In the end, Hermione did end up taking Draco's advice, and Dobby was excessively delighted to be her accomplice in Harry's birthday "gift." When Harry finally arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast on the 31st of July, it was to find their table absolutely towering with food. It was absurd, and certainly miles beyond what Hermione had imagined. There was everything Harry liked, plus a general assortment of pastries, a full English, and actual cake. Decorations had been done, too, and when Harry spotted it all he looked like he was about to turn and run.

But he allowed Ron to drag him over and soon enough everyone in their year had gravitated to their table. Draco was right; Harry was not a material person. But he was a generous one, and he seemed to enjoy, more than anything, watching his friends be happy. Soon enough, the rest of the Great Hall had joined in, too, with other tables raising their goblets and singing or stopping by to snag one of the sweets. It was joyful and Hermione never could have predicted the lightness it brought to the rest of Hogwarts to watch Harry and his closest friends celebrate his birthday.

Although, thought Hermione, if the rest of the world wanted to take a moment to be grateful the Chosen One had survived another year, they were well within their rights to do so.

Across the Great Hall, at a small table by himself, Draco raised his eyebrows.

She wouldn't see him alone, however, until the following night, and so Hermione took advantage of her free evening to spend time with Harry and the rest. After curfew, when they were restricted to Gryffindor Tower, a brand-new bottle of Firewhiskey was uncorked and passed around. Hermione took an obligatory swig that left her coughing and handed the bottle to Neville, who was himself celebrating his own coming-of-age just the day prior.

Unlike the rest of her friends, Hermione woke the next morning feeling mostly like herself and headed to the Great Hall in a bright mood. With the arrival of August, there was less than a month until the start of term, her final year at Hogwarts, but the unusual summer boarding meant that instead of her book list arriving via owl, Professor Sinistra handed them out one by one. The other Heads of House were similarly distributing parchment to a student body that did not seem keen to receive them. There were, however, a few excited shouts as pupils were presented with prefect badges.

Hermione reshuffled the parchments in front of her, searching, but found nothing but the standard letter for incoming seventh years. Twisting around to survey the hall, Hermione spotted the headmistress, not at her place at the High Table, but chatting with Susan Bones, who was sporting a shining new Head Girl badge.

It hadn't even occurred to her until now, how much she expected to be appointed Head Girl. After all, she was the highest performing girl in her year by far, and an active prefect who took her duties seriously. Susan Bones was nice, but she didn't even come close.

Was this yet another punishment for her lie? Hermione couldn't think of any other explanation.

She waited for the blow to come, for her scar to spasm as the shame and humiliation sent her into a fit of brooding for the rest of the day —

But instead, she felt… nothing. It all felt so far away, so irrelevant now. It was then that she realised that, despite her attachment to Hogwarts, despite how strongly she felt about embarking on her final year, none of it really mattered to her anymore, not like that. Not when the Prophet's obituaries grew longer by the day, and it seemed to take everything she had just to keep the people around her alive.

Well done, Susan.

Hermione turned back to her breakfast and folded the letter away.

Despite Hogwarts' status as a fortress, it seemed that nothing in Hermione's world had gone terribly awry since Dumbledore's death. There were rumours, of course, as to how compromised the Ministry really was, and there were the same reports of attacks and disappearances, which had become standard at this point. But Hermione couldn't help but be surprised by the lack of blatant attempts to penetrate Hogwarts, or dramatic, public displays of violence like had happened at the Quidditch World Cup all those years ago. She wished for the Order's intelligence, of course, to know how things were really going, but she refused to let Ron tell her anything, despite how keen he was. She wouldn't let him risk his position like that. Besides, she was determined to prove Headmistress McGonagall wrong. She would be faultless.

When she entered the lab later that day, Draco was leaning against the workbench, waiting for her. She hadn't been alone with him in a week and, with only an empty cauldron for company, Hermione wasted no time throwing herself at him. He laughed softly as she kissed him fiercely, her arms reaching around his neck to keep him close. That familiar feeling came of his hands settling on her waist, then around her back to hold her against him. She could never, ever get enough of him.

She soon ended up with her back against the bookcase, the things on the shelves wobbling noisily as Draco pressed against her with all the pent-up passion held back by brewing restrictions or her own petty anger. Taken by surprise, she laughed, but it didn't deter him in the least. He was utterly relentless, to the point of desperation.

"It's not fair," he said against her skin after several minutes. "You leave here, and you've got Potter and Weasley and the rest of them. All I've got is you."

Hermione didn't know what to say to that. She'd suspected as much, having seen him isolated from the rest of his house, but to hear him say it made her heart ache.

But what could she do?

She wondered if Draco heard her thoughts. "Come on, let's get started before the Moon gets too low."

Hermione longed to stay with him once they'd finished pruning the aconite and seriously considered rescheduling her appointment with Harry and Ron in the headmistress' office, but that was foolish and she knew it. Yet on her way to the second floor, Hermione struggled to direct her mind back to the task at hand. She had no idea what Dumbldore's memories could contain, and to miss something could be catastrophic. If only the feeling of Draco's fingers, if the look in his eyes weren't quite so keen to stick in her head…

Hermione stopped. Down the corridor, where she had expected to linger by the gargoyle until she was invited in, stood four people, chatting with their heads bowed. Headmistress McGonagall was easily spotted by her hat, and she identified Ron and Harry almost just as quickly, but the third person was a mystery. She was a small woman, a bit frail looking, like a moderate gust of wind might sweep her away. Most curiously, she was wearing a definitively Muggle-looking tweed coat.

Before she could be spotted, Hermione hid herself against the wall, by a suit of armour, but it was too late. Ron noticed her and offered her a smile which seemed entirely at odds with the conversation happening around him. He waved her over, but it wasn't until the headmistress noticed Hermione, too, and indicated that she was welcome, that Hermione sheepishly left her hiding place.

Hermione approached cautiously, not wishing to interrupt or intrude in whatever serious conversation was happening between the small, grey-haired woman and Harry.

"Apologies, Miss Granger," began the headmistress, "but unforeseen circumstances have delayed your appointment. As soon as this is resolved, I'll let you three in."

"Oh. That's fine."

"I am glad to catch you, actually," McGonagall went on and Hermione was uncomfortably aware that this was their first conversation since that awful day Hermione had been thrown out of her office. "I have some news for you."

"News?" Hermione didn't like the way she was being scrutinised, like she might suddenly turn back into the hysterical creature she'd been that day.

"It has been decided that, for their own protection, your immediate family must be moved. The Order will, of course, afford your parents every protection available for as long as they are in need of it."

Hermione had opened her mouth to say something, because there was now a terrible lurching feeling in her middle, like all her organs were pitching sideways, but McGonagall held up a hand.

"I cannot tell you any more than that, Miss Granger. It is not because I wish to deny you, but because I do not haveany more information. Some things, such as this, are best kept to as few people as possible, lest we defeat the purpose all together. Now, do you have any questions?"

Hermione hated the pity she saw in McGonagall's eyes and bristled. It felt like a test, another opportunity for her to prove herself unworthy of the Order.

She swallowed. "No, thank you."

McGonagall nodded and the discussion was closed. "Good. Now if you'll excuse me…" Hermione watched McGonagall tactfully descend upon the little woman who seemed to have cornered Harry with her never-ending, tearful rambling. She jumped when McGonagall's arms came around her shoulders, guiding her away, whilst Harry merely stared in the middle distance.

"Come now, Arabella," cooed McGonagall as she gently yet firmly escorted the woman down the corridor. "Let me show you — over here, that's it — there's a room here with a lovely view of the sunset, and we can have a spot of tea. Won't that be nice?"

Beside Harry and Ron, Hermione watched the two women disappear around the corner, leaving the three of them alone.

"Who was that?" wondered Hermione. She expected Ron to answer, but instead it was Harry, still looking blankly ahead, who spoke.

"Mrs Figg. Lived next door for years. I always thought she was just a weird old lady, but I found out fifth year — after the Dementors, remember? — she's actually a Squib Dumbledore planted to keep an eye on me when I'm not in school. He gave her some sort of way to contact him that still works, apparently, because McGonagall got a message from her yesterday. That my aunt and uncle were killed."

"They what?"

Harry just nodded, still staring blankly ahead, though there was a slight frown on his lips. Hermione was torn between the urge to hug him and shake him. She was stunned.

"She said that lots of Death Eaters came — maybe Voldemort himself, but she's not sure — because they thought I'd be there for my birthday. Obviously I wasn't, and so they took it out on the Dursleys instead. Not Dudley, though. He was out with a mate. Dunno what he's going to do now. Apparently there's no house left, though I guess he's old enough now that he doesn't have to go live with his aunt, like I did…"

"Harry, I'm… I'm so sorry." She looked to Ron helplessly; he just shrugged.

Harry shook his head. "They were bad people. But…" He shook his head again, and this time it seemed he came almost all the way back to Earth. "They didn't deserve that. No-one does."

Hermione thought of Tonks and Azkaban, and Neville's parents and Draco's father and all the rest. Once again, the war had knocked her off balance, sent her reeling blindly. It was impossible. Even if they worked it all out, if Dumbledore's memories and R.A.B. guided them to the end, there was no way they'd survive all the misery and torture. She didn't know who she would be after it all, and she suddenly didn't want to find out.

Harry blinked. "Let's go check the pensieve —"

Ron's hand appeared on Harry's shoulder, physically stopping him from turning back to the gargoyle. "Nah. No way."

"But I've got to —"

"The only thing you've got to do now, mate," said Ron gently, "is come with us back to the common room to watch me absolutely annihilate Hermione at chess."

Ron didn't let Harry protest, and eventually they set off to Gryffindor Tower at a slow pace, Ron's hand still on Harry's shoulder in a manner reminiscent of how McGonagall had escorted Mrs Figg away. Hermione was glad Ron had taken control; she felt too shocked and disturbed to do much other than blindly follow. She couldn't imagine how Harry must have felt. The knowledge of her own parents, evacuated by the Order to God-knew-where — and told what? Did they know why they were in danger, that their daughter had lied? Were they well taken care of? And who was it in the Order that knew where they were? If the Secret-Keeper died, would her parents be condemned to starve in a house somewhere, forgotten?

Ron prodded her as they walked, silently scolding her for getting lost in her own gloomy thoughts. Harry was still vacant, and Hermione wondered if he would come out of this angry again, like he seemed to do when people near him died.

Hermione took a shaking breath and tried to come back. It was the sound of their footsteps, syncopated against each other as they walked back to the tower, that she clung to.

You leave here and you've got Potter and Weasley and the rest of them.

Another breath, deeper this time.

All I've got is you.