November 2000

Hermione had made this decision a fortnight ago. She had motivated herself and turned her plan over and over in her mind dozens of times. It was clear, sharp and precise. She couldn't make a mistake.

The slightest misstep and she would lose all her progress. She was aware that failure would bring her back down to earth.

She did everything in order:

Open the front door, go out, then close it behind her.

Check that every entrance was magically locked.

Check every window.

Cast more protective spells to strengthen the dome.

Once this was done, she allowed herself to take a deep breath, while taking a seat on the edge of the stone wall surrounding the property. She ran a hand over her face. She had already made good progress.

Getting out of her daily routine was proving to be much more difficult than she had imagined. Everyday she went to work, followed the same path into the village and opened her shop, where she would spend the day.

Yet, somehow things were different now that she was aware that she was not following her usual routine. A sense of panic began to bubble inside of her once she realised she wasn't going to the bookshop.

All the work she had done to get to work each day was proving useless. It was totally different, but at the same time very similar. She was just leaving her house.

A gust of wind blew through the tangled strands of her hair, bringing her out of her thoughts. She was going to be late. She had taken too long to recover from her emotions.

Deciding not to let her panic overwhelm her, she took a long breath and stood up. She glanced at the gate of her house one last time and set off.

She had exactly eighteen minutes to walk. Eighteen minutes during which she would have to fight not to turn back.

As she walked, she forced herself to mentally recite the list of books she needed to order for customers who had requested titles that she didn't have in stock, but was able to receive soon. Loyal customers, to be sure.

It was a good way to stay focused.

It was the perfect job, she told herself often. Few customers, therefore little social interaction. She could spend her days reading in the shop, advising the few people who came in to buy something, and then resume her reading until closing time.

It was simple. She never had a problem.

People were friendly, even when she made mistakes in French, and the villagers knew her well. With most of them being farmers, some were kind enough to offer her baskets of their crops.

The time spent at the bookstore and interacting with the villagers was enough to occupy her days and leave her distress behind.

She was brought out of her thoughts when she spotted the roof of her distant neighbour's house growing closer as walked towards it. It was a small, unassuming building surrounded by a well-kept garden full of flowers. It was about two miles from Hermione's farm and five kilometres from the nearest village. Almost, completely cut off from the world, in fact.

But Hermione liked how peaceful it was there alone.

Alone.

The countryside was quiet, the villagers were friendly and the days were peaceful. She could hardly have wished for anything better.

Yet her anxieties marred all this.

Every night, they would resurface and drag her down to the ground. But she was learning to keep them quiet.

As she caught sight of Madame Laroche's roof, she felt her stomach twist. A weight fell on her shoulders while she reached the gate of the little house.

What if something went wrong? What if Madame Laroche changed her mind?

She had to hold on to the gate to keep from staggering. Her breathing was quickening again.

Suddenly the front door of the house opened and Madame Laroche stepped out.

Hermione's panic calmed once she was greeted with the older woman's smile.

"Miss Granger! You're early!" the elder woman greeted.

She was wearing a large purple shawl over a grey dress that Hermione would call dreadful, despite her own lesser fashion sense. As she did every time she met her in the village, in the morning on the road, or at her bookshop, Madame Laroche was accompanied by her old white Great Pyrenees, Neige, who always seemed more exhausted than the day before.

Neige mentally comforted Hermione's anxious mind by his presence whenever their paths crossed. Madame Laroche had of course noticed this, taking particular care of her young neighbour, granddaughter of her former neighbours, the Granger-Landies.

It was then that she had suggested that Hermione adopt Neige's son, who was still very young. The bitch had her last litter two years earlier, and while the rest of the puppies had been sold, there was still one that had not been chosen by anyone.

Madame Laroche had explained to Hermione that, since her husband's death, she no longer had the energy to look after two dogs and had therefore offered up the last of the litter for adoption.

Hermione had hesitated for a long time, feeling unsure it was wise to take on the responsibility of caring for another living animal when she could hardly take care of herself. In classic Hermione fashion, she had made a list of pros and cons –four times. She then focused her research on the breed to know what to expect as the dog grew.

She had done a lot of research on the Great Pyrenees. She'd looked up possible names for the dogs, since Madame Laroche had never given him a name. She'd come up with nineteen before making a choice.

The more she thought about owning the dog, the more anxious she became. What if it hurt itself? What if she was unfit to care for it? Her fears consumed her, causing her to miss a day of work as she weighed Madame Laroche's offer in her mind.

Eventually, she accepted. And here she was four days later, kneeling in front of Neige, stroking her soft white hair.

"I was impatient," she lied, smiling shyly.

She had planned her departure early, to avoid being late because of a potential panic attack.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Madame Laroche," she added, straightening up.

"Not at all, my dear! Not at all! And please, call me Marie," she smiled.

Hermione nodded with an embarrassed grin. Her neighbour had been telling her to call her by her first name for weeks, but she could never bring herself to do it.

"Follow me, he's still asleep in his basket," Marie said as she entered her house again.

Hermione followed without another word, tugging at her sleeves anxiously. Neige followed her mistress closely, occasionally glancing behind her, as if to check that Hermione was following them. She was a smart dog, Hermione had noticed that from the first time they met.

At almost two years old, Neige's puppy was already about fifty centimetres long and Hermione –having done her research– knew that it wouldn't be long before it reached its adult size.

He must have heard them, because he raised his head from its basket and Hermione met his gaze. She had no doubt. Albert, for that was his name, would be the perfect companion.

oOo

January 2001

France. Harry would have loved to live there.

He travelled to France several times a year, each time discovering new sumptuous landscapes: the mountains, the countryside, the lakes and rivers, the seas and the ocean. It was much bigger than Britain, where he had lived all his life.

He always opted for the muggle train when he went there. It was a longer journey and he would travel through a lot of countryside. He felt like he could finally breathe again. People didn't stare at him, didn't talk to him and didn't bother him.

He was nobody when he went there. Nobody.

Once he got off his first train, the one coming straight from London, he continued his journey to Pau. From there he would board a bus that would take him as close as possible to his best friend's farm. With only an hour left to walk, he enjoyed the beauty of the Pyrenean landscape on the small mountain roads.

And for the first time that year, Harry went to Hermione's house.

He had sent her an owl two weeks earlier and she had only replied the day before. He had left that evening. She always took a long time to write back, which Harry understood more than anyone. If he could have left the piles of mail he received every day in the bottom of a drawer untouched, he would have done so without a doubt.

It was dark when Harry finally arrived at Hermione's farmhouse, which sat at the end of the road, lit by small lanterns on the outside walls.

It had been renovated again since the last time he had visited. Harry remembered the poor state of the farmhouse when she had taken it over. He had joined her a week later to help her put it in order. He had scoffed at her first refusal, and explained to her that the work that needed to be done was colossal and would take a great deal of time. He didn't want her living in such a mess for months. Much to his relief , she had eventually agreed.

Her farm consisted of three buildings.

The first was the main house, which was particularly large and spacious. There were three floors, plus a small attic and a cellar. There were four bedrooms, three bathrooms –only two of which were usable– a laundry room, a large library, four fireplaces, a pantry and even a garage. She didn't use half of it, living reclusively in her garden, in the living room or in her bedroom.

The second one was a large stable, separated into two parts. The first was a small pen, with room for two horses. The second part could hold a herd of sheep, or perhaps cows. Hermione only ever went in there to clean the stalls.

The last building was a greenhouse, with a hen house and storage shed attached. Despite Harry's insistence to clean out the shed and remove some tools he deemed dangerous, given their age and worrisome amount of rust, she refused. She explained that they had belonged to her grandparents and would be staying regardless of how dangerous they may be.

As for the grounds, he knew that Hermione was quite pleased with her new space. She had several acres at her disposal, enough to do her own planting, dig a pool, even build a golf course. But Hermione didn't want any of that.

Despite the dark, he could see that she had set up a deckchair in a corner of the garden under the trees. Knowing Hermione, that was where she spent a great deal of her time reading. As his eyes cast around the yard, he observed that she never trimmed the branches of the trees, nor the lawn. Nor had she tended the plants, with the exception of the outdoor vegetable garden. She felt she wasn't up to the task. Maybe one day, she repeated to Harry.

Since his last visit, Hermione had repainted the entire front of her house. The exposed stonework had been cleaned, the roof renovated and some of the greenery surrounding the house had been cut back to create a pathway to the country road.

He had come four months earlier, which proved that his friend had not been idle.

She had even repaired the small gate that joined the stone walls surrounding her estate.

Just as he opened the gate, barking could be heard only a few metres away. He jumped sharply and dropped the gate as he backed away. In the darkness of the night he could not see where the sudden noise was coming from.

"Albert, come back here!" exclaimed Hermione in the distance.

He looked up at the house and saw her in the doorway, dressed –as far as he could see– in a simple dressing gown.

He only had to wait a few seconds to see a large white dog appear in the light of the house coming to stand beside Hermione and rubbing itself directly against Hermione's legs. Harry frowned.

When she had adopted a dog?

Hesitantly, he opened the gate, his eyes never leaving the pair. He slowly made his way to the house, cautious of the dog as he didn't want it to jump on him.

"A dog? I didn't know," he smiled softly as he reached her.

Hermione looked up at him and a slight smile played on her lips.

"My neighbour was looking to give Albert away and offered him to me. I couldn't resist," she admitted, biting her lip.

"He's beautiful," he said as he got down on one knee and held out his hand to Albert.

He was still clinging to his mistress' legs and looked at Harry's hand as if it were prey.

"I think he's going to take more time for it to accept you," she explained as she bent down to stroke him. "Albert is kind of– hostile towards strangers."

"You two have found each other then," he joked as he straightened up, his eyes laughing.

She puerilely stuck her tongue out at him and stood up in turn, waving him in.

Strangely, Harry felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Hermione seemed more relaxed, more at peace, compared to their last meeting. Perhaps it was the effect of their reunion, but it gave him hope. She was starting to get over it. At least, he hoped so.

oOo

October 2001

Harry knocked on the front door of his best friend's flat. No answer came. He sighed. He was used to it.

He knocked again for form's sake, but knew perfectly well how things would work out.

Still not getting an answer, he took out his wand and unlocked the door himself. As he entered, a heady smell of alcohol hit his nose. He swallowed. He was going to spend another good hour dealing with this, he felt it.

He closed the door behind him and lit the tip of his wand as the flat was pitch black. He walked as best he could through the small living room, careful not to kick any whisky bottles or step on any half-eaten pizza.

With a flick of his wand, he opened the windows and shutters and the cool October air rushed into the room. The dim light from the windows showed him what he already knew: the flat was a mess.

It didn't surprise him, it happened every time he went too long without visiting Ron. It made him feel as if he was going backwards and losing all of the progress he thought they had made. But in reality, had they ever truly made progress or was it just what he told himself to make himself feel better about his friend's predicament?

Harry knew he should have made time to see Ron, but the last few weeks had him so busy, he hadn't had a single day free to visit his best friend. Ron always did his best to appear good looking at family gatherings and didn't invite anyone to his house. He was too ashamed. Only Harry was in the know. And so, Harry hadn't wanted to send one of the Weasley brothers or even Ginny, knowing that Ron was doing everything he could to hide his condition from his family.

With a broad sweep of his wand, he began to clear away the rubbish on the floor as the air in the room started to renew itself.

While the room started to magically return to order, he decided to go in search of his friend. He checked the loo first. Empty. So was the bathroom.

Had Ron finally decided to sleep in his bed? That was unusual.

But that wasn't what surprised him most. When Harry opened the bedroom door, he discovered that not only was Ron snuggled up in his bed, but more importantly, he was not alone.

A mass of curly blonde hair covered half the pillows and was spooned up against Ron. He couldn't see her face.

The condition of the bedroom was no better than the living room. It was infested with the smell of smoke and alcohol, clothes were piled up in the corner, food scraps were piled up on the edge of the bed, the bedside table was full of ashtrays full of cigarette butts, a pile of newspapers –mostly the Daily Prophet and various Quidditch magazines– were overturned near the window, there were ashes on the floor, and even traces of boots covered in dirt...

The room was a mess, worse than the rest of the flat, Harry had no doubt.

He stood motionless in the doorway, not knowing what to do. Should he wake them up? Was the girl he was with a witch? Was she just passing through? He was lost.

He didn't want to risk bothering them in any way. If Ron was accompanied, it didn't matter who was in his bed, he didn't have to intervene.

Eventually, he ran a hand over his face and decided to wait for his friend to wake up in the living room. He would take the opportunity to continue to clean up.

The living room was already in a much better state when he returned. The room was airy and most of the rubbish had magically disappeared. He took care of cleaning up the rest little by little. He cleaned the floor, the windows, the worktop of the small kitchen, emptied the refrigerator and the cupboards of all the expired food, washed the dishes, cleaned the fireplace, as well as disinfected the various armchairs.

After more than an hour and a half, he was able to settle into an armchair. The flat was unrecognisable. Contrary to what anyone might have thought when they entered it before it was tidied, the place was nice and the decoration of the flat was quite charming.

It wasn't long after Harry had sat down that he heard the bedroom door open, which caused him to startle and turn sharply towards the source. Ron emerged, dressed only in his pants and looking more groggy than ever.

Harry took notice that Ron was particularly pale and his fiery red hair was a mess. He didn't need to glance at Ron's chest to know that he was still scarred from the brains in the Department of Mysteries. They were the only scars his best friend had never managed to remove. Harry knew that those scares haunted Ron every day.

Ron seemed particularly surprised to see the living room tidy and widened his eyes when he noticed Harry. He froze.

"Harry?"

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. I got caught up with work."

Harry really felt bad, he knew he was the only support Ron had. He wished he could have been around much more for him, but he was unfortunately in a complicated situation. What was he to do? Support Ron at all costs, or give up Ron, his best friend, in order to free the man he loved from prison ?

Ron frowned as he scanned the room.

"I didn't mean to disturb you and...?"

"Lavender," Ron replied hoarsely.

He looked away as Harry's eyes widened. He hadn't expected Ron to be shagging his ex-girlfriend.

"I didn't know you were seeing her," he said simply, as his friend walked over to the Muggle coffee machine that Hermione had given him before she left.

"What are you doing here, Harry?" asked Ron sharply.

The dark-haired man frowned. He'd been coming to see him a lot –well, before he'd been swamped with work– it wasn't new. The question took him by surprise.

"I came to visit you," he answered as if it were obvious.

"Oh, you mean you remembered I existed?"

"Ron, wh–"

"Never mind. You know what, Harry? I think you can get the hell out. I've had enough of your pity. You never come to see me anymore, you just come to try and save me, just to have a clear conscience," Ron accused him, pointing at him, his ears already red with anger. "Why are you here? Huh? To come and see the damage? To tidy up my flat, check I'm taking my meds, then leave, and do it again in a month? Is that what you call being a friend?"

"Ron, I–"

"No, Harry. It's too late for that. You can't do anything for me and you know it," he said with a fake, almost sad laugh. "I have Lavender now. She knows how to support me. She doesn't just show up when she has time."

"So it's serious between you and her?" asked Harry, standing up with tears in his eyes.

"Are you asking me this so you can go and tell my mum, or because you really care? Because I might as well tell you right now, I haven't been to see my parents in almost three weeks. That's why you came too, isn't it? To lecture me about my poor parents, who are drowning in grief and crying every night at Fred's grave? You think I don't know that?! Huh?!"

"Ron, calm down, pl–" The redhead didn't let him finish. Ron dropped his coffee cup on the floor, letting it shatter into a thousand pieces.

"Harry Potter, the Saviour of fallen souls! Look at yourself, man! You're no better. You don't live, you survive! You're just waiting for your stupid boyfriend to be released from Azkaban. For what? So that in the end he's a shadow of his former self! You'd be better off finding yourself another body to fuck rather than..."

"How dare you!" exploded Harry, tears now freely running down his cheeks. "How dare you talk about him like that? You don't know what it's like!"

"I don't know what it's like?! Say that again and see!" Ron snarled as he charged at him, his fists clenched.

Then Harry noticed that he was not in his normal state. His pupils were fully dilated. The whites of his eyes had turned red. He had taken something. Something strong.

He took several steps back and shook his head, struggling to believe what was happening.

"I'm sorry," he whispered before stepping back, his eyes welling with tears.

oOo

February 2002

England had been experiencing a particularly violent and unprecedented snowstorm for the past two days. The wind was pounding against the walls of the manor, shaking the shutters, the crockery and even causing some of the pictures hanging on the wall to fall down. It was frightening.

Blaise was standing in the centre of the drawing room, hands in his pockets, looking around at the still intact furniture, when footsteps were heard behind him. He didn't turn around; he recognised the clicking of his wife's heels.

He was getting cold. It was as if the manor had not been occupied for years. Yet it had been, but he doubted it had been alive. He sighed.

He was lost, he didn't know what to do.

"The ceremony is about to begin," Pansy whispered, coming up to him and placing a hand on his arm.

He could hear her concern in her tone of voice. She had reason to be.

"I'll join you," he replied gravely.

He had no desire to go there.

He saw her nod in the corner of his eye, before she stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips. The heels moved away again. And he found himself alone.

He didn't even know how to feel. Angry? Sad? Indifferent? Tired?

He was lost. He had been struggling for years, with no results. He began to wonder if all his work had ever been necessary. His conscience whispered to him that there had been some achievements, but it was never enough for him. He would have liked to fight all injustices.

An overly optimistic childhood dream, he thought sarcastically.

He readjusted his tie, smoothed the non-existent folds of his suit jacket and glanced one last time at the abandoned room where he had been standing for an hour.

His first observation was that there was not much of a crowd. Only about a dozen people were standing outside, protected by large black umbrellas, covered with white snow. The estate was just as white. A beautiful contrast, if one took the time to admire it.

They were only waiting for him, although Blaise suspected that he was the only one who really cared about this ceremony. The others were there on principle, for their image, and nothing could have disgusted him more than the society in which he lived.

He walked through the snow, without making the effort to protect himself from it, and joined his wife under her umbrella. She grabbed his hand and put her head on his shoulder.

Perhaps she was the only other person who cared after all.

"We are gathered here to say goodbye to Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy, who left us a few days ago." Found hanging in the centre of her living room, Blaise thought wryly. "Please accompany my words with your prayers and your–"

Blaise stopped listening and closed his eyes tightly. And to think that his best friend would only learn of his mother's death when he would be released from prison. He could hardly contain his anger. He wanted to tell them all to fuck off. He wanted to shout at the master of ceremonies that Narcissa Malfoy deserved much better than a poor gathering of ten people on the day of her funeral.

But he said nothing. He remained silent and let his tears flow under his closed eyelids.