Early the next morning, Hermione Apparated with a loud pop into the Weasleys' front garden.

She gazed up at the crooked house that held so many happy memories. The Burrow had always been a place of refuge, a home from home in the wizarding world, but that morning she felt a wariness she'd never felt before as she made her way down the winding garden path. With a fortifying deep breath, she approached the house and knocked. The door immediately opened to reveal a tired-looking Mrs Weasley.

'Oh, Hermione, dear, come in,' the older woman said with a welcoming smile.

Guess Ron hasn't told her about our argument then, Hermione thought with a little relief.

'Thanks, Mrs Weasley,' she said, stepping through into the cosy kitchen. 'I'm sorry for intruding so early, but is Ron here by any chance?'

'He is,' she said with a small scowl, and wiped her hands on her apron. 'Turned up late last night, pissed as a skrewt. Been at the pub in the village with Bill, and was too drunk to Apparate all the way back to London, I'll bet. He's probably still asleep, poor dear. Have you eaten breakfast? I've made pancakes,' she added.

Hermione said she had, and yet somehow ended up seated at the kitchen table being presented with a large pile of blueberry pancakes drenched in maple syrup. No doubt Mrs Weasley thought she needed fattening up – after a year of living on scraps, she was still more than a stone lighter than she had been a year ago, and she hadn't exactly had much to lose to begin with.

There must have been something magic in Mrs Weasley's cooking, because as soon as the plate was laid before her, her stomach began to growl and she ate with gusto, even despite the gnawing anxiety in her gut at the coming conversation with Ron. After her plate was clear, Hermione helped Mrs Weasley with the dishes while the older woman quizzed her about her parents' return to England and her plans to return to Hogwarts in the autumn. Finally, at a quarter to ten, Hermione heard the shuffling of feet upstairs and the slamming of a door. A few seconds later, Ron stumbled into the kitchen, mid yawn, where he stopped abruptly in the doorway – he'd spotted her.

She smiled an awkward smile.

'Hi.'

'All right?' he returned, with a blank look.

Apparently sensing the sudden tension in the room, Mrs Weasley made herself scarce, hurrying upstairs and muttering something about laundry.

'Can we talk?' said Hermione nervously.

Ron did not meet her eyes as he crossed the kitchen and poured himself a coffee. 'Sure,' he said, his voice flat and guarded. 'What about?'

'You know what.'

'Enlighten me,' he said, and took a slurp of coffee.

Hermione sighed; he wasn't going to make this easy, was he? She took a moment to collect her thoughts and took a seat at the kitchen table. But just as she was about to speak, there was a creak at the top of the stairs. She halted; she wouldn't put it past Mrs Weasley to be eavesdropping on them – nosy busybody that she could be – and this definitely wasn't a conversation she wanted to be overheard.

She pulled out her wand to cast a nonverbal Muffliato, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Ron flinch.

'Muffliato,' she said aloud. Ron visibly relaxed, and she hastily stuffed her wand back up her sleeve.

'Look, Ron,' she began, 'I'm sorry for what I said yesterday. I was angry and I said some things I didn't mean. I didn't mean to imply I didn't care about you, because obviously I do. And I know I've not been as attentive as you've needed me to—'

'You attacked me, Hermione,' Ron interrupted harshly.

'I—' Instinctively, she began to defend herself, but she stopped just in time. Her entire body slumped. She'd been so preoccupied by the horrid things they'd said to one another, she'd barely paused to think about the fact that, to all intents and purposes, she had assaulted her own boyfriend …

No wonder he was afraid when I took my wand out just now, came the niggling voice of her conscience. My God, what have I done?

'I know,' she whispered. 'And I'm so sorry, Ron. I lost control. I just got so angry when you implied …' She trailed off – there was no use trying to excuse her behaviour. He hadn't deserved it, no matter what he'd said. She dipped her head to hide the tears that were forming again. 'Well, it doesn't matter now.'

For what felt like minutes, Ron said nothing, and the only sounds were the gentle bubbling of the large pot on the stove and the ticking of the Weasleys' infamous clock. Finally, he took a seat opposite from her.

'I'm sorry, too,' he sighed. 'I said some stupid things I didn't mean.'

'We both did,' said Hermione in a glum tone. 'But I'm the only one who resorted to physical assault.'

Ron made a face. 'Assault's a bit of a stretch.'

Of course Ron would say that; it was the pureblood in him showing through. After all, in the messed-up morality of the wizarding world, hexing one's partner on a regular basis was practically par for the course. In a world where physical injuries could be easily patched up with a quick potion or healing charm, perhaps it was inevitable. But Hermione was the one who was constantly railing against the backwards laws and ideas of the wizarding world. She was supposed to know better. Well, hadn't yesterday blasted a hole through that particular delusion? Hadn't she proven herself to be just as immature as she always accused Ron of being?

'I really am sorry,' she whispered, her voice close to cracking.

Ron leaned across the table, sensing her distress. 'I don't hold it against you. I was a git. I probably deserved it.'

'No,' she said firmly, shaking her head. 'I mean you were a git, but there's no excusing what I did.'

'Let's just forget it, yeah?'

Hermione let out a breath and nodded, though she knew it would be playing on her mind for a long time to come.

'I'm sorry for what I said about … well, you know, him,' Ron said, leaning back again to awkwardly scratch the back of his neck. 'I didn't mean it obviously. I just … I've missed you the last couple of weeks. I know it's important, but I won't lie – I wish you weren't getting yourself involved with him.'

'What do you mean?'

'It's dangerous, Hermione. He's a divisive figure, and you're not doing yourself any favours by helping him.'

'But it's the right thing to do!'

'I know,' he said quickly. 'But I still don't like it. And I don't see why it has to be you.'

She let out a breath and looked away from Ron's concerned gaze. 'I can't explain it other than it's just something I feel I have to do,' she said, struggling to keep her voice from betraying her frustration. Ron would never understand, she knew. As far as he saw it, Hermione had already done more than enough for Snape (and more than he deserved no doubt) by saving the man's life. He would never understand that that was precisely the reason why she had to help him - she hadn't saved Snape's life, not yet. For was the use of being alive if one was not free?

Hermione glanced back at Ron through her eyelashes. 'You could help, you know. It might do you some good. Give you something to focus on other than Fred.'

She knew it was the wrong thing to say before she'd even finished the sentence. Ron's ears turned a particularly unflattering shade of red as an angry look spread across his face.

'So it's my fault I'm still a mess? I just need to hand out a few leaflets and I'd get over my brother's death, is that what you think?'

'That's not what I meant, and you know it! I just want to help you, Ron, but whatever I do or say seems to be the wrong thing these days.'

There was a terse silence.

'Maybe we just deal with grief differently,' he said after a while. 'You need to keep busy, and I need to spend time with the people I love.'

She felt herself grow hot. It was the first time either of them had mentioned the "love" word, and she didn't know how to respond; now hardly seemed the time for such declarations. Besides, she wasn't even sure she—

'Maybe …' Ron said, startling her from her thoughts, 'maybe we should …' He trailed off again.

'What?' she pressed anxiously. God, was he breaking up with her?

He let out a long sigh. 'Maybe I should just stay here for a while. Until Snape's trial's over. It'd give you the space to do what you need to without having to worry about me, and I'd be able to spend time with my family without feeling like a burden on anyone.'

She stared at him silently, barely hearing the words that came out of his mouth. How had they had come to this when a few short weeks ago everything had been perfectly fine?

'You know it makes sense,' said Ron.

Hermione frowned. 'Are you sure?'

'I think it would be for the best.'

A heavy silence fell between the pair as they both absorbed what felt like a seismic shift in the course of their relationship.

'Besides,' said Ron eventually in a significantly lighter voice, 'Mum's cooking is way better than Kreacher's.'

'I should have known this was all really about food,' said Hermione in a mock-annoyed tone.

He leaned across the table and reached for her hand, running his thumb across her knuckles in an unexpected display of affection, all animosity between them seemingly forgotten.

'Let's go away together afterwards, yeah? Just the two of us,' said Ron. 'Even just for a weekend or something.'

'That sounds like a good idea,' she said, then screwed up her nose. 'Just as long as it's not camping. I think had enough of that for a lifetime.'

Ron laughed. 'No camping then. It's a deal.'

oOo

She had no desire to return immediately to Grimmauld Place, for that would mean facing Harry and Ginny, and she couldn't bear to see them, to have her face rubbed in their happiness and be reminded of how dismal a failure her own relationship was in comparison. She and Ron might have parted on good terms, but she could not help but feel as though they had fallen spectacularly at the first real hurdle of their relationship. What sort of solution was it that they had voluntarily decided to spend time apart? What did it mean for their future?

Instead, she Apparated to London, to a dark alleyway used only by wizards and Muggle alcoholics who took the occasional abrupt appearance of a man or woman in long flowing robes to be nothing more unusual than a vodka-induced hallucination. From there, she made her way through London's packed streets to Hyde Park where she took a seat on a bench by the lake. She watched as a little girl of about six or seven laughed happily as she threw chunks of bread to the flock of geese that surrounded her. For several minutes she watched the girl, absorbed by the sheer joy that emanated from her.

Had Hermione ever been as happy and carefree as that little girl? If she had, she couldn't remember it. As far back as she could recall, she'd known there was something different about her, something that set her apart from the rest of the people she knew, even her own family. As a young girl, she'd been ostracised from her classmates both for her bookishness and for the strange occurrences that seemed to follow her wherever she went. She'd tried her hardest to fit in, but deep down she'd known she never would. Her Hogwarts letter had changed all that. Suddenly her strange outbursts – the tendency for electrical appliances to break when she held them, books that disappeared spontaneously off tall shelves she couldn't possibly reach and appeared in her hands, the strange affinity she seemed to have with the neighbourhood's cats – could all be explained. Hogwarts had sounded like a dream, the way Professor McGonagall had described it when she'd arrived to explain to her parents about the existence of wizardkind. This was her chance to start afresh, to be among people who would understand her, who would appreciate her abilities for what they were and wouldn't bully and mock her for them.

Except that hadn't happened at all. Her first two months at Hogwarts had been almost as isolated and alone as she'd always been. She still remembered vividly the way Ron had talked about her: 'She's a nightmare, honestly. It's no wonder she hasn't got any friends!' That had broken her heart – all her greatest fears come true, that she would be as friendless and ostracised in the magical world as she'd been in the Muggle one. To this day the words stung when she recalled them. And then Harry and Ron had befriended her, and because of that friendship she'd been forced to confront the dark side of magic far sooner that she should have had to. Not that she begrudged Harry any of it; she loved him like a brother and had willingly followed him into battle many a time, would gladly do so again.

But it had meant that she had never got to experience what one might call a normal, carefree childhood.

She watched as the little girl ran up to her dad, who picked her up and swung her around in a circle. The girl squealed in delight. Hermione smiled wistfully, and the urge to speak to her own parents – to the only people who'd ever fully accepted her – came on so strongly it was like being hit by a bludger.

Mind made up, she rose from the bench and crossed the street, making for the nearest phone box. Normally, she'd simply Apparate to their front door – it was only a few miles away after all, in Wimbledon – but she forced herself to remember that they were Muggles, they might not appreciate her simply turning up on their doorstep without a warning the way wizards were wont to.

She fished into her beaded bag – which she was still in the habit of carrying around in case of emergencies – and pulled out a few coins, which she pushed into the slot. Then she dialled her parents' number.

'Hello?' came her mother's voice after a few rings.

'Mum? It's me.'

There was a pause. 'Hermione – what are you doing calling us? I thought your lot didn't have phones.'

Your lot. The phrase stung.

'I'm in a phone box, near Hyde Park. I thought I'd ring quickly and see how you're getting on.'

'Oh, we're as well as can be,' her mum said, an odd tone to her voice. 'Just about settled in again after our unexpected gap year.'

Her heart sunk. 'Mum—'

'So what news do you have?' her mother cut in before Hermione could apologise for the hundredth time.

She said nothing, her words lodged behind the great lump in her throat. What had she called for exactly? There had been no reason in particular – she'd just wanted to hear her mum's voice, to be comforted by it …

'Hermione? Are you there?'

'I'm here,' she said as she choked back tears. 'I thought I might pop over this afternoon if you're free.'

'We can't, I'm afraid,' said her mum almost immediately. 'We've got Sandra and Tim coming for lunch. It's a bit awkward actually, we were due at theirs for a dinner party last July, which obviously we never showed up for.' Hermione winced at the not-so-thinly-veiled accusation in her mother's tone. 'Then I bumped into her at Waitrose the other day – it was utterly mortifying! I had to come up with some cock and bull story about an elderly relative in Australia who'd had a horrid accident, and that we'd had to fly straight over there without so much as a goodbye to any of our friends. I only hope we can salvage something of the relationship we had before, but it's going to take an awful lot of explaining. She seemed to buy the story at least.'

Guilt pierced through her. 'Mum, if there's anything I can do—'

'Oh, you've done quite enough already, Hermione.'

'I didn't mean magic, I meant just … Oh, never mind.' She sighed and continued, 'Maybe I can come over next week instead?'

There was a pause. When her mum spoke again, her voice was lowered and there was a strained quality to it. 'The truth is, Hermione, I don't think either of us are quite up to it yet. It's a lot to take in, everything you did, and we … well, your father in particular … we just need some time.'

Even though there was no one around to see her tears, Hermione dipped her head all the same.

'Okay,' she said, her voice hitching a little. She cleared her throat. 'I respect that. And I understand.'

'I'm sorry, Hermione,' her mum said, more sympathetically now. 'We'll get in touch soon, I promise.'

'Okay.'

'Are you sure everything's alright with you?'

'Yes, I'm fine, honest,' she said in as straight a voice as she could as she wiped the tears from her cheek.

'Alright,' said her mum. 'Look, I'm going to have to go, I've left your dad in charge of the coq au vin you know what he's like, if I leave him more than five minutes there won't be a kitchen to go back to.'

Hermione laughed half-heartedly. 'Alright. Bye then.'

'Bye, darling.'

'I lo—'

But her mum had already hung up.

oOo

Her two breakfasts carried her straight through lunch. Hermione wandered the streets of London aimlessly all morning and half the afternoon, with no thought to where she was going or how long she'd been walking. The sky had clouded over now, and the dark-grey clouds overhead were threatening to burst any second, to finally end the week-long heatwave with a much-needed shower. The Muggle sunbathers had long since deserted the parks, seeking refuge in the numerous coffee shops and department stores, but to Hermione the change in weather was of little consequence; a quick Imperturbable charm on her clothing and she did not bat an eyelid when the first drop of rain fell and landed on the end of her nose.

She trudged on, her entire body set with fatigue, not just from the last twenty-four hours, but the last few weeks, or perhaps even the whole year.

Her mind soon drifted back to her conversation with her mother. Was she wrong to hope her parents would have forgiven her already? But then she could hardly blame them; years and years of obfuscating the truth meant they had no real idea of the danger they'd been in.

They'd known about Voldemort, of course, but their knowledge had been largely limited to the few fragments Hermione had mentioned to them over the years, and she'd persistently downplayed his influence and the danger he posed – and she'd told them nothing of her own involvement in it all. They hadn't even known about the battle at the Department of Mysteries at the end of her fifth year, or about the life-threatening injuries she'd sustained from Dolohov. Neither had Professor Dumbledore informed them about it. While recuperating in the Hospital Wing, Hermione was astounded to have been paid a visit by the Headmaster, and even more astounded when the old wizard told her he had no intention of writing to her parents about the battle, as he was technically obliged to do when any student came to harm. He'd not given his reasons, and she'd inferred it was because he didn't want to risk her parents pulling her from school – oh, not for her own sake of course, but for Harry's. Harry would need her in the coming war, and the Headmaster had known it.

As a result, Hermione's parents were oblivious to how closely their only daughter was caught up in the war that was tearing wizarding society apart. She had tried to explain it retrospectively, after she'd reversed the memory charm, but they'd barely taken it in. As far as they saw it, Hermione had unjustly robbed them of their home, their livelihood, their free will, their daughter. Far from the happy reunion she'd envisioned, those few days in Australia had mostly consisted of heated arguments followed by terse silences.

A great weariness came over her all of a sudden. It had been an emotionally draining day. She really should be getting back to Grimmauld, but she wasn't looking forward to informing Harry that Ron had left – again.

Hermione took a left turn down a well-known but currently deserted street lined with antique shops and independent cafes. After a while, she came to a stop in front of one of these cafes, her nose having carried her there almost by instinct by the lush smells that emanated from the doorway. Her stomach rumbled loudly as she peered into the window at the array of cakes and biscuits on offer, and eyed a particularly luscious-looking pear and cinnamon cake. Would Kreacher be offended, she wondered, if she bought one for the house? The house-elf could cook up a wonderful stew, but baked goods weren't really his forte. And it had been so long since the decadent desserts of Hogwarts … Even as the daughter of dentists, she'd sorely missed them during her year on the run.

Besides, she'd need something to make it up to the others for hounding Ron out of the house.

Mind made up, she stepped forwards to enter the shop. Just as she was about to cross the threshold, however, she stilled.

And gasped.

In the reflection of the glass door was the outline of a dark figure, tall and hooded, seeming to watch her from across the street.

Her heart stalled as panic assailed her. In a split second, all her senses were on high alert. What had she been thinking roaming London by herself when there were Death Eaters on the loose? Just because she was in Muggle London didn't mean there was no need to keep up her guard.

Sweat beaded on her forehead, her heart began to race. She pretended to peruse the offerings in the shop window as, slowly, shakily, her hand went to her wand up her sleeve. Gripping it tight, she summoned her courage.

She whipped around, her wand straight out in front of her, a disarming spell on the tip of her tongue. But just as she turned, a bus roared past, and her view was obscured by a wall of red. Hermione swore under her breath and stood stock still, wand arm outstretched and ready to defend herself if need be.

The bus moved on, and she found herself staring at … nothing. Only a parking machine where the figure had been moments before.

Her eyes darted up and down the deserted street, but there was no one. Just grey tarmac and a cluster of pigeons feeding on the remains of a discarded sandwich they'd salvaged from an overflowing bin. There was no sign anyone had been there at all. She cast a non-verbal Homenum Revelio, and let out a small sigh of relief when the spell revealed it was clear.

But something prevented her from fully relaxing. She turned back to the bakery window and stared at the reflection of the ticket machine: tall and black and, through the drizzle and dim light, easy to mistake for something – or someone – much more sinister. Was it possible she had hallucinated the figure due to exhaustion and the stress of the morning?

Great, she thought wryly. Now I get to add seeing things to my ever-growing list of problems.

Still, she could not shake off the deep sense of unease in her bones.

It was then she noticed the parked cab, the driver of which was giving her a very strange look. Hermione thought she must have been an odd sight indeed, standing out in the rain, holding a wooden stick, and staring warily at a perfectly ordinary parking machine.

Embarrassed, she hastily shoved her wand back up her sleeve and tried her best to look nonchalant before turning and fleeing the main road, all thoughts of pear and cinnamon cake now forgotten. She headed for the nearest dark alley, from which she Disapparated with a loud pop back to Grimmauld Place, all the while fighting the prickling sensation on the back of her neck that told her she was being followed.