Infinite thank yous to saintcorvus on AO3 who has volunteered to beta-read and has been of IMMENSE help in correcting the mistakes of this chapter. They own all the well-placed commas, among other clever twists and slight changes of formulation, and my forever gratitude.
Thanks to everyone who has left kudos and bookmarked this story, I'm very proud and excited that people read this (and enjoyed the beginning!)
This update comes today because I'm away from my computer tomorrow. Next update will be Saturday at 2pm CEST.

It was eventually boredom that got her. She spent most of her time reading about things she had always wanted to read about, decidedly avoiding any topic that was dangerous to what she supposed was a still very fragile psyche; she read about time-traveling, about dimensions, about runes and about arithmancy. She managed to calculate the probabilities of events, such as a Muggle-born becoming Minister for Magic, a woman Muggle-born becoming Minister for Magic, Goblins gaining back their access to wands without bloodshed, House Elves being liberated. She grew bored. Because the results were despairingly overwhelming in favour of anything not changing, yes, but also because she was simply bored of researching those topics.

She settled on spellcrafting and worked on that for a few years. It was fun. She created many spells. One that could make perfect caramel without burning the sugar – she didn't have to eat in the void but that didn't mean she didn't want to – how to make things explode – she managed to design specific spells to explode most things – a spell to make hair braid itself which was really absurdly hard to do and took almost five years, and hundreds of other things. She lost herself in her research. And then was bored again.

Every field she researched, she eventually grew tired of. Oh, she didn't lose interest, but after a few months, a few years, sometimes a few decades – she didn't measure time, not really, but sometimes Death updated her on how long she had been working on a project, and that gave her a rough conversion that never made sense – she simply… Stopped doing it.

And, eventually, she realized that she wasn't bored of research. She was just lonely.

She figured that if Death hadn't been around for this long, she would have probably lost her mind, all alone in her castle. She doubted human beings were able to stay alone for so long. She doubted they would survive. And she doubted even being alive.

"Why do you think I'm not crazy?" she asked Death someday, over tea.

"Because you're here, probably. I have told you, after all, repeatedly, that human beings are not meant to be alone for so long. Fortunately, you're here. And since time doesn't run, your blood doesn't flow – no, really, Hermione, you're only breathing because of the habit, not because you have to –"

"I know," Hermione cut them off, annoyed. "I've researched. Stop rambling."

"Right. Your emotions are stunted. You don't really feel things, you feel… impressions. Echoes."

"Oh."

"Indeed."

They hadn't talked for a few minutes, and then Hermione sighed. "Okay. I'll read your fucking psychology books."

"Rude," Death tutted. They waved their hands and a few volumes appeared on the tea table. A few seconds later, Death was gone.

"Goodbye," Hermione said, frowning at the empty chair in front of her. "And I'm rude. Unbelievable."

But soon, she was reading. And after perusing most of the books, she sighed, waving her hand to get them to float to their bookshelves. "Turns out you were right," she muttered to the empty room. "Typical."

Death didn't appear, but a stone she knew well floated to her from the Void and landed in her hand. Hermione pocketed it and stood up. "Still a no, but I'll go and see humans, I guess."

It took a bit of work, because she didn't want Death's help. But, she eventually built a big portal in one of the courtyards surrounded with wild flowers. The grass beneath her feet was soft and healthy, and she had managed to gain some more time in the Void by making it as beautiful as possible. The portal was ornate, a big arch made of solid stone, engraved with runes; in it, there was an eerie blue glow, casting a gentle light on the grass and the flowers. It was the middle of the night, which was fitting.

Now, she had to decide where, and when, to go. She didn't think London was a good fit – it was always crowded, and she didn't want to feel overwhelmed. She settled on a village she had liked as a child, in Derbyshire. It was lovely. Small, picturesque, with a small lake, a small church, a big pub, and a big graveyard. She wanted it to be spring, so she settled for a few years before she was born, in April. She'd always liked spring. Summer was too hot, and while autumn was pretty with its fallen leaves and decay, she thought spring was fitting. A renewal. Rebirth.

After stalling some more, she finally adjusted the last details and took a deep breath before going through the portal.

The village was indeed lovely. She had chosen a road, a mile or so away from it, and one could see the roofs in the smooth sunset glow, the beautiful trees that were beginning to have leaves again, the gentle wind and the smell of newly bloomed flowers.

She would have loved the sight, had she not collapsed on the ground as soon as she landed and screamed her throat raw.

Everything was overwhelming. The smells, the noise, the chirps of the birds in the trees, the rugged gravel under her knees where she had roughly landed, the last sun rays touching her skin. But, really, it was nothing compared to her emotions that swirled and stormed and raged inside her, making her feel very small, very sad, broken. She screamed and screamed into nothingness, crying her raw feelings, tears rolling for the first time in decades on her cheeks. Eventually, she curled into a ball, directly on the ground, gently sobbing. She was a mess. Everyone was dead. She wished she was dead, too.

After a long while, once the sun had definitely settled behind the horizon, and the lamps had been turned on in the village, she managed to get up, wobbling on her legs – her very human legs that hadn't hurt for so long and that were scratched now, tiny, tiny pebbles lodged in her skin – and she was about to go back to her Void and maybe just ask Death to let her die when she heard someone. A human voice. That startled her enough to stay a second more.

"My dear child, what has happened to you?"

A lady was hurrying towards her, dressed prettily but simply, her hair – abundant, with strands of silver – in a bun that was slowly untangling itself on the top of her head. She walked with a cane, and yet, she was trying so hard to reach her. Hermione rubbed her hand against her cheek. It was burning and wet with tears. She sniffed and realized that she had a bit of snot under her nose. Waving her hand in embarrassment, she made it disappear before the stranger could see it. "Were you the one screaming?" the stranger said once she reached her, slightly out of breath. "Are you okay, darling?"

"I –" Hermione croaked. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I'm not – I don't –"

"Did someone assault you? Oh my, oh my, we ought to go to the police! It's a bit far away, I'm afraid, but maybe we could call the taxi company once we reach my house – please, just come with me, I'm so glad I found you dear, after all, you were all alone, what a dreadful mess you are, just take this –"

She rummaged in her bag and handed her a handkerchief. It was white, subtly embroidered. Hermione took it, awed. She was overwhelmed, but this was different. This was caring. Overbearing caring, but still. She followed without even thinking about it, her feet sometimes catching on the uneven ground. "I don't live far, dear, I'll get you a glass of water, some food, and then we'll be able to call the police. Are you alright to stand up?"

"I'm sorry, I – I'm not going to the police, really, I've just had a rough d-day," Hermione managed to say. "I'm just – I'm just lost."

"How old are you?" The lady pressed.

"Er, I'm…" Hermione paused and thought. "I'm twenty-three."

"And what is your name?"

"Hermione," she replied automatically. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch yours."

"Oh, how lovely! A Winter's Tale, is it then? I'm Elsie, love. I live just round this road, you'll see, it's a bit remote, but it's enough for me – big enough for the grandkids but not big enough for relatives to stay too long –"

She continued on and on, not particularly caring if Hermione replied, which was fine with her. She was still focusing on breathing, on walking, on functioning again in what was now a very foreign environment. She would later guess that it had been Elsie's plan to distract her as much as possible so that she could get her somewhere safe.

They eventually reached Elsie's home, a cottage nested against a hill, ivy crawling up the stone bricks and slowly eroding them as it grew. The windowsills were laden with flower pots, and the front door had been recently repainted. One couldn't reach the house without opening a small metal gate, half-hidden by a hedge, sheltering the old cottage from the nearby road.

It was lovely. Hermione could hear bees buzzing, and the door had an old fashioned knocker. A few steps led to the entryway that Elsie led her through to the living room. It had a broad window, the last light of the day filtering out of the light, white fabric. There was an old TV, a sofa invaded by cushions of all sizes, a few of them embroidered. There was a basket next to a comfortable-looking armchair, and inside were knitting needles and yarn. Elsie sat Hermione down at the round table in the middle of the house and fixed her some tea in the kitchen. She had stopped talking for a little while, and Hermione, a bit shakily, breathed out.

"There you go, love," Elsie said as she settled her teacup in front of her, ten or so minutes later. It was strong, subtly laced with liquor, and Hermione appreciated the warmth.

"So," Elsie said a few seconds later, putting her cup down. "Do you need to go to the police now?"

"No," Hermione replied, a bit dully. "I don't need to, really. I've just –"

She sighed and leaned on the table, her elbows quite rudely propped on the rough wood. She pressed the heel of her palms against her eyes, wishing for the throbbing headache to go away. She felt drained, dissociated, and suddenly longed for sleep.

"I've just come back to the country, and I had to process that my family is gone. That's it."

Silence stretched between them, troubled only by the clink of Elsie's spoon against her teacup. "I see," she said slowly. Something in her tone made Hermione look up, and there was pain on her kindly face. "I – I won't pry, dear. During the war, I was sent into the countryside with a family that, while very kind, was not my own. I'm from London, originally, and when the raids began – I spent five years in their home, and then some. When I came back, the city was not as I remembered, and my parents were dead."

Hermione nodded, biting her lip. She supposed it was similar enough. Something to bond over. "What happened then?" she whispered.

"I got married," Elsie said with a fond smile. She got up and hobbled towards a nearby small table, taking a photograph from it. She set it on the coffee table before them where Hermione could see.

There was Elsie, younger, she looked about twenty-five or thirty and had long hair and an immense smile on her face. They were posing in front of a beautiful home, three children with them – one girl, the eldest, and two younger children. The girl was three or four, and there was a toddler and a newborn. Elsie's husband had blond hair, a beautiful smile, and was tall, draping a protective arm around his wife's shoulders. They looked happy.

"We had three children. My Mark was everything to me. He passed away after ten beautiful years, but by then he'd helped rebuild so much of me that I kept going for his memory's sake and for my children. Cancer, you see, and we didn't… It's better now, but twenty years ago, there was not much we could do, you see? And then he was gone. I never married again."

"Your family is beautiful," Hermione said with a smile. She put the photograph down. "How are your children now? What are their names?"

"This is Louisa," Elsie said, pointing to the eldest child. "She lives in Dorset now and has one child of her own. This," she said, pointing to the middle child, "is Simon. He's in London; he's an engineer. And this is my Andrew. He's studying to be a doctor."

"Successful family you've got there," Hermione murmured, taking in the old photograph. Elsie smiled fondly at her children and husband and put the frame away.

Silence fell once again on the room. Hermione felt slightly uneasy, and once they had finished drinking tea, Elsie fixed her a plate, and they ate in companionable silence. It allowed Hermione to think. Now that her emotions had settled down a little bit, she saw more clearly. She'd known that it would be hard when she had made the trip, and she had to be rational. She knew she must be there and interact with other human beings. No matter the cost, she would not lose her mind without at least really trying.

"So," Elsie said as the light outside faded, a few minutes after dinner. "Do you… Have a place to stay?"

Hermione shook her head. "No. I was studying in Australia," she lied, rather easily, "and we didn't have enough money for me to go back – I'd had a scholarship. It's only now I've been able to go back, and, though I knew for a while no one was here – it was – yeah," she finished lamely.

Elsie nodded. They made small talk and Hermione tried her best to sound believable when she talked about her "studies". Fortunately, she still remembered things she'd read as a child about various higher education systems in the world, back when she'd thought she could be anything in the Muggle world and had a thousand different ambitions. Eventually, Elsie got to the point. "You could stay here a few nights, Hermione," she said tentatively. "I wouldn't mind the company. I've actually been trying to look for someone to help around the house, set the garden straight, and, well, if you need the job, it could be yours for a while."

It wasn't the offered room and potential board that convinced Hermione to stay, really. It would take just a bit of planning to find that in any dimension – after all, Confundus charms and money were things easily dealt with. Rather, it was the raw vulnerability in Elsie's eyes as she offered the companionship that she craved too. Elsie thought she understood Hermione's suffering with her older age and her heart full of good intentions, and Hermione could find a kinship in her.

Hermione nodded, and that was that.

The next day, she decided she wouldn't use her wand, for the time being. She saw the vines that needed to be trimmed in the garden, and decided against easy; she tucked her wand in her hair and got to work. It was exhausting work, full of pulling and swearing under her breath because she had been far too accustomed to having a wand do everything for her, and it was a nice fatigue that welcomed her when she finished her shower and helped Elsie fix dinner.

It was an easy stay. Elsie was nice – she didn't pry too much, always offered good advice, and played a wicked game of Scrabble. Hermione learned a bit about her life, too, and the older woman was a valuable witness of the society she'd read about when she was younger. She was smart, logical, and sometimes even ruthless, in a way that connected deeply with Hermione.

Months passed in a routine that fit the both of them. The house got back in shape; fresh paint had been applied to the walls, the garden had been mowed. Summer rolled lazily, until one day, when Elsie toured the garden and stopped in front of a little shack nested against the hill. "Say, Hermione dear," she called over her shoulder. "Have you fixed the door? You've done splendid work. One can barely see a nail in there. Did you learn carpentry?"

"I –" Hermione started, looking up. The shack had been one of things that made her use magic again. While she could get any book she wanted in the Void, she didn't really want to specialize in carpentry, and she just felt she had some more important research to do with her free time. While it would have been easy to just lie, she sighed and got up from the bench she was reading on. "Yeah, I've fixed it, but Elsie, look… I've got to talk to you and explain a few things about me."

It took some work, some demonstration, and lengthy explanations. Fortunately, Elsie was rational but not completely against supernatural possibility. She was a little bit sore about having been lied to, but she thought magic was brilliant, so that was soon forgotten.

Hermione didn't think it would get her in trouble with the Ministry. More importantly, she didn't care. She didn't want to lie all the time; she would go crazy.

Hermione could then research in the garden, in the summer days, where she could feel the wind and hear the birds and the bees. It was soothing, this little house, and she felt good there; slowly, she healed.

She stayed at Elsie's for a few years, not really noticing the seasons floating by. She met Elsie's family, and while she kept an amiable distance between them, she could tell they were good people. And if Elsie thought that maybe, for someone that had just turned thirty, Hermione still looked remarkably young, she didn't comment. Not even when she reached thirty-five, in what she counted as her "worldly years." Not even, and Hermione noted this with a limitless admiration for the older woman, when illness struck her too, and Hermione took care of her until the end. Because she could and wanted to do so.

It wasn't very long. By the time they diagnosed her affliction, it was already virtually too late. Hermione coped well enough, she thought, at least in the beginning; she knew she had to accept the fact that everyone dies. Except her, probably. But if she was to connect with humans again, she had to fully grasp the concept of Death. Still, it got hard in the end; she witnessed her friend's body and health and mind decay until she wasn't there anymore.

Elsie had left her children the house, naturally. She had asked about leaving Hermione something, anything, as a thank you for everything they'd done for each other, but Hermione had categorically refused. In the end, they settled on Elsie giving Hermione one of her favourite pieces of jewellery: a delicate broach that her daughter Louisa didn't like; no harm done, then, and she had eventually accepted.

The day after the funeral, Hermione left and was never seen again by any of Elsie's family.

They reflected on that, often. They spoke with fond reminiscence of the quiet, smart young lady that had accompanied their mother with clinical efficiency and had spared her three children immense mental distress, that seemed as young and healthy as when she had first arrived, even more than ten years after her arrival, that had an air of inexplicable power around her.

There was limbo, in those years we spent there. There was inertia and wonderful unfeeling. This was before the storm, before what consumed everything, of course, but I remember it fondly still. Sometimes, I pull out memories of Elsie and I knitting, memories that last for hours and hours, and just sit there, listen to her hum and grumble under her breath when she loses stitches.

It isn't home, not anymore, but Elsie is more fondly and vividly remembered than my own mother, though by no fault of the latter.

I just knew her better and longer.