A/N: "Thanks again for all the support! I believe this chapter puts me over the 200K marker, which is just crazy! Cheers!" – E

.

.

.

.

.

oOoOoOo

A man sat upon the bench, silently watching the ocean before him. He had sandy, blonde hair and beard. He wore a shabby, brown jacket, his trousers patched, and his shoes were old and worn. There was a small bag of groceries was at his feet, a book in his hand, unread, and while there were other people walking along the pier, families, couples strolling, and tourists taking photos together, he was distinctly alone.

It wasn't he first afternoon he'd sat there, nor would it be the last. The locals had all noticed him, the man who sat upon the bench hour after hour, silently watching the ocean before him. At first, many assumed he was a tourist, Brighton Beach was full of tourists this time of year, but then the owner of the small pub confirmed the man had rented a room above his bar. And while some wondered about his disheveled appearance and mental ability, those who had talked to the man said he was polite and well spoken.

"Every afternoon, rain or shine, he sits there—"

"Not always, he missed a few days last week—"

"Well, perhaps he was on a bender? You said he comes into your pub and drinks quite a lot—"

"Almost every night, but I've never had any trouble from 'em—"

"It's all very odd—"

Summer was almost over, and a damp, autumnal chill grew upon the air, but still the man remained. He didn't care about the changing weather. He didn't care that the locals gossiped about him. What were words and winds compared to what he'd experienced? And as Remus Lupin sat upon the bench, silently watching the ocean before him, the sound of rushing water filling his ears, the smell of salt stinging his nose, his mind turned over all that had happened, again, and again, and again…

oOo

Again, and again, and again… Hermione's mind turned over all that had happened as she stared up at the ceiling above her. The window was slightly cracked, bringing in the dust and the sharp, unforgiving smell of the country. She was tired, but the idea of sleep was unappealing, and while there were books scattered around the room, there was little motivation to explore the depths behind their covers.

Knock knock knock!

She squeezed her eyes shut, already dreading the interruption.

"Hermione?" called Molly Weasley. She opened the door. "Oh, good, you're awake. How are you feeling today?"

Hermione sighed. "I'm fine."

"We were thinking of going to Diagon Alley. The Hogwart's book lists arrived—did you want to come along?"

"No."

"Well, then would you like us to get your schoolbooks also?"

"If you want."

"Alright then." Molly shifted, glancing around the messy room. "Ron's already left for work?"

"Obviously."

"I'm sorry?"

"Yes," she answered, audibly this time. "He left about an hour ago. I'm sorry, Molly, I just—I think I'm going to try to get a little bit more sleep."

"Oh, right, of course. Well, if you need anything at all—"

"I'll be sure to let you know."

"Also, an owl arrived for you this morning. I'll just leave it here on the dresser."

"That's fine."

With a last, hesitant look around the room, Molly finally closed the door and left. Hermione rubbed her eyes, the confrontation drawing upon the anxiety that was now her constant companion. She understood Mrs Weasley was trying to be kind, but why couldn't people just leave her alone?

With great effort, Hermione sat up and walked to the dresser and the letter. She picked it up and turned it over. Her name was neatly written on the top, the handwriting hauntingly familiar. Guillaume. That strange man from the Department of Mysteries. He'd written her twice before, and, as she'd done twice before, Hermione grabbed her old copy of Hogwarts: A History off the floor and shoved the letter between it's pages. Returning to her bed, she collapsed and pulled the covers over her face, blocking out the morning light.

oOo

"I told dad it's silly. After all—" Ron moved around their room "—we could just apparate to King's Cross, but he said the Ministry cars should be here in an hour."

Somehow, September first was upon them, and while the house was it's usual bustle of energy, Ron chattering away as he helped her get ready to leave, Hermione moved slowly. Reaching over, she picked up a few books from her desk, turning them over in her hand before placing them into her empty Hogwarts trunk.

"I am a little jealous," continued Ron, smiling at her. "Not for all the classwork—that was always your thing—but the chance to go back. Are you going to try out for the quidditch team? My position's open now."

Hermione ignored his teasing and moved to the basket of clean laundry that awaited her. Her robes were neatly pressed and folded, her skirts and white dress shirts, too. Reaching forward, she picked up one of the gold and burgundy striped ties, and an invisible weight drew upon her shoulders at the thought of such a confining uniform, a noose around her neck.

"I'm gonna grab breakfast while you finish packing. Do you want me to bring something up for you?"

She shook her head.

Ron tried again. "A little toast maybe?"

"No, I'm not hungry."

"Well… alright then."

He turned and stepped out into the hall, the door clicking behind him. With his departure, Hermione sighed and fell back into bed again. God, it was all so exhausting. The house was full of it's usual creaks and groans, the sound of voices carrying up the stairs and from outside. She listened to it all, aware and dreading the minutes that passed and awaited her. Rolling to the side of the bed, she pulled a textbook out of her nearby trunk. It was the NEWT level Potions text. She tossed it back with the others and squeezed her eyes shut. How had this day come already? She used to look forward to returning to school, but now, as the recent days passed and September drew closer, the absurdity of the whole situation only seemed to grow.

A short while later, Hermione heard the sound of the Ministry car upon the gravel driveway, and then the familiar rhythm of Ron climbing up the steps two at a time. He opened the door, that usual smile upon his face, but then he stopped and the smile fell as he looked around the room in surprise. "You aren't done packing? The car's here."

Outside, Hermione could hear the sound of Mrs. Weasley and Ginny loading up the car, the unfamiliar laugher of the Ministry driver. Anticipation swelled within her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Tears were already in the shallows of her throat, waiting, choking.

"I'm not going back to Hogwarts."

Her words, that inevitable decision, hung in the silence of the room. For a moment Ron didn't say anything. Then he closed the door and took a hesitant step towards her.

"What do you mean? Are—are you sure?"

Hermione swallowed, but didn't respond. Crookshanks climbed out from under the bed and jumped beside her. Reaching out, she stroked his warm fur as she looked up through tear-filled eyes at the ceiling above her.

"How… how can I possibly go back?"

"Hermione—"

"After everything that's happened? How on earth can I just pack up and return, pretend that nothing's changed, aspire for the same things—?"

"Hermione!" called a voice from down the stairs. "Ron! We need to get going!"

Ron moved closer, anxiety pulling at his face. He sat down on the bed beside her. "Are you certain you've thought this through? I mean, you've always been so determined about your NEWTs—"

"God, who cares about NEWTs?!" Hermione couldn't help laughing at the insanity of it all. "Let's not forget, I'm the Great Hermione Granger! The Brightest Witch of the Age! I've gotten job offers from just about every department in the Ministry. I… I don't need my NEWTs."

"But you love school—"

She shook her head and wiped a tear away. "What's turning rats into teacups compared to what we've seen? Compared to what we've done?"

Ron paused, pain upon his face as he carefully picked his words. "I don't want to use this card, Hermione—I know it upsets you—but," he reached out and took her hand, "but I'm certain your parents would want you to continue."

"Well, they're gone now, aren't they," Hermione answered bitterly, pulling her hand away from his and rolling over. "And why? All because of me and my ambition, the false idea that I have even the smallest understanding of how magic works."

"Hermione?" Ginny called from the other side of the door. "Ron?"

Ron turned back to Hermione, absolute seriousness upon his face. "Are you certain—are you quite certain?"

Hermione nodded.

"Well… alright then."

Ron stood and walked across the room to the door. He opened it a crack.

"Are you guys ready?" asked Ginny. "Mum's waiting."

"You can go on ahead. Hermione's not going back to Hogwarts."

"What?" laughed Ginny. "Don't be stupid—"

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, her face pressed into Crookshank's fur as Ron and Ginny debated at the door. With each word between the siblings the waves rose higher and higher, the weight upon her heart unbearable until the tears won and she was falling again. Hermione broke down and sobbed upon the bed.

oOo

Hermione's decision not to return to Hogwarts was a big scandal. It was on the front pages of all the papers for days, full of rumors and speculations, while friends and family were pestered constantly for information about her elusive state. Such attention would have normally upset her, but in the end Hermione didn't really care. Most of her time was spent in bed these days, reading a little maybe, but mostly sleeping and staring off into space and watching the quidditch players zoom upon the posters above her.

Ron was so supportive, her defender against everyone, the gatekeeper to their room and her sanctuary. She wasn't an idiot, she could feel the pressures her decision had put upon everything, but it was just easier to hide herself away from everyone and everything. Fall continued on, Ginny wrote to Harry about life at Hogwarts without them all, and Hermione did nothing. However, one morning in late September, Ron had insisted getting her up and about. He brought her breakfast in bed and then drew her a relaxing bath, coaxing her into it as he stripped the sheets to do laundry. And while Hermione wasn't really in the mood to admit it to him, it had helped.

Clean and refreshed, her muscles honestly happier, she dressed in Ron's old, orange bathrobe, then climbed the flight of stairs back to their room. However, upon opening the door, Hermione stopped. Something had changed; their room, which had been its usual scatter of books and clothes before she'd left, was now clean—but no, not necessarily clean, emptied. Closing the door behind her, Hermione looked to Ron.

"What's going on? Where's my stuff?"

He stepped towards her. "Now, don't be upset—"

"Ron, no," she shook her head, the waves of anxiety rising again, "what's going on—?"

"I have a surprise for you—a good surprise," he added upon seeing her expression. He handed her a set of clothes. "Come on, get dressed and I'll show you."

Hermione sighed, rubbing her eyes. Oh, why did Ron like to do these things? The absolute last thing she'd planned on doing that day was leaving the house. Ron turned, giving her privacy. Even though she could still feel his excitement, she got dressed slowly, his eagerness not moving onto her. When she finished, Ron held out his hand to her, smiling.

With that usual twist and a pull of apparation, Hermione opened her eyes to an unexpected but familiar scene. Standing upon the front stoop, she looked up and down the sunny, tree-lined street in surprise. However, Hermione didn't get a chance to say anything before Ron pulled the door open and lead her into Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

They walked into the familiar hall, yet Hermione saw no familiarity in the space. What had been a house full of darkness and shadow last time she'd been here, was now filled with bright sunshine and light colors. The wood paneling in the hall had been painted, the moldy wallpaper replaced, and looking up the bright stairwell to the levels above, Hermione noticed that the chandelier sparkled in the light of a skylight that must have been boarded shut.

"It was a pain getting the portrait of Mrs. Black out," explained Ron as he led her into the hall. "But the decorators were real pros. Harry let them do whatever they want—here, check out the front parlor."

Hermione looked in. The dark wood remained, but it shined with a high polish, rich and gleaming in the light of the front windows, which had been shed of their heavy velvet curtains. Sirius' wingback chairs remained, though they'd been cleaned or recovered, and even the old tapestry upon the wall was still there. "Harry insisted upon keeping a few of Sirius' things—and we knew you'd kill us if we took down those great bookcases—but pretty much everything else is new. Come on." They moved through the rest of the main living rooms, past the modernized kitchen and the dining room, which now opened up the small back garden. Even though fall was drawing upon them, the garden was a flourish of plants and life, and a small patio table was set up under a flowering tree.

"I still can't quite believe it either, but—" Ron took her hand again" —but, there's something special I want to show you."

They climbed the stairs to the next landing, and Ron turned to a door. He took a deep breath, nervous upon his face. "It felt strange keeping all of this a secret from you, but I really wanted it to be a surprise."

He opened the door, and Hermione stepped inside.

The bedroom was soft and pretty, with plush, cream carpet underfoot, and the curtains and bedding in elegant shades of peach and orange. The back wall contained a large bay window, which was open to the garden below, and there was a vase of fresh flowers was upon the desk. Her books, the ones that were missing from their room at The Burrow, were upon a large oak bookcase against one wall. "I didn't organize your books yet—I knew you'd want to do that," explained Ron as Hermione moved into the room. She stopped at the foot of the bed to scratch Crookshanks behind his ears. Then she turned back to him.

"You did all of this?"

"If you hate the colors and the furniture we can change it—that's fine." He took a hesitant step towards her. "But, well, you've been so unhappy since Australia… I just… I wanted to give you a home, Hermione."

She looked around the space again, honestly speechless by his effort. Then Hermione turned back and walked over to him. She threw herself into his arms.

"Thank you…"

oOo

October moved in upon the old townhouse, and Hermione found herself changed and also unchanged. In the weeks that passed, her depression and heartbreak still lingered, but it somehow became a little more bearable. And Grimmauld Place, just like when they'd first ran, became a refuge. Harry had done a wonderful job in remodeling the house, and while she was thankful for the Weasleys for taking her in for so long, Hermione couldn't deny how nice it was to wake up to something different, a space that was her own.

Ron had his own room set aside, but he'd moved in with her instead. After the extraordinary love and kindness he showed her, Hermione wouldn't have it any other way. "Of course I want you in here with me, besides," she smiled, "look around—you decorated my room with Chudley Canon colors."

"I was told the color was Peach Sunset."

"It's lovely, but let's be honest, Ron—it's orange." Hermione laughed, the first true laugh she'd had in weeks. "And it's perfect. I adore it."

Hermione stood at her bookcase, finally motivated to take the time to go through and organize everything. Ron had left with Harry for their work in the Auror office, and she was alone aside from Kreacher, whom she could hear on the landing below, mumbling to himself as he polished the banisters. Outside the wind had picked up, the red and gold trees swaying in an autumnal union. She reached forward and grabbed the next book. Hermione paused, noticing it was her favorite, Hogwarts: A History. The cover was frayed in a few spots, and an ink stain was upon the bottom left corner. For a moment, Hermione didn't react; she just stared down at it, a faint longing growing within her.

She opened it and something fell from the inside jacket. Reaching down, Hermione picked the parchment off the carpet. Surprised, she realized it was one of the letters she'd received a few weeks earlier. She looked at her name upon the envelope, anticipation filling her as she recognized Guillaume's handwriting. Hermione set down the book and opened it. The top of the letter was dated for that very day, but it was followed only by four, simple words.

My offer still stands.

oOoOoOo

.

.

.

.

.

A/N: "I've really been enjoying writing Ron here, and a lot of reviewers have been saying how much you like my interpretation of him! Thank you! So many writers like to bash the alt-ship in a story like this, which never makes sense. Make the alternate love interest crap, you understand why the protagonist leaves; make him perfect and there's your tension. Again, thanks for the support and feel free to review!" – E