I Defy You, Stars

Hermione Granger never thought about the after. What happens after a rushed kiss in a dungeon? What happens after her parents have returned with broken memories? What happens to the Golden Girl after her shining moment ends? So, she runs away from the after. Now, five years deep into her retreat in Verona, she receives an invitation she cannot ignore and returns to find a perplexing present. Are the stars written to have her run away forever? Or are they meant to be defied? And why does a certain man want so badly to be intertwined in her new world?

A pen leaked in the small front compartment of her backpack, a large ink stain forming on the once pristine grey cloth. This was a good Christmas gift, Hermione thinks inwardly and sighs outwardly. The last one she gave me before- no. This is fine. I am here.

She swiftly moves the pens into a small pouch and puts the new addition into the bag, zipping it up soundly. Hermione looks at the rumpled cardigan strewn across the head of her sofa, deciding against bringing it. The weather in Verona has always been on the warmer side, but now that she's entering her fifth summer here, she's more than accustomed to the heat. Soundly ignoring the overflowing mail on the refurbished side table next to the door, she plucks the keys from a small bowl, the metals jingling with the spare lira and paperclips underneath. She shuts the door behind her, locking it, and jiggles the handle twice before she's satisfied. Looking at her small watch, she finds herself running early and makes a mental note to stop for a coffee.

The walk to the café was always a pleasure for Hermione. While there were many beautiful, man-made architectures in the city she can admire, she finds nature's gifts much more appealing. The Adige River is one of the longest rivers in Italy and is crossed by several bridges. Hermione prefers walking across the Ponte Pietra as it gives her a bit of wonder to be carefully stepping on the oldest bridge in Verona. If there was one thing that remained true for Hermione Granger, it's that she never does anything by halves. That includes her infatuations and goals. A first edition Alexander Dumas? Purchased in a heartbeat and sitting proudly on her living room shelf. Looking for a new coffee maker? Her espresso machine was recommended by a professional barista and her cabinet is stocked full of the richest brews she could afford. The Dark Lord has seven horcruxes they must find and destroy? She drops everything and leaves her muggle house with a charmed bag full of supplies and parents that won't look for her.

After her final steps off the bridge, Hermione turns left into a quiet street, rummaging through her backpack to make sure she bought her old journal, not the new one she purchased at the vendors at the end of the street. Nodding in confirmation as soon as she felt the soft cover of the book, she slows her walk when she spots the yellow sign of Caffè Solare, the one she has been visiting for years now. The light tinkling of a bell meets her ears before the greeting does.

"Mio cara! I was afraid you have been ignoring me," a tall and skinny older gentleman walks over from the front counter.

"Non vorrei mai, Senior. It would be a crime to stay away too long from a dear friend," Hermione smiles warmly but cringes slightly at the hypocrisy of her greeting. When was the last time I've responded to their letters?

Senior Lucas takes her hand and stoops down to place a kiss on each of her cheeks. "I will have your order ready in a minute. Make yourself comfortable, mio cara." Hermione says a quiet thanks and walks to the end corner of the long, skinny table against the window facing the street, glimmers of the Adige's waters shining through the trees along the old brick sidewalk. She places her bag on the tall stool beside her, claiming her solitude, and takes out her old, leather encased journal. The initials H.J.G scarcely legible in its faded, gold imprint. Another present, she remembers fondly.

"I know it's not much, but you at least have to close your eyes, 'Mione." A warm voice jokes as he leads her to the burgundy couch, making sure to avoid the wrappings on the floor. Once seated, she hears the slight thud of a body sitting across from her on the wooden round table. Biting her lip sheepishly, she feels a solid weight placed on her lap. Brushing her hand slowly along the spine, she's delighted to find the familiar shape of a book. Hermione opens her eyes to see Harry Potter's green ones gazing back, a small smile present on his lips.

"Open it," he says.

With careful fingers, she peels the tape off bit by bit, finding it unceremonious to rip through wrapping paper as Ron does without fail. The smooth leather catches her attention at first, the color a dark, oak shade. Then she spots the three, small letters on the middle of the surface. She snaps her attention back to Harry.

"You read so much, I'm sure your head is full of words. I thought, maybe for a change, you'd want to write some down instead of-" Hermione doesn't give him the chance to finish as she leaps forward and tugs him in for a hug. "I love it. Thank you."

Harry returns her embrace, a fond look across his face. "Ginny has the rest of your gift. Pens, I believe. Easier than quills, as you've mentioned many times before." Hermione giggles and pulls away.

"But be careful, though. I've had a couple explode on me."

The slight clink of a cup being placed next to her broke her reverie. "Ciao, Miss Granger. You are earlier today than usual," a familiar man says. Hermione welcomes him with a smile. "Ciao, Andres. I believe I am, and I also believe I've asked you to call me Hermione."

Andres, the oldest son of Senior Lucas, grins down at her. His handsome features brighten and his dark hair flounces across his forehead as the door opens and a breeze sweeps in. Hermione faintly hears Senior Lucas' greeting to the new customer. "When you finally accept my request for a date, Miss Granger, I will gladly call you by your first name," he winks and walks away. His father's shouts of "Non spaventare I miei clienti!" makes Hermione laugh and shakes her head.

Opening to the middle of the book, she skims over the last paragraph she's written. Her heroine has just started to notice her rival's meager attempts at reconciliation. The alphabetization of the haphazard books on her desk and the off-handed compliments on her detailed notes on Caravaggio were all small steps, but greatly appreciated.

"I'm surprised your handwriting is this neat with how fast you write, 'Mione," Ron once said, many years ago when her parents still trusted her and before the scratchings of a madwoman were imbedded faintly on her forearm- no. She tugs at her long sleeve.

This is fine. I am here.

Hermione slows her escalated breathing and sips on her coffee. A hot latte with half cream and no sugar. She grabs a pen from the small pouch in the front compartment of her bag, no more spills, and begins to write.

Charlotte notices the small changes in his demeanor. Less tense and more relaxed in his greeting of her. As the day progresses, she can't help but find his eyes already on her whenever she looks up from her magnifying glass. While the analyzing of the different strokes of paint across old canvases always enthralled her, Charlotte found the weight of his gaze slightly more interesting.

Was that the correct term? Interesting? Is that how Hermione felt when Ron used to look at her? She couldn't remember now. Did she feel giddy, like the young schoolgirl she was? What about after the defeat of one of the strongest dark wizards of all time? When the storm calmed, she can't remember Ron's gaze. Only the rows of limp bodies across the ruined cafeteria floor at Hogwarts, their eyes empty and void. The safest place on Earth, she recalled Hagrid's words. How wrong they were.

Staring at the page, Hermione remembers why she hasn't been to Caffè Solare. She was stuck in a writer's block. After two weeks of watching romantic comedies and tear-jerking films, she still couldn't feel the heart in her writing. Finishing her cup, Hermione makes her way towards the counter and pulls out a couple of bills, handing them to Senior Lucas.

"Mio cara, what is wrong? You dropped your pen like Andres drops his calcio when he doesn't win," the older man takes only half of the bills Hermione drops, shoving the rest towards her. Before she can object, Senior Lucas holds up his finger. "If it is inspiration you need, might I suggest a visit to the famous Casa di Giulietta. There is enough heart break in that place to fill ten lifetimes."

Hermione pauses. She's heard of Juliet's Wall. The place where lost souls go where they have nowhere else to turn to. And where Hermione Granger is concerned, finding things have always been her strong suit. She reaches out and caresses Senior Lucas' wrinkled hand, "Grazie, Senior." Before she turns fully to walk out, she calls over her shoulder, "I love the new sign, by the way. The yellow is quite appeasing."

Senior Lucas shakes his head, cursing under his breath. "I asked for Tuscany Gold, and the idioti gives me yellow. You cannot leave even a simple paint job to other people nowadays, mio cara."

Hermione was delighted to find the walk to the Casa di Giulietta was only a few minutes, amazed as to why she hasn't visited before with the landmark being so close. Gazing at the tunnel littered with notes on the walls in front of her, she answered her own question silently. In truth, Hermione finds comfort in routine. Wake up at six on the weekdays, floo to her office at the Italian Ministry of Magic, grab a small lunch at the cafeteria by noon, and return home at four on the dot to prepare for dinner. On the weekends, she walks to the café, writes a few more paragraphs in her journal, stops by her local market, and makes it home just before Crookshanks claws at the door for food. "Stop acting like I starve you, Crooks," she'll mumble to her aging cat as he feasts on the bowl she sets down next to her sink.

Her mundane life here in Verona was something Hermione held dear. After months of living in a tent, looking over her shoulder at every snap of a twig, and after a year of restless nights littered with nightmares in her old bed during her eighth year at Hogwarts, Hermione needed a place to start fresh. A place where no one would stop her along the streets, thanking her for her bravery. A place where the whispers of look, there's the Golden Girl, would not break her thoughts.

"The wizarding world cannot thank you enough, Miss Granger. We are all indebted to you and your friends." A gushing mother tells her, shaking her hand vigorously while a toddler peeks through her legs.

"It was the right thing to do," she automatically replies. The scars on her left forearm stung, causing her to drop the woman's hand to adjust her sleeve.

The public only wants to hear about the successes of their heroes, never their failures. When in truth, the right thing to do had cost her so much. Her relationship with her parents, the boy she thought she loved, and a sound mind. After a year of night terrors and sleepless nights, Hermione finally reached out to find help. While her trips to Healer Trescott were short lived and mostly unhelpful, she did find that a mantra helped ease her out of flashbacks. This is fine. I am here.

When she saw that everyone around her seemed to fit right into their new normal, with Harry becoming an Auror without having to take his NEWTs and Ron traveling around the world with Charlie to find dragons, Hermione felt lost. While there were job offers at the Ministry left and right, she couldn't find it in herself to accept any. How could the Golden Girl shine without her best friends? Would everyone see how much her light had dimmed?

During the war, there was no room for failure. There was too much hanging on the balance, too many lives that needed saving. Harry and Ron looked to her as much as every other wizard and witch.

"I'm doing everything I can- "

"You're not doing enough!"

No, failure was not an option. And she felt it inevitable the longer she stayed, so she fled. As soon as graduation ended, Hermione sent out letters full of apologies and pleads to understand to everyone she deemed important. Ron didn't respond to her letter for months, but she found his short reply during her first birthday spent in Italy.

Come and visit when you can. Stay safe. Happy birthday, 'Mione. Love, Ron.

Harry was quick to assure her to take her time and that they would all be waiting for her to return. Ginny would send a care package every month of her favorite candies and three or four prints of The Daily Prophet, keeping her up to date. Molly sent a howler, blubbering over how much she'd be missed and to please visit soon. Jean and Elias Granger took the longest to reply. Hermione wonders when her parents would forgive her, or if they ever would. Though, she did sympathize with them. After all, having your only daughter force her magic on you and tampering with your memories can be deemed unforgivable.

Flittering her eyes across the walls of the tunnel, she makes her way slowly down, avoiding the crestfallen eyes of other visitors and the soft cries of the sorrowful. She reaches the open platform, gazing upon the bronze statue of Juliet Capulet holding a hand to her heart, as if to keep it from breaking any further. Looking to her right, Hermione finds the brick wall covered far and wide with more letters and notes, some pasted open and boldly, others folded and shoved discreetly between the cracks. Beside arched windows and a wall of intricate vines lay Juliet's balcony, small and worn down. In comparison to other buildings all over Verona, the balcony was quite underwhelming and a little sad to look upon. Was this truly the infamous place star-crossed lovers shouted their affections and sorrows to each other?

Finding an open bench to sit on, Hermione walked over and took out her journal, flipping to a fresh page. She peered around, studying the faces and interactions of those around her. Some were tourists taking pictures and eagerly listening to their guides about the history of the place. Others were locals, finding time in their day to place their secrets on the wall, probably one of many they have written before. The sorrowful faces contrasted immensely with the bright, hopeful ones. Senior Lucas was right, there was enough heart break in this little corner of Verona to fill the whole city. But he forgot to mention the happiness that can be found here as well. Amongst the throng of people, there are wistful faces of dreamers and lovers. Hermione felt something bloom in her heart as she took in the crowd; hope. Something she hasn't felt in a long time. It reminded her of the boys' laughter in the Gryffindor common room at her remark of Ron's emotional range. A teaspoon, she holds a smile back at the fond memory. It reminded her of reading the Sunday comics with her father, giggling over the cartoon antics. It reminded her of how warm the pair of hands she was holding while standing on that dilapidated bridge, looking at the ripples of the water below. "I know just what to do."

When the crowds began to dwindle with only a handful of people left, the sun was reaching its golden hour. Before Hermione makes her trek back to her little cottage, she decides to stand up and walk towards the wall.

I wonder, she holds her hand up to touch a letter.

What better way to properly understand love than to read the heartfelt words of someone who felt it so strongly they had to pour it on a sheet of paper? Hermione carefully peels the letter from the brick and opens it, thankful it was written in English. While her Italian was near perfect, it is not something she can read through quickly and naturally. The penmanship was elegant, and only a few tear stains scattered across the ink.

He feels like home, Juliet.

The way his arms feel wrapped around me tight, and his dimpled smile wide. How can I ever return to what it was like before him? I remember the day I lost him. His back to me, and he walked out of my life forever. Now when I return to my house, I feel like I'm walking through a stranger's home.

Is this how ghosts feel when they wander?

There is a difference between living and surviving, I have learned, and I'm afraid I cannot truly live without him. I want to go home, Juliet.

The letter ends abruptly, as if the writer cannot bear to speak on the subject any longer. The platform is empty now and the last few lights of the sun streams over the vines, coloring the wall in a soft glow.

"Well?" Hermione directs her question to the ghost of Juliet Capulet on her balcony. "Have you ever longed for home?"

Putting the letter back in its place, she walks back through the tunnel and out into the empty street and passed Caffè Solare. Her mind plagued with the question, Hermione lets herself be lost in the memories of times before, thinking back to a place filled with hope and family.

It was half past eight when she returned home. Crookshanks graced new additions to the scratch marks on her door, haughtily looking at her while she puts his bowl down on the tiled floor. Hermione almost apologizes for the break in her routine but goes against it. With a lighter heart, she prepares her bath after a short meal of a caprese salad and risotto.

Maybe a break from routine isn't so bad. If Crooks can allow it.

With a fresh set of pajamas on and a towel running through her wet curls, Hermione hums a tune she heard through the café's speakers, making a note of asking Senior Lucas to recommend his favorite artists and songs. Reaching her desk beside the window, she checks her list of things to do that day. Noticing the empty space at the bottom of the designated square for July 3rd, she writes down "Juliet's Wall", planning to visit again the next day to complete her weekend.

A sharp knock against her window startled her, her brows furrowing and head tilting to the sudden intrusion. Reaching over her desk, she peals the curtains apart slightly, cautious. Staring back at her, she finds the large and unblinking beam of a familiar owl.

"Hedwig?" she gasps, hastily opening the window and letting the bird flitter in. She gazes at him wondrously, a rushing feeling of nostalgia floods through her body down to her toes. What was he doing here? Is something wrong? Harry has never sent Hedwig before. It's quite a far journey from Great Britain to Italy, after all. Hermione instantly goes into her kitchen, looking for treats and a small cup of water for the tired owl. Hedwig graciously accepted her offerings, but not before looking down at his foot, signaling his reason for the intrusion.

As gently as she could, Hermione pulls at the string attaching the small note to his leg, sitting down ungracefully on the edge of her bed and tucking her legs beneath her. She tucks her damp hair behind her ears, ensuring a full view of what the parchment has in its contents. As she rolls the paper out, she takes in the unmistakable handwriting of her old friend.

Hermione,

I've noticed you've been a little busy and haven't been responding to most of our letters. So instead of having it get lost in the mail, I thought it best to give you this invitation as personally as I could without having to use the international floo (you know I've always hated that).

Ginny and I are getting married on July 28th. We want nothing more than for you to be there. We miss you, 'Mione. Please accept.

Love, Harry.

(P.S. Ginny wants you to be the maid of honor, so please prepare yourself)

She reads the letter twice, three times, and more. A flurry of emotions was exhaled in long breaths.

Hermione Granger was going home.

Author's Note

My first piece of fiction in a while. I've been sitting on this story for the past month and I've finally found the courage to actually write it down. I hope you enjoy, dear reader.

Next update: November 25