pub—oh, oops?" Harry shrugged innocently for letting this piece of information slip.

"I knew you'd get me back for that," Fred snickered, pointing to the place where Harry's right eyebrow should've been.

"Fred!" Molly started sharply.

"Really, at your age?" Arthur moaned.

"A man could only take so many comments about being a soulless ginger before he snaps, mum," Fred explained with a shrug.

"But you are a soulless ginger," Ginny sing-songed.

"I'll not lift a finger to get you out of it," Arthur warned him. "Not this time, Fred. You know, I think you ought to talk to Doctor Mc—"

"Ron hasn't confessed anything!" Fred pointed out loudly.

They might have taken Ron's churlish silence in stride, and let him alone—the boy was clearly odd, but understandably so—had not Percy unnecessarily spoke for him.

"Ron has nothing to confess," Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' new financial advisor cut in quickly, too quickly to be ignored. Ron sent his brother an impatient and incredulous look, before they were distracted by Harry's startling agreement as well.

"Yeah, open book, Ron is," Potter added, in a near panic.

Ron sighed and shook his head at Harry, apparently ashamed at his best mate's attempt of deception.

"Well, I'm perfectly convinced," Bill deadpanned, and his family echoed with similar sarcasm.

Molly opened her mouth to cut a swath through the mockery when she noticed Ron steal a glance at Hermione. No—not Hermione, but baby Lawrence. Then her youngest boy steeled himself as if ready to shout them all down, when, to her total surprise, he shrugged and laughed to himself.

"You know what?" he chirped, the only one still eating aside from Arthur—who, it must be said, would continue stuffing his gob through Doomsday—and looked them all in the eye. "A few months ago I was terrified you'd find out. But it don't matter—"

"Doesn't," Hermione murmured, looking for all the world as if she wasn't even aware of it.

"Because I'm not bothered. Not any more." Molly couldn't read Ron as he spoke; he seemed to waver between relief and somberness. She couldn't remember a time he looked so…so…grown up. Like a man, which was just silly, as he was supposed to stay her baby boy forever.

"By…" Charlie prompted uncertainly.

"Well…" Ron then glanced at Harry, who shook his head minutely. Then again, Harry had been playing it close to the vest since he was a baby; he didn't quite grasp the idea of being so open and things turning out okay. "Keep eating, this may take a while." The children didn't need to be told twice, for if it was as serious as Harry made it out to be, surely Ron wouldn't encourage them to lunch during a serious confession.

"Right. Not magical any more," he said baldly, spearing a cut of roast beef with his fork.

There was the sound of cutlery falling onto plates and little else. Molly thought she might've stopped breathing.

Ron either did not notice or did not care. "Can work the Floo Network and summon the Knight Bus just fine, but that's it. One thing I can do—and it's weird—"

"As if that first bit wasn't weird?" Ginny exclaimed with raised eyebrows.

"Well, yeah, but it gets weirder. See, when I was banished into The Nothing, as Harry calls it, I couldn't do much of anything. I barely had my own mind. But I learned that, if I felt a very strong emotion from someone I knew and could establish a connection, I could visit people in their minds while they slept." Ron paused thoughtfully as he chewed. "Huh. That was easier to explain than I thought," he told Percy, who looked more worn by the revelation than the actual confessor.

"There's a bit more," Harry pointed out.

"Oh, right. Okay, so, in my defense, I didn't know that what I was doing in people's dreams had an actual impact. I was just reacting, and hoping. That's why I could visit you, mum, but I think I did more harm than good in those dreams."

Molly, unable to speak, only nodded encouragingly. Her throat felt tight, and regulating her breathing was difficult when the implications of Ron's confession hit her all at once. This whole time, she had thought he was sleeping—Neither Hermione, Harry, nor Ron had ever offered any story of what truly happened to her boy during that lost year, and frankly, she hadn't ever wanted to ask them, just in case it was too horrible. And while being lost in a nothing, whatever that meant, was not the worst fate, she hated the thought of him being aware, of seeing them mourn him, and pass on through life without him.

"And Hermione…it was different with you. I usually only felt others when they were sleeping—um, yeah, nobody comment on that one."

It was testament to how serious they were taking him, for none of his siblings bothered with a double entendre.

"But I could visit you when you were very distressed, I think. When you found out about your parents, and when you were uh…being held…and even when you wanted to give up during labour—which by the way? Very stupid plan, you can't walk around with a baby in your birth canal."

He was trying to joke because the solemnity of his announcement was heavily blanketing them all into shocked silences, and Molly felt her smiling at him like an automaton, just to give him small comfort.

"Also, after you found out about your parents, I was, um…I lost my temper and, ah…Well, dad? I think I'm the one who broke Montague."

Heads swiveled to see Arthur's reaction, for Montague was a tricky subject considering how much trouble he had caused the workers in the Ministry. "How, exactly?" his father asked carefully.

"I was very angry he made her cry. So I—there's a thing, I can do, if I go through people, like through connections—"

"This level of Legilimency is unheard of," Bill observed, studying Ron with a furrowed brow.

"Well, it feels funny too, trust me," Ron said with a shrug. "In any case, I found him and I was just so furious with him and I just—exploded at him, with every angry thought and bloody nightmare and bad feeling I had and now, apparently, he's gone a bit barmy and I'm pretty sure it's my fault because he was saying things I had said to Harry about keeping my sister safe, even though he never had a sister."

Ron took a deep breath, as he had tried to say everything in one breath.

"Did you visit anybody else?" Charlie prompted. "Who else knows?"

"Just Neville, but I was able to sort of jump into an existing nightmare of his, so he saw me as Snape."

"And Snape told him where to find Draco's hidden island, where he was keeping me," Hermione finished quietly. She had been looking down at her hands the entire time, until now, when she looked at Ron as if seeing him, the real him, for the first time. "I wish you had told me," she said softly. "But I understand why you hadn't."

Ron nodded, and licked his chapped lips nervously. His plate was looking bare, and so he helped himself to seconds.

"The Dumble might have some idea, because of the questions we've asked him, and the research we were trying to do secretly at school," Harry informed them sheepishly.

"When they brought me back, I had forgotten how to do it, so Harry and I have been doing research and the like because, well, I made a deal with Prewett." Then Ron winced preemptively, and with good reason.

Fred expostulated, "Oh for the love of—"

"Fred," Arthur warned.

"Balls! For the love of balls," the twin continued, utterly determined to be heard. "You made a deal with that mad, crooked man after you knew what he's done."

"What's the love of balls got to do with anything?" George asked aside. Percy shrugged.

"In hindsight it was not my finest moment," Ron agreed with a speculative expression. "But I panicked. I didn't want Smith to tell you all I was different than before, and the only one who could stop him from blabbing was Prewett."

"I'm afraid to ask but…what's the deal?" Ginny was clearly feeling as apprehensive as the rest of them.

"Part of the reason he's mad is his lack of sleep. He literally has nightmares every night. I told him that I could fix that; go into his brain and let him have some peace. Only, it's a bit trickier than I thought, so Harry's been helping me. We've very nearly got it, and it got loads easier after we figured out how to send me into my subconscious. But Prewett's got weird, auto-Occlumency; he shuts me out by habit, even though he knows I'm supposed to help. It's why we can't figure out if he's done anything with Malfoy. "

"So that's why you were rowing about Draughts of Death and Peace," Arthur spoke aloud. Molly's head snapped to face him, and her eyes glittered dangerously. Even before she could speak, he raised his hand in defense, "I swear I had no idea, Molls. I thought it was something Harry was doing for school."

"But Percy knew," Ginny added accusingly.

"I figured it out, just by observation," Percy assured them, no small amount of smugness in his tone.

"Then you two must've known, living with him," Charlie turned on the twins.

"Put us down as oblivious and unobservant," George quickly denied it.

Ron put a stop to the finger-pointing by firmly stating, "It doesn't matter who knew before. I don't care who knows now. I know you all are worried sick, but you have to believe me when I say that I'm fine. I don't know if I'll ever be a proper wizard again—if something happens and I do get my magic back, brilliant. If not, then that's okay as well. I promise."

"But will you still help Prewett, then?" Bill wondered.

Ron hunched his shoulders and sighed. "I've a plan."

Then Molly sighed as her youngest son carefully laid out a mad, bad and dangerous strategy, and the others began to argue its merits. She glanced over to Arthur, who looked as if he was trying to make himself deaf so he could not be called to testify in court later, should things progress badly. Her husband noticed her gaze and smiled. She reached for his hand and clasped it tightly.

Oh, she was so blissfully happy.

---

"Hello," he said as he arrived.

"Hello," she returned with a small smile.

Ron had sent a little message by way of tiny Pig, asking if Hermione wanted to have lunch at a new pub in Diagon Alley called The Last Garrison.

She had arrived first and had just situated Lawrence in his carrier when he arrived. The day was warm but there was a small fire going in fireplace. Despite the discomfort of the heat, she chose the small table closest to the hearth, as she knew how her baby adored watching dancing flames.

"How is everything?" he asked as he nodded at one bored server by the bar.

"Well enough. I'm starting an internship in a few days."

"Do they know it's you?" he asked teasingly.

"They'll find out," Hermione laughed. "Well, my boss knows since I had to do an interview, but it was off campus so none of the other employees do. It will be interesting."

"But perfect for you," he finished confidently.

"And you? How are things?"

"Good. I'm due to have dinner with George and Steffania tonight. I'm the first to properly meet her. He says it'll make her comfortable, dining with someone who's almost a muggle."

Hermione winced even as Ron chuckled. "Boys," she sighed. "The sensitivity of a hippopotamus."

"Oh I don't mind. If they didn't take the piss, then I'd know they weren't comfortable 'round me. This way, I know things are normal. Hi," he added as the server finally approached.

"Yeah, almost," she agreed, and they paused in their personal conversation to order their meals.

"Okay, can we have a rule for this meal?" she asked once the girl had gone.

Ron rolled his eyes. "I'm willing to bet you make rules for shitting."

"Ron!" Hermione giggled helplessly. Larry, who had been staring at the fire, now flickered his gaze to his mother in interest.

"All right, let's hear it then."

"Let's not talk about anything heavy?" she pled earnestly.

"Oh," Ron sighed solemnly, "so I can't discuss your bum then?"

Hermione had been sipping some water when he said it, and promptly had to smack both hands to her mouth as she tried not to choke on the liquid and her laughter. The young mother tried looking away so that she could settle down, but Ron, the arse, kept zig-zagging his head so that he could fight to hold her gaze.

"Oh do it," he goaded. "Spit it out, it'll be hilarious."

"I'm going to trounce you," she finally gasped after she managed to swallow successfully. Even then, Hermione could not stop laughing at his audacity. "Does your mother know she's raised a wild animal?"

"She's aware she's raised seven of them, yeah," Ron assured her. "Eight if you count Harry. Where is he, any way?"

"He's minding the triplets this afternoon. And Poppy's actually paying him."

"What? Why?"

"Well, there aren't many minders who can handle the girls and their accidental magic. Also, Poppy's pride wouldn't let him mind them for free."

"Oh, he's just trying to raise his own personal minions," Ron joked. Larry began to make uncomfortable noises as he tried to turn and see the source of the deep voice. Hermione obligingly picked up the carrier, turned the chair around with her foot, and set it down again.

"Hello again," Ron said to the baby.

Lawrence frowned and fidgeted, slapping the air beside him with vigour. After accomplishing that for a few seconds, he let his tongue ooze out of his mouth and returned Ron's greeting with an emphatic grunt.

"Watch out, I think he's shitting. Are you following Hermione's rules for shitting?" He asked the infant, and dodged when her hand shot out to try and hit his shoulder.

"When's his next doctor's appointment?"

"Next week. I couldn't keep going to my muggle physician, it being so far from my current home and Larry eventually needing somebody to monitor his magic."

"Right," Ron agreed, and leaned back as the server approached them with a stack of newspapers.

"Our plates are too small," the girl explained after apologising for interrupting. "Can I lay these down so I don't have to wipe up too much when you're done? Cheers." Quick as a flash, their wooden table was covered with two layers of newspaper, even before they could consent.

Hermione stared at Ron with an open mouthed smile of astonishment.

"Close your mouth, love, this is clearly a classy establishment," Ron warned, and then ridiculously hushed her when their food arrived.

Hermione now understood what the girl meant. The plates, perfectly normal-sized, were overloaded with food, so that the chips, beans, and garnishes were falling over the edges. Well, for this kind of value, she wouldn't mind a little abruptness from the staff.

"Dad told me about this place," Ron was saying. "He says there's not a whole lot of Ministry workers who come since it's so close to Knockturn, so it's easy to eat without getting interrupted."

"Speaking of the Ministry," Hermione began, angling her head so she could just barely make out the political news headline under her glass, "what do you think of all these strange acts Prewett's trying to pass?"

"At first glance, they're all right," he agreed, eyes focusing on the words that were upside down to him. "But my parents don't trust it. It's too nice for Prewett, you know? Forgiveness of over-reaching punishments made by government officials in trying times just isn't his style, at all."

"Yeah, but doesn't it make sense, considering how it was his government that had overreached?" Hermione asked, thinking of the twins and their time spent in the Ministry's interrogative custody after they had been freed from the Death Eaters. "Maybe he's trying to protect himself from any potential charges brought against him after his term ends?"

"It would make sense if he had thought that he had gone too far. But, up until this month, Prewett's never acknowledged that they were too invasive and too paranoid. He's actually been kind of stubborn about never admitting fault. It implies that he's reached a level of self-awareness that I honestly didn't think possible. All of these impunity acts are really weird."

They did not mention the odd timing. Prewett did something, and vanished Larry's father away. Now he was hoping to relax the laws on excessive brutality used on Death Eaters. It was too coincidental, but, with a lack of answers, there was no use dwelling on the matter. Harry, in the time he used to spend with Ron and the sleeping experiments, was now investigating his own leads, independently.

It was for the best; both Hermione and Ron were too occupied and tired to accompany him on these adventures.

"Plus," he added after tasting his mash, "he hasn't bothered me for at least a week about helping him with his nightmares."

"Maybe he's found a cure," Hermione suggested hopefully.

"I've seen his nightmares, from a distance," Ron said, tone factual. "The only thing that could cure those would be a lobotomy."

"I read an article on lobotomies the other day!" Hermione told him excitedly.

"Only you would be so enthusiastic about this," he laughed. Conversation meandered to items they read, things they had seen, and people they knew. They stayed a little longer than planned, and Ron was sent a pretty, flying paper crane to peck at his head to remind him he was running late for supper with George and his lady friend. Hermione crossed her eyes as he kissed her forehead goodbye, making him laugh just before he tickled Larry's round belly. The fire died completely and he used the Floo Network to go. Hermione waved good bye with one hand as she was holding a breastfeeding Larry in the other arm, and then stared down at her son.

"Whatever happens," she confided to him, "I'm glad we're all a bit more sensible this time around."

---

"Of all the mad things that any Weasley has ever said, done, or thought," George declared as they marched to the cemetery, "that is the maddest." The others rolled their eyes. Fred and Charlie had always been considered the most bloodthirsty, and so it was a little strange how much George hated Ron's scheme for justice and mightily campaigned for revenge. Even now, much later, he was tearing apart the plan when no one wanted to discuss it.

"We're going to destroy my tombstone with garden tools," Ron said flatly. "I don't think we're in any position to judge what's sane." His siblings laughed as they trudged to the part of the graveyard most of Ottery St. Catchpole had forgotten about.

They tramped through the tall grass and weeds to where one tombstone, not nearly as worn and faded as the others, stood in the corner. Its corners and lines were still sharp, and the grooves of the carved letters were clearly defined, even from a distance. "Ronald Bilius Weasley" they all read. And they stopped there.

Because the rest of it wasn't in English.

"Is that bloody Romanian?" Ron demanded, turning to his siblings.

"I don't think any of us have actually been here before to read it until now," Ginny explained, puzzled as well.

"Pretty sure, no matter where you are, it is still possible to write a company in England, order the wording in English, and have it arranged for set up in England," George thought aloud, eyeing the mistake with some bafflement.

"Two out of three," Fred commented sympathetically, nudging Charlie.

"I was in Romania," Charlie sighed, hands up in surrender, "and I only know half of the time whether I'm understood. But I couldn't even get my communications sent to England without fear of the enemy intercepting. So I found a company in Cluj-Napoca who said that I could order it from them and they would ship it to a sister company in England, who would set it up. I am discovering that communications might have degraded at some point. Still! Result!"

Percy stepped forward and pointed at the headstone. "Result? But it's in Romanian!"

"It says something about being a bay…I think?" Bill asked.

"It's 'son' and your Romanian's shite," Charlie informed him haughtily.

"I think this is what we get for letting the brother abroad take care of things," Fred observed with a shrug.

"Oh, even if he were here, he would have mucked up somehow," George argued, and his twin had to agree.

"Let's get on with it," Ron sighed with a roll of his eyes. "Goggles down! You too, over there!"

Percy, Bill, and Ginny huffed, but complied any way. It had been very nice of Molly to find these in the attic, although they were a bit tight considering they had not attempted safety procedures since their youth. It was only Fred, George, Charlie, and Ron who were going to do major damage, but bits of stone might have gone flying towards them.

It turned out to be a bit more difficult than they anticipated, which made sense, considering these were supposed to stand the test of time. Charlie went at it with more vigour than any one, and Ron could not help but think that it must have been difficult, in any language, to plan the grave for your younger brother.

They took turns wildly swinging their garden tools in wide, dangerous arcs. Fred let Ginny take his place after one chip cracked his goggles, and the little girl displayed untold volumes of rage on the rubble.

Ron felt better knowing she was going in for her first appointment soon.

Most of them were, although they didn't speak of it to one another. Ron only knew because George was spying on everybody in the house one night, and drunkenly let it slip when they went out for pints with Steffania.

(Who was scary, by the way. She was Spanish and quiet and sneaky. She had eyes on the back of her head and learned how to forge Ron's writing in less than five minutes. George was mad to love her, but Ron wasn't in any position to offer advice.)

In less than an hour, they stood around small pieces of stone and dust.

Feeling the need to say something, Ron cleared his throat and said…

"Merlin, it's the police!"

It was the muggle police, and the officers were walking fast towards them from the front entrance.

"Didn't you clear it with the officials?" Bill asked Charlie as they quickly gathered their garden tools.

"Obviously not!" Percy huffed at the same time Charlie answered indignantly:

"I need permission to destroy something I paid for?"

"We're destroying a memorial in a public graveyard you idiot," Ginny screeched as they began to run in the opposite direction, dodging other graves nimbly. "Of course it looks bad!"

No more conversation could be had as they rounded an enormous oak tree. Ron was the last to reach the other side and he was shocked to find himself alone. Then he groaned. Of course.

Just as he was ready to surrender himself, Bill reappeared with a loud crack, grabbed him, and brought him home again, where the other five were laughing breathlessly in the kitchen.

Even Ron had to chuckle to himself as he rinsed the sweat and dust off of his face in the kitchen sink. "Arseholes, the lot of you," he told them.

Somebody would have normally replied, but they were still trying to catch their breath from the side-splitting laughter. It was a good thing Molly was out at the shops, or she'd ask what they had just escaped and then probably make them apologise nicely.

"Right, I'm heading back to the shop," George sighed, wiping his eyes. "I've an early day tomorrow with Harry. Are you lot set?"

"Leave the papers," Ron reminded him just as he was ready to apparate, and George snapped his fingers before producing a pile of parchment sheets and cards from thin air. Then he left, with no complaint that Fred stayed behind, as he had neglected the shop considerably when he courted the Spanish forger.

Tomorrow, George and Fred were accompanying Harry to Prewett's property just outside London. Their mad minister was going to spend the morning to push for his latest and last act regarding governmental impunity. The rest of them were going to St. Mungo's, with various reasons and disguises, to try to find where Prewett might have hidden Lawrence's father.

Ron and Harry disagreed on this; Harry was convinced Harold somehow sent Malfoy to his residence. But Ron argued, saying that he could not have done so undetected, and would not risk leaving a wizard as powerful as Draco unattended at his home. The prick was probably hidden somewhere in the hospital.

The other six Weasley siblings had no opinion, as it did not matter much to them. But the twins volunteered to help Harry, since he liked working with two others on his missions, whilst they had Seamus give another go at minding the shop. And the rest offered to help Ron investigate St. Mungo's, as it was more ground to cover. St. Mungo's, by appearances, had five floors, but there were more, most of which were for wizards and witches who had non-magical maladies, as well as offices, file archives, and a morgue.

It was weird, but strangely fun to be going on one of these furtive adventures with his family. Ron was so accustomed to secrecy that he instinctively refused their help when he told them his goals that day at the inn, but, after his mum's reasonable suggestion, he could not see the harm. The more ground they could cover, the faster they could finish, and nobody knew how long Prewett would be busy at with the politicians. There was no doubt that, if their adoptive uncle was not occupied with politics, he would most likely turn up at St. Mungo's if he heard about their strange doings. And, considering it was Harold Gerald Prewett the first, he was most likely trying his hardest to have them all monitored.

"We could have timed it better," Bill said now as he searched through the pantry for a snack. "Bad luck to do this all now on Prewett's last guaranteed day in the Ministry."

"Yeah, well, I didn't think of it until recently," Ron excused himself, joining them at the table.

"How do we even know he's alive?" Percy pointed out, referring to Malfoy.

"We don't," Fred replied, "but at least we'd find a body."

"If Prewett has held him all these weeks…"Ginny began speculatively. "What do you suppose he's done to him?"

"Nothing undeserved," Charlie guessed, and it was too arguable to discuss, so they let it drop.

Ron, despite his easy manner when conversing with his family, was inwardly anxious. Not in the normal way—that, oh hell, are we going to die horribly way—but a new, impatient way. He just wanted it done. He just wanted this business wrapped up. He felt that he could see the path he was going to take in life, but it was just out of reach, just behind this obstacle. Sure, it could have all been in his hand. One could argue, like his family did, that Malfoy's fate was not his business. But, for some reason, Ron felt a tenuous connection to the villain, and until that was resolved, he could not move forward.

There were three possible scenarios tomorrow.

The best one was finding Draco at the hospital. They'd apprehend him and give him a fair trial. That was all Ron wanted in the end. For everybody to get their chance, so that Larry had the choice to have him in his life.

(Larry was an odd being, and it was easy for Ron to project his wishes on this blameless infant. Whatever happened, Ron didn't want Lawrence's potential to be diminished in any way. He wanted Larry to know and deal with all the facts of his life head on, the same way Ron was dealing with his afflictions now, because that was the only say to succeed. Ron still wasn't sure if he loved Larry, but he did feel oddly responsible to him now that he had saved his life.)

The second best one was Harry and the twins finding Draco at Prewett's home. This would be mostly okay if there wasn't a strong chance one of them would kill Malfoy before bringing him to justice.

The third possibility was the worst—they would not find the criminal, Prewett would end his term and spend the rest of his life holed up and inaccessible. Draco Malfoy's whereabouts would be harder and harder to pinpoint with each passing day.

"…so Jordan's going to meet us at The Last Garrison with the Polyjuice potion," Ginny was saying as she distributed the papers George left behind. "The hairs are attached to your forged documents."

Steffania had been actually kind of handy here, for they could not all be patients and they could not all be handymen. Once they showed her what they wanted, the girl had no trouble producing believable employee badges, repair orders, or appointment papers. All they needed was a bit of magic to make them somewhat credible when closely scrutinised, and they were set.

"Maybe we should become real handymen," Charlie was suggesting to his older brother as they compared their work orders for inspecting leaks and such, "considering how well we did with Ron's tombstone?"

"If handymen are in demand for totally obliterating things, yeah, that's a brilliant idea Charlie," Bill replied absently.

"I have an appointment for a rash?" Percy demanded, glaring at Ron, who had been in charge of it all.

"Yes…" Ron answered innocently.

"For 'probably naughty experiments with a Jarvey'? But my disguise is a forty year old woman!"

His brothers and sister burst into laughter once more as Ron shrugged and said, "Women can be naughty too, Percy."

"Here here," Fred chimed in with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Ron swallowed his grin when Percy scowled at all of them once more; he still appreciated Percy, but with him in charge of the twins' finances there was danger of his head growing too big again, and it was up to them to keep him in check. Also, it was really funny.

They divided the floors according to where their disguises would lead them. Realistically, they had small chance of finding Draco himself, but Ron thought they could at least find some clues. Then their parents came home and they helped with supper, eating and talking long after the table had been cleared. Ron was happy; it felt better, with everything out in the open, and not secretly darting out of the Burrow to meet with his friends. His family must have felt the same way, for Fred asked as conversation dwindled down:

"Did you ever think any of your quests at Hogwarts might've been shorter or more successful if you just included us?"

Ron shrugged, squinting slightly as he pondered it. "There was always a reason though, not to…like, you were busy, or it was too dangerous, or something."

"But you have to admit," Bill yawned, "doing something like what we've planned for tomorrow would've been hell on just you, Harry, and Hermione."

"Where is Harry, any way?" Ginny asked. "Thought he'd have loads of unresolved issues to take out on your headstone."

"Having a meeting with our dear old, mad uncle," Fred answered. "Seeing if there's anything useful he could learn for tomorrow."

Arthur cleared his throat, and they rolled their eyes at their father's insistence that they help maintain his and Molly's "plausible deniability." The Weasley children dropped the subject, and instead allowed harmless topics, such as friends, family, and politics to overtake the conversation for the rest of the evening.

Due to the late hour by the time they were all done discussing the details, Ron opted to spend the night at the family home. An hour or so after he had settled in for the night, he was startled to find the twins by his bedside, with George holding one candle. They were already inherently eerie, on account of being twins, but the flicking yellow glow did not help.

"What?" he demanded angrily, pulling the pillow over his face. He could have sworn he locked the door last night.

"Wanted to say bye before tomorrow," Fred said in a loud voice. "In case we die." George rudely pulled the pillow off his face and hit him with it.

"What? Why would you die?"

"Why would we live?" George parried with a shrug. "It is Prewett's house, after all. If it's not booby trapped, I'm the Queen of England."

"But you've studied it and the blue prints. You should be relatively okay," Ron yawned, wiping blearily at his eyes. Then he hissed, for George had leaned forward too much, and a drop of hot wax fell onto his elbow. His brothers laughed heartlessly.

"Still. Take care of the shop if we go," Fred said cheerily.

"Oh, and find that weird portal that Hermione's cat had used to go here and there. I don't like it. I don't trust it," George declared. "Do that whether or not we die," he added.

(Ron knew that George hadn't cared until recently, when both Crookshanks and Pig had taken to practice hunting with Steffania's flying paper rubbish. She made all sorts of things, and the Weasleys hadn't known that paper could be manipulated that way. The adults and mature siblings who accompanied their usual customers found the moving, folded artwork enchanting, and it was nice to have something other than magical harm to peddle.)

Despite their ominous words, Ron sensed his brothers were practically buzzing with excitement. They hadn't had any proper adventure in a long while, Ron estimated, and they were no doubt chuffed to pieces by the fact that this mission was both dangerous and a little illegal.

"Fine. And nobody's dying, honestly," Ron sighed, turning so that he lay on his side, facing the wall. "You two are so morbid."

"Have fun at Mungo's," George bid him before they both apparated to Number Twelve.

Fun. Ron shook his head as he tried to find a comfortable position again. He could have sworn that he hadn't grown much since his return, but the newfound smallness of the bed contradicted that. Tomorrow wasn't going to be fun, and he couldn't find it within himself to shirk responsibility of it. What was churning in his stomach was the same feeling he used to have before important exams. Tomorrow was the plaster that had to be ripped off quickly.

---

Hermione smiled and accepted the compliment from the elderly couple in the lift. "What a good mother you must be, to have such a lovely little son," they had said. It was nice when such comments included her, even when she felt she didn't truly do anything out of the ordinary when it came to Lawrence's upbringing.

They had just finished a follow up appointment with Dr. Garland; Lawrence appeared to be doing fine. The man sort of hinted that another visit would not be necessary, but Hermione made one any way, just in case. She was steadily rolling Larry's stroller back and forth in place when the door slid open and the couple stepped off. The empty space was filled by a middle aged woman two floors later, who cooed at but did not touch Larry. Hermione was grateful, for while she did not begrudge strangers their admiration for her son, she did get tense when they touched him. Her psychotherapist would call this a reflex borne from anxiety, but Hermione thought it simple common sense. It was as if people forgot babies were still building their immune systems, and that the world was full of germs.

Then the woman exited and Hermione nearly let the doors close without worry when she happened to glance up.

Not twenty feet away from her, on the first floor of Creature Induced Injuries, was Fred Weasley on a floating gurney, with a bleeding George by his side.

Her hand slammed on the button to keep a door open and ran out, pushing Larry's stroller without another thought. His wheels squeaked slightly as she skidded to a stop. Now that she was closer, she could see their injuries more clearly. There were large gashes on their forearms, and also their torsos, where the fabric of their shirts had been brutally ripped open. Fred had a particularly bad one on his lower neck, where he pressed the bandage hard on the bleeding cut. George was holding his wrist protectively close to his chest. The wounds looked very bad to be sure, and, if she had a moment to dwell on it, Hermione might have been offended that they looked more pained at the mere sight of her.

"Jesus," she breathed, "What happened?"

Fred tried to moan that he was in too much agony to explain, but Hermione only rolled her eyes at these theatrics—he was fine enough to speak a moment ago!—and turned to George. "What's going on?" she pressed, though not nearly as anxious.

"Don't get pissed off for keeping it a secret from you," George half warned, half begged.

"Of course I wouldn't be," she huffed. "Obviously, it was dangerous, and obviously, I'm in no position to put myself in danger. Now, what is it?" A nurse, who had apparently stepped away for a moment, returned at the commotion, and began to shoo them away from the bed. They all ignored her, following the gurney as it traveled down the hall.

"We tried to go to Prewett's," Fred coughed, sounding a bit worse than she expected. If he didn't die, Molly would kill him.

"We didn't try. We went," George corrected, concern colouring his features as he looked at his brother.

"For god's sake," Hermione sighed. "What was this meeting? Did you storm the Ministry?"

"Not there. At his home. Prewett's busy with the political farce so we needed to go to his house."

"But why?" she pushed.

"Well—" The boys visibly froze, and then simultaneously reached into their pockets. They both pulled out a painted wooden ladybird, whose halved wings were shaking so fast they looked like mere blurs in their palms. The little trinkets were large, much larger than a real insect, and the spots on the back were clearly shifting. Hermione and Larry watched in fascination as the inky blobs swiftly swirled and twisted to finally form the word, "Morgue."

Heedless of his injuries, Fred sat up and jumped off of the gurney, batting away the nurse with little effort. He was wincing, but there was a great amount of strength in the twin's stocky body, something most people forgot because of his mischief. The twins started off, but then George remembered her and turned to her to say:

"It's going to get sticky for a bit. Forget your appointment, and take Larry out."

"We actually just finished," she answered, her worry increasing tenfold at his tone. She had seldom seen them so grave. Hermione nearly told them to reconsider or come with her, but then realised the futility of those words. They were grown men now, and nobody could make them do anything. "But all right; just be careful, okay?"

Fred, impatient, whirled to hurry his brother to his side when they were cut off by the unholiest of shrieks.

Everybody, from the healers who were badgering George and Fred to return to their rooms, to the patients who awaiting treatment, instinctively crouched against the ear piercing cries. Hermione felt her ear drum react violently, going from clogged to ringing in the space of a second. Lawrence was immediately inconsolable, and Hermione unbuckled him from the stroller and rested him against her shoulder to comfort him until she saw a puzzling figure at the end of the hall.

Because of her magical dealings, it was not unusual for Hermione to believe she at first saw a centaur of sorts, but with a bear for the body instead of a horse. Then, in the next second, she realised it was much simpler than that—it was a man riding a bear.

But as the charging, screaming animal loomed towards them, knocking people and equipment out of the way without any effort or thought, Hermione saw the truth.

It was Harry—injured, bleeding, but determined Harry—riding atop a giant hamster.

"Fuck me," George wailed, and he was more dismayed than surprise by the turn of events. Judging by the twins' expressions and the blood on the animal's enormous claws and fur, this was not their first time meeting—

"Moody's here," Fred said needlessly, grabbing Hermione and propelling her to the stairs.

She, along with most of the world probably, had never considered hamsters particularly terrifying. But a hamster of this size could not be considered harmless, especially when it was so angry at her friends. Its shrill screams would have been cute squeaks had it been its original size, but now they made everyone cower and cringe. They could hear the scratches of its feet along the bare, hard floor, and the smell made those near it choke and tear up.

The twins shielded her as they ran, from both the ferocious rodent and the spells that the other witches and wizards kept shooting hexes and spells at the creature. But those attempts to subdue it failed, partly because they did not want to hit Harry, and partly because it had some sort of protection charm on it. Though who would waste time to protect a thing clearly very capable of protecting itself was beyond her…

"Of course," Hermione said, belatedly registering Fred's words. "Moody. Moody—Prewett's hamster!" She clutched Lawrence tightly to her as they made it to the door, and struggled to keep him safe from being crushed as the sea of fleeing people flooded through the tight space. Most chose to go upwards, and they encouraged her to do the same, whilst they went down to the morgue.

Hermione was not going to argue when the crowd suddenly surged from behind, and her direction was chosen for her. She was pushed, and would have fallen if George had not caught her against him. She babbled an apology when he flinched at the impact, but he waved it aside frantically, for they had no time. The reason for the sudden panicked stampede was clear. Behind them, Moody was trying to get through the door.

"Harry," Hermione tried to call back, hoping he had fallen off safely.

"Don't worry—he'll take care of this," Fred panted, pulling her along. "We'll see him down stairs."

Without looking back, they ran down the steps, with the cries of the ascending people and the wet whimpers of Lawrence echoing in the stone stairwell. It seemed to Hermione that they had gone forever, and the mottled grey stones blurred as they flew down so fast she thought once or twice that they would topple. With the baby, blood loss, and possible concussions, they each had the task of steadying one another as imbalance nearly toppled them.

"Oh god," Hermione sighed as they reached the bottom of the steps, "I'm going to be so late for work."

George laughed breathlessly. "Priorities, woman."

Fred only shook his head with a wry smile and gingerly opened the door. The hall was poorly lit and empty. Larry had calmed down at this point, trading in his tears of discomfort for wide eyed observation.

"I know that it makes sense for a hospital to have a morgue," Hermione said quietly as the boys checked for any enemies, "because, obviously, not everyone who comes to a hospital survives. But it's very strange to think of one here."

"Well, it probably is a bit different from the muggle ones," Fred replied, just as quietly as they made their way down the hall. "There has to be different sized body drawers, you know, since all sorts come to Mungo's."

Hermione frowned. That was unpleasant to think about, and she wondered if Moody-the-hamster would be dissected here or at some lab.

"Do you think that Harry is all right?" she asked fearfully. Lawrence wiggled, sensing his mother's distress, and she tightened her hold on him as they passed office doors.

At least they did not patronise her with reassuring lies. "I dunno," Fred admitted. "He's clearly not right in the head, apparating to Mungo's with the hamster. And I thought he'd be down here by now."

"Maybe he didn't feel his ladybird vibrate in his pocket?" George was saying, when he stopped short. Hermione and Fred stopped as well, and followed his gaze to the end of the hall, where Prewett and four Aurors were waiting, just in front of the main entrance to the bodies.

It was startling because it had been so silent. One moment, the hall was empty, and in the next, they had company. Angry, slightly mad, belligerent company. All wands were at the ready, and pointed straight at them. The presence of a baby did not deter them in the slightest.

The twins and Hermione froze without having been told to, and so did not turn when they heard a deafening pop and screech behind them.

Prewett's, whose hard eyes had been narrowed at them, suddenly widened and he threw his arm back to hurl a massive spell. He hadn't directed them to "duck," which Hermione thought rude as she, and the brothers, immediately fell into a crouching position as low as their injuries and Lawrence would allow. She knew that Harold Gerald would have sent a missile of a hex right through them, if necessary.

The three craned their necks to look behind them, just in time to see Harry, who was struggling to hold onto the galloping Moody, suddenly lose his seat as the pet returned to her normal size. Potter careened into the ground head first, skidding a bit on his face. Hermione, heedless of the law enforcers behind them, immediately whirled and ran towards him. She hadn't known that she was holding her breath in fear of his safety until she heard him groan, and slowly raise himself up. Then she exhaled gratefully; his nose was clearly broken and bleeding a bit, and his glasses had a web-like scrawl of cracks in them, but he was alive.

"Oh thank god," Hermione nearly sobbed, trying her best to hug him with one arm as she supported Lawrence with the other. She had had enough with seeing her friends covered in blood for one day.

"Did Prewett bring your down here or did you apparate?" George demanded of Harry.

"The second one."

"You dick! Why would you apparate with the hamster again?"

"I didn't choose to do it! It got stuck with me, somehow" Harry yelled back, mightily peeved that he was being told off so soon after a horrific crash.

A squeak distracted them, and the tiny scratching of frantic scurrying redirected their attention to the frightened Moody. They watched as the hamster ran all the way to the end of the hall, where Prewett bent and scooped her up to place her in his inner coat pocket.

"Glad you're here," Harry said to the company at the end of the hall, his words distorted by the thick stream of blood flowing down his face. Hermione reached into her pocket and pulled out a handkerchief for him to staunch the bleeding. "Thank you. Now, Aurors one and two," he directed, pointing to the ones on Prewett's left, "arrest your minister. Aurors three and four, get in there and help Draco Malfoy."

Understandably, nobody moved, but his authoritative tone did make them visibly doubt themselves. One man looked over his shoulder at the doors, but made no other movement.

"You didn't think that would actually work, did you?" Fred asked.

Harry shrugged. "Call me an optimist." He wrapped an arm around Hermione and started leaning heavily on her as they walked to meet the twins.

"You're an optimist," George obliged him.

"Cheers. Now—"

"With a face like a smacked arse," he added.

Harry sighed and continued, "Now, I know you're set to arrest us—"

"Um, I'm not included in that, am I?" Hermione asked. "It's just that, I said I'd be back to work after lunch—"

"Priorities," Fred and George advised again.

Harry sighed again at having to endure these interruptions. "But just indulge me and step through those doors," he finished quickly before anybody else could cut in once more.

"Don't," Prewett ordered sharply. Harry continued as if he hadn't spoken.

"Past them, you should find the fugitive Malfoy, who's been hidden in the morgue for a month, presumably to endure the torture of nefarious plans of Harold Gerald Prewett the First."

Prewett's nostrils flared, his hard, angular face the epitome of fury. But Hermione noticed that his eyes, usually half-wild with dignified lunacy, now appeared desperate and coherent.

"After that, then you can arrest us."

"Speak for yourself!" Fred exclaimed. "I haven't done anything wrong, besides the trespassing and all that."

"Oh yes," a new voice added acidly, "besides that. Shut up and stop incriminating yourself, Fred." Ron nodded at Harry and Hermione, before directing his gaze to the Aurors. He stepped forward from the morgue and pushed the door wide open. "Can somebody come in and help, please?"

At this oddly polite invitation, the Aurors, by silent conversation through nodding and meaningful looks, agreed to investigate, but with Prewett, Harry, Hermione, and the twins walking before them. Together, they walked through the open doors of the morgue to find themselves at an odd stand-off. The room was well-lit and spacious, rectangular with the left side full of odd plumbing, sinks, and power tools, and the right side full of closed lockers, with the middle wide enough for any activity. All of the Weasley children were present towards the end of the room, wearing various clothes of wrong sizes and sometimes gender. They stood around an empty metal slab pulled from the wall, and Hermione guessed that that was where a dead body would normally lay. It was not so terribly different from muggle processing, she supposed, which made sense, for, after death, the magical and muggle bodies were very similar.

Hermione made sure to scan the rest of the clan. They all looked to be safe and uninjured. She knew that he would hate it, but her concern was the highest for Ron, as he did not have any magic to protect himself. Still, he seemed in better shape than the others, judging by his grim but calm expression. His siblings all had their wands out, and only partially lowered them upon the newcomers' arrival.

"Don't be stupid, Prewett," Ginny warned, evidently spying her adoptive uncle raise his wand again, "if you attack us, you're dead." She was dressed as a healer, with clothes not quite her size

"Your family seems to have a habit of overestimating its importance," Prewett replied, sounding both pleasant and bloodthirsty.

"Oh shut up," Bill sighed, dropping his wand. "Can we at least get this tosser medical help before we snipe at one another?"

Hermione gasped, and she was not alone, when they finally saw what had drawn the Weasleys and accomplices to the morgue. Draco Malfoy stood, dazed and half naked, holding what looked like a body bag up around his waist to preserve his modesty. He was painfully thin, and had bruises and cuts on most of what pale flesh they could see.

She felt odd; she felt something cold and twisting in her, but it was not joy or relief or even longing, as one might have expected given her behaviour concerning Malfoy. Hermione couldn't quite identify the turbulent tangle of emotions in her, except for the familiar pangs of pity and horror one might experience at seeing anybody so in pain and utterly lost in his own mind. That Draco had been tortured was obvious—in primitive, simple fashion, with physical pain and injuries when some magical curses would have worked just as well with no marks. But Hermione wondered why nothing stirred in her at the sight of him, even when his fogged, glassy gaze fell upon her and smiled, just a little. Almost apologetically.

"It's Malfoy," one of the Aurors said needlessly. Hermione was nearly irritated by the redundancy until the same Auror rushed forward and began to check Malfoy's injuries. The belligerent atmosphere vanished as the urgent medical problems of the fugitive came to the forefront, and a floating gurney was procured to move him upstairs. He did not look at her again as he was directed swiftly out of the room, his head hanging so limply to the side that she thought that he might have passed out.

Through all this, Prewett had attempted to protest these actions, but then quieted when he saw how closely he was regarded by both the civilians and the Aurors.

"You didn't seem surprised," one of the witches, a thin, dark woman with a shaved head and nasty scars around her neck, accused him firmly, "by the discovery of the fugitive."

"You'll want to bind him," Ron advised the Aurors who remained. "He's been keeping Malfoy down here illegally for—actually, I don't know. To keep him for torture sounds so childish."

"And yet here we are," Harry muttered, sounding utterly exhausted. It was clear by their numbers and their stances that the Weasleys expected a battle with Malfoy, only to find a broken man trapped in a drawer.

"A body bind isn't necessary," Prewett told his team resignedly.

Hermione knew that the Weasleys hated Prewett and for good reason. He had imprisoned the twins, and probably a few neighbors, friends, and classmates, because of his paranoid zeal to flush out all enemies. But Hermione hadn't lived through that. She had only seen him as an odd, broken man, who threw himself into work because he had apparently lost his loved ones in the war. She couldn't hate him, not fully, but she could pity him.

"I won't shirk this," the minister was saying tonelessly. "But if you're arresting me, you have to arrest them. Merlin knows how many laws they broke to get in here."

Even though the circumstances were unusual, and they had somehow managed to avoid incarceration in their previous adventures, there was no getting around it. The Weasley children and Harry had broken many laws to find Malfoy. After a fruitless roar of debate, all eight of them sullenly agreed to peacefully give themselves to government custody.

Hermione felt eyes on her, and she looked up slightly to see Ron's blue eyes intently searching her face. She could read nothing from his blank expression, and she was sure he could read nothing from hers. When he spoke, his light voice belied any grave contemplation behind the gaze.

"I know you have work, Hermione," Ron said as she quietly followed the trudging group out of the morgue, "but if you could send an owl to our parents, we'd appreciate it."

"Sod that," Charlie snorted, a little bit farther ahead. "Do you want to be arrested and murdered in the same day?"

A few Aurors, knowing their mother's temper, chuckled in spite of themselves.

---

One might've complained how anti-climactic it all was, but Hermione had had enough excitement for several lifetimes, and she felt the resolution to this chapter in her life ended appropriately. That's what she told her psychotherapist, and the doctor had agreed wholeheartedly.

Molly Weasley didn't kill her children when she picked them up from jail. She had said that life was too short to be spent telling off every child of hers that did something wrong. Still, it was no coincidence that she did not lift a finger for chores for the rest of the year.

They had to wait a month for Draco to recuperate. He had no visitors, and it was not clear whether he personally requested that or if it was a rule. In any case, Hermione was too busy to dwell on it, and for that she was grateful. Between baby-doctor visits, head-doctor visits, copy-editing work (at which she was extremely competitive to outshine the other interns), financial maneuvering, sorting out the surplus of memento boxes, and playtime with Lawrence, she barely had time to chat with friends.

Her peers were in the same boat. Most were starting their careers or university. A few were starting marriages and families as well. Hermione learned this through letters and emails, and abstained from any sort of social media, for which she did not have any time, even if she had been interested in blasting details of her private life for the internet to see.

Life, as it often does with no mercy or hesitation, moved on. Yes, the papers were interested in Malfoy's return and condition for a long time, but then a messy divorce and custody battle between a prominent politician and his muggle celebrity chef husband overtook the headlines. Harry, washing his hands of the disaster, began a serious and quiet apprenticeship with the right people in the Ministry, people recommended by Remus and Arthur. He still wanted to be an Auror, but was willing to give other jobs a gander while waiting for approval.

Charlie found a job at a rehabilitation facility for injured animals in the outer Hebrides. Dragons were the majority of patients, but other injured creatures were welcomed. Bill was still unemployed, but enjoyed it thoroughly, helping his family around the Burrow while he idly searched for a position in London. Ginny took up as a travelling journalist at the Daily Prophet, reviewing both magical and muggle locations around Europe. The twins and Percy butted heads more often than not, and Steffania became a mediator and referee during this conflicts. And Ron…

Ron was a puzzle. Hermione worried about him, for their daily exchange of letters dwindled down to nothing a week after Malfoy's rescue. She learned that it was not a personal slight; his communications with everybody ceased, with the exception of Dumbledore. According to the twins, he slept all the time, and this was not an exaggeration. It became so bad that Percy had to forcefully wake him up to remind him to eat. They kept that information hidden from Molly and Arthur, for if Ron forgot to eat, then something was terribly wrong.

When the Weasleys and Harry would gather in clumps of two or three, the word "depression" was mentioned more than once. Perhaps, now that Malfoy was back, he thought he had managed his own elimination in the rivalry for Hermione? But that hardly seemed the case, since not one of them in their bizarre love triangle had any communication with one another. And when some of them visited Hermione in her tiny flat, it was expanded upon, for loss of appetite and lethargy were common symptoms. But Ron was already seeing a medical professional for his "head troubles" as he called it, according to Ginny, so there was naught anybody could do. Charlie was campaigning to get him a new doctor, but that would have to be up to Ron, and nobody knew how or when to broach the subject with him. It was hard to get to him in between the naps, and his temper from being woken from one was ferocious. For some reason, only Percy could manage it without engaging in a heated row with him.

They were all ready to do something, though exactly what had yet to be determined, en masse until all the Weasley children, Harry, Hermione, and Poppy were summoned on behalf of Malfoy and Prewett.

---

The day started with a small note delivered by an exhausted Pig. It simply said, "We'll all be Suspects & Witnesses today. Prepare your bum for heavy conversation afterwards." Ron did not sign it, but, even after a long hiatus in their messages, Hermione had instantly recognised his hand.

They did not meet at the Ministry, for which Hermione was grateful. There were too many people, paparazzi and worker alike, who would be very curious and nosy about such a gathering. As it was, they were advised to meet at a nondescript location in central London, with their summons in hand. At first glance, it was a sad, shuttered solicitor's office building until one brought forth the papers. Then a newer, sharper establishment of a wizarding firm bubbled up from under the original complex until it wore the muggle disguise building like a little hat. Hermione smiled in spite of herself at this ostentatious display before entering and getting directions from the receptionist.

She spotted a familiar face as she walked down the hall, in her best black slacks and white button up shirt. Poppy had appeared nervous and biting her thumbnail until she saw her approach.

"Hello there," she greeted her friend with a hug. "How's the easy life?"

"I'll let you know when I have one," Poppy smiled, for she had taken up a new route as a milk-woman/grocery deliverer, and had dealt with her fair share of mad customers of late. "And you? Lawrence finally pulling his weight around the house?"

"He does a decent amount considering he's not yet a year old," Hermione excused her absent son leniently. "And there's not much else. Just two boxes full of school things. The rest I've given to Oxfam."

"That was kind of Oxfam to accept," she jibed and they laughed softly. It felt too still in their hallway to continue though, so it was not surprising to Hermione when Poppy whispered, "Ironic, isn't it?"

"That?" Hermione whispered back.

"This firm specialising in wizard and witch affairs isn't part of the Magic Circle?" Poppy giggled, and Hermione joined in after a beat. It was strange but comforting to see Poppy joke about things that once frightened her.

Then Poppy asked, "Lawrence?"

"He's at the crèche at work," Hermione replied. She was allowed a long lunch this time, which had been difficult to request considering the last time she had an appointment she had missed an entire day. Thankfully, her boss was also a single mother, and was sympathetic to the harried juggling. "The girls?"

"With Mrs. Weasley," her friend admitted. "I hated to ask, since I barely know the woman and she doesn't owe me anything, but it is hard to find somebody who could handle their witchy slip-ups."

"We'll find something in the classifieds," Harry said as he joined them. "Why are we all whispering?"

"Is that your whispering voice?" Poppy demanded, surprised.

"Am I not? Sorry. Still a little deaf from the hamster," Harry informed them with a shrug. Poppy snorted. They had told her about the strange rescue, and how Prewett apparently changed the halls of the lower levels of his domicile weekly, and rearranged the tubes of Moody's hamster home to mirror the labyrinth. When he was away from home, the minister would sometimes enlarge his pet and set her to guard the house. She guarded mostly his documents and weapons collection, for Prewett had been too paranoid to hide Malfoy down there with his treasures. Despite how they assured her that Moody the temporarily giant guard hamster was utterly terrifying, Poppy could only laugh until she cried at their description. Irritated, Harry changed the subject to Henrietta's habit of inducing sneezes when she was losing a debate with her sisters.

Their conversation about child minders and other domestic issues faded off as the Weasley clan arrived. Well, most of the Weasley clan. Molly, of course, was at Poppy's flat to mind the triplets. And Arthur was at work; he had said he would not help them in their schemes, and they were not surprised to learn that he meant it. Besides, it was much better to endure some fines and community service than to get their father in hot water now that he was so comfortably established.

Harry sighed, and Hermione smiled, for he was just saying the other day that socialising with the Weasleys meant hellos and goodbyes meant an hour each. This was true, given the amount of hugs, kisses, and handshakes it took to get through the line, not the least of which included the usual small talk. She and Poppy answered the whereabouts of their offspring seven times in fifteen minutes.

Ron was the last to arrive, but she was surprised to see him look very much at ease. He wasn't happy, per se, as he kissed her cheek hello and asked where Larry was. But his serious face appeared well rested and his clothes appeared new and pressed.

"Looking sharp, working woman you," he teased. Hermione smiled, because, like her, he was wearing black slacks and a white button up shirt. His hair was cut short on the sides with a bit of length left up top, and there was a reddish shadow over his jaw, marking the beginnings of forgotten stubble. He was really looking very dapper, if Hermione said so herself.

"Look, sorry I've been ipso de facto—"

"That's incommunicado, you idiot," Charlie corrected fondly over his shoulder before resuming his conversation with Ginny.

"Yeah, that," Ron nodded sheepishly as Hermione bit back a giggle. "But I've been working on something—"

"Same old, same old," Harry intoned, bored. He was not put out about being excluded from plans, on account of it would have been total hypocrisy.

"You finished then?" Hermione asked mildly.

"I think so," Ron said with a shrug. "We'll see after this meeting."

Before more conversation could begin—despite it being advised against—an older gentleman exited from the conference room door just beside the bench, and bade them all enter.

Inside, there was a large round table, with four people already seated. It was very large, with twenty chairs spaced comfortably around it. They would have to yell to hear one another, even after they took away five and shrunk the diameter of the table a little with the older gentleman's wand. At each place was a little ink well and sharpened quill. In one corner were a little desk and an ink-dipped feather, poised on parchment and without a writer, ready to record the dialogue. Once seated, Hermione took a look at the occupants.

The first person was an older looking man. He was bald, save for the long grey hairs that grew out of his large ears. Square, tinted glasses sat on his spotted, bulbous nose, and there seemed to be a permanent hunch to his thin figure. He viewed them all with crotchety indifference, despite the minor celebrities who currently sat before him.

One was Draco, and clearly he was much better than before. His was still pale and gaunt, but had filled out more and was decisively alert, judging by his wide blue eyes. Clean shaven and dressed in his formal robes—which on his thin form, appeared loose and ill fitting—he was something of his pre-war self. Malfoy appeared grim but accepting, and met each one of the newcomers' gazes neutrally, refusing to flinch at such bare animosity. To Hermione, he bestowed a nod, which she returned uncertainly.

Gone were the frantic questions his presence induced. Yes, there was a possibility of him knowing the full truth, about their past and about their baby, but Hermione found herself refusing to hinge any plans on that possibility. Something stirred in her at the sight of his handsome, aristocratic face, but it was no stronger than before. Now that she had purpose, the feeling was easily defeated.

Part of her argued that such feelings weren't meant to be "defeated," but Hermione shut that right up.

Prewett also looked better, if not darker than before. Unlike Malfoy, he did not acknowledge his adoptive family, only steepling his fingers under his chin in deep, unhappy contemplation.

Each had a solicitor at their side; both female, although Malfoy's was ancient, wide, and iron-grey in both hair colour and expression, whereas Prewett's was middle aged, thin, and actively observed them all with the quick, bright hyper-awareness of a blonde bird.

After checking if anybody wanted tea, water, or coffee, and was refused by all present, the older gentleman who first allowed them in began seriously. "I am Uther Milbrett, founder of this firm. You know the accused, Prewett and Malfoy. Hangar is Prewett's solicitor, and Barrow-Wight is Malfoy's. We are here for mediation."

Bill let out a cynical bark of laughter and crossed his arms. "Last time I checked, that's not an option for this sort of case."

"Magical law is a wild and murky thing, Mr. Weasley, as you well know. Also, seeing as we have the head of the government here, it is even more acrobatic than ever before."

"Proud of that, are you?" Fred sneered at Prewett, who resolutely met his flinty gaze but said nothing.

"The point is this can be dealt with through a series of deals and understandings, with no prison time served and no marks on anybody's records. Well," the man added, looking at the twins unkindly, "more marks."

"Excuse me, but I might vomit at the blatant civil atrocity happening before our very eyes," Ginny exclaimed heatedly.

Hermione was ignorant as to what exactly was happening, having only brief brushes with their court system, but even she knew that Prewett ought to stand before a judge for what he had done to Draco, and Draco ought to stand before a judge for escaping before his sentencing. That was irrefutable. Or so she supposed.

"I'm a bit lost," Poppy whispered to her and Harry.

"Join the club," Harry advised out of the side of his mouth.

"We'll release the majority of you with a few simple agreements." Milbrett stood and reached into a thin attaché case to pull out ten labeled manila envelopes, each filled with a thick stack of paper and a sharp little pin. They passed these along until each person had the one addressed to him or her. Poppy looked in interest at the seemingly empty case, and murmured to Harry that it was just like Mary Poppins, to which Potter nodded condescendingly and patted her hand. Poppy slapped at the offending appendage and barrister Milbrett cleared his throat pointedly at this childishness.

"A gag order?" Percy said, quickly perusing the contents faster than anybody else. "In exchange for amnesty?" He adjusted his glasses uncomfortably at the seemingly too good of an offer.

"Rejected," Fred declared, shoving his envelope away unopened. "I'd gladly serve my time if it means getting those bellends behind bars—" He would have said more, had not George slapped his palm over his twin's mouth.

"Fred," George said pleasantly, "a word."

The twins turned to one another and whispered, much to the annoyance and confusion of the others in the room, who could hear them quite clearly. Ginny rolled her eyes.

"You dick, dad said that we could really go in for a long time now that there's a legitimate reason. Although, when trespassing on and destroying private property became a 'legitimate' crime is beyond me."

"And?"

"And, it'll interfere with my plans, thanks! Steffania and I are going to elope to Gretna in three months time. You have to be my best man and watch the shop when we're on our honeymoon."

"Oh, Gretna? When did you get so cliché? Why not Brighton?"

"I suggested Brighton, but she did some petty crimes there as well—ow, ow, OW!"

Percy had reached over pulled both their ears out of private conversation.

"Mr. Prewett's offer is quite generous," Hangar said pointedly.

"The only ones who have to worry about Prewett's generosity are these two idiots," Percy said, gesturing to his younger brothers. "Oh, and that moron as well," he added, gesturing to Potter.

"Glad to be counted," Harry chirped.

"The rest of us would need an agreement from the hospital," Percy pointed out leadingly.

"We've negotiated on behalf of Mungo's. The laws on impersonation of healers and trespassing on hospital property—as well as conducting medicine without any training—" Hangar, as well as a few siblings, glanced pointedly at Ginny, who pretended to study her nails nonchalantly, "are very severe and give no quarter."

"I told you you shouldn't have examined that bloke from the Cannons," Ron hissed to Ginny.

"He was a beautiful specimen, I had no choice," Ginny shot back, ears turning red.

"Let's not waste time," Barrow-Wight snapped in a creaky voice. "Charles and Ginevra cannot afford to serve time considering their new careers, the twins have just informed the room their reasons for avoiding prison, and Peter will not—"

"Percy," the Weasley himself corrected, irked.

"Will not want a conviction on his record. William is…well, useless, apparently, but I assume he'll also want to stay out of prison if he has half a brain. Accept the deals so we can get on with the important proceedings."

"Who spit in her tea?" Poppy wanted to know and Hermione made a commiserating expression.

Bill stood abruptly, and with a significant look to his siblings and one rapid hand gesture, the Weasleys stood. Bill raised his eyebrow at Poppy, who, though confused, also stood and joined them as they gathered at a corner, where their whispers were heard but not understood. On passing, Bill grabbed the feather that had been recording the proceedings. Milbrett nearly protested when, in under two minutes, they appeared to come to an agreement, and Bill returned the feather to its original location.

Harry and Hermione quite amazed when Poppy, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, and Ginny returned to the table and signed their documents. Then, very neatly and with little ado, they pierced their fingers with the pin and provided a blood oath as well next to their names.

"This doesn't seem sanitary," Hermione muttered, and Harry agreed.

Nothing more was said as the five sauntered out—Fred did give a rude gesture as he passed the accused and Poppy giggled—and Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Bill were left with the accused and the legal team. Once again, the round table was shrunk to appropriate size.

"William?" Hangar hazarded as they shifted.

"I'm useless," Bill reiterated. "I'd like to hear what's at stake. If I feel that my testimony is necessary, I'd be more than willing to sacrifice my unemployed months doing time if it means these two arses get the punishment they deserve."

It's an easy decision to make now that the dementors don't play a part in the punishment, Harry scribbled on the side of his envelope and pushed to Hermione. She saw it and nodded. Hermione thought it very wise and selfless of Bill, who, as he stated, did not mind facing the consequences of infiltrating Mungo's, while he released his younger siblings of any sort of punitive measures. After all, it only took one word from one witness to land Prewett in prison, and there was no need to lock up the entire Weasley brood to accomplish that.

Hermione noticed that Ron's lack of signature was not questioned, but Ron himself did not appear perturbed. It was clear when the barrister spoke again.

"First things first—Malfoy's criminal offences include the kidnapping of Hermione Granger, use of unforgivable spells on said victim, tampering with and poisoning a prison guard—"

Teeternuk, Harry wrote on his envelope, upon spying Hermione's confused expression. Hermione remembered the bulky guard and nodded.

"Intention of escape, escape, petty theft, robbery, trespassing on private property, unlicensed use of…"

Bill asked for a bottled water whilst they waited for the list to end, and the barrister conjured one for the witness without pausing.

"…and, here's a new one, so we're still not quite sure what to call it—illegal transferal of personal magic."

Hermione frowned and looked to her companions for clarification. Bill and Harry appeared tense and on the edge of their seats, and Ron looked at the proceedings with cool detachment.

"My client raises the technicality that such a crime would fall upon Voldemort," Barrow-Wight pointed out swiftly.

"Consent and voluntary use of said powers appoints him at least an accomplice," Ron was just as quick to point out.

"I'm sorry, what?" Bill volunteered, clearly growing agitated.

"It should have been obvious," Prewett sighed, and shrugged off the murmured advice from Hangar to stay quiet. "He goes from a mediocre wizard in year six to one who could control the weather and prison guards two years later? One who could endure weeks of torture that should have maimed or killed him…"

Harry did not even feign ignorance on that front, meeting Malfoy's gaze with an indifferent, raised eyebrow.

"And conduct magic far beyond his potential. Of course it makes sense now," Prewett laughed bitterly. "Malfoy is twice the wizard he once was. And Ron Weasley is, for all intents and purposes, is a squib."

"Do you know, I've talked to squibs, and they don't very much like being called that," Ron said conversationally.

Then the man in question briefly turned and smiled at her. It was comforting, which was just absurd—he was the one who apparently had been robbed, and he was concerned for her.

"Hang on," Harry cut in, voice hard. His green gaze darted between Malfoy and Ron rapidly. "Voldemort transferred Ron's magic to you? You've known that, all this time?"

Malfoy said nothing, apparently following the wise legal advice of avoiding self-incrimination.

"Can you even do that?" Hermione asked, appalled.

Ron spoke casually. "It was Perce who brought up the possibility. I've been talking to Dumbledore about it these past few weeks. He heard rumours, and asked around—yes, you can do it. Voldemort experimented with it a few times before me. He killed a few people, drove others mad, but, in the end, he succeeded. I don't remember it happening; I don't think I ever will. And Malfoy hasn't spoken about it." Ron looked to his former school mate, not with heated hatred or disgust, but just curiosity. Malfoy met his gaze just as emptily as he had the others. "It was Malfoy's reward for a strategic assassination."

Hermione could hardly breathe, her mind rapidly flickering to all the times they noticed, or wonderingly commented on Draco's apparent surge of power. She had assumed, like many others that following Voldemort and studying his methods allowed for such augmentation of magical abilities.

"I'm going to rip your head off and let that stolen magic bleed right out of you," Bill growled, his fingers gripping the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles were white. Judging by his expression, all present believed him. Hermione went so far as to support him, though inwardly she was mildly horrified for the shared wish of savagery. But it wasn't right, it simply wasn't right, to steal somebody's magic. To her horrified ears, it was the same as tearing out somebody's soul. Ron's magic was a part of him; to steal him, then steal his powers to give to a hated nemesis, and then leave him to rot in some dream purgatory—

Goodness, Ron had every right to feel murderous right now.

But the youngest Weasley son did not. He looked serious and careful, but there was no anger expressed on his sharp, freckled face.

"Let's not add threat of bodily harm to the charges, Mr. Weasley," Barrow-Wight advised with a roll of her beady eyes.

"Excuse me, but I've yet to list Prewett's charges!" Barrister Milbrett declared irritably. Ron, just as irritated, sighed and motioned to his older brother for peace.

Prewett had his own accusations of kidnapping, torture, unforgivable magic, as well as lesser crimes of stolen or withheld documents found by the twins and Harry during their unlawful foray in Prewett's dungeons and vaults. Then he proceeded to list Bill's, Ron's, Harry's, and even Hermione's charges. It took thirty minutes to read them all, and Milbrett appeared visibly fatigued when he was done.

"The bare bones of it is this—Malfoy would like most of the charges dropped. He's not stupid enough to think he can get all pardoned. So, it would be an exchange. Miss Granger, you drop your charges and Prewett will drop the charges of obstruction of justice by giving false tips to the authorities about Malfoy's whereabouts."

Harry and Bill sent disapproving glances her way at the same time Malfoy gave a small smile, one that echoed his usual arrogant smirk. Hermione felt the shame of her wholly unreasonable actions and avoided their gazes, instead focusing on her envelope.

"Mr. Potter, you have no bargaining room, aside from witnessing the illegal possession of certain documents in Prewett's home. Prewett has you for trespassing and destroying property, and Malfoy has you for kidnapping and torture. There are also talks about the illegal methods you used to obtain certain ingredients for a resurrection spell. Consider your precarious position and your career goals, Mr. Potter, before you tell us to shove off."

Harry had opened his mouth to do something similar along those lines, but then shut it miserably.

"Mr. William Weasley," Milbrett droned, "you know your charges and you know that signing that document means Prewett would drop them. And Mr. Ronald Weasley, you have the Mungo's charges against you. Prewett will dismiss them if you dismiss yours.

And Mr. Malfoy…although you should have every punishment thrown at you for breaking virtually every decent magical and muggle law, I understand Hangar and Barrow-Wight have come to the understanding that Mr. Prewett's perversion of the law and vigilante punishment renders you in the miraculously fortunate position of tenuous freedom. If you forgive Prewett's kidnapping and torture, then he will drop most of charges against you—not all, as you know, for the public knows about your crimes at least. Off the record, Prewett, I think you're a damn fool to do what you did when he would have received what he deserved had you not interfered... On the record:

So you see, this is all a heinous tangle of quid pro quo. I'm not proud of it, but it is up to you all who gets what."

Now the old man was really tired, and he too needed a bottle of water by the end of it.

Hermione didn't know what to do. On one hand, Draco and Prewett deserved every punishment possible—but on the other, she could neither afford the fines, nor community service, nor prison time, whichever her crime warranted. If it was just her, she would be at peace sacrificing all three things; but it wasn't just her. She couldn't bear to leave Larry's in anybody's care for so long while she served her punishment.

There was a short pause while the Harry and Bill appeared to mull things over, alternating venomous glances at Prewett and Malfoy in rapid succession. Ron was contemplative, watching the proceedings with the same, hawk-like expression she had seen him wear during chess matches. He didn't even jump when Prewett, growing tenser and tenser as the minutes ticked by, again spoke up, much to the dismay of his solicitor.

"I won't do it," he ground out with a feral look in his eyes. "I won't pardon Malfoy. Do what you want with me—but I'm going to see to it that this criminal gets everything he deserves."

"Mr. Prewett—" Hangar began in exasperation. It was clear that this was a point of contention between Prewett and his solicitor.

"I don't care," he emphasised. "I'll do my time—I should do my time. But Draco should get more. Do you think you'll last, Malfoy? In prison, where Death Eaters and decent wizards alike wait for you? You've killed so many for both sides. I'll give them a chance at you, if I have to spend the rest of my life in prison to do it."

He was on the knife's edge of reason and insanity, Hermione saw. It was almost too lurid to look at directly, just how unraveled his mind was. All at once, it was clear to them that Prewett would ensure that Malfoy got more than what he deserved. Prewett would wreak havoc on Malfoy's life, with every chance he got.

"What do you care?" Bill asked softly, eyes narrowed. "You've never cared so much about captured criminals."

"Bill—" Ron began warningly, but was ignored.

"No, no, something's not right here. It's not like you're particularly protective of Hermione here, or care what happens to the Weasleys or Potter. I've seen you pass judgment on murderers without even looking up from your desk. So why does Malfoy's fate matter to you so much?"

Prewett was not as talkative when it came to that matter. They sat at an impasse, unsure as to how to proceed. Hermione looked to Harry, who met her eyes with a torn gaze. Harry's antipathy for Draco Malfoy was an ancient grudge, and she could almost feel the conflict within him. He could not willingly let him walk away from his atrocious acts unscathed, and she knew in her heart that he would sacrifice his career and, for a while, his freedom to ensure Malfoy received his comeuppance.

But before Harry could martyr himself once more, Ron spoke. His words answered Bill's question, and addressed the sticky issues all at once.

"You want the murderer of your fiancée," he said evenly, talking as calmly as a trainer would to a wild animal, "and you know that Malfoy ordered the hit. But if you want the actual murderer—the one who raped and killed her, I can arrange that. He's done more murders and the like in his lifetime, far more crimes than Malfoy has in his stint as a Death Eater. Loads of people will want him to stand trial. But I'll only do it under these conditions:

You both go to prisons, but muggle prisons—that way you can't arrange for either of your connections to do harm to one another or escape. Malfoy, of course, will need modifications considering his impressive abilities." Here was the only glimmer of opinion; Ron had spat the word with as much as acrimony his deep voice could muster.

"Bill will sign the agreement. But all my siblings and Hermione will pay fines. Harry and I will pay fines and do community service. Harry should get more, but he didn't torture Malfoy for fun—"

"That was a happy byproduct," Harry muttered, and winced when Bill hit his arm to silence him.

"He did it for a spell. Still, it won't do to show the public how much curried favour will sway the justice system." At this, Ron sent a caustic look to the barrister and solicitors, and Hangar and Milbrett were indignant. Only Barrow-Wight remained stony faced at this snipe. Hermione wondered if she had been on retainer for the Malfoy family. "We all need to do something to atone, even if it is small."

Small, Hermione privately repeated. She wasn't sure if the fines would be small. They had all been quite cavalier with the law, herself included, and if Ron wanted an example made, she reckoned the price to pay would most likely be biting.

The legal teams and the accused regarded Ron with suspicion, although Prewett's skepticism was mingled with eagerness.

"You can't get Montague," he said cautiously. "He's mad. The mad don't pay for what they did."

Ron bit his lip, and he looked to his older brother. Bill must have had some idea what was whirring through his younger sibling's head, for he nodded encouragingly.

"I…can fix that," Ron explained slowly. He looked at Prewett and said, "In the same way I almost helped you—if you weren't so bleedin' equipped to stop mental invasions. I've actually been working on it for a few weeks and, while it was the hardest thing I've ever tried and done—he can be ready to stand trial within a few months."

"What are we on about?" Milbrett demanded, throwing his hands up in frustration.

"Not quite without powers, then," Malfoy finally spoke in a calculating tone, coldly eyeing Ron Weasley.

Haltingly, Ron explained what he had told his family just a few weeks prior, about his abilities and his accidental communication with loved ones and interference with Death Eaters during the war.

"He drove Montague mad," Malfoy finished, apparently happy to chat when speaking about others' faults.

"That was an accident," Ron said defensively, losing his cool. "Mostly. I just—the point is, I can fix him," he assured, reverting his attention to Prewett. "Then you'll really have your man, one you can put in wizarding prison and let the inmates tear from limb to limb. But you and Malfoy have to serve your time fairly, and separately."

"In muggle prison," Malfoy finished with disgust.

"Yes," Ron barked. "It could be a decade, but it's a decade alive."

"Earning your sainthood, then? Writing a book?" The viciousness with which Malfoy spoke nearly startled Hermione, but she recognised its origin by his overreaching anger and the growing flush creeping up his neck. He was confused by the generosity, and lashing out was his only way of dealing with it. He had done the same when she tried to console him after his mother's death.

Draco wasn't shutting up, despite the harsh looks and words from Barrow-Wight. "Or are you congenitally programmed to do good? What is it, Weasley? Is it your turn to play—"

"If you are in muggle prison, then you have a chance to survive," Ron interrupted loudly, slamming his hands on the table as he shot to his feet. "If you survive, then Larry has a chance to know you. What he does with that knowledge is up to him, but even you, with your asinine life choices, won't deny him that right."

Malfoy was at a loss for words, but recovered quickly enough. "Anything to win her back, then, Weasley?"

Ron shook his head, almost sadly, and even gave a small chuckle. "No. This one's for Larry, and Larry only. He's got more than any of us has got." Ron paused, and thought for a bit before adding ineloquently, "Paternity won't do him in."

Well, Ron wasn't the best with words before the war, and, while he had grown a great deal since his return, he was consistent with his articulation. Hermione made it a point to ask him what he meant later, after she had sufficiently recovered from the mountain of new information thrown her way since entering this room.

"This must be the part where I thank you," Malfoy said ironically.

Again, Ron shook his head. "I'll live without it. But, I think since the old offers have been tabled, we should probably take a day to mull over the new ones. No doubt you two will have loads to consider," he added, focusing on Barrow-Wight and Hangar. "And the lot of us are knackered. Can we meet again on Saturday?"

"If it's true you can 'fix' him, as you say, then you should repair Montague in any case," Milbrett pointed out rationally as they began to rise.

That would have been the logical and right thing to do, considering it was Ron's fault he had been turned mad in the first place. Hermione was slightly embarrassed to not have thought of that at all.

"Of course," Ron agreed easily, not quite as conscience-driven as he appeared, "but I'll work a bit faster with proper motivation." He stood and stretched, almost but not quite hiding his smirk from Hermione. Without waiting for dismissal, the Weasley brothers and friends shuffled out of the room. As she passed Draco, she saw his hand twitch and move in her direction before he hesitated.

"They won't allow me visitors," he quickly told her, heedless of their audience.

"It seems for the best," Hermione replied doubtfully, and would have said more if there had been time. She wondered how he would take it as they walked into the hall and the door shut behind them. She had meant that, considering his escapes and manipulations, it was best that the government kept him as solitary as possible. But perhaps he would interpret it more personally.

It didn't matter, she decided, brusquely quelling all doubts as she tuned in to the current conversation, which was full of adulation.

"So you've had that up your sleeve," Harry was saying, sounding impressed. Harry walked between her and Ron, as Bill walked behind them.

"I didn't want to bother you any more, experimenting and all, with you busy with your new apprenticeships," Ron explained, somewhat bashful, as they ambled along. "So I just worked on my own the past month. Dumbledore helped as well. I knew they'd come to this sort of mediation; it'd be the most self-serving way to address the crimes."

"Your negotiations were well nice," Bill congratulated his brother with a ruffle of his hair.

"It's from a life time of watching the twins talk themselves out of trouble when caught," Ron assured them modestly.

"I really liked that bit when you stood and slammed your hands on the table," Harry laughed with a nod.

"Oh go on, you saw that on that American programme last week," Bill teased with a shove, "that…Crime and Drama thing."

"Law and Order, you daft prick," Ron corrected with a chuckle. Even Hermione laughed, and she was surprised with how light it suddenly felt. Things would be settled. If they took the deal—and they would have to, really—then it would all be finished, and they could move on.

After being trapped in a never ending nightmare that started with the regretful return of an engagement jumper years ago, Hermione could hardly believe that moving forward was a real option.

Once they left the building, they paired off naturally, with Harry to the Ministry to meet with his mentors and Bill accompanying him to visit his dad. Ron and Hermione waved them off before the former turned to her and suggested, "Walk? We're not too far from your work, are we?"

He tried to sound casual, but Hermione knew by the faint blush on his freckled cheeks that he just revealed he had done research beforehand. Truthfully, it was two tube stops away, but the proceedings had ended a bit earlier than she had estimated to her boss, so there was time to spare.

She decided not to tease him, and mercifully simply nodded and said, "Yes. Best take advantage of the sunshine."

They began a slow pace, and Ron nearly opened his mouth to speak when, from thin air, a paper butterfly smacked him in the forehead.

He caught it as it fluttered down, and unfolded it to read aloud: "I forgot to point out that you and Hermione are dressed alike. Naff! Love, Ginny."

Hermione laughed at the silliness, and Ron joined her, pocketing the note. "Family," he sighed with false misery.

"Speaking of which…thank you." They both looked at their feet, and felt the world grow heavier on their shoulders, as it often did when serious matters were brought up between them. "Thank you very much, actually," she added after clearing her throat. "I had no idea that you cared for Larry so much and I—"

"Well," he interrupted thoughtfully, "I dunno if I do. Don't get me wrong; he's fine enough fella for not saying or doing anything all day. But I think…no, I know, I like the idea of him. Larry can grow up to do anything. There's no threat of war, or of prophesies, or Voldemort to muck up his life. I thought of that, in the weeks after the…his, you know, hospital visit. There's so much potential in that little thing, and I just think it'd be nice to give him a clean slate, you know?"

Hermione nodded, for she rather thought she did. Ron continued when it was clear she was too emotional to reply.

"So, while it looks like a bad idea, letting Malfoy have any influence on the little bloke, I know what keeping family a secret does to a person—never ends well. Best to be up front, and let life happen to him. He can still be brilliant, despite that unforking family tree."

Hermione matched his wide smile as they turned a corner, for his optimism was contagious. She had always believed in the same things for her child, but it made her glow to hear somebody—especially somebody so predisposed to dislike Larry—confirm her hopes.

"You're so…you, but different," Hermione observed.

"Likewise," he parried teasingly. Then Ron shrugged. "Dumbledore said something similar, but infinitely better worded."

"Thanks so much," Hermione said dryly with a smile.

"Then he offered me a job…is he just trying to make all of our year teach at Hogwarts?" he asked her, half serious. Hermione smiled at the thought.

"I think at first it was just a lack of options," she explained self-deprecatingly.

"Yeah, that's the accusation I threw at him, but he was really serious. Said that he heard from his students how I was loads better than Harry—not that the bar was set very high there—and it would offer a 'unique and quite unprecedented' perspective for the position."

"Which would be…?"

"Haven't you guessed it? Muggle studies, m'dear," Ron answered cheerfully. "And, to be perfectly honest, I actually like the sound of it. Even before the war, my chances of becoming a professional Quidditch player were well slim."

"Oh, don't sell yourself short," she said absently, and frowned when Ron looked the slightest bit disappointed. "What is it?"

"Nothing," he denied instantly, but caught himself. "Look, I know I was angry at you before, and it's not your fault or anything but—well, it should be an even playing field, though who knows what you see in him."

Hermione blinked several times. They had come to a stop beneath the shade of a small tree, and Ron nodded to himself, a little bit confident in the mess of words he had just said. "I'm sorry?"

Ron's confidence visibly waned as he reviewed his words, and he scratched his temple as he sorted it out. "Right. Skipped a few words there. So, here it is:

Another reason I don't want Malfoy killed in a wizard's prison is because if he died in there, then I won't be sure you really chose me, or if you're with me by default. Not that your choices are automatically between the two of us—not to say that you, or I, or even he won't find somebody else to be with. But the thing is, I decided I wanted an even playing field between the two us, and that ain't happening if you remember your whole past with Malfoy, but don't remember your whole past with me. Understand?"

It took her a few minutes to digest his speech. Ron's tone had been cautious and slow, as if he was still untangling his thoughts at the same time he spoke the words, but there was an underlying urgency he was trying to restrain.

"Yes, I think I do," she answered patiently. "But I thought I recovered everything? What don't I remember?"

"I've been dropping hints, repeating some of the same stuff from then, in hopes you'd remember. Our row, the one that broke us up. I'd tell you about it, and that'd be simple, wouldn't it? But I dunno if I can without being biased."

It was a fairly good point, and Hermione asked, "But what can I do? As you said, it's not completely within my power." Draco had gone into her head and rearranged and destroyed memories recklessly; it was no small wonder bits of her and Ron's past were lost in the reconstruction.

Ron nodded. "I was a little fuzzy myself, about what was real and what I had witnessed in a dream… so Dumbledore let me use his pensieve. It's a good one. I'm sure…not that I'd speak for him, but…maybe he'd let you use it too, if you asked?"

Hermione first felt dread spike up within her at the suggestion, but she quickly suppressed it almost immediately. Of course, it was going to be horrible, but she played a large part in the making of the memory, so she should face the consequences. It was her right and duty to know, and now was not the time to turn coward.

Especially considering how casually Ron sounded about their chances. To be honest, his behaviour and his lack of communication these past few weeks rather dampened any hope she had had for them as a couple, and, for the large part, she had accepted it gamely. After all, she had decided that romance was not in the cards for a long time.

They walked in pensive silence all the way to Hermione's building—to the average muggle, it looked like it was forever under construction, but once one walked past the plastic tarps and scaffolding, a bustling research journal churned out academic resources on a monthly basis.

"I don't think I want to," she finally said. "We can't keep bothering him whenever we've a problem. I know he doesn't mind, but still. It's one thing if we were still students or in his employ, but we're not. We've graduated—sort of—and we, I mean, I ought to sort things out without turning to the grown ups when it's convenient. He does have a job to do, besides catering to us."

Ron could not help but agree, but then asked, "So what's left?"

Hermione took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, staring straight ahead of her and at the false entrance before answering, "You can slip into my mind again, and show me."

"Yeah, nope!" Ron swiftly answered, just as confidently. "I think your hair's blocking your ears again, 'Mione. Did you hear the part where I accidentally drove a man mad?"

"Yes, but you're better now, and you're more skilled at it."

"Hermione, I dunno…I mean, it doesn't feel right? A bit like going in and tipping the scales in my favour?"

"You'd only do that if you went in and went around destroying things," she responded darkly, before shaking the bitterness off. She informed him, with an echo of her former, know-it-all air, "You wouldn't have offered what you just offered if you hadn't honed your precision."

"Fair point," he admitted. "Still—"

"Besides…I trust you. More than any one, more than myself, actually…"

Hermione trailed off as Ron blushed to the roots of his ginger hair at her honest confession. It was true, feeling even truer now that she said it aloud. Harry was a close, dear, invaluable friend, but he had so many secrets and had proven he was willing to engage in scurrilous activities for the greater good that Hermione could not say that she honestly trusted him as much as she did Ron.

To rush him through his bout of bashfulness, Hermione added lightly, "Obviously, it's a lower priority to the projects you have on now, but, when things die down…I wouldn't mind, if you wouldn't mind, that is, just…a reminder." She bit her lip, for it scared her, the idea of reliving harsh words that had torn them apart.

"Well, don't look like that!" he joked, scratching his stubble absently. "You're just recovering your mind, not facing a firing squad."

"Right," she laughed as well, with a little sigh of relief. Impulsively, she jumped a little to throw her arms around him in a tight hug. The scratchy hair on his face dug uncomfortably into the skin of her neck, but she didn't mind at all. "Oh thank you, Ron. You've really taken care of everything. You've thought of everything. It's—it's—"

"A relief?" he supplied after he squeezed her just as tight and pulled away. "Well, we owe you, for all the times you saved our arses in school. And then the times you literally saved some arses in the war. Still. Can't be you all the time, can it?"

Then, as sweet as it was brief, Ron landed a kiss on Hermione's lips, and walked away whistling.

---

Hermione did what she ought to have done a year earlier. She acquired a lawyer.

Lupin recommended a ferocious goblin named Mincelworth McAber. While it was unusual that he shunned the expected financial inclination of his kind, he was unsurprising in his vicious glee of pointing out wizards' mistakes. He was relatively cheap, all things considered, but that was due his just starting his own firm, as well as his wish to diversify his clientele beyond the usual goblin customer.

McAber shouted down all and sundry regarding his disgust that Granger had been made to stand trial in the first place. Even muggles, "crawling primitively in the mire of the evolutionary cesspool, did not force sexual assault victims to face their attackers in court."

(Hermione had been equal parts embarrassed and affronted when the proceedings had been relayed to her later, but McAber unconvincingly assured her that his words were purely for show.)

And so she was not present for Draco and Prewett's separate trials, and avoided the coverage of them. Sometimes things would catch her eye, such as when she and a friend—sometimes Ron, sometimes Harry or Ginny—would meet at The Last Garrison for a meal, and the papers covering the tabletop screamed about the former minister's illegal quest for vengeance, and the former Death Eater's wayward crimes.

Mostly, she slowly but surely built a life for herself, one not so dependent on the Weasleys and Hogwarts. This was not deliberate, as it was difficult scheduling anything around a baby's routine, but Hermione was grateful. She did not win the full-time job at the end of the internship, but had been recommended for a part-time position a floor up, in the labs. To supplement her income—for cloth nappies were not cheap, goodness—she invested in a computer with Harry, and used that to fill out surveys for focus groups. She had to do a great deal, to make any sort of respectable money, but she enjoyed it, as it allowed her to be at home with her child without worrying about paying a minder.

Soon after Prewett's trial had concluded, Montague's began. According to Neville, who visited Hermione soon after moving to the same area of London, the man looked ill, but was obviously much better than he had been during his time in Mungo's. Oh, the villain tried to recreate the insanity—bloody spittle flying, arms wildly swinging at invisible foes—but Ron as well as a few healers assured the court that he was quite sane. Prewett had been allowed to give his account of finding Sabrina Peppercolt as she lay dying before being shipped off to his undisclosed penitentiary. He had only been one of dozens to testify. In fact, Montague's trial took longer than Draco and Prewett's combined. After the conviction, Arthur assured them all during one dinner that, although the Ministry of Magic did not use dementors any more, the vile creature was sure to suffer his comeuppance in a prison full of vengeful comrades and ghosts.

Almost in time for Lawrence's birthday, all was settled. She threw a party, a small one, with just her best mates. Originally, Hermione had wanted to invite a few friends she and Larry had made at the BMMJ crèche, but she lacked the funds. They were all a bit poorer—except for Harry, of course—because of their payments to the Ministry of Magic. As predicted, their fines for breaking the laws so recklessly were sizeable but not overwhelming. Hermione figured she would be able to finish them off in six months.

"All right, mate," Harry said now, holding Larry under the pretense that he could not possible help clean with a baby in his arms. "You're a year old. Time to find a job."

"What's your excuse?" Ron snorted as he cleared away cups from the coffee table. Poppy laughed from the kitchen, where she and Hermione were covering the excess food.

"I have a job, thank you," Harry informed them loftily.

"Freelance vigilante doesn't look so well on a CV," Ginny warned as she swept.

"No, but I reckon the pictures in the papers recommend me enough," Harry retorted with a wink. Ginny rolled her eyes but with a little smile, as they all knew Harry was going to be an Auror. He was just waiting on the wizard who trained him to retire in a few weeks; then the witch who had been waiting for that position would be promoted, until her spot was filled, and so on, until an entry level position was vacated for Harry. It was merely paperwork at this point. In the meantime, he did have a habit of strolling around muggle London and helping passersby in his boredom.

Larry agreed. He talked a great deal more now, with a clear understanding of conversation dynamics, even using hand gestures with his babble. He didn't always understand all the words, and a few fully understood him, but it was clear he was a bright child. His hair was a reddish blonde now, and he had five teeth, giving him a silly look when he smiled widely, as he was doing presently.

The small flat was easily tidied soon enough, and Hermione and Larry bade farewell to most of the remaining guests. Poppy carried a sleeping Henrietta and Nadine in her arms, and let Ginny take the snoring Julia. The girls were going through a growth spurt, and more than one gangly limb hit the door frame on the way out, much to the amusement of Harry, who was only carrying some leftover cake.

Ron turned to Hermione after the door closed, with one eyebrow raised. Hermione took a moment to study his face, aged and pale, his freckles slightly faded and hidden by the five o'clock shadow.

"It's snowing," he said redundantly, as the view from her windows made that very clear.

"It's lovely," she murmured, barely glancing at the beginning of white, falling flakes as she went to Larry's room with her soon in her arms. "I'll just give him his bath and set him to bed."

"Take your time," Ron called out, settling on the sofa and turning on the television. Hermione grinned as she undressed Larry. He was being considerate, but she also knew that he was staving off the inevitable.

Indeed, when she settled next to Ron forty five minutes later, he was nervous. When she discussed the possibility of him staying after the party, he tried to find excuses. Things weren't settled. He was out of practice. Perhaps they should really go to Dumbledore?

But she was adamant. She informed him that she was finally seeing Draco in prison after he sent her a brief request to do so by post. And, well…she wanted to be herself, all of herself, before facing her enemy and co-parent.

"Besides, you said you've done this loads before you fixed Montague, right? I mean—wait. Who were your test subjects?"

Ron grinned as if he had a secret. "You know, nobody else was too keen on knowing? Nobody except you, of course."

"Ron…"

"Just acquaintances," he assured her. "Harry taught me it's not the best idea, poking around in close friends and family's heads. So I'd check up on Seamus, Neville, Remus, Tonks…Johnson."

"Johnson," Hermione repeated contemplatively. "There are too many. Which Johnson?"

"That one I probably should've left alone," he sighed, not looking a bit regretful. "But, if I happened to see some dreams indicating that Angelina Johnson still missed Fred…and I accidentally let that information slip to my idiot brother…what's the harm?"

Hermione took a few seconds to gape before she shook her head at him, smiling. "The harm is she will absolutely kill you and Fred if she finds out."

"Yeah, well, only he gets off his arse and does something about it. So we'll see." Still shaking her head, Hermione fetched her step stool so that she could get a potion she brewed earlier that day from the top shelf in the cupboard.

"Do you have alcohol?" he suddenly asked as she uncorked a flask of Draught of Peace for the both of them.

"Is that necessary for the process?" Hermione asked worriedly. There was a dusty bottle of crème de menthe in the back of the cupboard…

"We might need it afterwards," he explained with a wry smile. Hermione suddenly realised she was just as nervous as he looked, but would not let herself show it. If there was the slightest hesitation on her part, he would refuse, and she needed this, desperately.

Ron did not need the Draught, as he had learned to do without. Awkwardly, he suggested that they both lay down on the sofa, as they would need to be more comfortable to sleep. Hermione, having already imbibed her share of the thick lilac potion, was already nodding off as soon as she snuggled onto him.

---

Hermione reshifted the sack on her lap, holding it open with one hand as she rummaged through the books, scrolls, and sweets wrappers with the other.

"Honestly Ron, when was the last thing you cleaned this thing out?" she grumbled, her voice slightly muffled.

They were sitting by the fire in the Gryffindor common room. Most of their school mates were studying for exams, and there were only two or three others sharing the space.

"What year did we start here?" was his answer as he sat by the fireplace. "And I'd just ask Dean, if I were you. Even if I do have those notes, they'll be illegible."

"Dean's ill, so that's not an option," she sighed as she finally pulled out a clutch of papers, these being of legal size, instead of the usual yardage. Confused, she smoothed out the paper, and looked up at the same moment he tensed. "What's this?"

Ron sighed. It was a heavy, beleaguered sigh, and it immediately had Hermione peeved.

She knew that sound, from when she approached her project partners, or approached a professor about an incorrect mark, or approached her parents about another social cause. They all exhaled gustily, mournfully, as if she was the worst form of torment to plague the world since locusts.

Her eyes were momentarily pricked with tears, for she thought that hearing that sort of sigh from Ron had been a thing of the past, but willed them away to forward the discussion.

"Ron?"

"It's an application to join the Auror training program," he replied dully, closing the book in his lap. He was still so…martyred! As if he expected nothing of her except to verbally roast him into submission. All she wanted was to speak to him, calmly, for she was well aware how sensitive she'd been lately, and was attempting a more mature route. If he would just stop regarding her as if she were a dragon, then she would do just that!

"But…I thought we agreed that we'd go for university first?"

"I said I'd think about it."

"Yes, but you meant—"

"Oh, please don't tell me what I meant," he half-begged with an unexpected burst of passion. At his risen volume, the others sensed the brewing of another spectacular row, and scurried away to avoid the crossfire.

"Why do you say it like that?"

"Nothing," he denied sullenly.

"No, don't say nothing if you mean something. This is what gives me leave to interpret things for you, Ron, for you refuse to do it yourself!"

"No, Hermione, you give yourself leave," he corrected, just as heatedly. "Look, I can check out the programme in my gap year, all right? It won't throw off your pretty little timeline—"

"Our timeline, Ron, our! I thought—don't you want to get married?"

If he became an Auror—which, she had to admit, sounded far more exciting than continuing studies, so it was very likely—then there was a good chance he'd be injured, or paralysed, or, god forbid…

"Of course I do!" he was saying, now desperate and on his feet, "but why do we have to get married on your terms? Why does it have to be on your timeline?"

"I'm not giving you an ultimatum," she said, swallowing her fears of his death. Hermione knew the futility of that argument; whenever she pointed out that somebody could die, he tended to dismiss them. Nearly seven years of near-death experiences had subconsciously enforced an idea of invincibility in Ron and Harry, and she was nearly just as guilty of this when it suited her. "I just thought you were past this!"

"Past what?"

"This…ludicrous idea of proving yourself! Enough's enough, Ron!"

"Proving myself to who?"

"Whom—"

"Shut up Hermione!" he suddenly snapped. "For fuck's sake, okay, correct me, but after the bloody row, all right?"

"Don't you dare raise your voice! I'm trying to have an adult conversation about your ridiculous need to prove yourself against your brothers, so don't bloody shout!" She had to admit, shouting that last bit was hypocritical, but it felt good to release some of her anger by pushing her lungs to their limits.

He stood still, stunned by her accusation, and Hermione had to review what she had just spewed to explain his reaction. "Ron," she sighed, pressing her hands to her temples, "Ron, I didn't mean it like that—"

"Oh, you didn't mean that I can't possibly compare to the prior Weasleys?"

"Ron, you know that's not true," she tried again. They both knew that it was something that bothered him, but it was a subject discussed when he decided it would be discussed. Nobody ever brought up the comparisons but him, until now.

"But it's obviously on your mind," he replied stiffly, reaching forward to grab the sack from her lap. She rose, watching mournfully as he began to rearrange the messy materials inside it.

"Of course I don't care how you compare to your brothers," she declared stormily, "but I do care about you!"

"Wrong. You care about your plans for me. And you know, I wouldn't be so critical if I were you. We both know why you study so hard, trying to be the best witch you can be."

It was a secret said in the dark, between two best mates who agreed to share their lives together. Her fear of not measuring up to her school mates because of her muggle parentage was just as taboo as his living in the shadows of his older brothers.

"Ron!" she gasped, horrified. "No!"

Seeing her visible revulsion at his tactic, Ron rolled his eyes. "I meant that—"

"I don't care what you say," she spat, her perceived humiliation burning furiously within her, so that the conflagration left no quarter in her for anything as trivial as reason or sympathy. "It's obvious what you feel."

"There you go again, telling me what I know, what I feel for me! Bloody hell, Hermione, leave a bloke some reign over himself, yeah?"

"I would if the 'bloke' had any drop of common sense! With Voldemort out there, and so much left unknown, it'll be miracle if we all live to graduate, and if we do, the first thing you want to do is jump back into battle!"

"Am I to understand that I am being told off because of a hypothetical acceptance of a not-even-completed application during a not-yet-realised dangerous period of time?"

"Don't! Don't be so naïve! Don't make it sound as if I've gone paranoid! It's my preparation and precautions that have kept us alive thus far."

"Oh," he sighed, tone dripping with irony, as he clapped his hands slowly. "Ladies and gentlemen, let us give thanks to our lady saviour, patron Saint Hermione, for saving us unworthy, foolhardy imbeciles."

"Foolhardy is right," she replied hotly, cheeks reddening for she knew she had sounded very arrogant just then. "Forgive me for being the only one who doesn't want everybody to die at a young age!"

"Two hail mary's and a hefty donation. You're absolved." Ron had the gall to make the sign of the cross, and his seething fiancée could not believe he was making jokes when she was sincerely worried for their future together.

"Stop!" she shrieked, blind with rage. "Stop it! You're not as funny as your brothers, you're not as brave as them either, and you're definitely not as capable of—"

Hermione stopped short when Ron's thin face darkened, as if a storm thundered and brewed there, waiting to burst. But it never happened. Instead, he shouldered his bag, and spoke quietly.

(That was the thing, Hermione knew. Ron had his temper, they all knew and were accustomed to his shouts. But if he spoke quietly, then he was at his pinnacle of anger, and it was a glorious, terrible thing to behold. It was when he was at his most dangerous.)

"Yes, Hermione, maybe I'm not," he agreed, his voice deceptively light while his blue eyes smoldered with fury, "but I'll find out, when I try out for it. Unlike you, I'm not afraid. I'm going to try, and I might fail, but I'm not terrified of failure as much as you are. People look at you and think you're so brilliant, but I've looked closer, and I know the truth.

"You're a coward, because you're afraid you'll never live up to us natural wizards and witches."

She couldn't help it; she flinched, not at the accusation of cowardice—which was more accurate than she ever realised—but at the word "us." That division had been thrown in her face since she discovered this magical world. Hermione had never told him explicitly of her fear to never fully be accepted but he knew; he knew and he had honed in on it, all for a row.

He took one step to go, and paused to throw one last, disgusted, critical look at her. "How'd you even get sorted into this house?" he sneered before he stalked off.

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, and maybe demand that he return to finish their fight, but only a choked sob echoed out. She whirled to face the fireplace as a few more school mates wandered in, keeping her tear-filled eyes focused on the crackling flames.

How could I? she wondered, full of regret and ire, each fighting for dominance. How could he? I can't marry him—I'll give back the jumper tomorrow before breakfast, if I can catch him in the common room…

The thoughts were familiar, but felt stale with time, dusty with cobwebs and years forgetting. In the moment, the row felt fresh, and every blade in his words cut stinging, sharp wounds in her heart. But as she stood, watching the fire die down and fade from view, she knew that they had always been there, in the deepest vaults of her mind. It was something that hurt more than Malfoy had ever done to her.

A solid, warm hand clasped her shoulder from behind, and Hermione blindly clasped at it as Ron, the real Ron, stood beside her.

"I am such a dick," Ron said apologetically.

"No more than I am," she sniffled with a little laugh.

They stood in silence for an eternity, it felt like, as the details of the common room faded, and all that was left was them, swimming in the blackness.

"It's strange, watching it now," he finally offered, "and seeing where I could have turned the conversation. The way I say 'nothing' when there's something."

"The way I'd demand your responses but then dismiss them," Hermione agreed, feeling tremendously tired.

"You and I hadn't rowed like this before—it's the same way I row with my family," he observed now. "We know the worst things about each other and use it shamelessly when we really want to hurt each other. But I hadn't done that with you until…until the night before I died."

"Well, it was bound to happen," Hermione excused him, despite how her heart ached. "It's how you learned to fight. Of course you'd do the same with me, when you felt hurt enough."

"We were sensitive, at that age," Ron observed, as if speaking of creatures in the wild. "Hormones, I suspect."

"Yeah…" Hermione wanted to add more, but she knew that Ron had known for a long time that, as horrible as their words were, they had been necessary. They hadn't been ready to marry, or even be engaged, for they were so young, in both body and mind. Hermione needed to learn how to fail, and how to accept that things beyond her control. Ron had to truly live in the shadows, and face being truly inadequate as a wizard, before he could have been anybody's partner in life.

"I should've told you that you were right," she confided in him softly. "I was terrified of not being good enough. But I thought, if you were beside me—safe, sound, alive— then it didn't matter. I just didn't know how to say it."

"I should've told you that you were right. Oh sure, being an Auror sounds brilliant, yeah but…I was just looking for my purpose, a great one, so I could be worthy of being a Weasley. Of being your husband."

After a pause, he scoffed. "Look! We just said it! That wasn't so hard!"

Hermione giggled. "Now what?"

He shrugged, and kicked ineffectually at the swirling clouds around them. "Now…we just live. I dunno, Hermione, but that's okay. We don't have to have all the answers just yet. All I know for certain is I want us to be happy. You, me, and Harry—for fuck's sake, we've earned it, I think."

"Yes," she agreed, feeling a bit more confident because of his firm tone. Privately, she wasn't sure what "happy" meant, given the circumstances. When she thought of the word, she would think of her parents, and of Lawrence. Of her friends, and her work, and…did she necessarily need anybody else?

She had forgotten that mulling these things here meant he was privy to her thoughts, and he sheepishly informed her to keep such things to herself until he cleared out.

"But, to answer your question, nah. If you don't want to choose between us, that's fine. Would I like you to? Yes—but I don't know if I say yes because it's what I want or it's what I'm used to. Also…I saw your face, the day we rescued Malfoy. You looked gutted and I thought, no matter what, if it's in my power, I'll make you happy, Hermione. Even if it means making him happy too." His expression said that he wasn't entirely pleased with the prospect, but was maturely refraining from pointing out the obvious.

"Why?" she asked with an incredulous shake of her head. "Ron, for god's sake, invest some of that happy-making in yourself! Didn't you just say that we've earned it?"

"Yeah, but I learned something, mostly from watching my family since I've returned. If I just invest in making myself happy, I'll get caught up in the enormity of my problems. But when you spend at least half of your efforts on others, it gets easier to forget your own troubles. So I'll work on you a little, and Harry, and Ginny…it'll be easier to be happy if I know the ones I love are taken care of."

"I feel absolutely the same way about you," Hermione said seriously, glancing up at him before looking down at the murkiness. "You and whoever is there for you."

"But there is no other person for me?" he asked, confused.

"No, I mean that, if you no longer wished for anything between us, and my affection for you obviously made you unhappy, then I would try to quell it, as best I can, so you had a proper chance to be happy with someone else."

Ron accepted this gamely with a nod, but although they stood on the precipice of a monumental decision, they maintained their balance and travelled no further. There was too much too soon; no clear decision could be made in the upheaval.

"Thank you," she finally said, and faced him. She looked up and admired the contrast of this taller, older Ron, with lines around his eyes and the short beginnings of a beard on his jaw.

"Likewise," he returned, though she didn't know what she had done at all. Slowly, so as to give him time to withdraw if he wished, she raised her arms to hug him, wrapping her arms around his middle and pressing her ear against his heart.

Without hesitation, he reciprocated the embrace tightly. Speaking with warmth mingled with regret, his words slightly stirred her hair as he said into her ear, "Time to wake up, love."

---

"Want to go to a match with me this Saturday? Neville has extra tickets."

"Nah…I've got to see Sally."

Harry tried, but failed to hide his clear disgust of the girl Ron had dated for a little less than a month.

"Yeah, that's how I feel too," Ron said, matching his grimace. "I've got to break it off, mate. But I have to do it in person or she'll never pick up the phone."

"Knows it's coming, eh?" Harry chuckled, and Ron nodded dismally.

Sally was a muggle-born intern in the Auror department at the Ministry. They had met through Harry, and, for a while, she seemed all right. But then…

Harry grinned. "What did her in, then?"

"You know how she went to Charlie's animal rescue to assess potential assistant creatures?"

"Yeah. Last week, right?"

"Yeah. For three days. She—get this—asks me to wait for her!"

"What?!"

"Yeah! Like's she's flying off to the moon or something!"

"Ron, she was joking, obviously." But even as Harry said it, he doubted his own words. Sally didn't know how to joke. He had attempted a knock-knock one on her and she simply looked to the door. It was a good thing the buxom blonde was pretty, or she'd have never made it this far.

"Then, when she gets there, she tells Charlie to pass along her regards. To me. The bloke who paid for fish and chips twice, the bloke who will see her in three bleedin' days!"

Harry didn't even have a proper response; he was too busy laughing.

"She's so weird! I mean, I don't mind weird, but really—too weird!"

"She's a hell of a witch, though," Harry said in defense of the absent female. "Very clever with magic."

"And yet alarmingly daft in reading social cues," Ron sighed. "I've got to end it."

They lapsed into silence as they slowly paced the pavement.

Harry was unwrapping a piece of gum when Ron asked abruptly, "Do you think he'll ask her out?"

Harry looked up and surveyed the empty street. "Who?"

"Tim." Ron wore the same expression he had when he had to taste-test Ginny's baking.

Harry looked around them in bafflement. "Who's Tim?"

"Poppy's new minder. The wizard with the limp?"

"Ohhh…you mean Leonard?"

Ron's brow furrowed. "I could have sworn his name is Tim."

"It is, but I don't think he looks like a 'Tim,' so I call him Leonard. He's surprisingly okay with it."

"Right so…do you think he'll ask Hermione out?"

Harry smacked his gum thoughtfully. "No…I think he'll ask out Poppy though."

"He's not interested in Poppy," Ron contradicted.

"He's willing to fix plumbing for her!"

"Hermione's plumbing," Ron corrected, recalling the day Henrietta had flushed one of the twin's experimental flowers down Hermione's toilet.

"Yes, to save Poppy the trouble and money of hiring a professional," Harry pointed out wisely. "Trust me, mate. 'Mione ain't the witch he's after."

"Oh," Ron said, trying not to look relieved. "He was a bit too old for her, any way."

"Obviously," Harry scoffed. "Besides, Hermione doesn't want to date until Lawrence is older. Told me herself," he added upon spying Ron's skeptical look. "She said unless Fassbender or Hiddleston asks her out for coffee, she's swearing off men."

Ron didn't know this Fassbender nor Hiddleston but he felt compelled to say, "Those are ridiculous names."

"Whatever you say, Weasley."

Ron punched his arm for that.

They fell quiet again, and, save for the odd car that buzzed by at the end of the road, there was little noise that morning. Finally, Harry addressed the issue they had been avoiding.

"Don't it ever bother you that he never thanked you?" Harry asked as they paused to lean against the fence despite the guards' unhappy looks as they did so.

"Nah," Ron decided, rocking on his heels, "I don't need it. Feel sorry for him enough, without him thanking me. Besides, it's not in him, even if he wanted to."

"Feel sorry for him? This is a bloody palace, compared to where he could have ended up," Harry snorted, referring to the closed prison, category A, behind them. It had taken two months of mediation, and then having the new minister of magic negotiating with the muggle prime minister, for the last living Malfoy to be given into custody of the prison for thirteen years, with possibility of parole. Prewett received seven, also with possibility of parole. They were at separate prisons, for everybody's safety.

"Even without the dementors, Azkaban's the seventh circle of hell," Harry was saying.

"I don't feel sorry for him for that," Ron clarified. "I just meant…he's weird, right? Like, you and me, we're fine. You have a fucked up tattoo and absorbed your lifelong enemy slash murderer of friends and family—"

"Still not comfortable with you bluntly stating it like that," Harry told him flatly.

"I had my power stolen by the git with no hope of return—I mean, the Dumble's good, and I believe that he'll try, but let's face it. He's not a miracle worker and he'll probably die off soon—"

"I can't believe people say I'm insensitive," Harry muttered.

"But we're fine. We don't need anything. Hermione? I want her—but I don't need her. My magic? Want, not need. But Malfoy? He thinks he needs so much, and takes it because he's not gonna feel complete without it. All his life, that's what it'll be. Needing, needing, needing, and then taking, taking, taking. It's a complex, or something. 'Course I feel sorry for him, at least a little."

"Shame he doesn't think he needs Lawrence, though," Harry added, and scratched at his jaw. Ron nodded and looked behind them. No sign of Hermione and Larry just yet.

The guards, after conferring, roughly told them to stop leaning and advised them to take a walk. Harry and Ron complied, but did not take a walk further than half a block before returning. They did not trust the precautions taken by both ministries, and wanted to stay near, in case Malfoy tried anything during Hermione's first visit.

Inside, Hermione sat on one side of a plain, bolted down table, with Larry's carrier on the chair beside hers. Draco, in chains, sat on the other side. They were in a small, monitored room, with a guard outside, a guard inside, and two recording cameras in the corners. There was one window, but it was small and high up, so that only a thin shaft of light slanted in, grazing the top of Draco's head and falling at one guard's feet.

They were personally selected to monitor Draco at all times; they were wizards, and so were able to hear about the wizarding world without the need for discretion. Prewett had the same, though Draco did not wish to hear about his former torturer.

"So what does everybody think happened to me?" he asked in confusion. Hermione had just finished telling him that, despite his wishes for all his assets to be given to Lawrence, they had been seized by the government and liquidated.

"Loads of people think you're dead. That Prewett and you broke free somehow and killed each other in a duel. For some reason, nobody thinks you really ended up imprisoned in undisclosed locations. I suppose the public dislikes the anticlimax."

Draco nodded thoughtfully, digesting the information. "So I'm…"

"Safe," she supplied at the same time he finished reluctantly, "Poor?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and sighed. "Yes, that too. But you have your life, so be thankful for that."

Draco made a noncommittal noise and crossed his arms as best his manacles would allow.

"Have you had any other visitors?" she asked after a beat, curious if all his mad fangirls had ferreted his location out.

"Just Dumbledore every few weeks, and he's only here to do research to 'restore Weasley to his rightful self,'" he replied with an indifferent shrug. Then another awkward pause ensued.

Hermione sighed. She wasn't sure why she came; other than the fact that Draco requested her presence, and he was Lawrence's father. Other than the attempted transfer of property, Malfoy hadn't acknowledged Lawrence Granger's existence since they brought him in. Not that her son minded; he had been brought to riotous laughter during the train ride over by Harry and Ron, and they had exhausted him so much that he fell asleep within minutes of Hermione signing in and getting searched. Currently, he was sucking on his own sock as he snored.

"You all right then?" she asked when the silence threatened to reign.

"Oh, yes, I suppose," he sighed. "I get about an hour of human interaction a day, when I'm good, but it's with the very dredges of society, so it's not much of an incentive to behave. But I do…I do…"

He trailed off listlessly and stared at the table corner. Hermione cleared her throat and began.

"Well, we're doing fine. They tell me Larry's the best baby in the crèche, but I suspect they tell every mother that. I like work—I think they might hire me. I'd really be more interested in working in the labs, where they recreate some of the experiments sent in. They have to, you know. If experiments can't be created successfully with consistent results, then they stay just theories, instead of—"

Draco laughed, the first sign of genuine emotion, and shook his head at her fondly. "Same old Granger, at the end of the day."

Hermione smiled back, though not as widely. "A bit different, though," she corrected gently. With her shoulder, she gestured to her son—their son.

Finally, Draco turned his gaze to his off spring. His chains jingled slightly when he tried to stand to get a better look, and the guard in the room cleared her throat pointedly. He sat back down.

Hermione did not say anything as Draco regarded Lawrence for the first time; without any spell clouding his mind, without the jumble of resurfacing memories and newly discovered truths influencing his view. Draco was fully Draco now, and was able to look at Larry properly. His son was a year and a quarter, and they were just now meeting.

"How is his development?"

"Good," she assured him, a bit excited. "Really good. He smiles a lot. Also, he hiccoughs quite a bit, after some meals. Doesn't bother him. I may be a bit biased, but I honestly believe he's the best thing ever, in the history of the earth."

Again, Draco laughed, with his eyebrows raised. "I'm sure that's not an overstatement at all."

Hermione shrugged, unashamed of her bragging, but infinitely more at ease. "You look different," she ventured to say, pointing at his head.

"Yeah, well," Draco ran his hands through his shorn hair, where only a short length showed the light blonde colour. "It's easier if my house mates don't have anything to grab onto, in a fight. Oh, don't worry about me, Hermione," he assured her when she frowned. "I'm fine. I can't do much magic, with these," he said, raising his wrists. Hermione could see spells in different languages engraved into the metal. "But I can hold my own."

She did not know what to say. And, prior to his words, she could have almost said that she did not know how she felt. Yet when she spoke of protecting himself, with that wry resignation, Hermione felt a surge of familiar pity, when he had not understood her offers of friendship. He was no longer like the old Malfoy she knew, shiny with riches and arrogance. Even then, he was still figuring out who he was supposed to be without his name or house to identify him. Now, stripped of everything, all he had was time to ponder that.

The guard told them that time was up, and he asked her to visit again. Hermione promised she would, although she did not know when. Just before he was led away, he told her, "I've written you a letter. You should get it fairly soon. The psychotherapist I see suggested it, though he might not've, if he knew the real situation. I would have given it to you now, but I'm not allowed to hand you anything, so just wait for the post."

She felt her throat tighten with misapprehension, and nodded, saying goodbye for her and Larry.

---

She was unpacking the very last box on the floor and showing Larry, who was in his mobilised swing, and Crookshanks, who sat regally on the bed, all the contained mementoes.

"And this was the feather I used for my first exam at Hogwarts." She proudly held out to both of them. The audience appeared just an interested as one would expect. Before she could reach in once more, an alarm went off on her mobile.

It was necessary, she learned, to remember to check the post as soon as it was delivered. There was a thief in the building, and her neighbor warned her of identity theft as soon as she had moved in. She scooped Lawrence into her arms and made sure to hold the door open for her cat, who liked to accompany her on such outings.

Within ten minutes, they were down and back up with little fanfare, and both Crookshanks and Larry had garnered much admiration from passing tenants. Settling back on the bed and next to the open box, she flipped through unwanted advertisements, bills, and then one hand written envelope.

She sighed. "Well, might as well get it over with," she told the pair as she neatly ripped one side to pull the one sheet out.

Dear Hermione,

This doctor believes that my mother's death triggered a "psychotic episode" and that, coupled with my experiences in the war (not that he knows what war) prompted my unlawful kidnapping, murder of my former mate, etc, etc…

Which is all well and good, but you and I know the truth. I'm not a nice person, and I never have been. You were a nice thing I wanted but you would not be mine, and so I took.

I am sorry.

That's what you've been waiting for, right? You've been so sure that if I was just in the right mind, with no post-maternal-death trauma, or spells, or what have you, I'd see the error of my ways.

But I remember something I told you, something about not really being sorry, because it wouldn't have happened otherwise. Lawrence wouldn't have happened otherwise.

And I still feel that way. So I suppose I'm sorry that I'm not sorry. I think I love you, but I'm seeing now that you don't understand what I mean by that sort of love. And I don't understand your sort of love. We each have our different definitions, and the two might never meet.

Part of me wishes you had never shown me any kindness. Or that, perhaps a pure blood had shown me the same kindness at the same time. Then I'd know whether or not it was you I fell for, or if I had just become enamoured with well/ill-timed compassion.

It's not in my nature to vacillate. I'd rather know right off what I'm dealing with, so I can decide my actions.

Will you wait for me?

Draco

"You're fucking joking," she muttered, and then quickly turned to her baby and cat. "Neither of you repeat that," she warned, then pondered it. "Actually, Crookshanks, if you did learn to swear, do, because that would be funny and impressive." In response, Lawrence burped and Crookshanks licked his privates.

Then Hermione read her letter twice, not sure if she should scream in anger or sigh in frustration. It was so difficult to read tone in script, but she understood why he would not wish to speak of these things with the guards as an audience.

Still, he was being honest, and that was more than she really expected from him.

"And that's just sad, fellas," she told them. "That I should be pleased with the most basic of standards from a human being."

Larry grunted at that, and Crookshanks yawned.

As she absently emptied the box so that she would better view what ought to be discarded and what ought to be kept, Hermione supposed this was the bit where she did some heavy thinking and monumental weighing, and cry a little.

But she didn't feel like doing that any more.

Ever since Ron's deft handling of the legal tangle, Hermione had had a taste of relief, and she was not sorry to say that she was addicted to it. Why should she trudge down that murky, twisted path that almost certainly led to ruin and disappointment?

Hermione of six months ago would've needed days, maybe even weeks, to ponder it. That Hermione had been plagued by a desperate, unhealthy need of immediate comfort. That Hermione had had her judgment clouded and skewed because of trauma and absent memories.

This Hermione knew better.

With a sort of detached efficiency, she found a pen and a blank sheet of paper, on which she wrote:

Dear Draco,

I hope, for your son's sake, that you embrace any advice that your doctor gives you.

There's truth in what you said. Maybe you could have fallen for anyone who showed you a drop of kindness at that time. Part of me wishes you had.

I think I loved you, but I can't say for sure. We'll never know, I suppose. I'll always be grateful that, somehow, you gave me Lawrence. He is the only good thing to come out of the mess we made.

You should notice I said "we." I include myself because I know that I could have resolved this a bit faster. I was confused for a bit there, and I am sorry that I've dragged it on for as long as I have.

To answer your question: No.

I will not wait. But Larry will. If you feel up to making a life long commitment of fatherly involvement, when you're out, he will be here.

Until then,

Hermione Granger

Hermione knew she should be careful outlining her involvement in Draco's escape, for the guards most likely processed these letters. She reviewed her words, and hoped that Draco took note of the parting words. She did not want to hear from Draco until he was ready to be a father (if ever), and even then, his role would be contained to father only. As far as she was concerned, Hermione did not need a co-parent.

Quickly, she found a stamp and readied the message to drop in a post box.

Her mobile chirped, breaking her from her thoughts, and she glanced at a text from Ron:

Ginny made some light treacle tarts and wants me to give some of the extra to you because she apparently hates you as much as she hates us. You home?

Hermione did not hesitate to call.

"Hermione," he said in greeting, "these are the worst! Mum made us each try one so we wouldn't hurt her feelings. I have to finish at least one, she said, before I go deliver your punishment but Merlin's nobs—"

"You're exaggerating," she laughed as she bundled up Lawrence for another trip downstairs. This time, they were walking a block south to the nearest post box, and she did not want the chilly winds to affect him.

"Eurgh?" he grunted, sounding as if he had decided to down the pastry in one swoop, in the same way some took medicine. "Easy for you to say. You're not eating them…yet."

"Why did you say 'yet' in that devious, twin-like way?" she demanded as Hermione, Lawrence, and Crookshanks made their way to the ground floor once more.

"Because I'm on my way to stuff them down your throat. And Crookshanks' throat too."

"Well, I'm glad Larry is spared," Hermione huffed fondly. "But I'm just leaving for a mo, so if you want to wait…"

She trailed off because she bumped into Ron himself just outside her building. Her friend laughed sinisterly, and held a wrapped paper plate full of questionable looking pastries before her. "Eat one," he encouraged, "and meet your doom!"

Lawrence, delighted, pitched his whole body forward to get his chubby paws on the offered treats, and Ron barley had enough time to pull them away. "Oi, not you! I actually like you!" he scolded her son, and then reached forward to grab hold of his torso while passing the plate onto Hermione. She accepted the plate with a sigh, and shook her head at Crookshanks, who stood on his hind legs to get a better view of the free food.

Ron only wanted greet Larry with a kiss before trading burdens once more. "Why aren't you wearing a jumper, at least?" he demanded, so much like Molly that Hermione grinned again as she started for the block corner where the post box stood.

"I'm just popping out for a second, so I didn't grab one," she explained through teeth that began to chatter. A long sleeved, cotton blouse and jeans were no match for the night chill. After checking to make sure the letter was still in her back pocket, Hermione asked, "Ron, did you say what exactly was wrong with those?"

When the sounds of the city answered her, Hermione turned and saw that Crookshanks was the only one walking next to her. Her friend was briskly walking back to her building. "Hang on, I'll catch up. I wanted to drop these off and grab a meal with you, so you'll need something warmer any way."

"All right," she replied loudly, walking backwards with Larry. "Get my cardigan then, please. It's in my bedroom."

"Right."

When she reached the post box, Hermione was actually relieved that Ron wasn't present to see whom she was writing. It was to be her last letter, but of course he wouldn't know that.

Ron did catch up, just seconds after she had turned to see where he was, and wordlessly took Lawrence into his arms so that she had an easier time pulling it on. Crookshanks, bored and disliking the cold, wordlessly made his way back to the flat, where the back window was magicked to let him in.

"Oh, no, this isn't my cardi," she commented after trying to open an unopenable jumper. "I said in my room?"

"I just grabbed the first thing near the door," Ron explained as he blew into Larry's hair, making him smile widely. "Don't matter; I was just going to suggest going to that new Nando's, down that way. No need to dress."

"Oh, well that's okay then," Hermione agreed, sounding somewhat muffled as she pulled the jumper over her large hair. She paused for a half a second upon seeing which jumper he had mistakenly grabbed, but did not look up until she hid her smile.

Ron must have seen the initials as well before she reached for her baby once more, but said nothing. He was trying to keep a grin from his lips, for his blue eyes were still focused lower.

"My eyes are up here," she said, mockingly stern.

"Yeah, I've seen them, and they're not as interesting as your lower regions," he quipped nonchalantly, easily dodging her half-hearted swipe. Then he shook his head as they began to slowly walk to their peri-peri chicken dinner.

"I was just cleaning out the last of the boxes from my parents' house," she explained. Hermione had this paranoid feeling that he suspected her of trickery, or that she was sleeping with the jumper every night.

"Right, yeah," Ron said, nodding, "makes sense." Then suddenly he laughed. "That bloody jumper though. I just…dunno if I like seeing it on you or if I should rip it to shreds."

"Easy tiger, there are children present," Hermione teased, grateful that he wasn't going to make it weird. Ron chuckled again at her innuendo, and held the door as they reached the restaurant.

As they said their orders, the young man taking it looked up briefly before doing a double take.

"What?" Hermione asked, for the alarm in his face caused her to panic slightly.

"Oh sorry, it's nothing."

"Oh go on," Ron cajoled, "You can't look at her like that and then say it's nothing. Do you…recognize her or something?" He asked warily, and Hermione knew that having somebody recognize either one of them in muggle London would dampen the mood. He disliked the fame.

"Oh well…Did you spill something on your jumper?" the worker asked discreetly, as if he were pointing out a bit of bog roll stuck to her shoe.

Hermione jokingly gasped and stared wide eyed at the blue and maroon creation, seeing wear the ink had spilled and been magicked blue before being sent off without the proper repair.

"Yes," Hermione answered, fighting back giggles as she saw Ron frown at the teen from the corner of her eye. "I think it looks okay."

"She looks well nice in it," Ron corrected frostily. "If that's all then?"

Hermione couldn't contain her laughter in her chair, so much so that Larry tried to imitate the little squeaking noises escaping her mouth.

"Oh my god," she guffawed, "your face. He's just a kid, Ron; no need to be so mean."

"I wasn't being mean," he defended himself. "I was paying you a compliment! You do look nice in it."

She raised an eyebrow and tugged at her sleeves doubtfully. "Not quite my size any more." It was a bit tight around her middle, for Hermione was not as concerned about losing baby weight as some women were.

"Yeah, well…" He shrugged. "I'm sure mum can make a proper one. You and I have definitely outgrown the things we had in year seven."

They definitely had, Hermione silently agreed when they proceeded with their meal. Seventeen year old Hermione wouldn't have been able to recognise the Ron before her now, with the easier going temper, and the longer, leaner frame. And seventeen year old Ron would have gawked at the plumper, motherly Hermione, who, bizarrely enough, had become less uptight and critical because of motherhood.

Yes, it was quite clear that they were not the same children who had agreed to a hasty engagement years before. But, she noted as they lingered long after the puddings had been eaten, it was quite lovely, getting to know one another again.

The End

---

But something that was not meant to be is done

And this is the start of what was"

Empty Cans by The Streets

Thank you all for the reviews, favorites, and follows, despite my deplorable hiatus. It's by no means perfect, (trust me, I know), but I'm still inexorably proud of this fic.

Merry Christmas & Happy Holidays! Keep your fingers crossed that fingers crossed that "Fantastic Beasts & Where to Find Them" is just as wonderful as Harry Potter!