Hermione woke up well before the alarm.

She lay in bed with her eyes shut, breath evening after…a nightmare? A dream that'd left her feeling bundled up and trapped. She blamed the blankets. There were too many of them. They made her stifling hot and—why were they tangled around her?

Hermione unwrapped herself blearily, emptying her side of the bed. Finishing she lay back against the pillow, blankets pooled around her feet, gaze on the ceiling. Minutes ticked by and the uncomfortable feeling continued. There was nothing else to take off to quell the heat.

She wrenched her eyes back shut and fidgeted. She stopped when Ron shuffled next to her, not wanting to wake him. Because she was being silly. Or maybe she wasn't being silly, but she didn't want to talk about it. He also wouldn't want to talk about it, but he'd listen, and god it'd only make her feel more horrible and…

Plenty of people had dreams, she didn't have to take hers literally. If someone dreamt of being lost in a labyrinth, that didn't mean they had a phobia of mazes. A dream about teetering at the edge of a building didn't mean one was suicidal. So she shouldn't make too much of hers.

Hermione rolled away from Ron. A dream or two about being trapped in a coffin? She could take it, no problem. Just like the nightmares of being drowned in poison. Or being hit with the killing curse. Or being locked in a cell, starving, fading away with no one there.

Arms, now wrapped around her head. Eyes closed tight. Breathing unsteady. 101 ways to die? Some days, she honestly wondered if something was wrong with her mind.

"Hey," came a low voice. It wasn't quite a question and wasn't quite a good morning. She felt hands over her own. "You okay?"

"I'm fine." Hermione straightened up, telling herself that shoving off her husband in the process was an accident. "You're up early."

Ron didn't answer. His silent, 'You bloody well are too," was clear. As was his concern, and heavens if it wasn't the most aggravating thing. She swept off the bed, the chilly wood floor beneath her feet and a phobia tugging her thoughts.

"Shower." Hermione gestured at the loo unnecessarily before heading to it, not glancing at Ron. She wasn't sure if she yearned to move, to get away from him, or to wash off the dream. But a burning hot shower suddenly sounded wonderful. Actually, not hot (she decided as she shut the bathroom door). A rush of burning cold water, that's what she needed.

"Any plans today?" Ron called from outside. She wondered why he didn't just come in. But wait: she'd slammed the door without thinking, hadn't she. He'd surely gotten the hint. "I thought it'd be nice to go to Diagon before dinner tonight."

Hermione brushed her hair and bit her lip. She could practically hear Ron fidgeting.

"It's been ages since we've been out for no reason," he continued. "We could play hooky from the Ministry. Maybe take the kids to the zoo? Or, I think George has these new trampolines in. Bounces regular, sideways, and upside down. Not exactly sure what he meant by that, but it should be a laugh. Or we could visit your parents? I know we just did, but with the baby—"

"I have lunch plans!" Hermione set down the brush. Her reflection was pale. She'd lost weight, she thought. She hadn't been keeping track, but her collarbones were more prominent than usual, cheeks less whole. She didn't think it suited her. "Sorry, maybe another day? I've been so busy lately."

"Oh. Yeah, yeah. I've been busy too." A pause. "New job, tonnes of moronic paperwork, lots of idiot politicians…you have lunch plans? That's good. That's really good."

Hermione felt a stab of confusion through her guilt at the lie, because Ron sounded happy at the thought that she had other plans. "What?"

A kind laugh. "Not that I wouldn't love to see you, but I'm glad you're getting out. Seems like you're only at home or the office these days! Who're you seeing?"

"A friend. Sorry, I'm turning on the water."

Hermione gave a deep sigh as she stepped into the shower, feeling a tinge better at the cascade of chilled water. She hoped Ron would leave it at that.

"Your husband is making a mockery of the Ministry!" Warden Gregory Gravestone stormed, standing furiously before Hermione's desk.

"Ron has a habit of that." Hermione smiled, trying to see if any spittle was flying. Between that and his name, she always had to stop herself from laughing. She could almost hear her husband snickering in her ear, though he was no where near the room. "What's he done now?"

"Weasley's insisting," Gravestone sneered, "that I'm not running Azkaban properly."

"I doubt that."

"He thinks we're imprisoning werewolves illegally!" he said. "Everything is perfectly above board, each of those mongrels attacked innocents. They're treated better than they deserve!"

Hermione's smile slid off her face. "I'm assuming Ron was questioning the law itself?"

"Foolish upstart! In his position for a matter of weeks, and he dares—"

"He dares to act like the Head Auror?" her words were deliberate. "Do you remember that I was the one spearheading werewolf rights in the first place?"

Gravestone's countenance swayed, anger backstepping.

"I believe Head Auror Weasley is absolutely correct." Hermione's eyes glinted. "The law states that werewolves who try to attack another being receives an automatic life sentence in Azkaban. There is no distinction between failed attacks and attacks that resulted in casualties. There is no aspect of mercy or concept of premeditation. Wolfsbane isn't supplied in prison, there's no attempt at rehabilitation, and there's no appeal allowed for those who show remorse or were horrified the attack happened at all!" She forced herself to lower her voice. "That Ron is raising these concerns should be applauded, not scorned. By all means, file a complaint. But stop wasting my time!"

Budget confirmation for the Department to send to the Minister. A note to Ron to stop antagonising the goblins. The Hit-Wizards' finished report of the Cunningworth robberies to cross-file with the Aurors. A list of potential babysitters for Hugo and nursery schools for Rose. A note to Ron to tread carefully when it came to government corruption. Numerous appeals from Azkaban. A complaint from Cho Chang's lawyer about her portrayal in the media. A note to Ron to stop prodding the alt-right purebloods. Letters from the public shouting about how much of their tax funds were going to 'cold' cases. Letters from the public shouting about the Sweenies. Letters from the public shouting about nepotism. A note to Ron to shut the hell up about anything not concerning the Aurors, and to pick his goddamned battles.

"Lo Granger."

Hermione didn't set down her quill, eyes remaining on her work. "Granger-Weasley. How did you get past my secretary?"

"She's out to lunch." McLaggen said nonchalantly as he helped himself to a seat.

"I'm busy and you don't have an appointment. Go rant about Ron elsewhere!" she said sharply.

"The promotion?" He waved it aside. "He's more than welcome to the job."

Hermione finally looked up, surprised. "That's, that's very mature of you. In fact, it seems like the Aurors are the only ones not complaining about this."

McLaggen laughed. "If Weatherby's suicidal, just means the target's not on my back! It also means," he leaned forward with a jeer, "that someone's about to be a free woman. How about it, Granger? Fancy getting an early start?"

Hermione (and her quill) snapped. "I will shove this quill so far up your ars—"

"Do I have any meetings," Hermione asked her secretary, exhausted, "that isn't someone ranting about Ron and Lisa?"

"Yes," said Ethel, not brightly. "A few."

"Are all of these complaints that I should be on maternity leave, accusations that I'm a horrible mother, condemning me for incompetence, or blatantly hitting on me?"

"Um…"

"If you want to shout about Ron, get in line!" Hermione called out in hearing her door opening, not looking up from her papers. She'd switched to using a pen. It made a sturdier weapon. "I've had a constant stream in, complaining about werewolves, goblins, Sweenies: take your pick AND GET OUT!"

"…I'm not here to talk about Ron?"

Hermione glanced up and blanched. "Oh! Oh Percy, I'm sorry. Please come in. I've had a very long day. A long week."

Percy remained in the doorway, standing awkwardly. "I can come back if this isn't a good time. This is odd rather than timely."

"No no, I'm glad to see you." She pushed the parchments away. "What's odd?"

He properly came in, pulling a chair out and sliding into it. A folder was placed on the desk. "What is this about Ron?"

"He's joyfully turning things topsy-turvy and irritating every politician. So the usual." Hermione took the new file and flipped it open. She suppressed a sigh at the number of charts and numbers. This was typical of Percy but too much for her already pounding head. "Is this about the economy? However interesting it might be, it's not my jurisdiction."

Percy seemed nearly as tired as she. "I'm not so sure. The apothecary union brought something to my attention. It's certainly illegal but I don't know what to make of it. It might merely be price gouging, but the union and I are concerned."

Hermione examined the papers more closely. Her confusion only increased. "Is the price of phoenix feathers really that strange? They're…wow, that is low. Comparatively, that is. Each one still costs a small fortune, though they shouldn't even be available. You think someone is artificially deflating them?"

"My guess is someone's dumping them in the market." He pointed at a time graph near the bottom of a sheet she'd turned to. "Over the past few months the average price of a feather has dropped by 40%."

Hermione flipped through the pages, hoping this wasn't another shallow cauldron bottoms false alarm. "Where's the illegal activity? Is there further evidence of white collar crime?"

Percy shook his head. "According to the potioneers it's bigger than that. The sale of phoenix body parts is highly regulated. So much so that the price for any part of these creatures has remained stable for decades. Over the last fifty years, before this downturn, the price has never changed by over 2%!"

Hermione felt like she was missing a few things. "Why isn't the Department of Magical Creatures taking care of this?"

"They were who I first brought this too." Percy adjusted his glasses. "Apparently this is too big for them to handle."

She was taken aback. "I'm not trying to make light of this, but it's only phoenix feathers. Someone might have been collecting them and are now releasing them to control the market."

"Look at the other pages." Percy gestured at the remainder of the folder. "Phoenix blood, beaks, hearts, and heads have all drastically lowered in price. At least half of those parts are like unicorn blood and can't be sold legally. The black market's still managed to be flooded by them."

"Phoenix heads? Hearts?" Horror dawned "They can regenerate. You're suggesting that poachers have captured phoenixes? How is that possible? They're tremendously strong and magical!"

Percy hesitated. "I don't know what's happening. There aren't many phoenixes and the global sightings of them hasn't decreased—the Magical Creatures Department could tell me that much. They also said it takes a week for a phoenix to grow from its burning day to an adult and that, like most creatures, potions meant for human consumption don't effect them. This includes ageing potions. So the sheer amount of heads and hearts don't add up for the time frame we're talking about."

"Could the parts be produced artificially? Or been collected over the space of years?"

"Perhaps?" Percy hedged. "I'm sorry for this, but I'm lost. I'd recommend getting samples of the contraband. See how 'fresh' the parts are and how many different phoenixes they could have come from? This, ah, isn't exactly my expertise."

"Thanks for letting me know." Iciness slipped into her stomach. She remembered Fawkes flying and singing around Dumbledore's shoulders. "Buying and selling these parts is horrid enough, but actually killing phoenixes? First the Rippers and now this! I'll never understand the cruelty that people can reach."

"You and I both." Percy began to rise from his chair before pausing. "Not to worry you more, but these parts aren't only contraband because their extraction kills the phoenix. Do you know how miraculous their tears are? Their blood is even more powerful. More than a few dark potions requires phoenix parts."

"Wonderful." Hermione found herself wishing Percy had simply been getting overzealous. "I'll ask the Aurors about it, they have a long-standing case concerning a variety of murdered magical creatures. They might know more about this market. I'll floo Harry and…" she coughed, realising what she'd said, "I mean Ron. I'll let Ron know."

"Hermione…" he hesitated.

"Thanks Percy, I'll take care of this." She caught his look. "Harry had originally been in charge of the case, so I misspoke." She bit her lip. "On second thought, the Aurors have their hands full with Ron taking on the entire Ministry. This case is also more economic in nature than concerning Dark Arts. Yes, I'll send it to the Hit-Wizards."

Percy looked at her carefully as he held the back of the seat. "You aren't coping, are you."

"I'm perfectly fine."

"Of course, of course." His features softened. "It's a good idea to give this to the Hit-Wizards. Ron has enough death and morbidity to deal with."

Hermione kept turning (or flooing or owling or laughing) to her best friend, only to have the remark slide off her lips.

She was crying more these days, but that was expected. She'd also expected to miss Harry's laugh and his kindness. She hadn't thought she'd miss his sarcasm. Or his melodramatic tendencies. Or that she'd hold back a sob when Jamie quirked his head in an entirely Potter-like fashion.

Hermione wondered if it was the same with other families. Where one person's absence left an aching hole. Maybe this was normal. It'd been what happened with Fred, and she'd felt something similar when her parents had been in Australia. But this was Harry. It felt almost sacrilegious to chalk up anything related to him as 'normal'.

The clock spun, fears softened, and the Weasleys got a hang of not putting one-too-many place settings at Sunday dinners.

The 'other-he-who-shall-not-be-named' was still taboo, and Hermione was surprisingly alright with this. It was because she felt the 'Other You Know Who' would have found this hilarious. She'd also admit it was fun to see how red Ginny could get with everyone skirting around the name — "You damn well know WHO I mean, George! The sexy one!"

Ron and George found this endlessly amusing, making jokes back about, 'dark, handsome, and noseless'. Hermione was concerned all this skirting around a name would be confusing for the kids. But it was disconcerting how easily most of them accepted that you didn't talk about Uncle Fred or Uncle Harry.

"I've been thinking about the children." Hermione nibbled on the words as she'd nibbled on her toast. Ron glanced up from his soup. They were having lunch at a muggle cafe by the Ministry and it was nice. She'd been trying to reach out. It was good. "Do you think it's confusing for them, that we don't talk about or refer to Harry?"

"Eh."

"I'm serious." She put down the bread. "It isn't healthy to ignore this. As adults we can cope, but kids will forget. Remember when Freddie went around, excitedly telling the 'news' that he was named after someone?"

Ron winced. "Fair enough."

"We should be more upfront that he disappeared. We don't necessarily have to explain death." A passing waitress overheard the last and skirted around them, not asking if they wanted a coffee refill.

"We aren't doing that," he said gruffly, giving the waitress a hard look when she glanced back at them, "because no one's died."

She stilled, tilting on the thing they didn't talk about. Maybe they had been ignoring this too much. "It's a possibility."

"No, it's not."

Hermione watched as he returned to lunch, his expression now sour. She felt wilted. He'd been laughing so much less these days, and she wondered if it was somewhat her fault. Even a random waitress skirted around them! "I didn't mean anything by it."

He kept eating.

"You know what this reminds me of?" She tried. "That manticore case you two were on years back. Where Harry's luck held true and he fell into a nest of the beasts."

Ron groaned at the memory (though Hermione smiled at the reaction). "Breaking his communicator in the process. You remember what the bugger did? Limped back hours later, all of us worried sick, and asked for a sandwich!"

She shook her head. "Why is it always sandwiches? Same as after the Final Battle. He never did believe he'd scared us half to death. Or that he scared us with all the waits in hospital after…well, after far too many things."

"Like a bad joke," Ron grumbled, tipping his mug back and forth. "As though Harry was seeing how many times he could leave us to worry."

"Why is it," Hermione asked without asking, "that every time he faced mortal peril we got separated?"

"Because fate hates us," he nodded to himself. "I realised that after the Chamber of Secrets fiasco. Sorry, I'm not saying being petrified is a cake walk. But picture an honest-to-Merlin rockslide coming between me and Harry! I was beyond relieved seeing him and Ginny, but seriously. Fate's got a nasty sense of humour."

"If we're already going back this far," Hermione edged in, not minding her colding toast, "we might as well mention first year. I still can't believe I coaxed Harry to go by himself to get the philosopher's stone. He was eleven! I was only twelve, but still. What was I thinking?"

"You were thinking that only one of you could go through." Ron looked down at the table. He drained his coffee. "He's always had that thing, you know? What am I talking about, of course you know. Makes you believe he can do anything. Not arrogance, clearly. But he's…blimey, there's a damned good reason he's famous for his heroics."

Hermione didn't answer immediately. When Ron glanced back up she was staring at him.

He blinked. "What?"

"You." Her gaze grew more gentle. "Harry's not the only one with that quality. Or was it another knight who sacrificed himself before the philosopher's stone? Or who faced acromantulas and threatened a mad murderer to save his best friends?"

Ron shifted uncomfortably. "Odd thing to call Sirius."

"You've always charged in wand-blazing when anyone was in trouble! After all, Harry wasn't the only one who saved me from a mountain troll."

It took Ron a beat to place the reference. Then he groaned. "I was the reason you were in there crying in the first place. Also, nice job glossing over my jealousy tantrums."

"You are the bravest man I know." Hermione tutted at most of his statement. "Harry had very little choice in most of this: he had to either fight or lose his life. But you had all the choice in the world. Even when you drifted off, you always came back. Because time and again, you choose to fight for what you believe in. Fighting to save your best friend." She leaned in closer. "Fighting to save me."

"Says the smartest witch of the age," Ron mumbled.

"Which means I'm always right." Her mouth was slightly parted.

A silence fell upon them.

"Maybe we should talk to Rose," he said like he hated the words. "Or, or not explain things really. But we shouldn't be tip-toeing around Harry's name."

Hermione wasn't sure if she'd convinced him, or if she'd needed convincing.

January thus passed with a chilled flurry. Snowmen were enchanted per usual, and Hermione regretted having given George 'Calvin and Hobbes' books for Christmas. Hugo wasn't anywhere near sleeping through the night, though that was okay. She loved holding him close, soothing him as the moonlight shone through the nursery window. His features were so small and his mouth wasn't really big enough to make that large a sound. She'd been vaguely concerned. Ron had chuckled and said they shouldn't look a gift hippogriff in the mouth (he also joked about 'as long as he fits the nipple', and she almost nearly didn't laugh).

She sung Hugo lullabies like she still did to Rose. Her singing voice was nothing to write home about, but it calmed him. She'd never get tired of rubbing his tiny toes, having his curious fingers bat against hers.

Then there was February. Hermione had never been one for Valentines. Yet, it was impossible to miss the pinkly puckering cupid in the air. Each storefront cascaded with red hearts, every advertisement told her she needed more flowers in her life, and she had to have multiple conversations with Ron that, "Really, I don't want to do anything for the holiday. This isn't a test, it's fine."

Someone had placed an enchantment on the Atrium for bubbles of cherubs and rose petals to float about. They refused to pop and filtered into the rest of the Ministry, swaying into every nook and cranny. Hermione's single coworkers (or unhappily married coworkers) swooned over Ron's little notes to her. Or heart-shaped memos. Or serenading Patronuses (though his singing was atrocious and was mistaken as a hoarse banshee).

Hermione was asked how they made it work, how she'd gotten so lucky. She broke three quills (and two biros) by resisting smacking them in the face. She broke even more while trying to get Ron to see that she wasn't the romantic type, and would he stop with the gestures already.

She wondered if she was lucky. She wondered if this was working. She wondered if she could stay at the Ministry for even longer hours.

"I had a dream about the Chamber." It was as though Ginny was giving a confession. It was this tone of voice that made Hermione look up from the menu in confusion. They were in muggle London once more. Ginny had been avoiding Diagon like the plague, knowing that photographers would descend on her.

"What chamber?" Hermione searched her brain for the reference. Their previous conversation had been meaningless chit-chat about Shacklebolt's policies and exchanging names of nursery schools which had good privacy. She knew they were avoiding the elephant in the room, but a large part of her had been grateful to have a day out—especially if it could partly distract her friend.

Ginny didn't answer for a minute. Hermione's concern grew as she looked at the woman's drawn features. She was too pale, her face thin and stretched. Ordinarily, she'd be jealous of the quick loss of baby fat.

"The Chamber of Secrets," Ginny exhaled, not meeting her sister-in-law's gaze. "I haven't had the nightmare for years. Eons, practically. Thought I was over it. Then last night I woke up the house with my ridiculous screaming. Then Lily was howling, which set off Al, and Jamie was pouting for the whole morning afterwards. Merlin, I'm rubbish at this."

Any response Hermione had caught in her throat.

Ginny groaned, still not looking at her. "Damn, now you're worried. I'm fine, it's fine, everything's bloody well peachy. I'm a bit tired, that's all. Forget I said anything."

"Ginny," Hermione hesitated, not sure if she should offer more help. She switched gears, "why do you think you had that dream?"

"Because people have dreams!" She met her gaze. "It's not that big of a deal."

"This isn't…it isn't going to start again," Hermione said gently. "I know things are a mess, but it isn't like with Tom Riddle or the war."

Ginny blinked at her, genuinely confused. Then a chuckle burst out of her. "Like Riddle? Oh no, this has nothing to do with that monster. It was only a nightmare."

"It doesn't seem like 'only a nightmare'—"

"That's not the important part, I'm not explaining things properly. Whenever I used to get nightmares Harry would wake me up. But I rarely got them at all, least not when I was with him. Oh, this sounds so wonky said aloud."

Hermione found any answer out of reach, because she understood too well. The newest dreams kept nibbling at her, and occasionally the old as well. Though if she dreamt of a roaring dragon, lines of corpses, or a knife thrusting letters into her skin—she'd be shaken awake, Ron's soothing voice ripping through her sobs. No matter how upset she was she could hold herself to his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat as he massaged the stinging 'mudblood' scar on her arm.

She knew how comforting it was to wake up with warm arms around her. She just, had been shoving him off lately. But it was fine. A rocky spot in her marriage, nothing else. She was lucky and shouldn't lose sight of that.

"Doesn't matter," Ginny's voice cut through her thoughts, the redhead staring down stormily at the table.

"We agreed," Hermione said tensely, "to not make Harry's name taboo around Rose. We did NOT agree to WHATEVER THE HELL you just did!"

Ron raised an eyebrow. "Was that a swear?"

"I can swear! You make me swear! You irritating, aggravating, impossible man! I support you and defend you, then you go behind my back!"

"I didn't go behind your back!"

The argument had begun at dinner. Rose, slurping spaghetti, had sliced through a relaxing meal by asking when her godfather would visit again.

Hermione had choked on her water. Ron had kept his composure and answered his daughter's question with: "He's on a trip right now. I'm not sure when he'll be back."

Hermione (though she made a squeaking noise) otherwise kept silent. She switched to wine and a forced smile. Once Hugo was upstairs for a nap and Rose was in the other room drawing, Hermione furiously pulled Ron into the den.

"HE'S GONE!" Hermione shouted in the present, her shaking hands balled into fists. "A trip? A TRIP!" Her voice rose to a venomous pitch. "Like he's gone off to Brussels. What were you thinking? You didn't want to discuss death with her, fine, I agreed. You're in denial? I wish I could be too. But how dare you!"

"Denial?" Ron retorted, indignation rising. "I'm not in denial."

"You made it sound like he's coming back!"

"Because he might. It's only been a few months."

Hermione took rapid breaths, struggling to regain her composure. "I know this is hard. Some days it seems near impossible. But people die, Ron. He's not immortal."

"HE'S NOT DEAD!" He exclaimed, staring at her in betrayal. "Not you too. Everyone else I get. If I'm honest, I expected it. But you? You're giving up on Harry?"

Horror crossed through Hermione's mind. She was seeing dream after dream, and it was like she'd been holding her breath for too long. Hot spots appeared near her eyes, burning and sweltering. "You think I've…how dare you."

"Hermione, this—"

"How dare you!" Fury replaced her hurt. "I've done everything to find Harry! I held onto hope when there was none. I don't want to believe it, god I don't. But this is no way to live! I need to grieve!"

"WE DON'T HAVE HIS BODY!"

"YOU'LL WAIT UNTIL HE WASHES UP FROM THE THAMES…oh no, no no no. I, I can't talk about this, I just can't." Her hand balled up against her chest, gaze down and shivering. She didn't know what was wrong with her. "Harry's gone. It's horrible and unfair but it's the truth. Why can't you see that?"

"We have circumstantial evidence, at best. Or are we now taking kidnappers at their word?"

"This has nothing to do with the Pensieve footage! It never has!" Hermione begged him to get it without her having to say the toxic words. "It's obvious. Please, please understand. Everyone's figured it out except you and Ginny!"

Ron looked unsettled. "What're you on about?"

"They would have never left Harry alive." She forced herself on. It was the reality she'd known since Day 2, which she'd never allowed herself to voice. It swooshed out of her. "The only hope was that they'd give a ransom demand, but they didn't. It doesn't matter if they're kidnappers, Death Eaters, or another criminal. They'd ki-kill him or sell him to someone who would. Maybe…maybe they'd hurt him first. But after all this time?"

Ron tightened his mouth. "Nice picture you're painting. You think it's impossible, yeah? Like someone surviving the killing curse?"

"Please don't do this. Please don't."

"Why shouldn't I!" He flung his arms out wildly, a gleam in his eyes. "Blimey, I bet it'd be as unlikely as breathing after TWO killing curses. Dead as a doorknob! Or hey, how about a seventeen year old defeating an 'immortal' Dark Lord? Oh no, forget that, too probable. How about an eleven year old turning someone to stone! Or a twelve year old stabbing a basilisk! OR A TEENAGER WINNING A WAR AND BECOMING MASTER OF DEATH!"

Ron was breathing heavily as his shout echoed off. She heard Hugo start to shriek. It was surprising he hadn't woken earlier. She wondered what Rose must be thinking of them.

Hermione stared at her husband, not saying a word. She was so tired.

Hermione thought about it. She'd been thinking about it for months, dreaming about it for nearly as long, and had tried to set aside rationality for the entire time. She thought of Harry's sheepish grin and remembered that he wasn't just Harry. He was Harry Bloody Potter, world famous and a shining star for the light. He'd always been a huge target and they'd been blind. He was the most wanted man in the underworld—every petty criminal and potential dark lord alike craved to butcher him limb by limb. One of them had gotten lucky.

She knew Harry had been dead for months. As Ron furiously stormed upstairs, she finally allowed this truth to wash over her. Fingers dug into her palms to keep back a choking sob. It didn't work.

"Sweetie?"

"Ye'h?"

"Can you put your drawing down? I need to talk to you about something."

"Uh huh?"

"Your dad, he's…he means well. He means the best, but he told you something wrong. Oh darling, let me look at you. You're getting so big!"

"Mummy?"

"Sorry Rose. Sorry. I, I don't mean to…what you said at dinner, about your Uncle Harry? Do you remember when we told you he'd been taken away?"

"Ye'h. Why you cryin'?"

"He isn't coming back, sweetheart. I've, I've tried everything, we all have, but…it isn't fair. Sometimes the bad guys win and Harry might not be coming back. Oh no, lie against me. Do you remember when we told you about Teddy's parents? That his mummy and daddy loved him sososo much, but they had to go away?"

"Hm mmm…"

"Shh, it's alright. His parents were wonderful people, but something happened to them. Bad guys hit them with spells. They, they died. It means they were forced to go away, to leave and never return. They would have loved to have stayed and raised Teddy, but they couldn't. So all of us, we're his family instead. It's, it's the same with your godfather. The bad men stole him—"

"Bu', bu' he Unca 'arry! He can't—mummy mummy mummy!"

"I know, I know. Shh, I'm here. Harry…was a very, very good man, who was always fighting monsters. But the monsters took him. Sometimes things happen and they don't make sense. It's so unfair, but they won't give him back. We're still trying, we are, but it's…it's very likely that Harry is de—"

"No no no!"

"Rosie…"

"Daddy say he comin' back! WITH STORIES!"

"I, I know what he said. But your dad…it's very complicated—"

"NO NO NO!"

A/N: Hermione and Ron are both lovely people, but Hermione's rational. She explores the facts and—however much it hurts—accepts them in the end. Ron's emotional. He doesn't care how bad the facts are when he still has hope. He searched for Ginny in the Chamber of Secrets, he believed Harry about Voldemort, and he thought a teenager stood a chance against the Dark Lord. He kept searching for Harry and Hermione after he left, following the 'little ball of light' and taking a leap of faith right into a freezing lake!

Hermione's as loyal as they come. But Ron's the one who never stops fighting.

As an aside: yes yes, I'm horrible at writing kids. I swear I'll eventually go back and fix all of Rose's interactions to keep her age consistent :P