After what seemed like an eternity, Hermione swallowed harshly and struggled to her feet. She closed her eyes tightly, willing the tears to end and roughly quelled the rush of memories. The old curse scar on her chest was acting up; it made her ribs ache, matching the dull pain that drenched the heart beating below them.

Ron turned and smiled sadly. Hermione wound her fingers through his, comforted by his eyes, the exact colour of a well-worn and loved pair of blue jeans. She tried bravely to return the smile.

He reached forward and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, holding her gaze for a long moment. Eventually he nodded, steeled himself and took Harry's hand as well, pulling him forward out of his thoughts.

"Come on," he said lightly, "Mum's probably pitching a fit up there. We shouldn't keep her from shouting about how skinny we are any longer."

Inside the castle, was, if possible, even worse than the grounds. Everywhere she looked Hermione pictured crumbling walls, burning portraits, and crumpled bodies. She could pinpoint, with mathematical accuracy, just where she had been standing when she had witnessed any number of tragedies, and as she trod there now, she could help but relive them over and over. She knew, therefore, exactly where they were and the reason why when Ron went deathly pale and his hands started to shake.

Ron broke free of their grasp and stepped forward, placing his hands gently on the ancient stone. "They… they rebuilt it."

Harry could see it all happening again. The wall exploding. Fred falling. George screaming.

Ron turned sharply, wildly. "They just rebuilt it," he laughed incredulously, "Like nothing ever happened."

It was wrong, thought Harry fiercely, wrong that this wall stood where Fred had fallen. How could they make it like nothing had ever happened? He couldn't bear the thought of thousands of students thundering by each day not knowing or caring. He pushed forward purposely, and raised his wand. Had it really only been a few months since he had performed this same charm for Dobby? His arm shook and the charm faltered.

Dobby. Fred. Countless others. He would have carved their names into every inch of this castle if he could. It was all his fault. They had deserved so, so much more.

Hermione saw Harry's magic faltering. She raised her wand and willed her own charm to join his, strengthening it.

F. WEASLEY, it read, MISCHIEF MANAGED.

It was not neat, it was not straight. It was, however, deep enough that nothing would ever be able to fade it.

The old, familiar pressure was building behind her eyes. The lump in her throat made it hard to breathe. To her left, Harry was panting; exhausted by the effort it took to beat Hogwarts' ancient wards and struggling in his own way to deal with his pain. To her right, Ron was clenching and unclenching his hands as tears ran down his long nose.

She took their hands again. Silently and simultaneously they turned and set off once more.

This too shall pass, she repeated to herself with every step. It won't always be this way. This too shall pass.

The gargoyle let them through without a word and they climbed the stairs slowly, so they wouldn't have to relinquish their grips. The heavy door before them was foreboding.

"Is it too late to turn around?" asked Harry weakly, paling.

"Yeah," whispered Ron, "we could just send them a letter or something, right?"

Hermione was sorely tempted. Would it be that bad? She wondered. Would it be that bad to just stay in Grimmauld Place for a little while longer? They weren't ready; she certainly wasn't ready to face anybody. But they had come this far.

"No," she said firmly, "we're here now. We should see what they want." At the looks on Ron and Harry's faces she nearly gave in. "We should hear what they have to say. After that, we'll go back and Kreacher can make us supper and we'll sleep for a week, ok?"

She was heartened by their smiles, even if they didn't quite reach their eyes. She squeezed their hands. "We'll be ok." She didn't know if she was talking to them or to herself. She realized it didn't matter. "Everything will be fine. I promise."

Harry raised his hand and knocked.

The knock on the door stilled all conversation in the room immediately. Kingsley caught Minerva's eye, waiting for her nod before opening the door. And there, on the threshold, stood her three lions, the ones who had saved them all.

Molly promptly burst into tears and rushed forward, pulling them as one to her tightly.

Minerva did not miss the way Ron's hand instinctively twitched towards his wand, how Harry stiffened, or the sheer panic in Hermione's eyes. As she glanced around and saw Filius' and Pomona's worried looks she gathered she was not the only one.

Mrs. Weasley's sudden dash forward had scared Hermione and she hated herself for it. Stupid, she scolded, she wasn't going to hurt you. Her traitorous heart beat wildly nonetheless. She hoped Mrs. Weasley couldn't feel it's thunderous pace. And then something miraculous happened. Mrs. Weasley shifted and over her shoulder Hermione saw two people she had often thought she would never see again. Her arms dropped.

"D-daddy?"

At Hermione's startled words, Harry and Ron's attention was immediately focused on the figures across the room.

There were tears in Hermione's eyes. "Mum?"

Ian stood, paralyzed at the sudden appearance of his only child. His Hermione, she had finally come home. Except she didn't quite look like his Hermione; her hair was too long, her skin too pale, the skin under her eyes too dark. She was far too thin, seemed far too old, far too haunted. Where was the happy eleven year old he had placed on the train? The excitable six year old proudly receiving her first library card? The baby so tiny she could be cradled in the palms of his hands? His breath caught.

And then she bit her lip, worrying the bottom one between perfect, white teeth, a habit nearly as old as she was.

He could breath again.

"Hermione" he stumbled forward, arms longing to hold onto her, wanting so desperately to do what he should have done seven years earlier and never let her go.

Hermione collided with her father, instantly burying her face in his chest as she had done so often before, dizzyingly, irrationally happy to find that after all this time he still smelled of sandalwood and coffee, of home.

When they broke apart, they both had tears streaming down their faces. Hermione turned and sought another gaze, her arms lifting hopefully. "Mum?"

Michelle Granger seemed to be fighting a battle within herself. A white knuckled fist was pressed tightly to her lips, desperately trying to keep the sobs from escaping as she watched her husband and daughter. When Hermione turned to her, she was immediately drawn to her across the room, as if by a magnetic force.

She looked deep into her daughter's deep brown eyes, so like her husband's, and slapped her in the face.

The room was still, as if the very air they breathed had been sucked from it.

"How dare you?" her voice was quiet, but the quiver in it was clearly audible. "How could you?"

"I-" Hermione was stunned; her mother had never struck her before, had never struck anybody, as far as she knew.

"Our memories, Hermione? Our memories? We didn't even remember that we had a daughter," she was crying freely now, struggling to get the words out. "We wouldn't have known if you'd been hurt, if you'd di—" Her voice broke, and she couldn't finish.

Hermione simply looked at her. She didn't hang her head. She didn't protest. She just stood, staring back at her mother.

"What were you thinking? What gave you the right to do that to us? Hermione, you were all we ever wanted, ever needed. You knew that, and you took that from us."

"I had to protect you."

"Protect us?" Michelle's voice was rising now, her anger coming back full force. "Protect us? We already had every protection your 'order' could give to us! We already had rules upon rules for everyday living! And protect us from what? Because you've never taken the time to explain to us just exactly what you felt you needed to save us from. Did you think we were so weak that we couldn't handle it? That we couldn't be trusted with the secret? Tell me, Hermione, what the hell were you thinking?"

"I couldn't tell you!" Hermione yelled, the air around her crackled with electricity. "I could never tell you, you wouldn't have let me come back. You would have kept me home, where I would have been safe. You wouldn't have understood! This was my destiny! It was my purpose! They wantedme! They needed me! And I—" her voice broke, " I couldn't loose them. I had to do it; it was the only way to keep you safe. I couldn't let you be hurt because of me! I had to protect you!"

"Protect us from what?"

Something in Hermione snapped.

She raised her arm and pulled back the sleeve roughly, exposing the torn, ruined flesh there. Her voice was unlike her own. "From this! This is what they did to me, because of who I am. Because of where I come from. To them, I am nothing. To them, you and Daddy, you're even less than nothing. The things they do…" all the fight seemed to go out of her. She shrank back into herself, ashamed of her outburst. "The things they would do to you…"

Michelle rushed forward and gathered her daughter in her arms, squeezing as hard as she could. Ian, in turn, pulled them both to his chest. There, in the middle of the headmasters' office, with the small crowd looking on, the Grangers slowly began to put themselves back together.

A/N: So, it's been a really long time since I've updated this. I'm really sorry. But thanks to a few people who've reviewed recently and expressed interest, I'm going to try and do this justice. Thanks for reading and please review! -Sloane