January 6th

Hermione's experience in the launderette the day before left her rattled in a manner she hadn't expected. Something about the man who grabbed her arm was unsettling. Who was he? She had long ago given up the assumption that coincidences actually existed and that harmless looking Muggles couldn't hurt her. Being suspicious had kept her alive.

Sleep had been impossible. Every single ambient noise in the rundown hotel was sinister and proof that she was about to be found again. Hadn't Malfoy screamed at her as she ran off on New Year's that he would keep searching? He wasn't the kind of man to just give up because it was difficult. His special set of skills had served him well in the Dark Lord's employ.

She was out of the hotel before the sun came up. Ordinarily, she would stay inside as long as possible. Up until the minute before check-out time. When a person was homeless and had nowhere else to go, lingering in the warmth of a heated room only made sense. What else did she have to look forward to but misery and the cold?

Trying to fill the hours of the day when one has no purpose in life but to run away from those that would do them harm was more difficult than one might imagine if they weren't in the same situation. Hermione kept books in her beaded bag, but she could only read the same text so many times before she longed to throw the volume in the rubbish bin. Whenever she got the opportunity, when someone was foolish enough to set a book down within her reach, she would procure new reading material. It wasn't a difficult task. Most people didn't worry about keeping an eye on their books. After all, who would want to steal a ripped paperback that had already been passed through countless hands?

Public libraries could be entered and utilized when she was feeling brave. If there was one trait Hermione Granger was known throughout the land for, it was her love of books. She was well aware that libraries often were searched when she was the prey. It made sense to look for her in the quiet buildings. Where else could a person sit in a chair undisturbed for hours? She only entered them if she was truly desperate and at a loss what to do next.

The temperature hovered just a few degrees above freezing all day. There was a slight breeze that increased the chill in the air. She knew she should've kept walking, kept looking for a place to sleep for the night. If she waited too late in the day, there would be nowhere else to go but open parks and seedy twenty-four hour cafes. Usually, they weren't too keen on someone laying their head down on top of their tables for a short kip.

Between the man grabbing her arm the day before and the visit from Malfoy a week earlier, Hermione was out of sorts. It was becoming evident more and more every single day that she couldn't continue how she was living. She needed a long-term plan. One that would sustain her for more than a few days. It had to be solid. She knew that he would never stop looking for her until either he was dead or she was.

Most of the libraries in the city were open until the evening hours. She could ramble through their stacks for a few hours before she had to worry about moving on. Her previous trips to the city had given her a fair idea of where some of the libraries were located. Though it took her several wrong turns and more than an hour to find one on foot, Hermione finally found at least one building that would welcome her for a short time.

It was only as she tried to tug on the closed and locked door that she realized it was Sunday. She wasn't sure if all of them were closed on Sundays, but she rather suspected they were. Frustrated that she still had an entire day to fill up, she kept walking. Remaining on the move was imperative if she wanted to avoid drawing suspicion. Too many Muggle police officers had stopped her over the months she was on the run. If they asked too many questions that she couldn't answer, she would be in trouble. It was best to give the locals no reason to fear her presence.

She had been walking at least a quarter of an hour when she heard laughter and conversation ahead. Large groups of people could either be helpful camouflage or dangerous. Hermione stepped behind a building to examine the noise from a distance. Almost at once she relaxed. It was simply Muggles heading inside their large church for Sunday services. A quick scan of the crowd didn't reveal any obvious Death Eaters in disguise.

Years earlier, when the world was different, she remembered Sunday morning services with her parents. They were never regular occurrences. Mostly random events spurred on by her mother's 'Christian guilt' when it had been too long since they last sat in an uncomfortable pew to attempt to listen to a sermon without dozing off. Hermione was much more like her dad in that she would go to make her mother happy, but she didn't find any peace or fulfillment in the act.

There was an empty pew in the very back of the church's sanctuary that she slipped into. Maybe she wouldn't find any answers to questions she didn't know she was supposed to be seeking the answers to, but she could guarantee at least a couple of hours of freedom from running. Dolohov was superstitious enough to believe that he'd incinerate into a pile of ash if he ever crossed the threshold of a church. He certainly wasn't the only one who held that opinion either.

She was respectful enough to stand when asked, bow her head when told, and kneel when the others around her did so. The small sense of comfort she discovered in repeating the rituals of her youth surprised her. When the priest spoke to the congregation, she even tried to pay attention. It was unfortunate for her that the room was so warm and the cadence of his words so soothing. Closing her eyes for just a minute wouldn't hurt anyone, would it?

The first sensation she could recall was the feel of polished wood against her cheek. It felt cool to the touch. She considered ignoring the fact that what she was doing was clearly wrong to recapture a few more minutes of blessed relaxation. Only when she realized that there were no sounds around her did Hermione begin to worry. The priest was no longer speaking. The congregation no longer singing. She couldn't even hear the ubiquitous clearing of throats that seemed to accompany all gatherings of any size.

Falling asleep in a church pew was hardly being inconspicuous. She sat up quickly. Just as she feared, the sanctuary was empty. How long had she been sleeping? And, she covered her face with her hands at the shame of it, how many people had seen her do so? Knowing she needed to get out of the church sooner rather than later, Hermione grabbed her scarf to wrap it back around her throat. A gentle cough inches away alerted her to the presence of another.

The priest had kind eyes, she noticed first. Hovering somewhere around the Muggle middle-age mark, he smiled at her and showed no hint of anger. Somehow, that made what happened all that much more embarrassing.

"Forgive me, Father. I did not mean to…"

"If one cannot find rest in the Lord's house, where can they?"

He held out his hand to her, silently requesting that she take what he was offering. Hermione almost cried when she saw the sandwich. Other than a few crackers here and there, she hadn't actually had a solid meal since the night she stole the wallet. Even if her pride screamed at her to refuse the gift, she took it. She wasn't sure what the proper protocol for eating in a church was, but it didn't really matter. As she unwrapped the offering and began to nibble at the bread, the priest kept up a running commentary of the services the church offered to a young woman who might have found herself in the midst of difficult times.

Taking refuge with innocent Muggles would be wrong. No matter how lovely the sound of the beds available and the prospect of food on a regular basis, Hermione knew she couldn't accept. She would be tracked down again. It was an inevitability that she could not ignore. Putting helpless Muggles in the line of fire was reckless and selfish. Hadn't she exhibited enough cruelty to last several lifetimes? One more mark on her blackened soul and she might incinerate just as Dolohov would.

"Thank you, Father."

With half of the sandwich still clutched in her hand, Hermione rushed out of the church.