Hermione hadn't much fancied the airport the first time she visited, but she supposed that was more a product of the long flight than any lack of charm in the place. From the expression on Harry's face, she guessed that he was of the same mind.

Ron, on the other hand, seemed to have inherited Mr. Weasley's unfaltering enthusiasm for what he usually called 'mad Muggle inventions.' Airplanes were simply the most recent addition to the list.

"Well, they've got nothing on Portkeys," he said brightly, "but as far as slow means of travel, they're not bad."

"Certainly more useful than the Knight Bus," Harry added rather groggily, "and more comfortable at that. I might have even slept part of the way over if Ron here hadn't given a good impression of someone who'd taken a Babbling Brew. Kept going on about the in-flight entertainment."

Ron brandished the pair of headphones proudly. "Almost as good for a laugh as Extendable Ears these are," he declared. "Mad, aren't they?"

"Quite," Hermione chuckled, stepping to the curb to flag down a cab. "Now, have you worked out where you'll be staying?"

"Of course," Ron said impatiently. "The Prophet's put us up in some Muggle-proof hotel run by Dumbledore's third cousin on his mother's side. They reckon we can't be trusted in anything more posh."

"As long as they don't take after Aberforth, I don't mind," Harry added.

"Have you run into many wizards here?" Ron pressed on. "I hear there're a few places like Hogsmeade if you know where to look for them and their Quidditch team's supposed to be barking. They believe in a load of superstitious rubbish they learned from the pygmies or something."

"Shh," Hermione chided as a cab pulled up to the curb. "We're among the Muggles and we shouldn't be talking about such things."

"Aw, lighten up, 'Mione," Ron teased. "It's our first real holiday since…well, you know…"

Of course she knew. No one had to remind her of the body count or the number of funerals they'd gone to in the first week alone. She didn't need to think about how many days she had spent under 'mandatory observation' at St. Mungo's once Professor McGonagall had gotten a hold of her. The newly instated Headmistress of Hogwarts had insisted that anyone subjected to an Unforgivable Curse be taken to the hospital wing, but she had come down particularly hard on Harry, Ron and Hermione. They had secretly theorized that she was trying to make up for all of the times she would have bothered them during their seventh year.

As it was, Hermione understood without him having to explain just how badly the three of them needed a real holiday. She had simply postponed hers until after she found a way back to her family.

"Just be careful," Hermione requested. "We don't want to make more trouble than necessary while you're down here."

"And Merlin knows we haven't much experience in making trouble," Harry agreed with a straight face.

"Absolutely," Ron sniggered. "Straight as arrows we are and mild-mannered to boot."

Harry leaned forward to give the address to the driver, in an area of the city where she hadn't been yet. The driver nodded distractedly and pulled out into the mid-morning traffic without further comment.

"Muffliato," she muttered.

Immediately, Ron relaxed and rolled the window far enough down to let in a stiff breeze. Hermione sighed happily and burrowed herself against his side. As usual, he did not protest.

"Do you like your new flat?" Harry asked pointedly.

"As much as expected," Hermione responded, turning her head to look at him. "I've been trying to find a job and it's not exactly in the CBD."

"What sort of job?" Ron asked. "Something respectable, I'd imagine. You're not going to do anything…"

He glanced around furtively as if afraid that the spell was wearing off, and then lowered his voice until she almost had to read his lips in order to understand him.

"Muggle, are you?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Ron," Hermione snorted, pulling away. "You make it sound as if I'm doing something indecent."

"Well, it's not our sort of thing," he said bracingly, turning slightly red, "and I don't want you doing anything too dangerous. You never know with Muggles."

" If you hadn't noticed," Hermione said easily, more amused than offended by his usual close-minded attitude towards the non-magic world, "my parents have been doing respectable Muggle jobs since before I was born. I don't think there's any harm in that."

"Yes," Harry interjected, "but you're forgetting that there are many non-Muggle organizations in this area that could put you to work. Muggle Relations. The Department of International Cooperation…"

"Yes," Hermione said. "I'd have to owl Percy on a daily baiss."

"Well, all right, not that," Harry conceded, "but you

"You could be the Australian Rita Skeeter," Ron suggested in a lighter tone. "Write a best-selling tell-all expose about your wild nights with Harry Potter."

Hermione's first reaction was to hex him for suggesting such a thing, but Harry was looking highly amused at the prospect.

"Wild nights, eh?" Harry answered.

"I hope you don't mind the smell of sick," Hermione retorted delicately, "because if either of you even think about continuing that line of thought, you'll be covered in it."

"Oh, come on, Hermione," Harry teased. "We did have some pretty crazy times in those woods."

"Well," Hermione surmised, "there was that one with the fox that decided to share our tent…"

"And the time I let you try your hand at poker," Harry agreed.

"And the time the chipmunk who kept nicking our food got stuck in your handbag," Ron concluded with a braying kind of chortle that she had thoroughly missed.

She shot him a quick look and allowed herself a smile. "We'll just not mention anything that went on in Wales, shall we?"

"We could sell it under the title of 'I Spent Two Hundred Exciting Nights With the Boy Who Lived,'" Ron explained. "It's not a catchy headline, but I think Witch Weekly readers would call it a page-turner. We'd sell millions of copies at seven sickles a piece. If that goes well, we can have the illustrated…"

"Harry," Hermione interrupted sharply, "I think you've been letting him hang around Holey Saint George far too often."

"No," Ron corrected immediately. "That would be Ginny. She's been keeping things up to speed at Wheezes as a kind of summer project. She's a dab hand at bookkeeping and when Harry's not acting the jealous type, she's great for business."

"And it's fairly close to Grimmauld Place," Harry added, "so she can come over whenever she likes."

"Still staying there, are you?" Hermione asked.

He grinned easily. "Well," he said, "it is my house and really the place isn't so bad."

"We've made a game of tricking friends into 'discovering' Mrs. Black," Ron added. "You should have seen Neville's face. We had just asked him to open the 'window' behind the curtains."

"That's cruel," Hermione accused while fighting a grin of her own.

"It's entertainment," Ron corrected, "and God knows we could all use a good laugh sometimes."

"Doesn't it bother Kreacher, though?" she challenged.

"We only do it once in a while," Harry assured her. "Kreacher's spent more time in other parts of the house these days, so he usually mutters something about 'mischief-makers troubling my poor Mistress,' but we haven't heard him call anyone a Mudblood in days."

"And his cooking's improved," Ron said cheerfully. "He's got nothing on Mum, but it saves us trips to the Burrow when we don't want to run into Perce."

On other occasions, Hermione would have rolled her eyes and commiserated about Percy Weasley's less-than-admirable tendencies. Given the events surrounding Lord Voldemort's fall and Percy's haphazard reconciliation, she wouldn't have expected this much animosity from his brother.

"You still haven't forgiven him, then?" she stammered.

"Oh, I've forgiven him for what he did over the last couple of years," Ron said, waving a dismissive hand, "but he's still a pompous little prat and that's not something I take lightly."

That made more sense. Before she could comment any further, Harry perked up and the cab slowed almost to a stop.

"Looks like we're here," he said brightly.

Hermione immediately muttered, "Finite Incantatem," and the cabbie called out the fare as if he hadn't been puzzled by three adults sitting in silence for the duration of the ride. Harry handed over the appropriate amount and Ron squirmed far enough away from her so that he could open the door. A moment later, he turned to help her out of the cab and they stepped into the sunlight.

As expected, there were no signs of a hotel, magic or otherwise, to be found. To her left was a bookshop and to the right was a dingy-looking hair salon. Her mind immediately went to the Fidelius charm, wondering what had inspired the need for such protection. Ron, on the other hand, unloaded his suitcase from the trunk and headed straight for the salon.

"You'd think they would make it something like the Leaky Cauldron or such, but the owner is a Muggle-born witch married to her childhood sweetheart," Ron called over his shoulder. "She apparently feels more comfortable with this sort of front."

Indeed, Hermione's first instinct upon entering was to ask if the owner were related to Tonks. The young woman's hair was twisted into an elegant braid, but the effect was rather ruined by the fact that her hair was lime green, fuchsia and turquoise. Upon closer inspection, there were dark-red roots showing, so the chances of her being a Metamorphmagus were close to zero.

"Can I help you?" she asked cheerfully.

"My Great-Aunt Sophie recommended this place," Harry informed her. "Do you have any openings on Thursday next?"

Apparently, this was a code, since Harry had neither a Great-Aunt Sophie nor plans to stay here longer than a few days. The woman gestured to a staircase to the left with a smile.

"Go talk to Nellie," she suggested. "She'll be able to help you with that."

If the patrons of the salon thought it odd that two young men should bring suitcases to this sort of establishment, they didn't say anything. Hermione led the way up the staircase to a closed door and knocked three times.

Immediately, the door swung open to reveal a well-furbished hotel lobby. It was no Ritz-Carlton, but it was certainly more comfortable than she'd have expected from a Dumbledore. Harry paused next to a large, squashy armchair and got a peculiar kind of smile on his face. A moment later, the smile was gone and he followed Ron to the front desk.

"The reservation's under Weasley," Ron introduced himself. "A double room on any non-hexing floor."

"Yes, sir," the man said cheerfully. "Did you have any trouble finding the place?"

"Not at all," Ron replied. "How far is it to the Quidditch stadium?"

"Two Floo grates and half a block," he explained. "Will you require a Waking Charm?"

"Not necessary," Ron said.

"Very well, then, sir," the proprietor said, handing over the old-fashioned keys. "I shall levitate your luggage there immediately and if there is anything that you require, don't hesitate to ask."

"Thanks."

Hermione nodded towards the small restaurant that adjoined the lobby. "How about you two get yourselves unpacked and I'll see about some carry-out?"

Ron grinned brightly before turning to kiss her quickly on the mouth. "Brilliant," he commended her. "We'll see you upstairs?"

She nodded. "I'll be straight up as soon as I've found something edible in this place."


The important thing seemed to be that she was still alive. At least, that's what she gathered from the fact that her heart was hammering against her ribcage. That might have been an illusion, since she had not been able to stop shaking since the first time Bellatrix unleashed the Cruciatus curse.

Hermione's feet hit the solid ground a moment before salt air flooded her nostrils. Her knees buckled at the impact, but in spite of her instinctive attempts to straighten up, her slump continued until she was crumpled on the ground. Immediately, Ron's arms found her again, gathering her against his chest.

She was dimly aware of shouts and screams. They might have been hers, but she could not tell. It seemed impossible that her throat could endure more screams, since it was raw with her pain and her tears. A moment later, she heard Bill shout "Lumos" and the lawn of Shell Cottage flooded with light.

"My god," he blurted. "Get her inside!"

Ron, obviously thinking that she was unconscious, hauled her upright and moved to sweep her off her feet. She swayed unsteadily for a moment against him, then collapsed on her knees once more, retching.

"Fleur…"

"I am 'ere," Bill's wife said, slightly out of breath as she hurried out of the house. "Ees it…"

Empty of everything but pain and worry over Harry's whereabouts, Hermione slumped backwards into Ron's waiting arms.

"Malfoys," Ron panted. "It was Malfoy's Mum and her mad sister. I don't know if they did anything else to her…"

His hand touched the light gouge on her neck as if he could fix it with his touch. She turned herself in to his embrace until she rested, trembling against his chest.

"Harry's coming," Ron said hopefully. "If nothing went wrong…"

"Stay here for Harry," Bill barked at Ron. "We'll get her taken care of."

She cried out as Ron released her into his brother's arms, but a moment later, Fleur touched her forehead lightly and the shaking seemed to subside. Undoubtedly a gift from her veela grandmother, Fleur's presence seemed to have a calming influence on many.

"Keep her talking," he instructed Fleur as they carried her into the sitting room. "She needs to sleep, but I'm not letting her go around the twist in case there's some mind-damage."

It was the first that anyone had spoken of damage, of the fact that she could end up just like Neville's parents. She shuddered deeply, prompting Bill to pull a thick blanket over her. He left the room as his wife tucked it around her with an almost maternal air.

"'Ermione," Fleur murmured. "Can you 'ear me?"

"Y-y-y-y…"

Hermione clenched her teeth to stop the stammering, but it did nothing to calm their chattering.

"Do you remember 'oo deed thees to you?" Fleur asked.

"'C-c-course," Hermione said. "L-l-lestrange.

"Was eet the Cruciatus?"

At that word, the trembling returned so violently that Hermione could do nothing more than nod jerkily.

"Deed she do anytheeng else?"

Hermione reached for her throat by way of explanation. Fleur sucked in a deep breath, and then let it out in a quiet sigh.

"'Ermione," she whispered, "I would like to 'elp you."

"Granger, I am not as ruthless as the Dark Lord," Bellatrix cooed in a ridiculous voice. "You can play the hero or you can accept my rare gift."

"No," Hermione groaned, more to herself than anyone else.

"I would like to help you," Bellatrix continued. "My gift to you is death. Would you prefer that?"

To die honorably in silence was a cruel mercy, but it was the first time that she had been tempted to ask a favor of a Death Eater.

"Can't help," Hermione whimpered. "Not even Ron or Harry could…"

"I weell if you let me," Fleur promised. "I cannot take thees pain from you, but I can help you forget it until you are well enough to face it."

Hermione's hands had rested, clenched, against her chest, but for the first time since arriving here, she unclenched one and slid it into Fleur's palm. It accomplished little, but it was the first time since leaving Malfoy Manor that she had believed that it was possible to heal.