Hermione sat at her table, a cup of hot chocolate firmly in her hands. Her mum was sitting across from her, watching her with annoyingly knowing eyes.

She should be thankful at least that her mum had waited for dinner to end and for Hermione's dad to retire to the living room to watch the telly before she began asking about Harry.

"So," her mum said, breaking the silence, "it sounds like you had a successful year."

Over pizza, Hermione had told her parents all sorts of half-truths—about her classes, how she spent her time at school, about helping Harry train for the tournament. There had been no mentions of evil dark lords or his follower turning her and Neville into his puppet. There was no mention of fighting him, or blackmailing a reporter, or dead ministry workers and house elves. There was no mention of the potions professor she was trying to get fired, or the members of the Order of the Phoenix who would be keeping watch outside their home.

There were just stories about classes, quidditch games, and Hogsmeade weekends, followed by Hermione deflecting by asking questions about their lives—interesting cases at work, their weekly dinners with the Conklins, their holiday in Spain last March. Her dad obliged her easily. He was a born storyteller—her mum always said that's what first attracted her to him—and fed her story after story of everything she asked about. Her mother, meanwhile, merely gazed at her with a watchful eye.

Beth Granger loved the theater and she could usually tell when someone was acting.

"School was really good," Hermione agreed, plastering a smile on her face. "I really learned a lot—the theories we're studying in Arithmancy are so complex."

"And you've made some new friends this year," her mum said, nodding. "I was a bit surprised when you wrote to us about spending time at Neville's this year. You've never mentioned him much before."

Hermione shrugged. "Well, we got a lot closer this year," she said. "He was really helpful with the tournament—helping us figure out the clues."

Her mum quirked her eyebrow and shot Hermione that knowing grin again. "Us?" she prompted.

Hermione blushed and took a sip of her hot chocolate. "Well, of course I helped Harry," she said defensively. "He's my best friend."

Beth Granger took a sip of her own hot chocolate, leaning back in her chair, considering Hermione. She had the look of a detective interrogating a witness, slowly moving them toward incriminating themselves. Hermione supposed she should be glad that her mother was attributing her vague answers to her relationship with Harry—it would keep her from digging any deeper and finding out about You-Know-Who.

"And is that all it is? Friendship?" she asked.

"Well… no," Hermione admitted, staring hard at her drink. "I mean, it was, obviously, for a long time, but… well, then Harry kissed me."

She peeked a glance up at her mum, who was smiling warmly.

"And did you want him to kiss you?" she asked conversationally, but she already seemed to know the answer.

"Yes, of course," Hermione blurted, blushing again. "I'd been thinking about it for a long time and then it was the night before the last task and we went for a walk around the lake, and the sun was setting and he just kissed me, and well… it was perfect, really."

She'd suddenly started speaking very fast.

Her mum smiled wider. "It sounds very romantic," she noted.

"Oh, it was!" Hermione gushed. This was the first time she'd gotten to talk about that night with anyone, and she hadn't fully realized how much she was missing, just getting to talk about her feelings like she was a normal girl.

Hermione smiled wider. "Especially since I wouldn't have expected it of Harry," she said.

Oh, she'd said that all wrong hadn't she?

"It's not that I don't think he can be romantic," she quickly added defensively. "Just that—"

But to her surprise, her mum was laughing. At Hermione's confused look, her mum explained, "Hermione, he's a 14-year-old boy. It would concern me quite a bit if he was suave and cool and ultra-romantic."

Hermione tried to picture Harry as some sort of ladies man. He could be confident all right—when he had a broomstick in his hand or when he was aiming to fight some terrible creature that Hagrid would describe as "cuddly"—but he was just Harry in every other instance, and she liked him that way.

"No, he's definitely not that," Hermione agreed, cupping her chin in her hand. "But sometimes he just says and does the most perfect things. Like he really understands me."

Her mum took a sip of her drink. "Well, that's what happens when the boy you fancy is your best friend," she said. "He already knows you well—and the attraction is based in something real."

"You weren't friends with dad first, though," Hermione pointed out.

Her mum had told her this story a million times. They'd gone to university together and had met through mutual friends at the pub one night. There'd been sparks and they'd started dating right away.

"No," her mum agreed, "but we became each other's best friend. Real life isn't like the plays we watch together. It's—"

"Yes, mum, I know," Hermione sighed. "Juliet was an idiot."

Her mum smirked and sipped her drink. "Well, to be fair, so was Romeo," she said.

Hermione had heard this diatribe a million times—dying over someone you'd only known a day was pure stupidity in her mother's opinion. When Hermione pointed out that her Shakespearean namesake didn't exactly have the healthiest marriage, her mum had countered that she hadn't been named after Hermione because of the romance, but because she had been a character who was eloquent, had honor and always stayed true to who she was—and she'd been vindicated in the end.

Her mother might love the drama of the theater, but she was practical in all senses of the word. In her opinion, the romance embodied by most art wasn't anything to be emulated. If anything, it was Hermione's dad, the history lover, who got caught up in the romance of things.

Her mum was staring at her again. More questions were coming.

"So when did you realize you liked Harry as more than a friend?" she asked.

"We were in the garden at Neville's," Hermione answered. She remembered very clearly how it had felt that day—how everything had suddenly changed and yet, how it was all still exactly the same. "Although I don't know if it was really any one moment—there were so many little moments going back to the ball. Maybe even before that."

At the mention of the ball, her mother's eyebrow quirked up.

"I must say, I was a bit surprised when you wrote to tell me you were going with Viktor—someone you had never even mentioned before," she said.

"We're friends," Hermione replied evenly. "He's Harry's friend, too. And honestly, I think maybe it's a good thing I went with him. Dancing with him was nothing like dancing with Harry and I never would've known there was a difference otherwise."

Hermione's mum smiled. She clearly agreed with the scientific approach to dating.

"Dancing with Viktor was nice, but Harry makes me feel…"

She trailed off, unsure of the right words. How do you describe feeling safe and exhilarated all at the same time? She didn't know what to call it, but her mum's eyes were shining and her glowing smile made Hermione think maybe she understood what Hermione didn't know how to put into words.

"So what happened after the kiss?" her mum asked, her voice sounding a little strange.

Hermione frowned. Did her mum want to know that she'd practically jumped Harry, messing up his hair and snogging him senseless? Because she really didn't think they should be discussing that.

"What do you mean?" she asked cautiously.

Her mum smiled indulgently. "Well, I assume you must have talked about this kiss?" she asked. "It happened a week ago. Surely, you haven't just been staring into each other's eyes this whole time?"

"Oh! Well, yes, of course we talked. He fancies me and I fancy him and…" she trailed off, shrugging. "We fancy each other."

Beth Granger took another sip. "So is he your boyfriend then?"

Hermione frowned. They hadn't talked about that.

From her look, her mum had surmised that. "Dating?"

Hermione's frown deepened. "Well, we didn't define anything, but we're… It's more than friendship."

She was absolutely certain about that, and sounded as confident as she felt. Her mum, however, was frowning.

"It's not usually like you to leave things so… open," she said.

Certainly, that was true. But her mum didn't know the whole truth—that the day after their kiss, Harry had fought You-Know-Who and watched Crouch and Winky die, and now they were waiting for a war to begin—really, it already had—and asking Harry, "Will you be my boyfriend?" felt insignificant compared to everything else he was going through.

And besides, this was the boy who had stepped in front of her when he thought she was about to be hit with a Killing Curse. It would be impossible to "define the relationship" in the normal sort of way. Nothing about them was normal.

But she couldn't tell her mother about that. She couldn't tell her what her life was really like at Hogwarts.

And, just like that, she felt the chasm deepen between her and her parents, her and her muggle life.

Any promise she'd felt for these few weeks died in her in that moment. She couldn't even just sit in her kitchen and gossip with her mum about the boy she liked without being reminded that there were things about her they'd never understand.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Hermione was reminded again and again that she had two very different lives. She and her dad went on their museum days, and she watched old movies on the telly with her mum, but every time something related to Hogwarts came up, she found herself telling half-truths.

Her dad made jokes about Crookshanks following her around everywhere—and her cat was a comfort, surely—but his overprotectiveness just reminded her of everything she was keeping from her parents.

Harry asked her about it in his letters—and she assured him everything was fine—but it wasn't. Not really.

Even normal things felt off. Her bedroom was the same as she had left it—her gingham bedspread, her well-organized bookshelves, the drawings her parents bought her from street artists anytime they visited a new city hanging on her lavender walls—and yet it felt wrong. She'd taken to lighting candles in her room because the lights felt too harsh when she tried to read with them on. Her years at Hogwarts had made the soft glow of reading by fire a comfort, one she found she missed when she was home.

And then there were the members of the Order who followed her around. Some of them were practically ghosts—she'd never seen this Tonks person, and while she knew Moody had taken some shifts, he usually preferred to use his invisibility cloak. Lupin, however, always made himself known and they'd go for walks around the neighborhood together.

She was glad for his company—he facilitated letter exchanges between her, Harry and Neville—but she kept waiting for one of her neighbors to ask her parents about the strange man their teenage daughter hung around with.

She soaked up the information he could give her—about Harry, about the manor, about the war. Rita also kept her informed—though Hermione couldn't exactly say she enjoyed their exchanges—but Remus she actually trusted.

And yet, while she was happy to know what was going on—if there was anything Hermione hated it was not knowing things—she left each and every one of their meetings feeling worse than before. She'd go back home, where her parents were making paella or moussaka and discussing their plans for the weekend, and wonder and worry how or when this war would affect them. Sure, the Order was keeping watch, but how safe were her parents really? How much longer could she allow them to keep this illusion that everything was fine?

And how would she go about telling them when it was time?

She didn't know the answers to any of these questions and was particularly glad when the day came to go to Hannah's. Hannah lived firmly in the wizarding world, so she didn't have to exist in this limbo between worlds there.

While her parents knew where she was going, they had plans that day and she was glad not to have to answer any questions about her mode of transportation. Remus showed up with a witch she'd never met, a stately looking woman with dark brown hair, sharp eyes and an officious-seeming demeanor.

"This is Emmeline Vance," Remus said, introducing them. "She's a member of the Order."

"I'm also an old friend of Nora Abbott's," Emmeline added, referring to Hannah's mother. "I'll be visiting with her while you're with Hannah."

Emmeline apparated them to the corner of a very ordinary London street. Hannah, it appeared, lived in an unassuming flat on the top floor of a nondescript building. When the blonde Hufflepuff excitedly let them in, it was not at all what Hermione pictured.

She knew Hannah Abbott's family was one of those rich old pureblood families, not unlike the Longbottoms. She had been expecting gilded mirrors and tapestries and a portrait gallery.

But she was standing in a perfectly ordinary three-bedroom flat—one with a refrigerator and a telly and lamps that ran on electricity.

Her surprise must have been evident on her face because Hannah grinned at her.

"Mum's muggleborn," she explained. "Most of her family knows she's a witch of course, but she's got plenty of muggle friends who don't know. She insisted on having a normal home so she didn't have to explain why her friends couldn't come round ours."

She started to lead them through the siting room before turning around with a warning. "No magic in this part of the flat, though," she said.

"Right," Hermione said, recalling something she'd read in Hogwarts, A History. "Too much magic can mess with muggle technology."

"I doubt you girls would be able to do enough magic to break that ugly box Nora loves so much," Emmeline pointed out, referring to the telly.

Hannah leaned in closer to Hermione, smiling conspiratorially. "She's probably right, but God help the witch who does magic in here and messes with Mum's ability to watch Corrie."

Laughter bubbled out of Hermione. It seemed so incongruous—someone she associated with Hogwarts talking about muggle things. Hannah grinned sheepishly and led Hermione and Emmeline through the room, down a corridor and to what looked like some sort of closet.

But, of course, when she opened the door it wasn't a closet at all, but an opening to lodgings much more in keeping with what Hermione had been expecting.

There weren't the rows of portraits and goblin-made trinkets that she saw at the Longbottoms, nor was there the lived-in chaos that permeated the Burrow. The Abbott household was certainly magical—the plants on the windowsill could definitely be found in one of the Herbology greenhouses, and there was a self-serving tea set in the sitting room already pouring out two cups.

Hermione couldn't see the layout of the whole home, but she doubted very much that it could fit in this building without magical help.

But, despite the magical influences, the room was also incredibly modern. The furniture looked like it could come straight out of some posh magazine.

"Nora and David put expansion charms on the place," Emmeline explained. "And concealment charms on the door, of course."

"Your home is lovely," Hermione said, wondering if there were other aspects of the Abbotts that would surprise her.

"Do you have a house elf?" she blurted, turning to Hannah.

The whole point of this visit was to find Helga Hufflepuff's office so they could help the house elves, and she didn't even know if Hannah, whose father was a wealthy pureblood, had one.

Hannah looked scandalized. Was asking that some sort of wizarding faux pas?

"Mum would never," Hannah said fervently.

Hermione knew there had been a reason she had liked Mrs. Abbott when she met her at King's Cross.

"Of course not!"

Hannah and Hermione turned as the congenial-looking woman with Hannah's blonde hair bustled into the sitting room.

"Honestly," she continued, stopping briefly to greet Emmeline and offer Hermione a hello, "can you imagine needing a house elf to do housework when you've got magic?"

She sat down on the sofa and Emmeline followed. They both set about putting their sugar in their tea.

"When I was a girl, it took all day to clean the house," Mrs. Abbott continued. "Mind you, I grew up in the muggle world. But with magic… Honestly, I don't see what there is to do around the house all day when you've got magic."

Well. That wasn't exactly the issue she'd hoped Mrs. Abbott would have with house elves, but at least it wasn't a lecture on how house elves liked slavery and the wizarding world needed them.

Hannah grinned, having clearly heard this particular rant before.

"It's lovely to see you again, Hermione. I do love it when Hannah brings her friends around. Would you girls like some tea?" Mrs. Abbott asked.

"No, mum. We'll be in the library," Hannah said quickly, pulling Hermione out of the room.

"If we didn't leave now, we were in for another 20 minutes of that lecture," Hannah explained.

Hermione wouldn't have minded debating the merits of house elves with someone—especially someone who might be sympathetic toward her stance—but that train of thought died when Hannah pushed open a large brown door into a library the size of the Gryffindor common room. The 20-ft. walls were lined with books going all the way up the ceiling, and there was an array of mismatched ladders perched on every wall. In the center of the room, there was a dark mahogany coffee table surrounded by vintage-looking tan armchairs. Large stacks of leather-bound journals sat in various piles on the table.

"This place is brilliant," Hermione said, taking it all in.

Hannah beamed. "Uncle Edward inherited the Abbott family house—he's dad's older brother—but he's a bit of a dunderhead, so he gave dad the library," she explained. "The only thing Uncle Edward would use books for is book blasting."

"Book blasting?" Hermione repeated faintly. That did not sound pleasant.

Hannah cringed. "It was an old wizarding pastime," she explained. "You'd launch a book up in the air and another wizard would try to blast it out of the sky. It went out of fashion centuries ago, and really only ever got played when a bunch of idiots got right drunk."

Hermione didn't know what to say to that, but she knew her face was arranged in some awful looking scowl because Hannah nodded at her sympathetically, patting her on the arm.

"I know—it's truly awful," she said. "Uncle Edward is sweet enough, but he hasn't got any brains."

Clearly not.

"Is Susan coming?" Hermione asked curiously.

Hannah shook her head. "Her parents extended their holiday, so she's stuck in Switzerland. She's quite annoyed about it, too."

"Yes, I can see how Switzerland would be terrible," Hermione replied dryly, earning a snicker from Hannah.

The blonde turned to the stacks of books on the table. "So dad and I went through them and selected some of the more promising Abbotts," she explained, pointing to the various piles. "These are the prefects, so they probably learned a lot about the castle, these are the more notorious troublemakers, so they likely snuck around the castle the most, and these are the oldest, who went to school while Helga Hufflepuff was likely still there. Dad already cast a charm on those to translate the writing so we don't have to worry about some long-dead version of English."

She waved her hand toward a pile on one of the armchairs. "And that pile is the one we've already gone through," she added, turning to Hermione, a hesitant smile on her face, her eyes eager.

Hermione could feel her jaw drop just a bit. Hannah had said she would help her, but she'd clearly thrown herself into the task. Just how much time over the past few weeks had she and her dad spent researching and sorting these journals?

"Brilliant," Hermione replied. She wasn't sure what she was expecting from Hannah, but this neat, orderly approach was… well, it was exactly how she would've handled it.

They hunkered down on the armchairs, each grabbing a journal from the oldest stack, and engrossed themselves in reading. Hermione skimmed through the pages looking for any sign of Helga's office, but kept getting sidetracked by anecdotes about the castle—how Rowena Ravenclaw taught transfiguration and potions, how the students used to turn the main staircase into an ice slide (and Godric Gryffindor used to join them), and she was fairly certain the trophy room used to be a painting room.

Every so often, she or Hannah would pipe up to relate something amusing—"Helga Hufflepuff had a pet moke, and every year the Hufflepuffs would compete to see who could find it first… oh dear, apparently this year it hid itself in Nigel Fairweather's pants"—but there weren't any references to any offices.

They whiled away the afternoon, paging through the books, giggling at ridiculous wizarding nonsense, stopping only when Mrs. Abbott offered them some cake.

"Sorry we didn't find what you were looking for," Hannah offered, as she took a bite of her dessert. "But I'll keep looking."

"Thanks," Hermione said. "I could come back and help again."

Had that been too forward? She'd basically just invited herself over. Granted, she'd done the same thing to Neville at Easter, but after that business with Crouch Jr., there weren't really any boundaries in their friendship. But Hannah was new and normal, and Hermione was rubbish at knowing the rules of female friendship.

"I'd like that!" Hannah enthused, and Hermione felt a wave of relief.

Hannah stared at her, her cheeks turning slightly pink.

"You're not what I expected," she finally declared.

Hermione wasn't sure what to make of that, but if she were honest with herself, Hannah wasn't what she expected either. At Hogwarts, she seemed timid and shy, but at home, she was in her element, impishly poking fun at her family, taking charge of their search, relishing in reading about Walter Abbott's failed shrinking potion that somehow turned his pet toad into a crocodile.

But Hermione wasn't sure exactly what Hannah thought of her.

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked.

"Well," Hannah said, clearly trying to be diplomatic, "at school, you and Harry and Ron—and now Neville—you all always seemed so…closed off. Impenetrable, almost."

Had they been? Hermione didn't think so, but then, she'd never been someone people really seemed to want to be friends with. Until this past year, at least.

Had it been her and her friends who had been standoffish?

But even if they had been, they had good reason for it.

"Maybe we were, but everyone always seems to turn on Harry for some reason or another," Hermione pointed out, a bit frostily. "It makes it a bit hard to branch out."

Hannah turned red. "I felt so awful when he heard us talking about him in the library second year," she said. "I really did think he seemed nice."

"He is nice," Hermione replied emphatically.

"Oh, I know," Hannah said, rushing to agree. "With the way he and Cedric helped each other this year—I doubt there's anyone in Hufflepuff who wouldn't agree with that."

Cedric Diggory had always been a point of pride for the Hufflepuffs. What he thought clearly carried a lot of weight, and it was clear he thought quite a bit of Harry.

"But," Hannah added, turning red again, "I'm glad I got to know you. I guess I sort of thought you'd be… well, I didn't know exactly what to expect."

"A bossy know-it-all, I assume," Hermione said dryly, grinning at Hannah to show her she had no ill will. She'd certainly heard it enough times. Hannah laughed, so Hermione added, "Though you've got a bit of that yourself with the way you organized everything today."

There was an excited gleam in Hannah's eyes. "I love lists," she said. "Do you have Hardwick Hennilworth's homework planner? It's basically the best planner there is—it rings anytime you're nearing a due date for an assignment, and there are also pages for birthdays, Christmas gift ideas, you write in everything you want to do on a Hogsmeade weekend and it'll create an itinerary for you. It's the best."

Hermione had never heard of it, but she certainly was eager to hear more. And when she lay in her bed later that night, reading by candlelight, she couldn't help but grin. So they hadn't solved the riddle of Helga Hufflepuff's office that day, but there was a silver lining—never in her life had she had a friend she could talk about homework planners with.

Before she knew it, it was time to go to Wiggentree Manor. Her parents hadn't exactly been thrilled when she broached the subject with them—she'd claimed it was about the fact that they were going into their OWL year, and had loads more coursework to complete over the summer. She was fairly certain her mum thought Harry factored into the decision, but when she showed them the stacks of work—their assignments really had increased—they relented.

The day before she left, she met with Moody and Lupin in the park to discuss her parents.

"Will they be safe?" she asked anxiously. "Should they be in hiding too?"

She didn't know how her parents would take her telling them to uproot their life.

"Our sources tell us they're not on Voldemort's radar currently," Lupin said.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Are those sources Professor Snape?" she asked.

Moody guffawed. "Him, yes," he answered. "But there are others, too. Voldemort's lying low for now, waiting to see how the fallout with Dumbledore and Fudge shakes out. Attacking your parents—or anyone at the moment—would draw attention he doesn't want."

"Because if he does, the public might be more willing to believe Dumbledore—and then the full force of the Ministry will be working against You-Know-Who," Hermione reasoned.

Lupin smiled proudly. "Precisely," he agreed.

"Well… should we put the house under the Fidelius?" Hermione asked. "Just to be sure?"

"We can't," Moody replied.

"They're too firmly in the muggle world," Remus explained. "The Fidelius works fine in the wizarding world because magic can design around it. Owls can find people just fine without addresses, and even if they're followed, the Death Eater would never see where they go because the owl isn't the Secret Keeper. But what happens when people try to send your parents letters, but can't remember where they live? What happens when your parents have bills to pay, but they're not getting the notices because the post can't arrive? The Fidelius can work with the Floo network—it merely masks where the Floo is located if anyone at the Ministry were to investigate—but it can't do the same with your telephone system. And what happens when your neighbors see them driving home from work—they know they live around here, but no one can see the house. Wizards aren't typically friends with their muggle neighbors, but yours have known your parents for years. But suddenly, they won't remember they live here, until they see your mum or dad pop up. Hoodwinking muggles is easy when it's the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron—that's a passing moment—but sustained concealment like a Fidelius in the muggle world would start to draw attention."

"Which is exactly what we don't want for your parents," Moody finished.

"So what can we do?" Hermione asked, feeling a bit desperate.

"Amelia Bones and Minerva McGonagall have stripped any record of your address from the Ministry and Hogwarts," Lupin told her.

"Beyond that, we've put some protective enchantments around your home and your parents' workplace," Moody added. "And if anything changes with Voldemort's plans, we'll pull them out of here."

"Once you go back to school, Dobby has also volunteered to deliver any letters you have so no one can follow the owls here," Remus said. "He's also agreed to pop in—discreetly, of course—to see if your parents have any letters for you. Just tell them it's a new Hogwarts service, and to leave the letter on the kitchen counter at night."

"The elf's also agreed to keep watch over your parents," Moody added. "They've got their own ways of keeping from being seen, so I doubt your parents will notice him."

Discreet wasn't exactly the word that came to mind when Hermione thought of Dobby, but she was so touched by his gesture, she couldn't even process the ways in which his involvement could go wrong. Tears sprang to her eyes.

"It seems Dobby likes you quite a bit," Remus added kindly.

She knew he liked Harry—and she supposed her by association—but she didn't think he liked her enough to play guard duty for her family.

"I'd never want Dobby to think he has to—"

"Dobby is free," Remus reminded her, clearly following her train of thought. "He doesn't do anything he doesn't want to do. No one forced him into this. He volunteered."

Hermione nodded, wiping her tears.

Remus cleared his throat uncomfortably. "But have you given thought to telling your parents what's going on?" he asked.

His gaze was a mask—Hermione couldn't tell what he was thinking—but it felt like he was her professor again, quizzing her on grindylows and boggarts. She straightened.

"I have thought about it," she said. "If I thought it would make them safer, I would. But until things with You-Know-Who change, it sounds like they will be safe… so telling them will only make them worry."

"Hmm," Remus murmured.

She didn't know what that meant.

Moody, likewise, was as expressionless as ever.

She hoped she was making the right decision.

Augusta Longbottom arrived the next day shortly after breakfast. Her dad had made the meal while her mum read interesting bits of the newspaper to the both of them. Crookshanks had plopped himself firmly on Hermione's lap, eagerly awaiting her plate. It had been homey and warm—an entirely simple moment that she was glad for after three weeks of confusion, worry, and fear.

Despite the pleasant morning, when Augusta arrived, Hermione was glad to see her, too. She had missed Neville's curmudgeonly gran. And, certainly, she had missed Neville, Sirius, and especially Harry, too.

Gran was wearing one of her nicer dresses—which was just as awful as her regular dresses—and her signature vulture hat. To their credit, her parents didn't stare at it the way a lot of people did.

"We so appreciate you taking Hermione into your home," her mum enthused, shaking Augusta's hand warmly.

"Nonsense," Gran replied brusquely. "Who wouldn't want her? Your daughter is a delight. She's clearly a credit to your upbringing."

Her dad smiled lovingly at his daughter, enveloping her in a hug. "She is a delight, isn't she?" he said, and Hermione squeezed tighter, breathing in her dad's signature scent of mint, bergamot and sandalwood.

"I'll miss you!" she cried, pulling her mum into a bone-crunching hug. Her mum hugged back, patting soothing circles over her back.

"We'll see you at Christmas," her dad said brightly. "Mum and I were thinking of a ski holiday this year."

Hermione didn't particularly like skiing, but she loved the idea of her parents being out of the country.

"I think that sounds brilliant!" she declared, her voice only shaking a bit as she tried to blink back tears. "Really. Maybe we could go back to that one we went to with the really big ice skating rink—you said you liked their towels, dad."

It was also ridiculously remote.

"They were very fluffy," he agreed, earning an indulgent smile from his wife.

And so she left her parents in slightly better spirits. There was a plan to protect them and they'd spend their next holiday together far away from You-Know-Who.

When she and Augusta arrived at Wiggentree Manor, Crookshanks leapt from Hermione's arms and straight into Sirius'. She hardly recognized Harry's godfather. His hair was shorter, his face was fuller, and there was a gleam in his eye she had never seen before.

"Hello, Hermione," he greeted her warmly.

"Hermione!" Neville cried, wandering in from the direction of the kitchen.

"Happy birthday!" she said, enveloping him in a hug. "Has it been a good one?"

"Definitely," Neville grinned. "My Uncle Algie sent me a mimbulus mimbletonia—they're really rare—and you should see the drawing Luna made me… it's brilliant!"

"I can't wait," Hermione enthused, looking around. "Where's Harry?"

Sirius and Neville exchanged a snicker.

What was that about?

"Is he back up there fussing about how he looks?" Augusta asked harshly, shaking her head. She looked pointedly at Hermione. "No doubt on account of you."

"Why don't you go on up, Hermione? I can bring your things up to your room," Neville offered.

"Diggy will take it," Augusta responded, but Neville had already levitated her trunk. Hermione marveled at how much more assured he'd gotten at spells these past few weeks.

She followed him up the stairs, chatting with him about the special breakfast Diggy had made for his birthday. They separated at the landing, and she followed the familiar route to Harry's bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and she could see Harry jamming some shirts into a drawer.

Before she knew what she was doing, she'd burst into the room, crossed it and crushed Harry in a hug. She had a brief glimpse of his look of surprise, and the start of a smile before she'd buried herself in his arms.

"Hi," Harry said, his voice muffled by her hair.

"Hi," she replied, reveling in the feel of his arms around her. She'd felt so unbalanced these past few weeks, hiding things from her parents, but there wasn't anyone she could be herself around more than Harry.

She pulled back slightly, taking in the fact that Harry had grown a little—just a smidge—so he was just a bit taller than her, before capturing his lips with hers.

He responded quite enthusiastically.

"Almost makes up for not seeing you for weeks," she said when they broke apart, her hands still idling in the hair at the back of his neck.

"Still, let's never do that again," Harry muttered.

"We've got until Christmas."

Harry studied her, his gaze boring into her. "How were things with your parents?"

So he'd read between the lines of her letters then.

"Fine," she said brightly, pasting a smile on her face. Harry was the person she could be herself around, but she didn't want to ruin their reunion.

Harry, it seemed, was not buying it though. He raised his eyebrows incredulously.

"All right, it wasn't fine, exactly," she said, sliding her hands away from him and turning toward the window. "I wanted to go home so badly."

"You were afraid if you didn't, you and your parents would become strangers," Harry said, recalling her reasoning perfectly.

"Yes, but it's happening anyway," Hermione replied, frustration evident in her voice. "I can't tell them the truth about my life here—about the war and You-Know-Who—so I spent the entire time on guard, keeping track of the lies and half truths I told."

She turned to face him and was surprised to see a guilty look staring back at her.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, her eyes narrowed.

"Well, it's my fault, isn't it?" he asked. "You can't tell them the truth about me. About me and Voldemort."

Hermione felt her heart break a little at how easily he thought he was to blame.

"No, Harry," she said, rushing toward him again, grabbing his hands in hers. "Obviously, some of the half-truths I told were about you. But even if we weren't close, even if you and I never talked, I'd still be lying. I imagine Dean and Justin and the Creeveys and all of the other muggleborns are, too."

Harry was silent for a moment before letting out a shuddering breath.

"So was it really awful then?" he asked. "At home?"

She hadn't been starved or stuffed in a cupboard or anything truly awful, no. But she hadn't really enjoyed herself.

"There were times when we had a lot of fun," she said. "When Dad and I went to the museum, or when we all cooked dinner together, or when mum and I went for walks in the park. But it was also just… really lonely."

She felt the tears start to come, saw Harry's eyes widen in panic, before he pulled her to him, his embrace the exact reassurance she needed.

"Nothing felt right there," she said. "Like it was familiar, but everything was askew."

She wished her house could be more like Hannah's—that she could figure out a way to combine her two worlds. But there was no chance of that happening until she was of age—and certainly no chance as long as You-Know-Who was around.

She shook her head, wiping the tears from her eyes. "How have things been here?" she asked.

"Fine," Harry said.

He was clearly downplaying it on account of how her own summer had been. She could see it in his eyes—they were brighter than she had ever seen them—and the lack of tension in his shoulders. He looked…normal.

She studied him. He'd grown a bit and he looked more relaxed, and he was also wearing muggle clothes that had actually been purchased specifically for him. She wasn't sure if he actually put on weight, or he just wasn't swimming in his jeans and t-shirts, but she certainly appreciated the look.

Harry looked down self-consciously. "Do I look all right?" he asked, clearly unnerved by her study.

"You look perfect," she assured him wholeheartedly.

"Good," Harry grinned, reddening. "I've sort of developed this habit of… changing a lot. Sirius thinks it's hilarious."

"Augusta blamed me," Hermione confessed.

"Oh," Harry said, reddening even more. "Well, maybe this time… but…"

But he had never had options before. For the first time in his life, Harry wasn't just wearing his Weasley jumper because it was the only muggle article of clothing he owned that fit him properly. Hermione felt her heart lift at the fact that Harry was finding simple pleasure in just having stuff, in being able to decide whether he wanted to wear a blue shirt or a red one.

God, she was glad he was away from his awful aunt and her family.

"It's Neville's birthday," she said, offering him a genuine smile as she delicately changed the subject. "We should go celebrate."

They'd have a happy day today and then tomorrow, for once in his life, Harry would have a proper birthday. She couldn't wait.