Disclaimer – It has come to my attention recently that I unfortunately do not own any part of Harry Potter the characters that belong to that entities. One can dream I suppose.


Anyone who is looking to provide support and get access to giveaways, polls, early chapters for my stories, or to see my original content, please visit Pa T-rEoN / FavoriteAuthor


On a related note, a big thanks to my newest patrons – Keith K., Abe, Antti A., and Jeromey J.! I do not know if I would be as motivated without the support.


I'll Never Abandon You

Chapter 1: Two's Company, Three Was a Crowd

Hermione's heart raced, her muscles coiled like a spring as she watched what was unfolding before her eyes.

What on earth was transpiring? Even for the acclaimed 'brightest witch of her age,' it felt as though her brilliant mind had suddenly short-circuited, plunging into darkness. Despite the battles they had braved together, the hardships they had weathered, like Ron and Harry's epic clash in their fourth year, the palpable tension was unmistakable. She could see it, almost taste it, like flames inching closer to an inevitable conflagration. The mounting pressure felt strangely familiar, reminiscent of their past disputes, but she sensed that this time, it was an entirely different beast.

Were they quarreling about Harry's feelings for Ginny and the Weasleys … or was it Ron's simmering frustration with the arduous, draining, and seemingly insurmountable mission? It was almost absurd, really. They were engaged in a heated debate that seemed to encompass everything and yet nothing.

Hermione desperately attempted to step into the tempest, hoping to quell the maelstrom of emotions and guide Ron toward a more rational perspective, one that would reveal Harry's intentions as not as malevolent as Ron seemed to believe. Yet, Ron, like a hurricane gathering strength, remained resolute, his visage contorting into a crimson mask of fury.

Then, like a thunderclap that splits the sky, Ron erupted once more, this time directing his wrath not only at Harry but also at Hermione, hurling accusations about her 'safe' parents, as if the memory charms she had cast on them that past summer somehow lightened her burden or diluted the intensity of their current plight. As if he imagined that her newfound detachment somehow absolved her of the fear and anguish that he so evidently bore, simply because she had seemingly less to lose in this war. Her chest constricted, and her teeth ground together as the prickling of tears threatened at the corners of her eyes. She stood there, speechless, paralyzed by the torrent of emotions and the cruel words. But her silence didn't matter, for Harry's furious voice, reaching an even higher pitch, drowned her out, and Ron, like an echoing tempest, retaliated with yet another roar.

"Then, GO!" Harry bellowed, his voice carrying the weight of their strained friendship. "Return to your family if you feel they are more important than this … than us, pretend you're down with spattergroit, and let your mum fatten you up, and..."

In response to Ron's sudden, unpredictable movement, Harry's hand instinctively darted toward his wand, but before either wand could clear its owner's pocket, Hermione sprang into action.

"Protego!" she cried, her voice slicing through the charged air. An imperceptible shield materialized, expanding between herself and Harry on one side and Ron on the other. The force of the spell sent all of them stumbling backward a few steps, their faces etched with a mix of shock and anger. Harry and Ron, separated by the transparent barrier, locked eyes as if they were truly seeing each other clearly for the first time.

In an instant, an eerie hush enveloped the scene, the cacophony of raindrops assaulting the tent now reduced to a mere backdrop. Within this surreal stillness, it was as though the tent itself had frozen in time. Hermione could almost taste the acrid bitterness in the air, observe the venomous loathing etched into Ron's eyes, and witness the tempestuous wrath burning within Harry.

The familiar tension that had been steadily mounting had finally ruptured, but it had done so in a most unexpected and chilling manner, sending shivers down Hermione's spine. Beneath the turbulent surface of raw emotions lay something new, something unrecognizable—a fracture, a breakage that seemed beyond repair. It was as if a thousand shattered glass fragments lay strewn across the floor, each one echoing the irreparable nature of this rupture.

Amidst everything that was going on, Hermione strained to catch Harry's words, as they were no longer laden with passion or fury. Instead, his voice emerged as an eerie calm, a frigid, lifeless monotone.

"Leave the Horcrux," Harry declared.

With a swift, almost violent motion, Ron ripped the chain from around his neck, sending the locket sailing through the air to land with a weighty thud on a nearby chair. Then, his gaze locked onto Hermione.

Hermione's eyes flicked open just a tad wider, and in that delicate moment, she became acutely aware of the silent, glistening streams of tears tracing their way down her cheeks. Unbeknownst to her conscious mind, her heart was already mourning the profound loss they had just suffered, even as her thoughts raced, seeking a way to mend the shattered pieces of their camaraderie. Her tears flowed not just from sorrow but from the prescient knowledge of the question Ron was about to pose, a question for which she had already scripted her response.

And then, like a harbinger of impending doom, Ron's voice sliced through the fragile silence, each word pregnant with the dread Hermione had anticipated.

"Are you coming?"

She gazed at him, her eyes wide, shimmering with unshed tears that trickled down her face like silent rivers. The words slipped from her trembling lips, uttered with a hushed reluctance that tore at her heart. This was something she wished she didn't have to do.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ron's face contorted with frustration, and a flicker of desperation danced in his eyes. He knew that Hermione understood exactly what he meant. He clarified, his words edged with anger, but also a hint of despair.

"Are you staying … with him, or coming with me?"

Hermione's internal struggle was etched across her face. A deafening roll of thunder outside the tent sent an involuntary shiver racing down her spine, as if the storm outside mirrored the tempest within her. She felt as if she were burning from the inside out, her stomach twisted into knots, a nauseous lump forming in the back of her throat. She inhaled deeply, blinked away her tears, and then spoke, her voice trembling but determined.

"I... I'm staying, Ron. We promised Harry we'd go with him, we said we'd help."

But Ron didn't wait. He didn't wait for her to articulate her reasons, to remind him that their shared commitment bound them to Harry's mission, the very quest Dumbledore had entrusted to them all—a mission that carried the weight of the entire wizarding world, even though the world remained oblivious. He never truly listened, and he rarely considered the consequences of his actions.

Why had she ever believed that this time would be any different?

"I understand. Oh … I understand … You've chosen him," Ron spat out, his face contorted into an ugly mask of anger and perceived betrayal. Hermione watched as his shoulders slumped in disappointment, as he began to retreat toward the tent's exit. Her instinctive reaction was to stop him, to grab hold of him, to make things right.

She knew they had to mend this rift.

A surge of nausea and desperation washed over her, but she was momentarily thwarted by her own shield charm. Waving her wand to dissolve the protective barrier, she hurried after Ron, darting out of the tent and into the relentless rainstorm, leaving Harry standing alone and motionless within. She screamed Ron's name, her voice a desperate plea, urging him to return.

"Ron, no, please, come back, come back!"

As she ran farther from the tent, she caught the faint sound of an apparition pop, and her outstretched hand, once poised to reach out to him, fell limply to her side. She came to a stop, her knees trembling, her lip quivering, her drenched hair clinging to her face.

With a solemn turn on her heel, she retraced her steps back to the tent, her gaze fixed on the ground. Stepping beneath the flap, she discovered that Harry hadn't moved an inch. His gaze bore into her, an enigmatic blend of emotions that she couldn't decipher. Every bone in her body felt like lead, her hair was matted against her face, and the howling wind outside tugged at her. She stared back at Harry, her eyes clouded with a heaviness that mirrored the turmoil within her.

"He's gone, Harry! He disapparated!" Her words felt like thunder in her own head, yet she knew her voice emerged as a mere whisper, frail and weary. Her face contorted in anguish as the dam restraining her emotions finally shattered, unleashing torrential sobs that convulsed through her chest.

Collapsing into the armchair tucked away in the corner of the tent, she surrendered to what seemed like an eternity of pent-up stress, anguish, pain, and loss. She paid no heed to the world outside as Harry's hesitant presence drew near, the soft blanket draped gently over her trembling shoulders.

She heard him depart, aware that he retreated to his own bunk. She knew she should rally herself, regain her composure, and recalibrate their plans, charting their next course of action. Anything but sitting here, a pitiable, huddled mass of despair. But she couldn't muster the energy to care. In this moment, it felt as though a vital piece of her had withered and died.


Hermione awoke the next morning in painful disarray. Her hair had dried in wild mess, forming a chaotic tangle on her face that clung to a few small leaves from the storm. Her chest ached as if she'd run a marathon, her eyes undoubtedly pink and swollen, and her entire body protested after having spent the night curled up in a chair. Dried tracks of tears streaked across her face, smeared on her arms and the blanket Harry had placed over her the night before.

Normally, she would've been mortified by her current state. Not because she cared about appearances—no, Hermione Granger had little concern for that. What truly perturbed her was the fact that she, Hermione Granger, was known for maintaining a cool and composed demeanor. She didn't break down like she had last night. She didn't surrender to the creeping dread that had secretly invaded her heart. She didn't give in or give up. Yet, last night had marked one of her lowest moments.

With a stiff effort, she gradually shifted into an upright position, blinking around the room. The tent was bathed in serene sunlight, and the faint chirping of birds in the background seemed to hold no memory of the turmoil that had unfolded here the previous evening. She glanced toward Harry's bunk and observed his back turned to her, his shoulders moving gently with each deep breath—a semblance of peace to an unsuspecting observer. But she knew Harry well, and the slight tension in his shoulders, the twisted blanket around his ankles, betrayed the fact that he had slept as poorly as she had.

Suppressing a groan, she extricated herself from the chair, taking utmost care to be as quiet as possible as she set the blanket aside. She didn't want to rouse Harry from his slumber. He needed his rest far more than he would ever admit, yet Hermione also lacked the heart and courage to face him just yet. Last night had felt like a piece of her heart had withered away, and she understood that Harry was tending to his own wounds in his own way. She knew she needed to be there for him.

However, in this moment, as she looked down at her soiled and still-damp clothes, a sense of self-disgust washed over her. She needed a shower. She needed tea. She needed just a few moments alone. Frowning at the blanket before her, still tainted with her dried snot and tears, she retrieved her wand from her sweater pocket and whispered a quick cleaning charm. Then, as silent as a shadow, she tiptoed toward Harry's bunk.

Gazing down at Harry, Hermione noticed the deep furrow in his brow, and, as she suspected, the accursed Horcrux locket lay draped loosely around his neck. It rested on the mattress next to his chest, like a venomous serpent taking a break from its host. With utmost care, she reached down and unfastened the clasp, gingerly pulling the locket away from him. Almost instantly, the tension in his brow eased, and his breathing grew deeper and more tranquil. A small but sorrowful smile touched her lips as she slipped away to the tent's bathroom, snatching fresh clothes en route. Closing the door behind her, she secured the locket around her own neck, her fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against its cursed surface.

Drawing in a deep breath, Hermione shed her soiled garments. With her wand, she summoned a cascade of hot water, adding a heating charm until tendrils of steam began to rise, shrouding the bathroom in a comforting mist.

The shower within the tent was a marvel of enchantment. Its nozzle, perched high above, had been charmed so that a simple tap with a wand activated an aqua eructo charm, cascading water down upon the bather. A second tap would cease the flow. The bathroom was compact, which suited their need for efficiency and discretion, especially to avoid being caught by snatchers while one of them stood exposed and vulnerable in the shower. However, today was different. Today, Hermione allowed herself a luxury she rarely indulged in—a lengthy and thorough shower.

Normally, their bathing rituals were swift and utilitarian, driven by a desire for efficiency and the urgency of their circumstances. But today, she lingered beneath the warm stream, taking the time to scrub every inch of her body as if attempting to wash away the remorse, sadness, and the overwhelming sense of disappointment that had clouded her heart the previous night.

As she bathed, the locket dangled loosely against her chest, an irksome reminder of the malevolent presence they carried. She could have left it with Harry, but Hermione had always believed that she handled the Horcruxes better than the two boys combined. Harry needed rest, and spending a whole night with that locket around his neck would only make their already arduous day ahead even more challenging. Besides, she mused with a grim smirk, the locket was caked with dark magic—it could certainly benefit from a thorough cleansing.

She winced inwardly at the thought, wondering if her relative immunity to the locket's malevolence had something to do with the meditation techniques her parents had taught her as a child. Techniques she had faithfully practiced since she was introduced to them at the tender age of eight. She'd never breathed a word of it to anyone, not even to the boys, but as a child, she had grappled with anxiety, driven by an insatiable need to excel in every pursuit.

"Classic perfectionist," they'd said.

Her brilliance had exacted its toll, and her relentless pursuit of excellence in school had left her in a perpetual state of anxiety during her formative years. As a result, her parents had lovingly imparted the art of meditation to their young daughter. They had taught her to control her breath, to relax, to organize her thoughts, and to approach challenges with logic and calm. Ironically, this skill had proven invaluable in nearly every aspect of her life so far and might well have been her most remarkable talent—one that she had never openly acknowledged to anyone. She suspected that some of her professors were privy to it, and it was quite possible that this hidden ability had played a significant role in keeping her, Harry, and Ron alive. If she ever had the chance to reunite with her parents, if they ever regained their memories of her, she would be sure to express her profound gratitude.

With that thought, Hermione ran her fingers through her wet, curly hair one final time and leaned her palms and forehead against the cool wall of the shower stall. For two blissful minutes, she focused on deep, calming breaths while the hot water massaged her tense shoulders, and the locket dangled lightly from her neck. Then, she opened her eyes. Pulling back the curtain, she stepped out of the shower stall, retrieved her wand from the sink counter, and tapped the overhead nozzle to shut off the water. A swift drying spell later, she grabbed her fresh clothes but paused when she glimpsed her reflection in the mirror. She appeared weary, newly scrubbed with a hint of pink in her cheeks from the warmth, her hair still damp, cascading in a curtain of curls around her shoulders—but the fatigue she saw seemed to emanate from her very bones.

Her face looked thinner, not gaunt, but leaner. Her entire frame did. Life on the run afforded no luxuries—as Ron had bitterly realized—and she frowned at her reflection. If they were truly to engage in and win this war, they needed to allocate more time for acquiring and managing balanced meals. Today, she resolved to examine their supplies and schedule, making room for sustenance.

Slipping into her clothes—an old, well-worn pair of muggle jeans, bearing faded marks of wear at the knees, and a loose-fitting charcoal v-neck sweater with long sleeves—she sighed before tending to her teeth. Then, she turned her attention to her unruly hair, the familiar bushy mane she had come to embrace. She eyed it with caution, as if afraid of spooking it into an even greater frenzy. A drying spell removed the last traces of dampness, and she decided to gather her unruly locks into a messy topknot. It flopped somewhat unceremoniously to one side—her hair's sheer weight and thickness thwarting any attempt at an elegant high ponytail. So, she settled for a casual knot, letting it rest like a crown atop her head.

Leaning against the sink, she methodically pulled on her socks. They were oversized and knitted, a comforting shade of purple that promised warmth—a perfect choice as the weather grew cooler with each passing day. Standing up with resolute determination, she snatched her wand and turned to face the mirror.

"This is as good as it's going to get today," she thought with a sigh.

Exiting the petite bathroom, she caught a faint clicking sound emanating from the kitchen area. She turned left, making her way down the cramped and low-ceilinged hallway that led back to the tent's common area. Pausing at the end, she cast her gaze upon Harry, who had positioned two chipped tea mugs on the kitchen table alongside a plate bearing the last remnants of scones they possessed—an unspoken mental note that they needed to replenish their supplies.

He must have heard her approach, for he looked up shortly after she stopped moving. The air between them felt heavy with unspoken sentiments and unresolved tension. Her left hand fidgeted nervously with the hem of her shirt. She couldn't recall ever feeling awkward around Harry in the past, but today was different. She didn't know what to say—and neither did he.

Harry, in his own endearing way, broke the silence, speaking softly and tentatively.

"Hey," he greeted, fiddling nervously with the spoon he'd likely used to stir the tea. His gaze remained firmly fixed on her, his eyes weary and uncertain, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Hey," she responded softly, her left hand dropping from the hem of her shirt to clasp her wand before her. She watched as he relaxed slightly, the anxiety in his eyes giving way to a glimmer of hope. She couldn't begin to fathom what was going through his mind.

"I made tea," he mentioned somewhat abruptly, his voice still gentle, as if he were addressing a fragile creature he feared might scurry away if he moved too quickly or spoke too loudly. "It got cold, though. S-So I just used a warming charm—to reheat it. It's one milk and two sugars. I'm sorry—I hope it's okay?"

His last words tumbled out in a jumbled rush, and Hermione could discern the hopeful yet anxious expression in his eyes. He genuinely cared, and his concern that his reheated tea might not be up to par was endearing. Harry was unfailingly considerate and caring—and he had remembered precisely how she preferred her tea.

A smile crept across Hermione's lips, albeit a weary one, and her gratitude for his gesture shone through. It was absurd for them to be so uneasy around each other. They had never encountered this issue before, despite the trials they had faced together.

"It's perfect, Harry. Thank you," she replied as she approached the table, choosing a seat opposite to where he stood and placing her wand beside her.

His grin of relief spread across his face, and he slowly settled himself down at the table, waiting patiently as she took the first sip of her tea before bringing his own mug to his lips with gentle precision. Both cradled their mugs with both hands, elbows propped on the table, the mugs hovering just below her chin. She observed the way he studied her face, searching for the right words.

"It's okay, Harry," she said softly, removing one hand from her mug and extending it toward his.

Harry released his grip on the mug, allowing her fingers to intertwine with his. She placed their joined hands between them on the table, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. However, his eyes continued to search her face, longing for something more.

"We are okay," she asserted firmly.

Harry exhaled the breath he had been holding, his head drooping slightly, shoulders slumping. He placed his tea mug on the table and covered his face with one hand. He sat like that for a moment, head supported by his hand, before straightening with a deep breath, running his fingers through his unruly black hair. He briefly glanced at the ceiling before focusing his gaze back on her. His eyes were now slightly red, and she could sense the unshed tears in the corners of his eyes. Her own eyes stung as she maintained her intense stare, both of them struggling to contain their emotions.

"Thank goodness," he whispered weakly, a mixture of sadness and relief washing over his face. "I'm so sorry, Hermione."

His eyes were sincere as he tightened his grip on her hand.

"I know," she replied with earnestness, setting her cup down as well. They instinctively clung to each other's hands, sitting across from each other with a tight grasp as if afraid they might lose each other if they let go. "I am too. I am so, so sorry, Harry."

"You shouldn't be," he murmured weakly. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You stayed."

He gazed at her with a warmth she couldn't recall ever seeing before.

"Thank you for staying," he said quietly.

"Of course," she replied, her eyes scanning his face. "Of course I would stay, Harry. I said that I would. I told you I would be here until the end—always."

Harry smiled at her again, some of the tension dissipating from his body as he adjusted his posture.

"I know," he said quietly. "But still, I know it hasn't been easy—and I'm sorry that I don't seem to know what I'm doing half the time. It's because I don't. I wish I did. But I don't. And I'm sorry for that," he rambled before pausing. He looked at her with care, sincerity dripping from his words as he continued slowly, deliberately. "I want you to know how much I need you here. How much I rely on you. And how grateful I am that you stayed. I know that last night wasn't easy for you—but I'm so, so thankful that you stayed."

Hermione locked eyes with him; their hands had inched higher between them, with Harry holding onto them almost desperately close to his chest. A solitary tear rolled down from the corner of her eye as she smiled, the weight of her emotions tugging at her heart.

"You're right," she said softly. "It was hard. But doing the right thing often is. It's not about making the easy choices or doing what we want to do. It's about doing the right thing and doing what we need to do. I don't regret staying. The decision was easy, so don't you dare ever think anything different—"

Harry seemed poised to speak, perhaps to object or offer further gratitude, but she didn't allow him to interject. She wanted to address everything now and not keep tiptoeing around the issue while they had Horcruxes to locate and destroy.

"The decision was easy," she asserted more firmly, fixing him with a determined gaze. "Seeing Ron leave. That—that was hard. It was hard because it hurt. I'm sad, Harry. I'm disappointed. I'm upset. I'm flabbergasted that he even thought to ask me to go with him! I expected more—I expected him to stay true to his word and to see this through. I expected him to be reliable, and I expected him to, for once, grasp the bigger picture and understand that this—all of this—what we are doing here—is so much larger than any of us as individuals. That we have to continue, that we have to do whatever we must to complete this mission."

Hermione met Harry's gaze with an unwavering look of determination before continuing. Harry remained silent now, sitting forward slightly, a glint of resolve rekindling in his eyes.

"I am upset about Ron, Harry," she emphasized to make her feelings unmistakably clear, before taking a breath and giving his hand another firm squeeze. "But I will get over it. Hard times reveal our true selves—they unveil someone's real character. I always knew Ron was a bit unreliable and somewhat lazy."

She bestowed upon Harry a faint smile, and he responded with a gentle one of his own.

"I guess," she paused, "I guess I just thought that when things got really tough, when it truly came down to it, I could count on him. I guess I just hoped that he was a little different."

Harry's smile turned somber as he nodded in agreement.

"I know," he replied, his voice husky. "So did I."

They sat in silence for a moment, each observing their intertwined hands. Harry gently traced his right thumb over her knuckles in a soothing motion.

"He might still come back," Harry offered with a small smile and a glimmer of optimism. He could feel her gaze on him, waiting for her response.

Hermione furrowed her brow as she contemplated the possibility. It was a chance, but her attention remained on the small circles Harry's thumb continued to draw on her knuckles.

"Maybe," she replied slowly, meeting Harry's eyes once more. "Maybe. But that won't change how I feel."

Harry arched an eyebrow, seeking clarification in her words. In response, she fixed him with a resolute gaze.

"It won't change how I feel now," she asserted firmly. "What happened here—if he returns. Perhaps I can forgive him. Maybe we can be friends. But I can't overlook this. I—I won't revert to how I felt before."

Harry regarded her thoughtfully, his brows creased as a notion seemed to occur to him. He nodded slowly, signifying his understanding. Harry was cognizant of the feelings Hermione had begun to develop for Ron—not just because he was observant, but also because they had briefly discussed it in conversation. Hermione had felt jealous when Ron had started dating Lavender Brown in their sixth year, and Harry had helped her cope with it, explaining that Ron was indeed interested in her but was oblivious to his own emotions. Although it had earned him a half-hearted smack from Hermione at the time, his words were true, and he knew it. Ron, for all his qualities, wasn't always the sharpest. It was highly probable that his attraction to Hermione was mainly due to their frequent interaction. In reality, they had little in common and frequently argued. Harry had always acted as the intermediary between them, the buffer. Given some space, Ron might develop an interest in other girls and eventually forget his feelings for Hermione altogether. But Harry had never revealed this to her.

Hermione nodded in return, and Harry squeezed her hands once more before relinquishing both of their hands back to the table, putting on a bright smile.

"So, how about breakfast?" he suggested with an exaggerated cheerfulness. "I was up all night baking these."

Hermione laughed, eternally grateful for Harry's ability to move forward and keep going. She reached for a scone, taking a bite and complimenting his culinary skills before sipping her tea, which had gone from cold to reheated and then cold again—Harry's attempt to ensure her comfort.


Following breakfast, the day continued with a semblance of normalcy. An undercurrent of sadness lingered in the tent, a reminder of the loss of a third of their "golden trio." Yet, the earlier tension and uncertainty had dissipated, allowing Hermione and Harry to interact comfortably as they usually did.

Hermione knew that the path ahead had grown more challenging and that the persistent sadness wouldn't vanish overnight. Nevertheless, she felt optimistic that she and Harry could still succeed, whether Ron returned or not. She could only wonder about Ron's decision – the ever-elusive Ron – but she was content in the knowledge that she and Harry had affirmed their enduring friendship and unwavering commitment to move forward.

After taking a bite of her scone, she silently offered a prayer to the heavens – or any listening deity – that her conversation with Harry that morning had succeeded in dispelling any lingering doubts he might have had about her choice to stay. Her words had been sincere, and she didn't want Harry wasting time worrying about her well-being.

Once they had finished their scones, Hermione had playfully chased Harry into the bathroom to shower, firmly resisting his attempts to take the Horcrux with him.

"It's already had a bath today," she insisted while thrusting clean clothes into his arms, his mouth poised to protest. "Besides," she added, forestalling whatever he was about to say, "you slept with it all last night. It's my turn to spend some quality time with it."

He accepted the clothes she had thrust upon him but remained in place, clearly uncomfortable with simply acquiescing to her demand and leaving her with the locket. She smiled at him and then turned away toward the kitchen, intending to review their food inventory while he cleaned up. "You can have it again tonight if it makes you feel better. Now, go get clean!" she called over her shoulder as she delved into her purse.

She heard him take a few steps toward the bathroom and then the sound of the door clicking shut. Breathing a sigh of relief, she retrieved the list of their supplies she kept and began reviewing it, noting which items needed replenishing.

By the time Harry had completed his shower, exiting the bathroom wearing the clean clothes she had given him, his hair still defying gravity, darkness had descended outside, accompanied by the return of the rain. Hermione had concluded her evaluation of their supplies and compiled a comprehensive list of foodstuffs and essentials requiring replenishment. She had also started packing up the kitchen and her belongings, preparing for their imminent relocation. Over the past few days, the riverbank near their campsite had steadily risen, and soon their tent would be submerged. They never lingered in one place for too long, always on the move to reduce the risk of being tracked down. Today marked another relocation, and Hermione was determined to keep them on schedule.

Harry, noticing her packing, silently followed suit, placing his belongings into the bag Hermione had given him when they departed the Burrow. When they had initially set up camp, Hermione had instructed Ron and Harry in the art of shrinking their belongings using the Reducio spell and protecting them with an Unbreakable Charm. She had provided each of them with a small backpack for storage, though these bags often found themselves nestled inside her purse – especially Ron's, as he frequently avoided carrying his own, despite the Feather-Light Charm she had thoughtfully cast on all their bags.

It took them a bit more than forty minutes to securely stow away everything, twice as long as their usual pace, Hermione noted. However, she understood that they were moving more slowly than usual due to the events of the previous night. She said nothing as Harry handed her the last tea mug at a snail's pace. After mentally cataloging their possessions and conducting a final check to ensure nothing was overlooked, she nodded with satisfaction. She then donned her rain jacket, slung her purse strap over her shoulder, and exited the tent into the drizzle.

Harry followed a moment later, his nylon jacket's hood pulled up over his head. Using her wand, Hermione folded up the tent, shrinking it down, and safely tucked it away in her purse. Both of them stood quietly in the rain, gazing at the encroaching riverbank.

"We can wait a bit longer," Harry suggested calmly.

Hermione glanced back in the direction Ron had stormed off the night before. The area was dark and empty. A pang in her chest yearned for him to return any moment, as if they could erase the past 24 hours and revert to their old ways. They both stood silently, eyes trained on the treeline, as if anticipating the familiar pops that would signify Ron's return. Hermione furrowed her brow, but deep down, she knew things couldn't return to how they were. Her logical mind was prevailing over her juvenile emotions. They couldn't.

It was as if a switch had been flipped inside her mind, unleashing her logical side – the resilient, protective part of her that kept her safe in a world filled with darkness and danger. This was the part of her that analyzed situations and made the best decisions, the side that knew what she needed and what was truly worth her time and effort. It swiftly gathered her emotions and feelings for Ron, neatly packaging them into a mental box. Then, with precision, it slapped a label on that box that read, 'Change your expectations; this won't give you what you need – Directions: Process the change and move on.'

"No," she declared firmly, her voice brimming with resolve. "We're not waiting. I refuse to waste my time on false hopes. What's done is done. Let's move on."

With that, she grabbed Harry's arm with determination and apparated them away. The only trace of their presence left in the soggy forest was a faint breeze that accompanied the distinctive pop of their departure.

They materialized on a windswept hillside blanketed in heather, and fortunately, the rain had ceased. As they shed their rain jackets, Harry began casting protective charms while Hermione retrieved the tent from her purse and set it up. An hour later, they sat a few feet apart on a large rock outside the tent, sipping tea. The wind tousled Hermione's hair into an even more chaotic mess, and her previously forgotten topknot dangled loosely.

"We're going to need more supplies," Hermione stated, cradling her tea mug close to her chest. The weather, sans rain, was actually tolerable; the last remnants of fall were giving way to the impending cold, snow, and sleet. She shivered at the thought but appreciated the sunshine for the moment.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, placing his teacup down before leaning back on both hands. His black t-shirt fluttered in the wind. "Our whole 'hunter-gatherer macho living off the land' thing has been going rather poorly, hasn't it?"

Hermione couldn't help but snort at his attempt to maintain a jovial atmosphere, even though their dwindling food supplies hinted at a dire situation.

"Yeah," she replied, mimicking his tone and posture, leaning back and turning her face toward him. "Turns out that having magic doesn't make hunting and gathering any easier. Who would've thought?"

Harry grinned. "Well, what's your plan? We can't just stroll into a supermarket, and we're fresh out of Polyjuice Potion."

She hummed in agreement and retrieved a small folded piece of paper from her pocket. Unfolding it, she leaned toward Harry to show him.

"We're here," she indicated, pointing to a spot on the map. Although Harry nodded as if he knew the location well, in reality, he had no idea where they were. "I camped here with my family when I was a child. There's a small town a few miles to the south, on the other side of this river. It has some local farms and markets. I thought – I thought we could stop there to collect some supplies after we're packed up and leaving this place."

"Okay," Harry said slowly, his gaze shifting down to her face. "So, do you think the town is small enough that we won't be noticed, or are you about to propose something that first-year Hermione would have vehemently disagreed with?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, but Harry had her pegged accurately. She would never consider entering a city or town, especially after their escapade at the Ministry of Magic. She doubted that Voldemort's minions were lurking in this area, but she wasn't willing to take any risks – Harry was right about that. She was about to suggest something that the naïve eleven-year-old Hermione Jean Granger would have vehemently opposed.

"You're well aware that I broke school rules in our first year," Hermione retorted indignantly.

"Yeah, but that was toward the end of the year. Before that, it was all 'we could have been killed, or worse, expelled!'" Harry responded, feigning concern and dramatically placing his hand on his face.

"Oh, come on," she retorted, playfully smacking his arm while still holding the map.

Harry chuckled and dropped his act. "You're right; I'm sorry. You were quite the rebel in our first year." He winked. "So, what's your plan?"

Hermione huffed but began explaining her scheme. They would remain at their current location for several days, their standard campsite routine. On the seventh night, which was a Tuesday and should be relatively quiet in town, they would pack up at midnight. Hermione would then apparate them closer to the town. She believed it was best to materialize at the small pumpkin farm to the north, ensuring they wouldn't encounter any unsuspecting individuals. From there, they would sneak into town using silencing charms and the invisibility cloak while keeping to the shadows. On the main street, there was a small supermarket and a farmer's market, with a back alley running behind both buildings. If they approached from the north, they could slip into the alley undetected and gain access to the stores to obtain their supplies. She had brought along some Muggle money for the mission, so they could leave it in the cash register before departing – not stealing, just breaking in.

Harry nodded in approval once Hermione had finished outlining the plan, using the map as a visual aid to pinpoint the store's location and the suspected route of the alleyway. Most of the residential buildings were situated to the south, so they only needed to navigate a few neighborhood blocks to reach the store. They both concurred that the supermarket would be their primary objective, with the intention of leaving as soon as they secured their supplies. Hermione would then immediately apparate them to a new location.

"Alright," Harry declared, straightening up from his examination of her map. "It's a plan. We'll move slowly and cautiously, making sure not to linger any longer than necessary."

She nodded in agreement, relieved that they would soon acquire much-needed supplies. Her confidence grew as Harry approved of her plan, reassuring her that it should be relatively safe.


The next few days passed by at a languid pace, but with each day, their resolve grew stronger. The tantalizing thought of fresh food, as opposed to their usual dried, packaged rations, buoyed their spirits. A new routine began to take shape. During the day, Hermione would immerse herself in her copy of "The Tales of Beedle the Bard." She diligently took notes, read books to memorize new spells, and scoured for any overlooked information. She also engaged in conversations with Phineas's portrait, hoping to glean new insights. Afternoons were reserved for outdoor tea sessions with Harry on their favorite rock. Meanwhile, Harry dedicated his time to speaking with Phineas's portrait, even though it often ended with a disgruntled Phineas being returned to Hermione's purse. He also honed his defensive skills, gathered useful herbs from the hillside under Hermione's guidance, and delved into her extensive collection of books on defense and offensive spells.

In the evenings, they dined together and discussed any new knowledge they had acquired during the day or reviewed the information shared by Phineas. Although they hadn't stumbled upon any valuable information during their days on the heather-covered hillside, Hermione appreciated the routine they had established. Chores and responsibilities naturally divided between them. If Hermione prepared the food, Harry took care of the cleanup without a word of complaint. Similarly, if Harry checked and fortified the protective spells around their campsite, Hermione would update their supply list and give the tent a quick cleaning using her cleaning charms. They continued to take turns guarding the tent during the night, trading sleepy smiles when their shifts changed. With each passing day, life grew easier, and the bone-deep weariness that had settled in after Ron's departure gradually diminished.

They never spoke of Ron. His name never crossed their lips during their time on the hillside. The wound was still too raw, and, in Hermione's view, there was nothing left to say.

What could be said? He had abandoned them. He had done precisely what she had expected of him, yet it was also what she had hoped he wouldn't do.

In many ways, she wasn't even surprised by his departure. So, the subject remained untouched, although she suspected it might resurface as time passed and they found it easier to discuss it dispassionately. For now, she was content to occupy herself with reading and planning their next move.

After dinner on the seventh night, Harry collected the dishes and cast a cleaning spell he had learned from Hermione earlier in the week, leaving them spotless on the counter.

"Would you like to get some sleep before tonight?" he inquired, setting down the last plate.

Hermione looked up from her book, which she had already retrieved from her bag and opened to the page she had left off the previous night.

"I probably should," she sighed. "It's going to be a long night. But honestly, Harry, I don't think I'll be able to. My mind is racing right now. I know this plan is safe, and we'll be okay, but I just—" She halted and winced slightly. "I can't help but feel nervous, especially after what happened at the Ministry."

Harry nodded in understanding.

"I know," he sighed as well, taking a seat at the table across from her. "I thought I'd offer since I know I won't be sleeping either. But it'll be fine. We're in the middle of nowhere. A quick in, grab supplies, then out, and we'll be on our way."

Hermione nodded before returning to her book. For the next few hours, they sat in companionable silence, reading and waiting for midnight. Harry had started perusing her copy of "The Tales of Beedle the Bard" when Hermione announced it was time to pack up.

Efficiency was their motto this time, and within twenty minutes, they had deconstructed, neatly folded, and stowed the entire tent. They had both changed into dark clothing before they began packing, agreeing it was the prudent choice. Looking like a pair of ninjas in the night, Hermione firmly grasped Harry's arm and disapparated them to the pumpkin farm on the north side of town.


The field lay quiet as they materialized, the night's coolness a stark contrast to the warmth of the sun they had enjoyed during the day. Hermione suspected this pleasant transition between warm days and cool nights wouldn't last much longer. They crouched together, Harry retrieving his invisibility cloak from his pack and draping it across his arm before slinging his pack back over his shoulder. As they stood, Hermione cast two muffling charms at their feet, and they stealthily made their way through the dark pumpkin patch towards the town.

Upon reaching the first block of houses in the small neighborhood north of the supermarket, Harry enveloped them both in the cloak, tucking himself closely behind Hermione. His hand rested gently on her shoulder, allowing them to move in synchrony. Traveling with multiple people under the cloak had ceased to be easy years ago; they were no longer the eleven-year-old children sneaking around the castle library searching for books on Nicolas Flamel. While Harry wasn't as tall or robust as some of his peers, he had grown into a 5'10" man with broad shoulders. Hermione, on the other hand, was petite and on the shorter side. Nonetheless, navigating with two full-sized adults beneath a cloak barely larger than a double bedsheet proved challenging.

Hermione took the lead, knowing that Harry had placed her in front because she was more familiar with the area. They moved cautiously through the neighborhood streets, and to their relief, they encountered no one along the way.

Upon entering the back alleyway, their caution deepened. The small space was cluttered with various objects that could hide people or animals: dumpsters, doorways, boxes, random junk, and signs. But thankfully, they encountered no obstacles. After a few minutes, they reached a slightly rusted door. Hermione raised her wand to murmur "Alohomora" and unlocked it, and they slipped inside.

They would have considered apparating directly into the store, but they deemed it riskier than sneaking in. Hermione hadn't set foot in this supermarket in years, and a misstep in apparition could place them inside a wall or halfway through a shelf. Apparating indoors to specific locations was trickier than the broad-ranged apparitions they had previously employed outdoors. Therefore, they chose to rely on the invisibility cloak to access the store undetected.

They spent over an hour and a half methodically working their way through the grocery store aisles, collecting various foods, mostly fresh, as well as other supplies like toothpaste, paper, soap, and shampoos. Each item was shrunk down and meticulously stored in Hermione's purse, each in a specific location within her undetectable extension-charmed bag for easy access later. She also preserved several food items to ensure they stayed fresh, using charms that Harry was unfamiliar with. Harry couldn't hide his delight when Hermione added a treacle tart, his favorite, from the bakery section to her purse.

Once all their items were safely stowed, they approached the cash register. Hermione counted out bills from the stack she had on hand and gently tapped the register with her wand before sealing it with a second spell. Harry patiently waited for her to finish this task, fully aware that she would never agree to stealing the supplies. He respected her unwavering moral standards, even in the midst of a war. He also understood her reasoning; this was a muggle store with no connection to their conflict, and she didn't want innocent people to suffer for the sake of the wizarding world.

At this point, their stress and anxiety about the mission had largely dissipated, replaced by a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. Eager to get out into the cool night air, they made their way to the back alleyway exit door in silence. They had refrained from speaking during their shopping excursion, unsure if the small-town supermarket had any alarms, so they opted for caution, using subtle tugs and pulls of each other's jackets to communicate.

Upon reaching the door, Hermione pushed it open with less caution than she had used when entering the store. They cautiously stepped back into the alleyway together and quietly closed the door behind them, re-locking it. Turning to the right, they moved away from the alley's light and potential security cameras, positioning themselves in the darkness while Harry stowed the cloak. Harry wasn't willing to risk apparating with the cloak exposed, and Hermione agreed; they couldn't afford to lose such a valuable asset.

Harry removed the cloak and stretched, unslinging his pack and kneeling to stuff it inside. Hermione took a step away to stretch as well, raising her arms above her head and gazing up at the night sky, which displayed a beautiful full moon. She rotated her neck and shoulders to work out the kinks, her attention fully on her surroundings. It was only when she heard a startled grunt that she whipped her head to the right and froze.

Two large, yellowish eyes met hers, a brief look of surprise flickering in them before quickly being replaced by something far more dangerous.

A werewolf! Hermione's mind screamed.

She instinctively reached out for Harry, but her cry was abruptly cut off as the werewolf, no longer stunned by their sudden appearance, swiped a clawed arm at her. The blow landed across her chest and stomach, sending her sprawling backward several feet, her head hitting the pavement with a resounding thud. Her vision blurred as black spots danced before her eyes, her hands raised in desperation, wand aimed at a target she couldn't clearly see, but she felt warmth and wetness seeping from the pain in her head.

"Hermione!" Harry's panicked voice rang out. He had now noticed the werewolf, and as he scrambled to his feet and rushed toward her, the beast lunged at his legs, jaws gaping, drool flying. Harry leaped and rolled awkwardly to the side, narrowly avoiding the creature's snapping jaws. He managed to cast two more spells at its face, but the werewolf growled, baring its jagged teeth as it prepared to attack once more.

Despite the searing pain in her head, Hermione got to her feet, her legs wobbly as she stood. She aimed her wand at the werewolf, sending two spells its way as Harry continued to dodge the creature's relentless assault. Wincing from the pain, her agony further heightened by the warm wetness on her head, she concentrated on the battle at hand.

"Harry!" she called, her voice wavering. "I've got it!"

Harry was now just a few feet to her left, lying on his back in an awkward position to avoid the jaws that were determined to rip him apart. He cast defensive spells when he could, but the werewolf was relentless, intent on tearing off his limbs.

Hermione forced her brain to focus, calculating the best course of action. With a trembling hand, she raised her wand just as the werewolf lunged toward Harry once more. She cast a powerful Confundo spell, quickly followed by a direct-hit Diffindo spell that sliced across the werewolf's chest, splattering blood onto the ground. Without pausing, she hurled herself toward Harry, her left hand reaching out, and she cast a final spell: Confringo! The explosion that followed engulfed the werewolf and the entire alley. Shards of debris scattered in all directions, but Hermione's hand had already seized Harry's, and he clung to her tightly as she disapparated them away.


Kind Regards,

FavoriteAuthor

Thanks to those of you out to those of you who enjoy my stories, I promise to keep updating the stories as long as you enjoy them, and a special thanks to those of you who have taken the time to leave feedback or reach out to me directly.

I hope you all liked the start to the new story, and I look forward to hearing your feedback. This is a story I have been looking forward to writing for a very long time.

The second chapter of this fic is ready, so I am a little ahead of schedule, however there will be no delays in receiving updates for the other stories.

Author Note 1 – I just want to say I have been blown away with all the support and love (feedback and follows I have been receiving). I am near my next feedback milestone, so I thought I would release this story a little ahead of schedule. Thanks again! I am just happy people seem to be enjoying reading my stories story as much as I am writing it.

Author Note 2 – I enjoy writing short stories for my own enjoyment but at a suggestion from a friend, I have decided to start posting some of my stories that I am working on or have completed. All feedback is welcome (hopefully constructive!) Looking forward to what you think!