Crookshanks had the knack of all cats to sit on the exact book she required. That meant his witch had to pet him to convince him to move, which she did. Sometimes she paused in her research to cuddle him or cry into his fur. Then he sat on another book and waited for her to need it.

Hermione had not felt this miserably isolated since first year. That this was all her fault made her feel even worse. What had she been thinking?

Nothing.

That was the problem. She had been blind-sided just like her parents and all the buried resentment and little hurts had come bubbling up. Things she had thought she had put behind her had clawed back into her head. Being the third wheel, the sexless encyclopaedia, good ole 'Mione or worse Ron's Oedipal Molly substitute.

Perhaps she should have given herself more time before throwing herself into NEWTs. She had pushed all the trauma to the back of her mind so she could win her own private victory. So she would have a parchment to show the whole damn world irrefutably that she belonged.

Except that she didn't.

Not really.

Not in the despised underclass sort of way but as a migrant. Hermione had worn short sleeves all summer to show off the scar. To reclaim it. The bitch who had carved that hateful word into her arm was dead leaving her feeling robbed that she had not killed Bellatrix herself. Yet she was still foreign.

Ron's expectations of their life together had driven that home. It was perfectly normal for witches to marry young and try to bang out as many children as they could then to just plod along doing the same thing for a century. Social change in the wizarding world made plate tectonics look hasty.

None of that was 'normal' for her. She was only twenty-one even with the Time-Turner. Her mum and dad had not even met when they were her age. They did not have her until they were in their thirties with a business running smoothly and a house kitted out. They liked Ron well enough but she had been looking forward to having their support in putting off getting married.

But they were gone and she was Mrs Flint.

Hermione rested her head against one of the stack of books crenelating the table. She had not done many stupid things she could not attribute to the influence of Harry and Ron. But this stupid stupid thing was all her own doing. And she had taken him to bed. Practically dragged him there. Did sleeping with two men qualify her as a slut? Was there some sort of minimum penile contact requirement?

She did not start sobbing in hysterical laughter because she was in the Library and Madam Pince would not be amused. Crookshanks butted his head against her chin, his lambent eyes quizzical.

"Mummy has done something horrible, Crooks. I was a coward." She should have told Ron more firmly she wanted to wait. Except that she repeatedly had. But Ron took 'waiting' as 'waiting for something' so she had to keep finding excuses. Her NEWTs, her parents' memories, his Auror training... he would not leave her alone about their wedding.

Well, she had solved that problem good and proper now. Hermione sniffed, rummaging in her pockets for a handkerchief as her eyes swam. Stupid cruel craven bitch.

Crookshanks yowled a warning as someone approached. She hastily mopped her face and turned back to reading so she would not be disturbed. Minerva had kindly allowed her to use the Hogwarts library to search for ammunition, though she had not phrased it that way. Feelings about the amended Reconstruction Bill were mixed amongst the Hogwarts staff but the Headmistress's sense of fairness had been offended by the implicit coercion.

As the daughter of a witch and a Muggle, Minerva did not as cavalierly dismiss the inherent difficulties of a mixed marriage as the Ministry did. She had said as much when Hermione had come to her for help. Her former Head of House had offered the library, tea and sympathy.

"Find anything?" Marcus asked his wife quietly to avoid the wrath of the pinch-faced shrew who lurked amongst the shelves. Pince had few favourites among the students, and he had assuredly not been one of them.

"Not yet." Hermione cleared her throat with a low cough to mask the hoarseness of her voice. She indicated the ranks of books. "Most of these are to confirm the references cited in the amendment. I did not expect anything to be in error but it pays to check."

Marcus regarded the tomes with the residual loathing of a poor student. Crookshanks hopped up onto one of the taller stacks to study him, fluffing himself up to make himself look bigger. He did not like sharing his witch and the other male was standing too close.

Meeting the cat's eyes, Marcus put his hand palm down on the stack next to the marmalade. Crookshanks stretched and sniffed his fingers then jumped across to walk over his hand. With pointedly sharp claws. The wizard did not shift his gaze from the half-Kneazle.

"Crooks, leave him alone." Hermione chided her familiar, who gave her a lazy look of non-compliance before scrambling up Marcus's arm to sit on his shoulder. "You look like you have eaten the parrot." She informed the cat as she tried not to smile. Crookshanks sat up very straight so he was taller than his new scratching post.

"What parrot?" He let the animal have his show of dominance, hiding a grin.

"It's a Muggle reference." She expected that to be enough but his steady stare prompted more information. "Pirates are commonly depicted with a parrot on their shoulder. It is hardly accurate but the image persists."

"One of my ancestors was a corsair." As a child, Marcus had delighted in the tales of the blood-thirsty adventures of his great-something grandfather and his ghostly ship crewed by Inferi. "Did well for himself, burned a few ports and retired to the Manor with a dragon's weight in treasure."

"One of my ancestors arrived in England with the clothes she wore and a handbag. She had to share a winter coat with her cousin." Hermione was not impressed by Galleons. "Why are you here?" That sounded ruder than she meant. "I mean, for what reason have you come to this place?"

"You." There was no room to sit at the table so he leant against a bookcase, twisting slightly to avoid pinning the cat's tail. Crookshanks bit his ear but Marcus did not take it personally. Bole's Kneazle had used to steal his socks. While he was wearing them. His toes still had scars. "Potter and a Weasley came to the clubhouse."

"Which Weasley?" Hermione closed the book in front of her and studied Marcus. He made a face when he shrugged. Long experience of boys injuring themselves prompted her to raise an eyebrow. He feigned obliviousness.

"I do not bloody know. Never spoke to any of them much." Marcus had put a suit on because he could not shake the need to wear a tie at Hogwarts. It had been almost six years since he had finally graduated and he still got tense. There had been some happy times and months away from his father were always good but his schooling had not been enjoyable. He did not want to be here. He met her gaze and the secondary tacit conversation they were not having continued with her crossing her arms at him.

"Bill's scarred, Percy is pompous, George looks lost and Ron would've been furious." Hermione provided short descriptions as she watched him breathe. He could stand Crookshanks's weight on his shoulder so it was not collarbones or scapula. He could pivot so he had not jarred his spine or hips. Thus ribs, Hermione frowned.

"One of the twins." He recalled two Weasley Beaters from the Quidditch team. They had been good, always keeping the Bludgers moving but Wood had not let them play aggressively enough. Pushing for a few more fouls would have pinned down opposing Chasers much better.

"George, then. Fred died during the final battle here." She spoke quietly. Everyone still missed Fred. His brother seemed dimmed without him.

"Did not know that." As the son of a Death Eater crony, Marcus had kept his head well down in the aftermath of the war. He asked no questions. None of his friends wanted to talk about it anyway.

"There was a big funeral." Hermione heard herself speak carefully neutrally. She had given her virginity to Ron to comfort him after the ceremony, which was something she was absolutely not going to discuss with Marcus ever. "I didn't tell Ron about my parents. I couldn't, not after he'd called me... never mind." Diverting the conversation abruptly, she pointed to his side. "You've hurt yourself."

"It's nothing." He said through his teeth. Not because he was in pain. He was sore but it was dull and ordinary. What got him gritting was the bone-deep urge to castigate the Weasel. No one sneered at his wife.

"And how did nothing happen?"

"Weasley got hex-happy and sent me into a wall." Marcus would have shrugged except for the cat. "McLeod will sort it. We will make a complaint and pin his freckled arse to the floor."

"Please, don't." She pleaded then realised there was no earthly reason why he would oblige her. He had been assaulted. He was well within his rights to go to the Aurors. George would have to go through a hearing. Harry too possibly. Damn it.

"What will you give me if I don't?" He grinned, suddenly enjoying himself.