Home

Deciding to leave before the agreed upon date was both simple and incredibly difficult. Hermione hated the thought that she was letting the Weasleys down, especially so soon after making up with Ron. However, staying was too hard. She was miserable with uncertainty about McGonagall and being surrounded by people somehow made her feel lonelier. Harry discussed it with her first, prompting her to do what felt right and as soon as Ginny returned she showed her support. It was Ron she was worried about, though. Her mind was made up, but knew it would be a blow to him.

Taking him aside in the garden while they were meant to be degnoming with the others, she explained her choice as carefully as she could. When he asked if it was him, she shook her head, ignoring the urge to touch him.

"There's things I need to take care of." It was vague and she knew it. She needed to offer him something more concrete. "There's only six months before I'm going to Australia and I need to start making plans." It started as a lie but saying it she realised with a jolt of horror that it was true. She had a port key and nothing else. No other transport, no links, not even an inkling of where to start. If Ron hadn't spoken then she would have begun to sink into despair.

"I understand." He looked up from his hands and said with the utmost sincerity, "If there's anything I can do to help, I want to. Anything, Hermione."

She stared at his freckled hands, reminded of how selfless he could be. After a long pause she cleared her throat.

"There is something. I want to collect some stuff from my old house. Pictures, that sort of stuff. I don't want to do it alone."

She could have asked Minerva to take her, but she realised that at the moment it was something both she and Ron needed to rebuild their trust. He promised to go with a thankful look.

Molly took the news harder than even Ron and Hermione had to swear up and down to stay in constant touch. She used Percy's owl to send word of her departure to McGonagall and packed the few things she had taken from her trunk before bed.

In the morning Hermione said an emotional farewell to the Weasleys. Molly cried and apologised for crying while the tears still flowed. Percy slipped a small piece of parchment into her hand before leaving for work (it was a list of names and contacts at the Department of International Magical Cooperation) and Ginny handed her a paper-wrapped parcel with a wink.

"Just a little something from me and Fleur. Just in case… don't open it now."

Hermione groaned and chuckled simultaneously, having a clear idea of what it was. Arthur shook her hand cheerfully while hugging his tearful wife and George told her not to do anything he wouldn't. Finally, Harry and Ron each took one of her hands and a bag and with her parent's house in mind, they disapparated.

This wasn't the home that Hermione had grown up in. The house was silent, shut off from its neighbours in that it was the only home with an overgrown garden of weeds and wilting gutter. She had been raised in the best, white brick, red awnings, her father working with the flowers in his spare time. Still, when she slotted her key into its place the mechanism turned and clicked, acknowledging her place here.

For a moment she didn't know if she could do it, but Ron took her hand and Harry put his on the handle. There was a groaning as the door opened inwardly and Hermione stared at the dark inside. She stepped through the faded front door and discovered she could barely breathe because of the dust. All the windows were shut up, leaving the flue as the only opening. Hermione covered her mouth with a sleeve and with her friends quickly opened what she could, waving the dust out with her wand.

They stood in the bowels of the gutted home for a few minutes, Ron asking if she was okay. Nodding, she began to climb the stairs to the top floor, listening to something scurrying in the attic above her. Moving solemnly through the landing, she aired the rooms out, going from her parents' office, guest rooms, to her own. Her childhood bedroom was untouched from when her parents left. The drawers full, the counters covered in photographs and nicknacks, it was the room of a teenage girl stuck in time. There were moving pictures of her, Harry and Ron in their younger years, polaroids of her cousins, and small mementos of her younger years- a shell from the seaside, a necklace from her grandmamma. She tried not to linger. It wasn't her intention to summon ghosts from her past, but even the clothing she pulled from the closet smelt like her year in Paris or the sea side in Lincoln. She shoved a dress and some smaller shirts and jeans into a backpack and made her way back to the living room. Even inwardly she couldn't explain why she had to take what she did, but the teaspoon from her long dead grandpa, a blanket her mother had crocheted and even a father's day wallet she had woven herself all went into her bag. Below the tv was a large compartment of vcs tapes, but when she tried to play them nothing would turn on. The electricity had long been cut off. Still, she took those too. Harry and Ron watched like protectors, quiet despite the pureblood's obvious itching to ask questions.

She stood in the middle of the living room and turned in a circle, trying to remember what the house had looked like before the war. She could remember her mum burning dinner on her father's birthday and how they used to pull her down onto the couch, a muddle of bodies while they watched the New Year celebrations on tv. Her final stop was to her parents' bedroom, but when she opened the door it was void of belongings. Their clothes were gone, dents in the carpet where the furniture used to be. The only things left were a few photoframes, the glass cracked when they fell. On the top shelf of the wardrobe was what she had said she was looking for, an album. It was full of still pictures of her with her parents. Each of them had her own younger, happier face grinning back; birthdays, Christmases, anniversaries. Where ever they were they had no clue she even existed that they'd had a life with a child who missed them with every fibre in her body. Tucking the thick book under her arm, Hermione took the frames downstairs and set them on the fire mantle, just in case she did find them again.

She didn't cry as she left, instinctually checking the mail box before she gave a final long look her childhood house. Ron was carrying her bags and asked whether she got what she came for. She shook her head and felt her eyes sting. Her home wasn't her home anymore.

The boys said the right things, promising to go with her to find her parents, assuring her she'd find them and she thought about what Percy had said. She'd have to work on her own.

The three of them found the bus stop and climbed into the back seat, Hermione using muggle money to pay for them. Sitting between her friends, she felt both dread and warmness. Now she was going home.

Hermione chose to take the Hogsmeade train over apparating and the boys went with her to the platform, hugging her goodbye and making her promise to visit Grimmauld Place when they all had a free weekend. Tucked in the last compartment in the last carriage she tearfully waved goodbye.

Alone, she watched the country side pass as she thought. She was emotional over facing the empty house and leaving her friends, yet terrified of what was waiting for her at Hogwarts. Her chest felt constricted and her heart ached with home sickness, but she closed her eyes and made herself breathe. If she was going to make any headway whether with finding her parents or whatever was happening with Minerva she had to face it head on.

The sadness over her parents faded as the tip of Hogwarts' highest tower came into view, sending her hurtling towards terror. She struggled to keep herself calm. When Minerva had turned away, refusing to talk to her it had hurt so much and the letter she had received did nothing to ease the pain.
What if I've made a complete idiot of myself? What if she turns me away and wants nothing more to do with me?

She shut her eyes to the thought, waiting for the cruel voice in her mind to end its tirade of why a filthy mudblood like her would never be loved. Tired, she closed her eyes and brushed her fingers over her lips, remembering the one thing that might disprove the voice.

o

By the time the train pulled into snowy Hogsmeade, Hermione had found herself in a state of calm. She was petrified of whatever was to come, but she knew she would have to be strong enough to take the first step.

Hogwarts was beautiful with the arrival of Spring and the air was warm, the smell of exotic flora drifting from the glasshouses. She rounded the Black Lake on foot, her bags levitating behind her, and when she passed through the main doors the castle greeted her with cold. She took a shaky breath, swallowed the urge to turn around and run back to the Weasleys then forced herself onward. Walking the empty halls was like moving through a viscous fluid, her heart growing louder in her ears. She stopped at the gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the headmistress' office and realised she didn't know the password. She groaned. After everything she had done to get here and what did she get?

"Síorghrá."

Hermione's head snapped back to the speaking gargoyle. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's the password," the stone face winked, "I'm sure the headmistress won't mind this once."

"She-ra," Hermione repeated.

The gargoyle somehow rolled its eyes despite a lack of iris or pupils. "Close enough," it muttered before stepping aside.

Hermione started up the moving stairs, pausing to thank the stone creature. She had left her bags at the entrance not knowing whether she would be welcomed or sent away. She desperately hoped for the former.

At the top of the stairs she stopped, her knuckles prepared to knock, but engulfed with the uncertainty she had managed to keep at bay thus far. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and knocked.

"Enter."

Her nerves reached a crescendo as she pushed the door open, her body tensed in fight-or-flight mode, but it washed away at the sight of Minerva rising from behind her desk. Her name was delivered in a murmur as if the other woman wasn't sure she was there and for a moment she wasn't either. Instead of nervousness, the other woman inspired a calm certainty that this was where she was meant to be. In Minerva's presence she was home. They stared at each other for what seemed like minute.

"Hermione…" the second time the name was spoken, McGonagall broke eye contact, clearing her throat as she moved around the desk. "I wasn't sure what time you'd be arriving. I wasn't sure if… well, I haven't made any alternative arrangements." She motioned to the sofa which seemed untouched from the last time Hermione had seen it, the blankets she'd slept in still hung over the back of it. "You look well. The Burrow seems to have done you some good."

Feeling the shift in mood, Hermione forced herself to move, walking to the lounge to sit. "It was nice to see everyone."

"And how are they?"

"Fine… everyone's… they're… fine." Hermione sighed. She didn't want to do this, the awkward small talk.

"I'm sorry."

Her eyes snapped up. When she had trailed off her gaze had fallen to her lap and she hadn't seen the way Minerva's had saddened.

"I'm sorry for leaving things the way I did. I didn't know what to say. It's no excuse, but it's the truth."

"You needed time to think."

She had grown to hate those words, but saying it out loud seemed to give Minerva some comfort. Hermione observed a slow nod, a small smile, and felt the softness of the eyes that watched her.

"And now?"

"I'm not sure I know any more now than I did."

Bitter humour accompanied the words and Hermione glanced back at her hands, palms up in her lap. A hum of anxiety started up again as the silence stretched. When she looked up, she knew what she had to ask, at least to start.

"Why did you kiss me?" At the words McGonagall's mouth parted slightly it was beautiful, but Hermione kept her thoughts on what she was saying. "Here, when I kissed you you pushed me away, but up there… it was different. Did it actually mean something to you or was it just on a whim?"

Taking her time to think, Minerva lowered herself down beside Hermione. "It was both. Seeing you on that ledge scared me more than you know. I thought you were going to fall or jump. When you were back in my arms…" She exhaled and took one of Hemione's hands carefully, cradling it like it might break.

"So it was just on impulse."

"No, Hermione. It meant so much it frightened me."

There was more Hermione wanted to ask; why did she push her away, how could she look so calm, was she crazy to expect more. Over all of it there was one answer she needed most.

"You know how I feel about you. I know you do, but… what do you want?"

"I want to do what's best for you and I want to be what you need. I'm just not sure those are the same things."

"Then let me worry about myself for once. I'm not fragile, but I need to know what you feel. Do you want to pretend it never happened or do you want something more?"

Minerva studied their intertwined fingers. If felt right and despite the urgency in Hermione's eyes, she was soothed by her presence. She knew what she wanted, she just didn't know how to say it without making promises she couldn't keep.

"I want to take you out to dinner." Her lilting voice was quiet but strong and she nodded at her own reply.

Hermione blinked a few times, then relaxed, a smile settling on her face.

A/N: I'm hoping this is a case of better late than never. Life has been unconducive for writing. There were so many alternatives for how the second half of this was going to go including: full on argument, crying, MM continuing to be in denial, accusations, HG being more focused on her parents, a long speech about love, the portraits all losing their shit because someone knocks on the door at a crucial moment...