It's five in the morning and I just wrote this entire chapter all night! I'm sorry for the long absence. I haven't given up on this story, I am having major health issues that have become very hard to manage.

This one is a pretty sad, but pivotal for Hermione's journey.

Review & Enjoy!


That's how Harry found them, hours later, wrapped around each other. Clinging to one another like their entire being depended on it.

Harry has never claimed to be able to adapt to one's feelings, especially Ron and Hermione. For years he wasn't sure what the hell was going on.

First and most of second year he truly thought they only semi got along for his sake. He was not willing to speak on that, too happy to have them both by his side. But then Hermione got petrified and everything changed.

He knew Ron stole his cloak to sneak down to the hospital wing. He heard his small sniffles that echoed throughout the dorm when the moon was at its peak, when he thought everyone else was in the depths of sleep.

He never said anything because he also knew Ron would be embarrassed and distance himself from Hermione just to prove a point to Harry.

Regardless, that's when he realized they were friends for more reasons than one, the one being him.

Third year was pretty much the same. The Scabbers-Crookshanks row certainly raised his doubts, but the way he saw Ron's face light up when Hermione punched Malfoy or the way she clung to him when they watched Buckbeak be executed. It was then he knew they'd all be okay. That they'd all have each other's backs whenever, forever.

He hadn't attributed the timid smiles and touches to anything more then a deep friendship.

Not until third year.

Not until Viktor Krum.

And fifth year pretty much confirmed everything he was trying to suppress when Hermione kissed Ron on the cheek before the match. It had been all too real seeing Ron cry at Hermione's bedside after the Department of Mysteries.

He'd hoped that was the closest they'd ever get to losing her.

Then of course, the tragedy that was the sixth year began.

He thinks without the walking disasters that are Lavender Brown and Cormac McLaggen, Harry isn't sure if Ron or Hermione would have ever told him how the other felt.

But stints between the obnoxious blonde and the cocky seventh year are all trivial compared to their Christmas night.

That night was when he knew Ron was deeply, irreversibly, painfully in love with The Brightest Witch of Their Age.

And seeing Hermione clinging to Ron and only Ron in the hospital, well it didn't hurt Harry.

Harry was her brother.

Ron was the boy- no man- Hermione had loved since she saw his dirt smeared nose all those years ago.

And seeing the two of them crammed on Ron's small orange bed, holding each other, building a haven in their embrace. Well, he can't fathom a time when he didn't notice what the two of them shared.

The sun has long slipped past the horizon, meaning the pair have been asleep for some hours. Still, The Chosen One feels guilty waking them from their much deserved peace.

He opts for shaking Ron, not wanting to alarm Hermione in any way.

He sees the ginger stir slightly, pulling the girl next to him tighter at the waist as he does so.

Rolling his eyes, Harry tries again.

"Ron." He whispers as Weasley lets out a tired groan.

Soon enough his blue eyes open to the world as he slowly rubs sleep from them and rearranges his floppy hair.

"What is it?" He whispers looking at the dark haired boy. His grip on Hermione never lets up.

"Gotta tell you and Hermione something. Wake her for me, would you?" He said softly, hoping his tone wouldn't alert Ron to danger.

Though the other boy's eyes widen slightly, he does as he's told, anxious for whatever news is going to be delivered next.

"Mione." He whispers softly, pushing some curly hair from where it laid in front of her closed eyes.

Like Ron, she begins to stir, but her hold around Ron's torso doesn't relent.

The ginger looks at Harry and blushes for a moment before looking back at the witch. "Alright love, wake up. Harry and I need you, please?"

And the way Ron looks at her, talks to her, like she's the only thing worth breathing for, well it almost makes Harry feel like an intruder in a private moment. However, it dawns on him all at once.

This is who they are now.

Ron knows he can't afford to pretend he feels nothing for Hermione anymore. To act as if he has all the time in the world for the two of them to figure it out.

Yet, it seems they still aren't brave enough to bear everything.

Merlin, when will these idiots admit they're in love?

Hermione's lids finally flutter open, dancing around the room in confusion, but for the first time since she got back, not in terror.

"Hmm?" She mumbles sitting up slightly as Ron accommodates her by sliding against his headboard.

"I need to tell you something." Harry says quietly, looking into her eyes with an intensity that makes her quiver.

Ron's blue eyes narrow at his tone, worried for what's to come.

Slowly, Harry slides his hand into Hermione, suddenly not knowing how to say what he needs to, despite it being the reason he's here.

"While you were resting Dumbledore was here, he talked to Narcissa."

He hears Ron's sharp intake of breath as the hand wrapped around him squeezes his fingers tightly.

"She's at Grimmauld Place with Andromeda." He assures quickly as her grip relents slightly. However, he can still see her chin quivering. "Hey, it's okay, I promise. She's not in any sort of trouble. She and Dumbledore promised they'd be back for-" He stops.

"Back for what?" His best mate asks impatiently.

The-Boy-Who-Lived ignored him and spoke gently to Hermione, as if she were the most fragile thing in the world.

"Hermione, they're letting you go home."

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

That's all she keeps telling herself.

She's done enough crying to last a lifetime.

This must be one of those dreams. At the drop of a hat Harry will grow dark curly hair and manic eyes. Soon enough the words she's been hoping to hear for months will be turned into a twisted cackle. The swell of hope in her chest will soon be replaced by the pain of the Cruciatus Curse.

That has to be the only explanation.

"It won't be for long." He says next, avoiding Ron's watery eyes. "They don't know how safe it is, but you'll be able to get what you need, get your parents stuff." He whispers the last part quietly.

She just blinks.

"Mrs. Weasley is putting something together. Dumbledore- he knows a lot about-" Harry swallows past the bile in his throat, "about muggle funerals."

A silent tear streaks all three of their cheeks.

"Would you- would you want that?" Harry chokes to Hermione through hooded eyes.

'My name is Hermione Granger. I'm seventeen years old. My parents were Hugo and Jean Granger…'

She repeats it over and over in her head, much like she had in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor. She knows it's the only thing besides these two lovely boys and Cissy- her family, that'll keep her grounded.

And as she looks into Harry's gentle green eyes and feels the warmth of Ron's calloused hands around her waist, she knows this is real.

She knows this is what she wants.

What she needs.

"Yes." She answers Harry softly.


She tells them she wants to go in the morning. That she wants the funeral as soon as it can be arranged.

That she's already waited too long.

Sure it's not in so many words but Harry and Ron understand her like no other, so when the latter tells Hermione he'll relay the information to his Mum she offers a tentative nod and a sad half-smile.

The drive to Hampstead is spent in silence. She requested both Ron and Harry come with her. Bill and Lupin accompany them on behalf of The Order, but they don't dare utter a word. Acting as shadows more than anything else.

The entire car ride her head is propped on Ron's shoulder, while her hand clings to Harry's.

Thoughts race through her head at their own volition.

Would this be the last time she ever made this trip?

What condition was the house in?

Was there anything left?

Was this a good idea?

Thousands of questions bounced around her already aching head, that and memories.

Memories of growing up in her home. Memories of the holiday's they spent as a family. Memories of the vacations they took as a family every year. Memories of her parents' brilliant smiles.

Because that's all they were now, memories.

Her parents were nothing more than photographs and thoughts. No longer the physical beings they once were.

She couldn't write to her parents and expect a response. Her Mum would no longer hold her when she was sad. Her Dad would never finish teaching her to drive before she turned eighteen.

There was so much the three of them had left to do.

So much the two of them had to do on their own.

And it was all gone.

Because of Bellatrix.

A chill dances its way up her spine at the sickening thought of the mad witch being in her home, waiting for her to come back.

And like before, she was stupid enough to walk into her cluthes.

Magicless, no less, and with the people who mean most to her in tow.

She took the two people she loved most from her once and Hermione knows she would not hesitate to do it again.

And Ron must notice the sudden shift as he turns his head and opens his mouth to mutter the first words anyone has spoken since they left.

But they never come out.

Instead, the car stops and Hermione's stomach lurches.

She's going to be ill.

Suddenly she's pushing Harry as hard as she can out the door. He looks panicked, but tumbles out.

As soon as he leaves the seat she slides over and doubles down. Her head is down toward the grass and she gets sick all over The Chosen One's beat up trainers.

She wretches for two minutes straight until there is nothing left to come up. She just continues heaving as Ron rub's small circles on her back and Harry coo's softly by her side.

But she doesn't feel Ron, doesn't hear Harry. Her body is numb to everything, her ears are ringing.

She doesn't remember being taken out of the car, but she finds herself being supported atop the dying grass, staring at the crumbling bricks ahead of her.

The roof has holes. The sides look charred. Small piles of dust and debris pile where her mother used to grow flowers.

The garage with the car she drove with her Dad has collapsed in on itself.

Vaguely, she hears Bill whisper something to Harry about a staged fire.

She doesn't have time to be upset about the fact her parents are nothing more than the local tragedy in her town's newspaper that'll be forgotten in a month. She's too focused on getting inside.

She tugs harshly at Ron's coat, begging him to help her forward.

Her eyes say it all and he can't deny her anything as he begins to support her weight and move across the lawn.

"Wait." Lupin says, for the first time since he arrived at The Burrow that morning. "Bill and I will need to go first. Just to be sure."

Hermione's face remains blank and empty.

Ron thinks he'd rather see her cry then resort back into this shell of a person.

He simply nods on her behalf and pulls her closer. "If it becomes too much darling, you let me or Harry know, alright?" he whispers to her tenderly.

Nothing.

Fuck! How could he have been so stupid?

A selfish part of him. The part of him that feels like there's been progress made, berates himself for even suggesting and being so adamant on bringing her here.

His other half, thought quieter, knows she needs this to heal even further.

Neither option is easy.

Nothing is anymore. He doesn't think it'll ever be again.

Heads of red and brown make their way outside minutes later. They silently open the door, not saying anything else.

The pictures are gone.

It's the first thing she notices.

Not the fact the stairs look as if they'll fall at any second or even the blood someone tried to poorly clean up smeared along the furniture.

The pictures are seared. The only evidence is the charred frames, the wood splinting apart.

The mahogany frame with carved vines was the photo of her parents' wedding.

The sloppily painted, cheap popsicle sticks, lined with macaroni was a project she did in muggle elementary school. It was a drawing of her parents and her feeding ducks at the park nearby.

The glass frame, which is now a pile of shards, was of her Grandmother and her cake from when she turned eighty.

She notices a torn piece on the floor that managed to survive. It looks like an image of white fabric, but when she turns it over she can see the frayed edges of her mother's gorgeous handwriting.

'Born' is all her loopy script says.

Hermione knows it to be a photo of her as a newborn, swaddled in her fathers arms.

She tucks the remnant into her pocket.

No one speaks. Not even once.

Not when Hermione finds her Mum's favorite teapot. One with hand painted cherry blossoms, shattered on the ground.

No one utters anything when she places a chipped piece into her pocket.

She spots A Winter's Tale slightly burnt on the shelf in the living room.

Ron doesn't say anything when she pushes it into his free hand.

The coat closet is practically untouched.

The silence is loud as she loops her fathers woolen scarf around her neck and when she pushes her mothers snow boots into Harry's arms.

She spots drops of red by the welcome mat.

She tells them she can't be here anymore, that she needs to go upstairs. But not with her words.

Hermione simply pulls best she can toward the stairwell and says nothing when Ron scoops her into his arms and carefully walks up the steps that are only supporting them because of a reparo Bill performed.

No one comments when she rips a piece of the blue striped wallpaper from next to her and clutches it in her palm.

Ron places her down at the top, letting her decide where to go next.

She guides him down the hallway into her parents room.

And the second she opens the door, she wishes she hadn't.

It's evident this is where they were when they died.

When they were murdered.

She wants to crumble, to fall apart and demand they leave.

Instead, she quietly makes her way to where the dresser once stood.

It's a pile of wooden legs and knobs, but as she sits she finds what she's looking for.

Her mother's jewelry box.

She doesn't bother inspecting the contents and condition of them, instead she places it on top of the worn book Ron holds.

The crisp white sheets are tousled and have holes burnt into them. She sees the blood coating the pillows.

And she knows, somewhere deep in her bones that her father died in that very spot.

That he died protecting her mother as she ran downstairs to safety, only to be caught and killed the same way.

The room feels incredibly small as her vision blurs into nothing but red. The same dark red covering her Dad's side of the bed- to the right, under the window. He also got hot at night, but her Mum never wanted to get rid of the blankets, so he'd crack the window to stay cool.

The window's shut tight.

It'll never be opened again.

The thought makes her dizzy.

Apparently so dizzy, she nearly falls over, only to be caught by Ron.

She doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to.

He takes her back into the hallway.

She stumbles into the room next door.

It's her room, the very one she grew up in.

As she opens the door she expects to find it absolutely obliterated. Crumbling walls, broken furniture, bloodied floors.

But what she does find is almost worse.

Her bed is pristinley made. The walls are vividly blue. Not a single speck of dust seems to coat her desk. All of her photos are pinned exactly where she left them.

It is completely untouched.

The silence is broken by an earth shattering, horrifying, gut wrenching scream.

The sight of her clean sheets and the thought of her parents' bloodied ones stand out in her head. The fresh paint on the wall in contrast to the word Muddy burnt into the living room's white coat. The destroyed memories of their entire lives sitting in the foyer next to her neatly organized cork board.

It makes her scream. A terrible, terrible sound.

She can almost hear Bellatrix commanding the likes of Greyback and whoever else she brought with her not to touch her room. A final mockery of the Mudblood. Another way to break Hermione to her very core.

Bloody the entire house, except her room.

Let her know that she caused this.

'It's all your fault Muddy! You did this!' Lestrange's voice rings so loudly it's able to drown out her banshee-like wail.

She screams and screams and screams. Straining her voice like no other.

As the exhaustion and emotion of everything kicks in she begins to crumble onto her shaggy area rug. Not so much as even dirtied.

Just as her world goes black and her head nearly hits the floor, someone catches her.

Ron holds her close to his chest, rocking her gently back and forth.

He isn't sure the silence is any better.


This chapter made me sad, but again it was necessary for what's to come.

Next time we see the Weasley's help plan the Granger's funeral as Hermione gets some much needed advice from someone she cares dearly for.

Until next time!

Please review!