Author's Note: I was tempted to wait a day so this could be published on Neville's birthday, but given that this chapter doesn't even have Neville in it, I decided that that would be a little silly. Nevertheless, an early happy 37th birthday to Neville Longbottom! And, thank you so much for reading!


Godric's Hollow was always quiet on Sunday afternoons. Hannah walked down the town's sleepy lanes at a leisurely pace. She wasn't in a rush to get to her grandparents' house and this relaxing walk wasn't the sort of thing she got to do often while living in London. Those streets were too crowded, even just within Diagon Alley. Here, though, Hannah could take her time on the narrow roads, could breathe in the jasmine scented air and appreciate the quaint architecture that was dotted throughout the village. It was a novelty of sorts, taking walks like these through this particular town. Sure, she had done so when she was very young and visiting her father's family, but those days were long gone. Besides, the majority of the time that Hannah had spent in Godric's Hollow was in the year following her mother's murder, when her father and she had been holed up in her grandparents' home and she was basically barred from ever leaving their property. Her little room on the second floor of the Abbott house had a window that looked down onto these streets, but that was as close as she got to them then. Remembering those days flooded her with gratitude for the fact that she could walk down these lanes freely now.

She came to the town's small square and her eyes drifted to the faux war memorial that stood in its center. Her breath caught when its appearance shifted, the obelisk giving way to a statue of three figures: the Potter family. Hannah paused. She was across the street from it, but the sculpture was large enough that she could still see every detail. When she was very young Hannah had been completely enamored by the statue. Back then it had looked to her like a simple, happy scene of a little family, the grim history behind it still going over her head at the time. Now she felt a catch in her throat. She stayed focused on the figure of the baby, his smiling face. It was still hard to believe that that was Harry, the same Harry she'd known for so long, the one whose birthday she'd celebrated barely more than a week before. The subject of Harry's infamous childhood had always been a tricky one for Hannah, and for most of their former classmates too. It was a shifty sort of topic, one that could transform before their eyes in a second, going from just some background knowledge to a looming matter that was of the utmost importance. Whatever form it was in, Hannah had always felt bad for Harry. Her cheeks started to burn as she recalled the time when Ernie had her convinced that Harry must've been the heir of Slytherin, must have been the one causing so much trouble and violence at school. Those days had been so confusing, and Hannah had merely been trying to trust her friend, however looking back she couldn't help but want to scold her younger self for her foolishness. How naïve she'd been.

The sound of laughter spilled out from the nearby pub, breaking Hannah out of her thoughts. She trudged on, reaching up to pull her hair off of her neck. It was warm out, and made even warmer by her heavy, collared dress. If she had it her way, Hannah would've been in shorts, or at the very least one of the dresses she'd gotten with Susan a few weeks before. However her grandmother always insisted that their Sunday dinners were not casual affairs, and to wear anything that affronted that status was an insult to the family. She'd discussed it with her father before, but he always used the fact that these dinners only happened on a biweekly basis as a defense. Hannah didn't much see the point of trying to create any semblance of formality amongst people who had all lived together, but she never really pushed about it. Her father wasn't in a place to handle that sort of confrontation, and he hadn't been for a long time.

The large stone cottage that belonged to the Abbotts sat on a corner, only a block over from the town square. It wasn't huge by any means but its placement amongst the tiny houses that made up the majority of Godric's Hollow gave the illusion that it was a mansion. The front garden, a shock of color against the house's neutral-toned facade, stood in neat rows of flowers and shrubs that were trimmed to perfection. Hannah couldn't help but frown as she walked through it though. She had preferred the way it looked during the war, when it had been left mostly unattended and grew freely. It had been nothing but life run rampant then.

The eyes of the owl-shaped doorknocker stared as Hannah approached.

The door creaked open after only the second knock.

"You're late," Miriam Abbott said, looking her granddaughter up and down as she entered the house.

Hannah checked her watch, "Am I?" It was 4:28, and she was supposed to get there at 4:30 sharp, which by her grandmother's standards actually meant 4:25. "Sorry Grandma."

"It's alright dear," Miriam said. Her eyes coasted over Hannah's appearance, a tight smile on her face.

"She's not late, Mirie," a deep voice shouted from the sitting room as both Abbott women approached. Hannah immediately spotted her grandfather sitting back comfortably on the ornate loveseat, his eyes twinkling mischievously. He sat up a bit as his wife settled back in next to him on the dark blue, velvet cushion. Hannah sat on one of the chairs that was positioned diagonally from them, taking in the image of her grandparents. Miriam and Cyril Abbott made an interesting pair to look at. She was a slender but strong witch of above-average height, meanwhile he was a stout man who stood just below average. Where Miriam's mouth was oftentimes drawn in a tight line, Cyril's usually perked up at the corners. In fact their faces were a study in contrasts, with hers composed of sharp lines and clean angles while his was all rounded edges and soft turns.

"Hello, Grandad," Hannah said.

He winked at her, offering a large smile.

"You could have apparated straight to the garden, or used the Floo, you know," Miriam said, pushing a curled tendril of her bobbed, brown hair behind her ear.

"Honestly, Mirie, leave the girl alone. Mike isn't even here yet, and he lives here," Cyril interjected.

"Dad's not home?" Hannah asked. That was odd. He'd been living with his parents ever since her mother's death and, to her knowledge, didn't leave the house much aside from work.

"He said he was going into the office," Miriam said.

Hannah shared a glance with her grandmother and an agreement formed between them: something was not right.

"Oh, none of that," Cyril said, waving a hand between the two women. He heaved himself up from the couch. "I'm getting something to drink. Would either of you like anything?"

"No thank you," his wife said, frowning at him.

"I can just come with," Hannah said, standing to follow her grandad.

When they made it into the kitchen Hannah was hit with the strong smell of chicken and vegetables roasting in the oven. A pie was assembling itself on the counter, blackberries filling in the crust in a single file line from their carton, and pots and pans stirred themselves occasionally on the stove. Hannah had always admired her grandmother's knack for household spells, and the sight of this familiar scene warmed her heart.

Her grandfather got two glasses down from a cabinet and Hannah moved to the pantry, retrieving the large bottle of sparkling water that was always kept just inside.

"Thank you, my dear," Cyril told his granddaughter as she filled both of their cups.

"Of course," Hannah said. She kissed his cheek before putting the bottle away.

Cyril sighed, his hazel eyes narrowing just the slightest bit. "You know," he said, "I don't think that your grandmother would be so strict with you if she weren't so worried."

Hannah sipped her drink, not meeting his eyes. She wrinkled her nose as the fizzy water sent bubbles flying onto it.

"Both of us worry, about you and your father, but especially you." He reached out to pat Hannah's cheek. "You're still so young, and you've been through too much."

She frowned, moving away from her grandfather's touch. "So has everyone I know."

"The severity of others' pain doesn't affect that of your own," he argued.

It was a rehearsed line, something he'd told her countless times before. Hannah's grandfather had always been the most emotional person she'd known, and he never failed to at least attempt convincing others to follow his lead.

They went back into the sitting room, arriving just as Hannah's father stepped out from the fireplace.

"Hello darling," he said brightly as soon as he saw Hannah. He set his briefcase down on the hearth and moved to embrace his daughter.

"Hi, Dad." After pulling back Hannah looked him over, searching for any signs of harm, both external and internal. The lines on his face were deep, but no worse than they had been the last time she saw him, and if anything he looked more truly awake than he had in months. She'd grown accustomed to seeing him with dark circles of weariness and a faraway look in his eyes, but neither of those things were there at the moment.

"Michael, you're getting soot on the rug," Miriam said.

"Sorry, Mum," he said, sweeping back the robe he wore over his slacks and shirt and revealing the dust and dirt it had dragged from the fireplace. He struggled to extract his wand from his pocket before pointing it down at the mess. "Scourgify," he said, but his voice wobbled. A few bits of dirt rolled around, and a couple even disappeared, but the mess was mostly unchanged.

Watching him struggle, Hannah felt her throat constrict. "Let me," she said. Her voice came out quietly, but there was no need to worry about being heard—the whole world seemed silent.

Cyril reached up to put his hand on his son's shoulder, slowly guiding Michael away.

Hannah pulled out her wand and kneeled down by the mess, quietly casting the same charm her father had attempted. The soot vanished.

"Before you boys disappear," Miriam said, rushing after her son and husband, "Give me your robe, Michael. Hannah can take it upstairs with your case."

He did as he was told. As he handed the garment over he told his daughter, "There's a letter on my dresser for you."

"Okay," Hannah said. She knew what he meant. There's a letter from Nana in there. I didn't want to upset my parents with it though.

The two sides of Hannah's family had never really had a relationship with one another. It was complicated, to say the least, attempting to bridge the gap that spanned between her mother's non-magical relatives and her father's family, one of the longest respected and, until relatively recently, pure-blood families of the wizarding world. Things had only gotten worse after her mother's death, and then her time spent in Belfast. Ever since she'd come back it had been hard to even mention her Nana, her maternal, Muggle grandmother, in front of the elder Abbotts. Miriam was especially sensitive about it. While Cyril had been sad to see his granddaughter leave for that time in the Muggle world, Miriam had been incensed. Hannah couldn't blame them, but it was upsetting that they seemed to place the blame on Nana, instead of on Hannah herself.

After hanging her father's robe back up in the wardrobe and placing his briefcase on the foot of his bed she took stock of his room. It was clean, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Neither of her grandparents were above coming into the room and tidying it while their son was at work. They'd do anything to take care of him. And you,Hannah thought to herself. That was her logic speaking, but the words never quite made it to her heart.

Something caught her eye on the shelf above her father's dresser. She moved over to investigate, only half noticing the letter that did indeed lay on the dresser's surface. A picture frame was lying facedown on the shelf, its stand pressed flat to make it almost invisible against the dark wood surface. Hannah picked it up, her breath catching when she saw the image it held. The photograph was of her family when Hannah was young. The three of them stood in the yard of their old home, smiling. Hannah's parent's had their arms around each other's waists while Hannah stood in front of them, somewhere around eight years old and giving a toothy grin, her hair in pigtails. In the picture both of her parents reached out and each placed a hand on Hannah's shoulders. Looking at it now, Hannah was struck by the perfect stability of the gesture. No wonder she'd felt so off-balance for years now.

Bile rose in Hannah's throat. Why had her father put this down like that? Surely it had to be him. Her grandparents never would have done that. They still had pictures of her mother downstairs, didn't they? She hadn't noticed earlier, but she would have to look for them on the way out. She took a shaky breath and looked around the room. It was the only picture in there. Had there been more photos before? Hannah couldn't say. She looked back down at the picture, at her mother's face. Suddenly she couldn't stand to look at it either. She placed the frame back on the shelf just how she'd found it, snatching her letter and fleeing the room.

Her fingertips brushed over the stamps on the envelope repeatedly as she made her way to her old bedroom, which didn't quite help to calm her down. The stamps were small reminders of the gap that existed between the two worlds that made up Hannah's life, so foreign to one but necessary to the other. Muggle mail couldn't even be delivered to the Leaky Cauldron, which was why Nana always sent Hannah mail by way of her father. Once she was in her room, Hannah sat on the edge of the old twin bed. The bedsprings creaked under her while she cast a charm to slit the envelope open neatly, revealing several folded sheets of paper. Her grandmother's looping scrawl filled each one with green ink.

My sweetest girl, the letter started before chronicling all sorts of news from the entirety of Hannah's family in Northern Ireland. There was talk of her younger cousins' new interests, her Uncle Robbie's promotion, and Nana's own stories from a day trip she took with a good friend. It was all so simple sounding, and so nice. The panic that had struck Hannah faded while she read.

There was only one paragraph left when her father stuck his head into the room.

"How's Nana?" he asked.

"Good," Hannah told him, suppressing the image of the upended frame. "She went to Giant's Causeway and says that it looked like a different world." She bit her lip, weighing her options before adding, "Apparently the texture of the ground reminded her of Mum's old dragon-hide gloves."

He smiled at her, but a moment later it was gone. Avoiding Hannah's eyes he cleared his throat and said, "Dinner is almost ready. You're sorely missed downstairs."

"I'll be right there," she said, turning back to her letter.

"Now, Hannah," her father insisted.

Hannah stared at him, but he still wouldn't meet her gaze. Her cheeks felt hot, blood rushing to them as the hurt swept over her.

A retort sat on the tip of her tongue, longing for release. But she knew those words couldn't come out. She loved her father too much for that, had too much appreciation for all that he'd done for her. But still, resentment and bitterness swelled in her chest as she put the letter back into its envelope, which was then slipped into her pocket with her wand. She followed her father down the stairs, frowning at the back of his head the whole way.

Hannah kept quiet during dinner. Conversation happened around her, mostly between Miriam and Cyril. Every time that Hannah thought they might be about to direct something her way she would take another bite. It was childish, sure, but the food was a good as ever and frankly it felt nice to eat instead of talking. Her grandparents shot worried looks her way throughout the meal, brows furrowed, but Hannah merely gave quick smiles in response. As long as they thought she was okay, what did it matter? She just needed to get to the end of the night.

Her father barely even glanced in her direction.

After dinner was over and they'd all had their fill of the blackberry pie, Hannah expected to help her grandmother with the dishes, like she usually did. Instead, her grandfather stopped her.

"Why don't your father and I take over tonight?" he said instead.

Hannah watched as he exchanged a glance with her grandmother, and as her father's head shot up, his expression puzzled by this change of course. She scowled. "I could help, Grandad. Honestly, I don't mind—"

"You do enough of this at work," he insisted. His mouth was missing its characteristic smirk. Instead, his already thin lips were pressed into a tight line.

Hannah watched as he stood and eyed her father. That made Michael stand up as well, pulling out his wand.

"Perhaps it'd be better to—" but Cyril cut off, allowing his son to attempt this with magic.

Miriam caught Hannah's eye and the two of them went back to the sitting room. Hannah was going to take a seat in her normal chair, but her grandmother motioned for her to sit on the loveseat with her, taking Cyril's usual spot. When they had both settled in Miriam stared at her granddaughter for what felt like an eternity. Hannah tried not to look away, knowing that it would be a dead giveaway that something was wrong. Instead she took stock of all of the features of her grandmother's face. She marveled at how, despite the fact that Michael carried many of his mother's features, Hannah had inherited practically nothing from her grandmother, at least in the way of looks. She looked much more like Granddad, with her round cheeks, soft chin, and hazel eyes. The only thing that she knew she'd gotten from Miriam was her mouth, the full bottom lip and pronounced cupid's bow. She was looking there when her grandmother finally spoke.

"What happened upstairs?"

Hannah swallowed with difficulty. "What do you mean?" she asked.

Miriam practically rolled her eyes. There was a sound of dishes clinking against each other from the other room. She paused, waiting for it to stop before speaking in a hushed tone. "You've barely spoken two words since you went up there," she said. "Do you really think Grandad and I are that daft?"

"Of course not!" Hannah said, earning a shush.

Her grandmother's eyes darted to look over Hannah's shoulder at the doorway to the kitchen. After a moment, pleased that they hadn't been overheard, she looked back at the girl in front of her.

Her gaze felt like a weight hung around Hannah's neck, making the girl want to hang her head down.

"Tell me, please, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Hannah said, spitting the words out before she had even consciously decided to say them.

Miriam took Hannah's hands in her own. "Is everything alright with Mary?"

"Yes, Nana's doing perfectly well," Hannah said. She wanted to sound mad, or at least annoyed at her grandmother's insistence, but it was all she could do to merely keep her voice steady. Miriam must have been genuinely, extremely concerned to think that something had gone wrong with the other side of Hannah's family, let alone to check in about it.

"Then what's going on?"

Hannah didn't know what to say. She didn't want to create more concern about her father than what already existed. She didn't want to admit to feeling betrayed and bitter and fifty other ugly things. Right then, she didn't want to feel or think about anything.

Perhaps luckily, she ended up not having to.

A large crash came from the kitchen, along with a loud swear from Cyril. Miriam was up in an instant, rushing into the other room. The desire to disapparate right then and there flooded Hannah. She resisted, though. Her grandparents obviously understood that something was wrong with her, and pulling a stunt like that would only make it worse. Besides, they had protective spells placed on their property that didn't allow for apparition inside the house. She also couldn't bear to go into the kitchen, to find out for herself what had happened. She already knew, probably. It was most likely another failed use of magic by her father, who had once been a top Charms student and who practiced Transfiguration in his spare time. But Hannah forced herself to not think about that. If she did, she'd open the floodgates for all of her feelings regarding her father and what was left of their family, and she didn't know if she could take that.

Eventually, her grandfather emerged with a covered dish in his hands.

"What's that?" Hannah asked, standing to vacate his spot.

"The rest of the pie," he said. "Grandma thought you might like to take it with you."

Hannah frowned. Was this their way of just asking her to leave early?

"We know that there are cooks at the inn, of course, but you know Mirie has never been much of a fan of what they make there. Especially that old bat, what's her name?"

"You want me to take the pie?" Hannah asked.

Her grandfather let out a sigh, his broad shoulders heaving a bit as he did so. "I think it'd be best if we called it a night. You father is a little…overwhelmed, at the moment."

Hannah wasn't sure what that meant, but she also didn't much want to find out.

"Okay," she said. She moved in for a hug and her grandfather wrapped one arm around her tightly.

"We love you," he told her.

"I love you too," Hannah said. She took the pie dish from and moved to the fireplace. Her grandfather opened their canister of Floo powder and held it out for her.

Her stomach was in knots the whole way back to the Leaky Cauldron, but Hannah knew it wasn't from the travel. Something was wrong.


Author's Note: In Deathly Hallows, Harry sees a headstone with the name Abbott on it in the graveyard where his parents are buried in Godric's Hollow. I went ahead and used that as a basis for believing that maybe Hannah's family has a history of living there.

Thank you so much for reading! Super special thanks to turquoise-eyelashes for giving me so much support and encouragement! Next chapter should be up sometime in the next two weeks.