Chapter 2

To all delight of human sense exposed

In narrow room, Nature's whole wealth, yea more,

A Heav'n on Earth, for blissful Paradise

Of God the garden was

Paradise Lost, Book IV

The flames from Dumbledore's pyre still scented the air. Hermione could smell it, even with her face buried in Ron's shirt and mucus coursing from her nose. It was more scorched ozone than anything; the power of phoenix flame must instantly incinerate, though the marble tomb was a bit of a mystery.

No. Magic, not mystery. Probably a transfiguration spell on the logs; Professor McGonagall would know, I'll ask her... She choked on the giggle that arose. Always the researcher, the bookworm, aren't we? Even when someone's died.

The hand that had been stroking her hair stopped. Ron murmured, "Scrimgeour's coming back. Let's go talk to Harry, eh?"

Hermione pulled away and nodded, wiping at her eyes. As they brushed past the leonine Minister, who looked as though he'd been promised dessert and presented with a stale biscuit, Hermione pondered what was to come. Harry wasn't coming back. She knew that. There was too much pain and too little to do at Hogwarts, and action had always been his best relief. Also, he wouldn't want to endanger the other students by returning; Hogwarts was no longer a safe haven from Voldemort. The Dark Lord would tear each and every student apart if it meant killing Harry.

But she was damned if she would let him gallivant off on his own, which, as he stated a minute later, was exactly what he planned to do. Even as they returned to the castle, she wasn't sure if he would listen to them. He'd have to be watched, to make sure he didn't try running off to find Horcruxes.

A treacherous little voice in her mind pointed out that, without her there to solve puzzles and provide walking dictionary service, he probably wouldn't get very far.

They spent the days after the funeral packing and sitting around. Boredom was a deadly thing, especially when it was self-inflicted. Harry didn't want to talk about Horcruxes or Voldemort; Ron only talked about his family, and everyone else talked of nothing but Voldemort. Hermione retreated into her books, when she wasn't badgering Professor McGonagall to let her help with castle repairs or making potions with Slughorn for the people still recuperating in the Hospital Wing.

Being in the Potions classroom was odd; she still associated the dank dungeon with Snape. As she chopped and stirred, theories regarding the dark man and his true allegiance ran through her head. Snape's work for the Order, his efforts on several occasions to protect Harry, his efforts on others to have him expelled, and Dumbledore's continuous trust in the dark man combined and conflicted in her mind. Always she came back to taking the situation as it appeared, though it irked her to condemn a teacher thus. Dumbledore had professed his fallibility on several occasions and now it had been demonstrated with Snape's betrayal.

But she did promise herself that, if she ever encountered Snape and survived to speak to him, she would ask. Indeed, she probably wouldn't wait to assuage her curiosity. An image of her raising her hand before shouting questions to him as she dodged curses made her laugh. Slughorn gave her a questioning look, which, as it was similar to being silently interrogated by a robed walrus, only made her laugh harder.

Laughing felt wonderful. She was too sensible to feel guilt over laughing in the days after someone had died; memories of Dumbledore's odd sense of humor helped. She spent the rest of the half-hour her potion had to brew (with three clockwise stirs every three minutes) occasionally stifling giggles.

It was a week after the battle when Professor McGonagall came to the common room, holding a sheaf of paper and a small pouch of embossed leather. Harry, Ron and Hermione were the only ones there, having their daily afternoon session of Moping Around and Not Talking, as Hermione had come to think of it. Ron quelled the chess game he'd been playing with himself, cutting off the clanking of tiny armor. Harry and Hermione both put down their books. The older woman sat down in a nearby armchair, and they reshuffled themselves to face her. Hermione ended up on a settee with Ron, and Harry pulled a wooden chair from one of the tables.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger," the professor began when they were seated, looking at each of them in turn, "I have here Dumbledore's will." She presented the sheets of parchment, covered in the familiar loopy handwriting, and set them on a small table. None of the trio moved to take them; they would know the importance soon enough.

"The H-Headmaster," she continued, only the slightest catch in her burr betraying grief, "has bequeathed some small personal items if of his to each of you. He specifically requested you receive them a week after his death—and no, Miss Granger, I don't know why."

Hermione had indeed been about to ask, and she flushed slightly.

Briskly, McGonagall untied the leather thong that held the pouch closed. When she reached in, her hand made no impression on the shape of the pouch, and seemed to go in farther than the small purse should allow. Hermione smiled at the Mary Poppins effect the purse had. Minerva in her youth might well have been like the clever, acerbic governess.

She handed Hermione, who was closest, a slim book. The leather cover left a film of dust on Hermione's hands, and she could just barely make out the runes embossed on the front; the title, she assumed.

"'To Miss Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard.'"

Ron got what appeared to be an ornate, silver cigarette lighter.

"'To Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator."

"Don't click it," Harry warned Ron as the redhead turned the gift around in his hands. "Unless you want all the lights to go out, that is." He turned back to McGonagall, who reached in to the sack a third time and pulled out a small, golden orb. As it lay in the palm of her hand, wings fluttered weakly at its sides.

"'To Harry James Potter, I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts."

Harry silently took the Snitch from her.

There was a quiet moment as all three of them stared at their gifts. Hermione flicked through the book, finding nothing but runes all the way through. They were in an old style, a bit different from what she had studied at Hogwarts. In a way, she was glad of it, for a few nights of translation work would be a welcome reprieve from doing nothing. But she doubted that Dumbledore would give her a book simply to provide her a bit of entertainment. Were the runes a kind of code? Maybe he wrote it to explain everything that had happened in a way that not everyone would be able to read.

The battered leather cover seemed to hold new excitement now. She licked her lips, mentally running through various books that could help her translate these runes.

She jumped when McGonagall cleared her throat. The stately witch was standing up, trying to hide a slight grimace as she did so. She winced outright when a vertebrae popped. It always shocked Hermione when McGonagall showed her age; her dignity and clipped voice always made her seem powerful and younger.

"There is a note here to me, apologizing for any shock I might get when I present these to you. I have no notion what the man is talking about," she muttered, gathering the papers of the will and scanning them.

The clock chimed three.

Hermione felt a great jerk just behind her navel. The last thing she saw before the swirling vortex of a Portkey whisked her away was McGonagall clutching at her chest, white with alarm.

The breath was smacked out of her body as she hit the ground. Gasping, Hermione rolled onto her back. There would be bruises on her right shoulder and ribs in the morning, she knew, but nothing felt broken. Close on her right, someone groaned and shifted.

Fighting the urge to curl into a ball until the ache resided and her lungs worked, Hermione levered herself up until she was sitting upright on the—Floor?

Hardwood panels met her inquiring eyes, disappearing under a plush hearthrug about three feet in front of her. Of course I couldn't have landed there,she thought bitterly. She looked to her right and found Ron starting to sit up as well, rubbing his left arm and scowling.

"Ron? Are you all right?"

"Yeah, think so," he muttered. "You?"

"Fine," she replied. "Ron, we're indoors."

"The roof was a bit of a clue, Hermione."

He stood up, wincing occasionally, and brushed himself off. She followed suit before he had a chance to offer (or not; this was Ron after all) assistance.

They were inside a small sitting-room, nearly square, with a doorway in the walls on either side of them. The polished hardwood floors that that cushioned their fall were a smooth contrast to rough stone walls and a red brick fireplace. A sofa was placed against the wall behind them, and two armchairs had been pulled up to the blue shag hearthrug. All three were upholstered in battered green brocade, with carved wood legs. Hermione turned around and banged her shin on the top of a low coffee table, which was made from a single slab of wood, knots and all, polished until it glowed. Tall floorlamps stood on either side of the couch, threatening to shed silk tassels over a reader. The walls behind the couch had bookshelves built into the stones and were packed with varicolored tomes. A single window amongst the shelves shed a square of light over the couch and table

All in all, it was rustic, plain, and completely unfamiliar.

"What," said Ron, to no one in particular, "in the name of Merlin's saggy balls is going on?"

"We were sent here. Those items Dumbledore gave us, they were Portkeys to this place." Hermione planted her hands on her hips and scowled at the room. Its very affability and warmth offended her. They had been deposited here like packages in the post and no amount of welcoming interior décor was going to appease her.

"Well," she said, dropping her hands and turning to Ron, "let's have a look around. I don't think Harry's here with us; we'd have heard him shouting by now." Ron snorted at that, but followed her through the door on their right.

It led into a small hallway. Directly in front of them were two adjacent doors; another was situated at the end of the hall. Stepping forward, Hermione turned the iron handle of the door closest to her; Ron took the other one.

A bedroom, slightly smaller than the sitting room, met her eyes. The hardwood floor was almost completely covered by a deep green rug, as plush as moss, which in turn peeked out from under a four-poster bed and a small nightstand. The linens were a lighter green than the rug; at a touch, they proved to be fine cotton. Someone had gone to considerable effort to give the impression of rustic luxury.

A wooden dresser stood against the wall that adjoined the other room. The top drawer contained plain shirts in several colors and a few pairs of jeans which, when held up against Hermione's curvy hips, proved to be too large. She frowned as she put them back, wondering why they had been placed there. They were clearly too big for any member of the trio. It occurred to her that they could be Transfigured to fit; a clever way of providing them with near-perfect clothing without having to ask for measurements.

More filled bookshelves and a window in a similar design to the sitting room were all that room contained. Hermione stepped back out into the hall. Ron was already there.

"Bedroom?" he asked.

"Yes. The theme was green. Yours?"

"Blue. What are the gigantic clothes for? Are they trying to fatten us up?"

Hermione snorted as a Hansel and Gretel image came to her. Pushing Dumbledore into an oven was looking better by the minute. "No, Ron. We can transfigure them to fit us, though I do hope they send our trunks. All my underwear is in mine."

Ron's ears went a bit red at that and she sighed inwardly. Getting Ron thinking about her underwear when they were alone in a house was not on high on her priorities. Brushing past him, she inspected the third door; a bathroom, mostly wood and polished stone, except for the porcelain toilet. The bathtub was enormous, set into a recess in the wall, and all of the same smooth, dark stone. The fixtures were matte silver.

They went back through the sitting room. The other doorway led into a kitchen, fully furnished with the usual Muggle apparatuses. The counters were polished stone over wood, like the bathroom. A small breakfast nook was off to the left; it was next to a large sliding-glass door that led to a screened-in porch. On the other side of the room was another door, with three small cut-glass panes set in the top. This proved to be the front door. Beyond was a small stone path winding through a fenced-in vegetable garden. Outside the white picket line and the clearing the house lay in were widely spaced trees; an open, friendly forest.

"Hermione!" said Ron suddenly. She turned from inspecting the landscape to find him reading a small piece of parchment. She darted to his side and he handed over the paper. The loopy handwriting was entirely too familiar at this stage.

Dear Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley,

First and foremost, I most sincerely implore your forgiveness for setting you both here without so much as a by-your-leave. I am truly sorry for the underhanded tactics I used to transport you here. I knew there was no other way to get the two of you here, especially without Harry, but my actions are still unforgivable.

If you are reading this, I am dead, and so can no longer protect the three of you. It is for your safety that I have placed you here, and for Harry's safety where I have placed him. Voldemort knows of you two, and you would be primary targets through which he would try to get to Harry. He learned from the incident at the Ministry last year that Harry will immediately rush to save those he loves if he learns of their peril. For your sakes and his, I had to send you into hiding and had to prepare for it to be postmortem. I hope you understand my reasons.

This cottage was designed and built by me, with occasional aid from house-elves (I apologize, Miss Granger). A trusted colleague and I created the protective spells that encircle the cottage and the forest. They are embedded in the stones and ground; even if we both die, they will remain. My portrait at Hogwarts will tell whomever is available how to release the spells when the war is over. Hopefully, it will not be too long.

As to your stay here, I endeavored to provide as many comforts as possible. The refrigerator is connected to the Hogwarts kitchens; should you need anything in particular, simply open it and Summon your groceries. Otherwise, it will replenish itself of staple foods as you run out.

The books are for your use; I hope they bring some diversion. Under the coffee-table are a wizard chess set, Gobstones, and an Exploding Snap deck. There is a wizard radio in the nightstand of each bedroom. Two broomsticks are in the garden shed. If you explore the woods, I am sure you will encounter a number of pleasant surprises.

Letters have been sent to both your families explaining where you are and why. I am afraid that regular communication would be a danger to all of you, though Harry will be able to contact you occasionally. Rest assured that Voldemort will be defeated and that you will be safe while that process is undergone.

Again, my deepest apologies for any concern or alarm on your part. Please understand this is for the greater good.

Sincerely,

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore (Prof.)

The edges of the parchment were now a crumpled mess, as Hermione's grip had tightened with each paragraph.

Logically, it all made sense. Dumbledore's analysis of the situation was perfect. Voldemort had exploited Harry's protectiveness before now; with Dumbledore gone, anyone known to be close to the Boy Who Lived was in danger. And the side of the Light could not afford to have its mascot, its only hope, haring off to rescue his kidnapped friends and getting himself killed. Keeping Harry safe meant keeping them safe, and vice versa.

But it would have been nice to be asked about it. They had agreed to reasonable covenants to protect Harry before now. True, this way there was no arguing, no doubt about them being safely and secretly delivered to their little holding pen, but Dumbledore's "move pawns first, explain strategy later" actions angered her deeply. Her life for the foreseeable future, and those of her friends, had been decided by a man who was dead through his own bad judgment. It was not comforting.

"Well?"

Ron's voice interrupted her thoughts. Hermione sighed and turned back to him, dropping the letter on the counter.

"I don't like it, but it makes sense, in a way," she growled. Ron looked worried, but shrugged his shoulders with his idiosyncratic acceptance of situations out of his control.

"I guess, well, at least it's not a bad place to be, eh?" Her expression must have shown a tremendous amount of worry, for he stepped forward and gently wrapped his arms around her. She forced herself to relax into the embrace. A few tears escaped her and she blotted them on his shirt.

"I suppose. But we're going to hate each other within a week," she replied. Ron might see this as a paradise, and it was in a sensual manner, but perfection is boring. Hermione knew the monotony and claustrophobia would get to them sooner rather than later.

Add to that the unmistakable swelling in Ron's trousers that she was starting to feel pressing against her hip and you had a recipe for all sorts of problems.