Falling Guards

"Dumbledore still not at the breakfast table?" Harry asked, causing Hermione to look up from the obituaries she was reading in the Prophet. She looked mildly annoyed to be interrupted in reading about the murder of Eleanor Rigby of Liverpool, but glanced at the head table to note Dumbledore's large, vacant chair. "He must have had business at the Ministry?" Ron offered, taking a break from his breakfast plate, "Or maybe he's traveling and doing whatever it is he's been doing lately. World falling to bits he has more important things to do than run a school."

Harry shrugged, and Hermione tried returning to the morning death report, but gave up as a fresh platter of German Pancakes appeared next to the morning porridge. Ron out stretched his arm in front of her plate to pull the corner piece to his plate, only to be intercepted by Hermione slapping his hand with the flat of her knife as she claimed it for her own.

She had always loved Christmas at the Castle. Even during the darkest days of the War, the House Elves had poured their hearts into making sure the castle radiated cheer for those short, dark weeks in December. They knew what was going on and thought it their duty to keep that as far from the student's minds as possible. The Holidays were their escape. The Christmas trees gleamed, ornaments having a faint silvery glow around them as candles and stars shown down on the students in the Great Hall. It smelled like pine walking down the staircases that had over night been draped with Garland. From the Astronomy tower to Hagrid's hut, no detail had been neglected. From the ghostly carol to the German pancakes, the war was a vacant memory.

Just like Dumbledore's chair.

Hermione was grateful that Dumbledore had disappeared shortly after their lesson a few weeks earlier. She wasn't quite ready to deal with the consequences of telling Dumbledore his death. She might as well tare down all her guards and tell him who else, see if he could help her find the fixed points, whittle down who could and couldn't be saved, but parts of her were still too angry with him, too frustrated at the thought maybe she couldn't save them all.

But he didn't know any better—the logical, more dependable Hermione argued.

He was the only one Voldemort feared, he could have known better, she countered.

He did the best he could—

He sent three teenagers on an insurmountable quest that you miraculously succeeded. You all should have died.

"Can you pass a pancake?" Ron asked, rubbing his hand where she had hit him. She raised her eyebrow and looked at him hesitantly, "A pancake? You just want the one?"

"Well if you're going to knife me for them, I only have one good hand left," he tried, reaching over again; this time she helped hand it his way.

Ron had gotten to the tolerable stage of he and Lavender's relationship; at least, he was tolerable to be round when Lavender wasn't about. If she was anywhere near, he could still play the role of a junior dementor searching for a soul, but he was less urgent, less obnoxious in his role.

Hermione found some comfort in knowing she'd only have to deal with the two of them like this for three more months. After Ron's birthday he'd end things, and aside from Lavender throwing daggers at her thru puffy red eyes, as she got ready in the morning Hermione and Ron would return to the awkward, flirty cadence they had fallen into before.

Or so she expected. There was something off from last time. It was strange, but something was different. Maybe it was just because it was the second time around, but Hermione noticed more details about Ron and Lavender that made her tick like a bomb just begging to go off and destroy everything in a 5 kilometer distance. Like how Ron would tuck a strand of Lavender's hair behind one ear when they were snogging. He had done that same thing with her. And when she'd catch them snogging, she'd often catch him holding her head with the hand that had fixed the hair while the other one spanned her back. She knew the protection that was tucked in that embrace. Even when they were not snogging, she'd see he'd grabbed her hand when they left for a class. In the early days of their relationship, it was usually Lavender who tugged Ron like a steamboat from class to class. But Ron was taking action now. He even had this idiotic look on his face. She could have sworn the first time around he was scowling more and more around her. Not less as their relationship moved on.

All those little things, she had thought some of them were things that were unique to them. She didn't want to think that they were second hand tricks he had learned from her.

She was expecting changes from her repeating time, but it was in the form of lives being saved. She hadn't anticipating anything changing between her and Ron, but she felt as though that was inevitable. It was already changing. A Part of her was expecting to rush into his arms and kiss him during the Final Battle. She was expecting to hold him when—well Fred's not dying, so that'll change, she corrected herself. She'd hold his hand for strength and comfort when Harry died. She was expecting that regardless the state of their relationship when she fell through time, she would get to bask in a few, quite, sunlit days with him.

But even that wasn't guaranteed from the first time around.

When the Battle of Hogwarts was over, when they woke up the next morning, still breathing, wrapped up in each other on the lumpy Gryffindor couch, she had forgotten for a moment the battle was over. As her heart beat slowed down, as she remembered that Harry was alive and asleep in his bed upstairs, that they had intended on going up and sleeping there but got—distracted?—in the Common Room, more than her vision became clear. For the first time since her fourth year, there wasn't a mad man that could come through the door and kill the both. They were no longer public enemies. Instead, they were starting a new part in their lives where they could possibly fade out of public life and enter in the long denied private rest.

She had tried stretching, but was pulled back by Ron, still sleeping, flexing his arm about her. She looked up and saw how when he slept he looked like the eighteen year old he was, and not some battle worn warrior. His freckles were spilled on his face. His hair needed a haircut, fringe tickled his brow. But he was alive. She was alive. They had made it.

A Quaffle had seemed to settle on her stomach. Yes, they had survived, but now what?

She could find a way, wiggle out of his arms and disappear down the hall to the prefects bathroom and freshen up. She had only got to wash up at Shell Cottage, they hadn't stayed long enough for a proper bath. She could go, wash up, and come back and see how things went. Maybe, if he didn't wake up to find her in his arms, he'd forget that she'd kissed him and they'd fallen asleep together. Maybe she'd return to the Common Room and he'd be gone, looking for his grieving family.

The days of peace had finally come, a chance for them had finally come. And if she were being honest, that terrified her.

But this is what's next, she had told herself. After all, even she couldn't give a defining moment when she had fallen infatuated with Ron Weasley, but it had been a while coming. It was time for this phase to begin. She had pushed it off though; defeating Voldemort, the horcruxes, those had all had priority. But they were gone. This was the next thing on her path. She'd figure the now what along the way, no matter how terrifying that was.

She had kissed his temple. It was soft. Hesitant. As though she wasn't quite sure how the rest of whatever they now were was going to play out. He responded with his arm that was pinned under her wrapping around her shoulders and pulling her closer again, raising her head even to his. She could remember looking into his eyes, and noticing how blue they looked against the red stains of sleep deprivation they had grown accustomed to. He had taken a strand of her hair and tucked it behind her ear before he leaned down to kiss her.

"So tell me, if I had supported S.P.E.W when we were fourteen, would you have kissed me like that in the corridor?" his lips mused in ear. She had laughed, brushing out the fringe from his eyes, "You'd probably have gotten it sooner." His arms tightened around her as they laughed. She was safe and warm in his arms. The greatest threat they had to that moment being ruined was Harry coming down the stairs from the dormitory to find them like this. No, that wouldn't have been the worst. If Molly had found them like that—no sense of propriety. Remus was dead. Tonks was dead. Fred was dead and George wished he was dead. And there we were snogging on the couch for all of Gryffindor to see.

But it wasn't all of Gryffindor.

It was only Parvati Patil that came down from the girls dormitory.

She was wearing one of Lavender's Weird Sister's sweatshirts. They were always too big on Lavender and it seemed to swallow Parvati in the grief she was going through. She looked so small. The good sleep that she and Ron had the night before hadn't been given to Parvati. She looked like the only time she had closed her eyes last night was while she cried. She was swallowed up in her fresh, raw, angry, grief.

Parvati gave them one look, one Hermione's Aunt would give if she was too vivacious on Armistice Day. It was more than distaste, it was disgust.

"You Bastard, Ronald Weasley," she spat, "You bloody Bastard." Her words echoed in Hermione's ears as she ran back, up the stairs, stifling a sob before her door slammed shut.

It was just too soon, Ron had told her as they got up, leaning over and kissing her forehead. Parvati's world just fell apart and ours is forging together. We'll have to keep it low key till all the funerals are done, he had told her. In a twisted way, she had thought it hardly seemed fair that they had to keep it low key. Seven years—she had waited over seven years—and now why, out of respect for his crazy, dead ex-girlfriend, why did she have to wait? Why couldn't she snog him in the Common Room? Lavender hadn't chosen to be one of the Student Guard. The only thing that was holding them back was her memory.

But they did keep it low key. There was never a more low key relationship then theirs in the days that immediately followed the war. To those who didn't know, they remained ignorant of their relationship. Ron and Hermione? They're always together. Just like they always are—she had heard Dean Thomas explain to Susan Bones who had been the first to suspect. They were always within sight of each other, but physical contact was limited to slight touches and occasionally holding each other's hand thru a service. Except for Fred's. Then rather than leaning into his arm as the bodies were lowered into the earth.

That's not going to happen this time, she told herself for the umpteenth time. She didn't know if it was to convince her or command her to make it right.

She wondered what would change and what would stay the same about her and Ron's relationship after the war. Would it fizzle out like it was when the accident happened? She knew he felt it too. Like the final embers of their firework was falling in Switzerland. It wasn't a bad thing. She could remember waking up the morning of the accident and feeling as though there was a Quaffle lying on her chest at the thought of what to do next with Ron, just as when she woke up that first morning.

One of them had them had to end it, and she had to figure out what she would do after it did end. Would she lose Harry and all the Weasleys? Or would they start a trend of breaking up and coming back together again? What if they didn't and one Christmas she came to the Burrow the lone child among happy couples?

"Hermione," Harry called, his voice pulling her out of her thoughts like a rescuer, "Did you know about this?"

She looked and saw the little white card with emerald ink in his hands. She recognized it as the Slug Club Stationary and shrugged, "Know about what?"

"We're supposed to take a date to the Christmas party?" Harry asked, looking more concerned about the small card than he ever did about meeting Voldemort. Dating more daunting than the Dark Lord, good job Harry Potter.

"Didn't you know?" Hermione said nonchalantly, glancing back at the obituaries, "I suppose you'd have to come to a Slug Club meeting to find out little details like that."

"Vang 'hone," Ron said between bites, looking at Hermione suspiciously. He waited till he swallowed his food this time before he asked, "Who are you going with then?"

"None of your concern," she responded evenly, turning the page, "but because you won't stop at that, myself. I am going by myself. Now close your mouth Ronald Weasley or an owl will fly in it."

"You can't go stag Hermione, that's just sad," Ron warned, looking up and down the table as though he was looking for a suitable date for her. His eyes landed on Harry and he then looked at Hermione again, "I know, why don't the two of you go together, eh? No one will think anything of it."

"Last time someone got the idea I was dating Harry I was getting hate mail," Hermione glared from across her Prophet, "You should ask Luna, Harry. You'd be able to hang out with Dean and Ginny and it'd be completely platonic."

"But why can't we be platonic?" Harry asked, looking at the little card with disgust, " Why can't I go stag? Its my patronus after all—"

"Because if you go unattended someone like Romilda Vane will find a way to spike you a potion," she explained nonchalantly, "And for the last time, I am not getting toad spawn spat at me again. Not in my new robes I got. You go ask Luna and I'll sit here and ask no one."

The three of them tried returning to their breakfast, which proved difficult as every now and again Ron would try and find a guy for Hermione other than Harry, Hermione finally finished the Rigby article while Harry sat, searching the Great Hall for Luna. "On the bright side, only person she really does wander with is Ginny, so it's not like you'll be searching for a way to break her off from her group."

"So good to hear you two learned something from the Yule Ball," Hermione said, "Best ask her soon Harry. Its nice for a girl to have some notice."

She didn't mean for that to come out as a dig to both of them, but she picked up her bags and headed out of the hall. She had some time before Transfiguration. She could pen through the journal again.

Fred's journal for her had gotten quite full. She had tried color-coding it. Writing in black ink what happened the first time. Changes that were made came the second time were written below the black in emerald ink. What she thought was a fixed point was written in red.

So far, the only fixed point she could see was Katie. Dumbledore's death was a fixed point, she knew that much. And anything to do with Malfoy she was starting to think was a fixed point because it led them to the Manor where Harry became the master of the Elder Wand. She had hoped that meeting with Dumbledore would help her distinguish between the fixed in the fluid this year so when she was camping next year with the boys she would be acting more in science rather than in theory. But after their last encounter, she knew she had probably ended lessons with Dumbledore for a while. You should have known better. Harry ended his lessons by saying something he shouldn't, a self-righteous voice in her head chastised.

But she still stood by what she told him. He had sent three teenagers into the woods to save the world without the faintest idea of how to save each other.

She flipped through her scribbles of what was to come next. Slughorn's party was tomorrow night. A night as unfixed as could possible. Last time she had gone with Cormac, something she wasn't doing this time around. He was still flirtatious around her to the point it was nauseating. But Cormac was harmless. She had been encouraging a girl from Hufflepuff with Cormac and they seemed friendly enough in Herbology. He would still talk to her if they crossed paths in the common room, but that was the extent of it.

She had become Hermione Granger the matchmaker. She was a fairy godmother the second time around, not a well seasoned warrior. It was kind of disappointing to be honest.

The robes she had bought in August were hanging by the canopy of her bed, airing out after a few months in her trunk. She had forgotten just how lovely they were. They were probably too nice to be worn to a Slug Club get together, but the midnight blue against her pale, height of winter English skin would look stunning. She'd go through a bottle of Sleek-eezy hair gel, actually wear her some make up around the eyes and pretend, if only for a few hours, that the war was over. That it had ended that night and they were all the survivors. She wouldn't be Cassandra doomed to see them die. She would be Hermione, the one who helped them live.

Tomorrow's entry had the party, hiding from Cormac and Harry over hearing Draco and Snape talk about the Unbreakable Vow. She had changed part of that. She'd want to keep an ear out for Draco, because she would love to hear that she and not just what Harry had heard. But there was another slight detail she may have changed without knowing. Last time, the guest to the party had been an actual vampire.

This time, the guests of Honor would be the Weasley Twins, back in the castle for one night, and one night only.

((*))

The last time Fred had been in the Castle he had gotten a salute from Peeves as he sang a new limerick about the hospitalization of Delores Umbridge. It had been a race to get to the infirmary, to see what his siblings had walked into this time. As much as he liked to knock on Ron, he was fond of his brother, and fiercely protective of Ginny. Other than the salute, he didn't look to close to see what had changed in his absence, but this time he did.

He and George had apparated to the Three Broomsticks where Rosmerta had a carriage waiting for them and two bottles of mead. Apparently Slughorn had paid for one the weekend before but she had been out at the time, would they mind dropping it off for her. "Sneaking dangerous liquids into Hogwarts, couldn't have asked for any better escorts," George had winked, tucking the bottles under his arms.

When they got to the front steps, Professor McGonagall was standing waiting for them in her everyday emerald robes. "Professor McGonagall," Fred said with a smile, "Hope you're not planning on putting us in detention tonight."

He could have sworn he saw her lips turn upward in a smile, but it must have been the flickering light. "If you set off a trap in Mr. Filtch's corridors, I'm afraid he may insist."

"Where is he?" George asked, craning his head to see over McGonagall's shoulder, "Crying in his mop bucket that Umbridge is gone."

"Silence Weasley," the Professor quipped although it seemed more light hearted and less convincing then it usually did. "Professor Slughorn ask that I have a student escort you to the festivities, but given Mrs. Norris—"

"You just wanted to see us yourself, it's ok you can say that McGonagall," Fred said slyly, "If we're visiting you here means your going to have to come to the shop next."

She turned around and Fred could have sworn he had heard a chuckle as she led them through the giant doors.

The castle hadn't changed much from the initial scan, but it seemed to be a little lighter with Umbridge gone. He could hear laughter coming down a corridor. The suits of armor were looking at he and George as though they were long missed friends, one going so far to take off his helmet as they walked past. McGonagall stopped as they reached the third floor pulling them through the door that had been forbidden their third year.

"A quick word, before you get to the party," McGonagall whispered, "I have a message that needs to be delivered to Remus' morning. It's from Professor Dumbledore," she pulled out a small white card that had been sealed with the Headmaster's wax. "The Headmaster needs Remus to forward it. I don't know who too, the Headmaster just said he would know what to do from there."

Fred looked over it as though it was a trick, "Don't know who?"

"Is that like You-Know-Who?" George picked up.

"But a little less decisive on who exactly he's killing?" Fred smirked as McGonagall rolled her eyes and forced it into Fred's hands.

"You're guess is as good as mine. I know Dumbledore's been working on a project but I don't know what. Says he may have found a way to make sure when we get You-Know-Who he won't make it back again."

George let down a low whistle. Fred looked at the card, it was uncharacteristically thin parchment. A strange symbol scribbled inside a triangle in emerald slanted ink scribbled on the front. It was light but in his hand, with what McGonagall was describing, it felt as heavy as his Beater's bat in his hand. He tucked it on the inside of his dragon skin jacket.

"We'll make sure Lupin gets it," Fred promised, "I'll deliver it personally."

McGonagall nodded, and dusted her hands off the letter, "Thank you Weasley," she said as they exited the corridor and headed up another flight of stairs, "He'd do it himself, but apparently his travels have been pushed back a little while longer yet."

"Where exactly is he traveling?" George asked, still clutching the bottles Rosmerta had given them.

"He doesn't say," McGonagall answered, "If it was Fudge in control, I'd suppose he was at the Ministry helping the Minister write his Christmas address or for a debriefing. But Scrimgeour," she hesitated, "He is more engaged in the Ministry than Fudge."

The reached the room that Lupin had used during his tenure for Defense Against the Dark Arts exercises. It was large, although swatches of white fabric drapped the ceiling, small white balls of light hovering above them.

There were already groups of students in the room. An old gramophone was playing a jazzy song that was only drowned out by the chatter.

"I only ask that you don't burn down the school this time," Professor McGonagall said as she left the two of them in the doorway, "I might have assisted Peeves in your absence this spring, but I won't be repeating that service should a dragon find its way to my study tonight."

"Don't worry, we're professionals now," Fred said winking at the professor who rolled her eyes, "Exactly, that's what's terrifying."

His brother had already crossed the threshold to the class room and was shaking hands with a tall, round, older man with a silver handlebar mustache. "Hoarce Slughorn" a large hand forced itself into Fred's hand. "A pleasure to meet you Mr and Mr Weasley. You come highly recommended from my students."

George took out a small sugar cube, set it on the table and tapped it with his wand, and the old man watched amused as it expanded into a white, snow covered replica of Hogwarts, complete with two students skating along the lake.

"You would've given old James Potter a run for his money with transfiguration work like that," the old man chuckled, he broke off a spire and batted it against his lips, "Ah, better than sugar quills. Miss Granger, you didn't sugar coat it when you said these two were extraordinary."

Granger—

Fred would later argue that he hadn't whipped his head around to see Hermione standing behind him. When George retold this to Angelina and Lee over drinks, he'd spend a good twenty minutes arguing that he had rather tripped and was trying to recover before anyone noticed.

But he had whipped his head around to see her. She was wearing dark blue dress robes that tapered down her silhouette, reaching the floor. Her sleeves stopped at her elbows and her neckline was high, just skimming her collarbones. Her hair was tucked up in an elaborate braid, little whisps framing her face.

And she was shinning. Oh Merlin, was she shinning in the white lights dancing above them.

He had watched her grow up. Not creepily. She had just spent the last three summers under his nose at the Burrow, the last five years down the table at Breakfast. But there was some resilience about her that he was only noticing now. And oh, how he was noticing.

"Hullo Fred," she said, looking at him for a moment before she looked at his brother, "George."

"Miss Granger, shall I escort these gentlemen to the party alone?" Professor Slughorn asked with an underlining tone of amusement.

"Of course not," she answered, looping her arm with he and George's. Fred could have sworn she was looking directly at him as she said, "Never alone."

AN: I know its a little late, but the first draft didn't turn out the way I wanted it to. Or the second, or the third. But I think this is as close as I want to have it for now.

I wanted to thank you all for your kind words of encouragement in your reviews and messages from the previous AN. I truly appreciate your support. This story has been my escape in so many ways and I'm grateful for people like you who have supported it and its author along their way.

In my country, this week we celebrate a season of gratitude and appreciation for those dear in our lives. The next chapter will follow in the coming weeks, but I wanted to give you this chapter out of my thanks for you all. Especially as of late.

Until next time ~KH.