Hello everyone! I have received so much positive feedback for this story! Thank you guys so much! I have decided to revamp it since it has been forever since I have uploaded a chapter. Life. But I hope you guys enjoy the version of this story!
Disclaimer: I own nothing about this story or Harry Potter
Red hair and a hand-me-down robe. You must be the Weasleys. - Draco Malfoy
Prologue
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"I don't care, Ronald!" Hermione snapped, her voice sharp as a whip, echoing off the walls. Her eyes blazed with frustration, cheeks flushed, and hands clenched tightly at her sides. "I'm exhausted, and I don't have time for this right now!"
She shot him a final, withering glare before spinning on her heel. Her curls bounced with the sudden movement as she stormed off, the hem of her robe swishing behind her. Without another word, she disappeared down the hallway and towards their shared bedroom.
"Hermione! Don't just blow this off!" Ron's voice thundered through the room, rough with hurt and disbelief. "You can't just go getting drinks with another guy when you're supposed to be with me!"
The words struck her like a slap, freezing her mid-step. Her spine stiffened. Slowly—almost too slowly—she turned on her heel, curls whipping around her like a storm brewing on the edge of control. Her eyes locked onto his with a fury that had been simmering for months, and now, all that pent-up frustration surged to the surface.
It circled her like a tempest, five months of swallowed arguments and quiet disappointments building into something volatile, something sharp. The tension in the room crackled like static as she faced him fully, jaw clenched, lips parted—on the brink of unleashing everything she'd kept buried.
"Me? ME?" Hermione's voice rose, raw and incredulous, echoing through the room like a spell cast in fury. Her chest heaved as she pointed at herself, her eyes wide with disbelief. "You go out every night, sometimes not coming home until sunrise—reeking of firewhiskey—and you have the nerve to turn this on me?"
Her voice cracked with emotion, but her stare remained steady, burning. "You don't even ask why I went out, you just assume the worst. You know nothing, Ronald. You're an even bigger hypocrite than I ever imagined."
Ron's face flushed crimson, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might snap. His fists shook at his sides, and before Hermione could blink, he snatched a porcelain vase from the fireplace mantle. With a roar of frustration, he hurled it across the room. It shattered against the wall, mere inches from her head, the shards exploding like glass rain.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Without another word, he stormed out—his boots heavy on the floor, his breath ragged—and the door slammed shut behind him, the final click reverberating through the house like thunder after lightning.
Hermione stood frozen for a heartbeat, then let out a long, slow breath. Relief seeped into her bones, dragging down her shoulders. With a flick of her wand and a whispered "Reparo," the vase mended itself, floating gently back to its rightful place on the mantle.
She turned away, a sigh escaping her lips—wearier this time—and padded toward the bedroom. The tension still clung to her like a second skin. As she began changing into her nightclothes, her mind spun with everything that had unraveled between them lately, each memory pressing heavier than the last.
It had been five long months since the war ended, and the world was still struggling to stitch itself back together. The echoes of spells cast in desperation, the scent of smoke and blood in the air—it all lingered like a shadow over the wizarding world. Lives had been lost, families torn apart, and the ground itself felt heavier with grief.
When Harry destroyed Voldemort—shattered him into nothing more than a dark memory—there was no cheer, no celebration. Just silence. A stillness that settled over the survivors like ash. The moment the battle was over, the weight of it all—the deaths, the trauma, the unbearable loss—crashed down on Harry like a tidal wave. And that night, without a word, he vanished.
Not even a note. Not a trace.
No one had seen him since. Not one owl, not one whisper of magic. It was as if the boy who saved the world had simply dissolved into mist.
Hermione, always his anchor, had been gripped by worry ever since. She threw herself into her new position at the Ministry of Magic, hoping that through official channels, archives, and contacts, she might uncover a clue—a trail—anything to lead her to him. But Harry, as always, was maddeningly good at disappearing when he didn't want to be found.
And Merlin, how she missed him.
Every time she got close—just the faintest flicker of his presence, a rumor in a far-off town, a distorted magical signature—he would vanish again, as if the world itself conspired to keep him hidden.
Tonight had been no different. She had gone out once more, chasing another lead, meeting someone in a dim corner of a pub who claimed to have information. But it was another dead end. Another evening of false hope slipping through her fingers like sand.
And with each passing day, the emptiness he left behind grew louder in her chest.
With a weary sigh that seemed to echo from her very soul, Hermione stepped into the bathroom, her movements slow and deliberate, as though each step carried the weight of the entire day. She reached for the tap and turned it on, the pipes groaning softly before a rush of water poured from the showerhead. Steam began to curl up into the air, ghosting over the mirror and wrapping around her like a whisper of warmth.
She undressed in silence, peeling away her clothes piece by piece, each layer sticking slightly to her skin after the long, tense night. Her fingertips lingered on the buttons and seams—not out of hesitation, but fatigue—until at last she stood bare and vulnerable in the rising mist.
As the glass fogged over and the first beads of condensation rolled down the tiled walls, Hermione stepped beneath the stream. Hot water cascaded over her skin, drawing a soft gasp from her lips as it struck the tension coiled in her shoulders and neck. The heat seeped deep into her muscles, coaxing out the ache rooted in her bones, melting the exhaustion that had clung to her like a second skin.
She closed her eyes and tilted her face up toward the stream, letting it wash over her—rinsing away the night's disappointment, the lingering frustration, and the heaviness that had followed her home like a shadow.
For a moment, she simply stood there, letting the water carry it all away.
After what felt like an eternity beneath the comforting cascade of hot water, Hermione finally reached for the bottle of jasmine-scented shampoo perched on the shower shelf. She poured a generous amount into her palm, inhaling the delicate, floral fragrance before working it into her chestnut curls. Her fingers massaged her scalp in slow, methodical circles, trying to ease the tension still lingering like knots beneath her skin.
She leaned back, allowing the water to rinse away the suds, watching as they spiraled down the drain—like pieces of her unraveling calm being carried away.
Next, she grabbed her bar of vanilla soap, its sweet, warm scent blooming in the steam. She rubbed it over her arms, her collarbone, down her legs—small, deliberate motions meant to soothe rather than rush. The simple act of cleansing felt almost sacred now, a moment to reclaim some sense of control amidst the chaos swirling through her life.
After a few more minutes wrapped in the haze of heat and scent, she finally shut off the water. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the soft patter of droplets falling from her hair and the hum of her breath. She stepped out carefully, reaching for a plush towel to wrap around herself, another to twist into her curls. The cool air of the bathroom kissed her damp skin, making her shiver.
Padding barefoot across the tiled floor, she stood before the mirror, fogged with steam. With a tired sort of determination, she picked up her toothbrush and began her nightly routine, each motion automatic. Brush. Rinse. Spit. Repeat. There was something oddly grounding in it.
Once finished, Hermione made her way to the bedroom, the soft cotton of the towel brushing against her legs. She slipped beneath the covers, letting the warmth of the blankets chase away the chill that lingered in the air. The bed felt too big, the room too quiet. Her eyes drifted to Ron's side of the bed—still untouched, still cold.
A tight knot twisted in her chest. Without warning, a few tears escaped, trailing silently down her cheeks before soaking into her pillow. She didn't sob, didn't break down—just lay there, blinking through the quiet ache.
Only five months. That was all they'd had together. And already, it felt like they were falling apart. Fighting more than talking. Hurting more than healing.
She pulled the blankets tighter around herself, hoping sleep would offer some kind of peace.
THE NEXT DAY
Hermione let out a long, weary sigh as she wiped a bead of sweat from her brow, the parchment beneath her arms smudged slightly with the sheen of her skin. The day had been endless, each hour stretching into the next like a never-ending corridor of tasks, meetings, and urgent memos. The Ministry was always buzzing with activity, but today had been particularly brutal. Cramped office spaces, loud voices echoing down the halls, and a particularly tense negotiation with a centaur delegation had drained what little energy she had left.
Stacks of parchment lay scattered across her desk like a paper battlefield—correspondence with magical creature representatives, permit requests, field reports, and evaluations. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures wasn't glamorous work, but Hermione cared about it deeply. It meant something. She had made real progress over the last few years, pushing for fair treatment, stronger protections, and clearer legislation.
Still, even noble causes didn't keep the exhaustion at bay.
With practiced efficiency, she shuffled her papers into organized stacks and placed them carefully into their folders. She slid them into her leather satchel and slung it over her shoulder, wincing slightly at the weight. As she approached the office door, she paused, then cracked it open and peeked her head into the hallway.
"Goodnight, Julia," she called softly, offering a tired but genuine smile.
Her assistant—an older woman with streaks of silver running through her otherwise dark curls—looked up from her own pile of documents and returned the smile. "'Night, Hermione. Don't work too late."
"I won't," Hermione lied with a small laugh, pulling the door shut behind her.
She leaned against it for a second, her smile fading into something more wistful. Julia had been her assistant for years now—efficient, reliable, and one of the few people Hermione trusted to keep up with the pace she set. But Julia had recently accepted a position in another department—one that came with better hours and fewer late nights. Hermione had supported her wholeheartedly, but the news had still hit like a sting.
It meant interviews. Applications. New faces. It meant letting someone else into her trusted space, into her work.
And she was not looking forward to it.
Pushing the thought aside, she turned away from the door and moved across her office toward the fireplace nestled in the far wall. The greenish glow of the embers pulsed gently, waiting for her. With a practiced flick of her wand, the flames roared to life, shifting into the familiar hue of Floo magic.
She stepped in, the comfort of home only a few heartbeats away.
Hermione stepped toward the ornate clay pot resting beside the hearth, its charmed surface etched with ancient runes glowing faintly in the firelight. She dipped her hand inside and retrieved a small handful of glittering Floo powder, the grains catching the flicker of the emerald flames.
With a steady voice, she called out her address—"10 Laurel Glen Lane."
In an instant, the world around her spun into a whirlwind of green fire and rushing air. The familiar tug behind her navel made her stomach flip, and before she could blink, she was stepping out onto the hearth of her own fireplace.
She stumbled slightly—just enough to mutter a tired curse under her breath—then quickly straightened, brushing soot and ash from the hem of her fitted black pencil skirt. Her crisp white blouse clung to her skin from the lingering heat of the flames, the buttons slightly askew from the journey. She exhaled slowly, the silence of her flat wrapping around her like a weighted blanket.
Without much thought, she set her satchel down on the small table in the center of the room, the leather giving a soft thud against the glass surface. Her wand followed, along with her ring of keys, which jingled lightly as they scattered across the tabletop. She bent slightly, slipping off her polished black heels and leaving them beside the table, toes flexing gratefully as they met the cool wooden floor.
The living room was still and dimly lit, only the dying fire and a flickering enchanted lamp in the corner offering any light. It was quiet—too quiet, perhaps—but for Hermione, it was a momentary sanctuary from the demands of the world outside.
And for now, that was enough.
The soft thud of her heels left behind, Hermione padded across the floor and made her way into the kitchen, the cool air brushing against her flushed skin. She tugged open the stainless steel fridge, the door releasing a soft hiss of chilled air. Reaching inside, her fingers curled around a frosted glass bottle of water. Condensation trailed down her wrist as she twisted off the cap and took a long, much-needed sip. The cold liquid soothed her parched throat and grounded her, if only for a moment. Her shoulders slowly began to lower from where they'd been tensed all day, and her mind—always ticking—started to unwind.
That is, until she heard it.
A faint sound, distant but distinct, came from down the hall.
Hermione's breath caught.
It was a low creaking noise. Rhythmic. Soft, but persistent. Not the kind of sound a house made when it settled. It was deliberate.
She froze for a moment, bottle in hand, her heart beginning to thud against her ribcage.
Setting the bottle down on the countertop with trembling fingers, she moved back through the living room. Her bag sat where she'd left it, and she quietly reached inside, fingers curling around the smooth wood of her wand. She drew it with the fluid precision of a habit born from war. Her other hand hovered near her side, open and shaking slightly, but she forced her feet forward.
The hallway felt longer now, the shadows stretched thinner than they had been only minutes before. The creaking continued—softer now—and then, unmistakably, came the muffled edge of a voice. Feminine. Fragile. A breathy moan, half-suppressed.
Hermione's stomach dropped.
She stopped just shy of the bedroom door, her body taut like a bowstring. Every muscle in her arms and legs screamed at her to turn around, to forget she heard anything. But she couldn't.
She wouldn't.
Her heart pounded in her ears as she leaned in, listening.
Another sound.
This one lower, rougher. Male. A deep, guttural moan that clawed at her insides like broken glass.
Her hand shook as she reached for the doorknob, her wand clutched so tightly in her other hand her knuckles had gone stark white. Her lips trembled as silent dread swelled up her throat like bile.
The door creaked open with a reluctant whisper.
And her world shattered.
A silent sob wracked her chest, curling through her ribs like a vice. Her knees threatened to buckle beneath her, but she stood still, frozen in the doorway, the dim lighting painting cruel shadows across the scene in front of her. Her wand trembled in her grip, the tip lowered slightly as if it, too, was stunned.
Tears slipped silently down her cheeks, carving trails across the makeup she hadn't yet washed off. She didn't make a sound. Couldn't. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, trying to hold herself together—trying not to scream.
The ache in her chest swelled to something unbearable, and still, she watched.
Still, she didn't look away.
Hermione stood frozen in the doorway, her heart hammering in her chest as she took in the scene before her. The bedroom was dimly lit, casting long shadows across the bed. There, tangled in the sheets, were Ron and Astoria. Their bodies were pressed together in a way that left no question about what was happening, and the sight hit Hermione like a wave of cold water.
Her stomach twisted painfully, a mix of disbelief and betrayal clawing at her insides. She didn't know what hurt more: seeing Ron like this, or the way it felt like the final confirmation of everything she had feared. Her eyes stung, but she held her ground, refusing to give in to the weakness she so desperately wanted to escape. She took a deep, steadying breath and felt a wave of calmness spread over her—cool, like the first breath of morning air after a storm.
Ron and Astoria were oblivious to her presence. She didn't say a word. She knew, deep down, that anything she said would only shift the blame onto her. He would turn it around on her. He always did. The thought of engaging him—of confronting him—made her feel sick to her stomach. No, this wasn't the moment for words. This wasn't a fight she was willing to have, not right now.
Instead, she raised her wand slowly, her hands trembling only slightly. She cast a silencing charm over the bed, muting the sounds of their entangled bodies. The room fell eerily quiet, her breath the only noise now as she turned toward the rest of the space.
Hermione walked across the room, each step a mix of numbness and purpose. She moved with quiet precision, gathering her things from around the apartment. Her eyes scanned the room, picking up items she would need—clothes, toiletries, a few personal belongings—her extendable bag stretched and expanded as she quickly shoved things inside. The world outside felt distant and cold, as if everything inside her apartment had stopped moving, leaving her alone in a moment that was both surreal and painful.
As she worked, her mind raced. She couldn't stay here. Not now, not with the weight of what she had just witnessed. She needed space. She needed to think. To be away from him. Away from the lies. The constant hiding.
With her bag packed and everything in place, Hermione stood still for a moment, the silence in the room pressing down on her. She didn't look back at the bed, at Ron, or at Astoria. There was nothing left to see, nothing left to say.
With a final glance around the room, she turned and left, closing the door quietly behind her. The cool night air met her as she stepped outside, the chill a welcome contrast to the suffocating heat of the apartment.
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She had made up her mind, her resolve hardening with each passing step. There was no turning back now. The weight of what she had just witnessed—of the betrayal, the heartbreak—was too much to bear. Her feet moved on their own, carrying her away from the apartment, away from everything she had tried to hold onto. Taking a small pause, Hermione takes a deep breath and disapparates on the spot.
Tears, which had been building up behind her tired eyes for hours, finally slipped free. They traced cool lines down her cheeks as she walked through the rocky terrain, her footsteps sure but slow. This was the same land she and Harry had traversed so many years ago, when they were searching for the Horcruxes, their lives weighed down by a task so much larger than them. The memories hit her like waves.
She glanced toward the spot where their tent had stood—a humble thing compared to the enormity of their mission. The exact place where she had shared a fleeting moment of happiness with Harry, a brief escape from the chaos of the world. They had danced, their laughter mingling with the soft music of a broken radio. Her fingers had clung to his as they swayed in the flickering light, the world outside them fading away. The moment had been so simple, so pure, that it seemed a lifetime ago, almost like it belonged to someone else.
Her chest tightened as the memory replayed, and she quickly turned away, unwilling to stay in that moment too long. She couldn't afford to dwell on the past—not now. Still, her heart felt heavy with the absence of the hope she had clung to for so long.
The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scent of pine and earth, grounding her in the present. She started walking again, her eyes scanning the familiar landscape, every rock, every tree, every corner of this place now marked by their shared past. What if? she thought for a moment. What if he's here? What if I can find him here, in this place where we were once so sure of ourselves, so sure of our friendship?
But the reality was stark. She searched for two days, scouring the land, retracing every step they had taken together. She checked every place she knew that they had visited in those long months—places they had camped, small nooks they had used to escape from the overwhelming weight of their task. She searched for any sign of Harry, any trace, no matter how small. But the land held its secrets close. The trees whispered nothing, the rocks remained silent, and the earth itself seemed indifferent to her pain.
By the third morning, after two days of relentless searching, exhaustion weighed heavily on her body and her spirit. Her hope had begun to wither, like the leaves of a tree in late autumn. She could feel the sharp ache of disappointment cutting into her resolve. It was clear now, though she refused to admit it at first: maybe he wasn't here. Maybe he never would be.
Her eyes, once so determined, grew distant as she stood at the edge of a familiar outcrop, the weight of her failure pressing down on her chest. With a final glance around the expanse that had been so important to her once, she swallowed hard, turning away.
There was only one place left to go now. The place she had hoped to avoid—the place that held too many memories of the past. Grimmauld Place.
Her heart skipped at the thought of it. The house where so many plans had been made. The house where so much had begun—and, ultimately, so much had been lost. But if there was any chance of finding Harry, it would be there.
Taking a deep breath, Hermione set her gaze forward, the last remnants of her hope clinging to that distant, familiar destination. She had no idea what awaited her at Grimmauld Place, but the road ahead was clear.
The moonlight filtered through the trees outside as Hermione crept toward Grimmauld Place, her steps careful and deliberate. The house loomed before her like an old, familiar specter, its dark windows staring down at her as though it were watching her every move. The air was heavy with the scent of dust and old wood, the same musty odor she remembered from when they had stayed there before.
With a deep breath, she raised her wand and muttered the incantation. The house groaned in response, the familiar creak of its old bones reverberating through the night. As if sensing her presence, it slowly revealed itself to her, its hidden secrets gradually fading away as the magic of the house unfolded. She didn't need to be invited inside. It had always been a part of her life, and tonight, she had come for answers—or perhaps, just to escape.
Hermione peered through the darkened windows, her heart racing as she reached for her wand again. "Revelare," she whispered softly, the spell tingling through the air. Her wandtip glowed briefly, casting light across the room. It revealed no one. The house was empty, or at least it appeared so.
Satisfied, she slipped inside, careful not to make a sound as the window creaked open, the glass scraping against its frame. She felt an odd sense of déjà vu, the same eerie sensation from when they'd all first stumbled into this house. It had always felt like the house had a life of its own, but tonight, it seemed still, as if even it had given up on waiting for anyone to come back.
Hermione pulled herself into the dimly lit entryway and closed the window behind her with a soft thud. The house was eerily silent as she made her way toward the stairs. The worn, wooden floors creaked beneath her feet, but she moved carefully, keeping her weight centered, as if any loud noise might disturb something—or someone—lurking in the shadows.
She reached the base of the staircase and glanced up toward the rooms above. The air felt thick and oppressive, but she pushed through, climbing the stairs slowly, one careful step after another. Her fingers brushed against the walls, the dark tapestries and faded portraits watching her from every corner. She felt as though the eyes were following her, but she ignored the sensation. She didn't have the luxury of fear tonight.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Hermione chose a room at random—an old, dusty place where the furniture seemed as though it hadn't been touched in years. She threw open the door with little hesitation, the hinges groaning in protest, and stepped inside. The room was cramped, the furniture shoved haphazardly in places. The bed, long untouched, sat in the middle of the room, draped in faded curtains. There was an old chest at the foot of the bed, the wood dark and weathered.
Hermione dropped her things onto the floor, tossing her bag and cloak carelessly into the corner. The clutter didn't matter. Not tonight. She moved swiftly, rearranging the items around her, moving the furniture to suit her needs, though it didn't bring her comfort. She was just looking for some semblance of control—anything to distract her from the gnawing emptiness inside.
A deep growl tore through her stomach, reminding her that, despite her need for answers, her body still had its own demands. She paused, hand on the edge of the wardrobe, feeling her stomach twist in discomfort. Another growl followed, louder this time, and Hermione's hand instinctively pressed against her abdomen.
She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment as the hunger overwhelmed her. She hadn't eaten much earlier, too preoccupied with the emotional weight of everything to think about feeding herself. But now, it was undeniable.
With a huff of frustration, Hermione turned and made her way back down the stairs. The house was still silent, the only sound the soft padding of her footsteps on the worn carpet. The kitchen seemed so far away, but she continued, her feet taking her through the familiar hallways, past old doors that creaked as if protesting her every movement.
The kitchen was dark, but the outline of it was still recognizable, even after everything that had happened in this house. She opened the pantry door, the cool, damp air brushing against her face as she scanned the shelves, looking for something quick and easy to settle her stomach. A can of soup caught her eye. It wasn't much, but it would do.
Hermione pulled it off the shelf, and as she examined it for a moment, she realized it wasn't even her first choice, but it was all that was left. She didn't care. She'd settle for anything to quiet the rumbling in her stomach. She used her wand to heat the can, the magic warming it just enough to make it edible.
The soup was bland, and the small portion didn't fill the emptiness inside her, but it was something—something to keep her going. She ate quickly, the motions automatic, not caring about taste or even the act itself. It was fuel. Nothing more.
When she finished, she set the can down, leaning against the counter as the cold night air seeped in through the window. The kitchen seemed to breathe with the house, heavy and still, as if waiting for something—or someone—to finally break the silence.
With a sigh, Hermione wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and took a deep breath. The search would continue tomorrow. But tonight, she needed to rest. There was no way she could keep going without a pause. Grimmauld Place was no longer the place of refuge it once had been, but for now, it was the only place she could be.
About thirty minutes later, Hermione sat at the small kitchen table, her half-eaten meal now cold. She cradled the last bit of her drink in her hands, the warmth of the mug seeping into her palms as she took a final, absentminded sip. Her mind was far away—adrift in memories, tangled in heartache, lost in questions that had no answers. The silence of Grimmauld Place was heavy, almost suffocating, broken only by the occasional creak of old wood settling in the dark.
She pushed the empty mug aside with a sigh, leaning her elbows on the table and burying her face in her hands, when a sudden click echoed from the front door.
Her head snapped up. That wasn't the house creaking.
It was the unmistakable sound of the front door unlocking.
She froze. Every muscle in her body tensed as her heart leapt into her throat. A chill danced down her spine.
Silently, Hermione pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. Her fingers slid toward her wand on the counter, gripping it tightly. She crept around the kitchen wall, each step measured and quiet, her breath caught in her lungs.
Peeking around the corner into the dark hallway, she saw it—a tall, looming figure standing at the door, facing it with one hand still resting on the lock. The figure's broad shoulders and dark silhouette were illuminated faintly by the moonlight trickling through the stained-glass window above the entryway.
Whoever it was… they weren't supposed to be here.
Hermione tightened her grip on her wand, raising it slowly, arm trembling slightly as she stepped into the hall. Her bare feet made no sound on the old floorboards as she crept closer. Every nerve in her body screamed to act—to defend herself. But something in the back of her mind whispered a warning: Don't hex until you're sure.
The figure shifted slightly, as if sensing her presence. Then, slowly, it turned.
A gasp ripped from her throat before she could stop it, and her wand clattered to the ground, forgotten.
Her eyes widened, her breath caught somewhere between a sob and a whisper. Tears welled instantly, blurring her vision as her lips parted in disbelief.
The man in front of her froze as well, recognition flooding his features as the dim light illuminated his face.
"Hermione?"
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Until next time,
HL