Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, that stays with J.K. Rowling.

Potter, take Weasley with you. He looks far too happy over there. - Minerva McGonagall

Chapter 2 - What Else?

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Hermione awakes the next morning feeling an overwhelming sense of exhaustion, far deeper than anything she has felt in the last few months. Her eyelids flutter open, only to find that the weight of the world is still pressing down on her chest. She groans softly, the faint light from the early morning creeping through the curtains, but it does little to lift the heavy fog of fatigue clouding her mind.

The night has been restless. Sleep has eluded her, her mind refusing to quiet despite her best efforts. Thoughts about George's sudden reappearance, the fractured relationship with Ron, and the aching absence of Harry keep her awake long into the night. She replays the argument with Ron over and over in her head, the sharp sting of betrayal still fresh and raw, especially after discovering that he has cheated on her with Astoria. The pain twists in her gut like a physical ache. She can't make sense of how everything has unraveled so quickly, and it feels as though the ground has shifted beneath her, leaving her adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

Her heart feels heavy, weighted down with too many emotions. The fight with Ron feels like a final nail in the coffin of her old life, but she can't shake the sinking feeling that something has been broken beyond repair. The worst part is the crushing loneliness that envelops her. She can't go back to the Burrow—not after everything that has happened. She is sure that the Weasleys will be sympathetic, yes, but they will blame her for the way things have turned out, they will wonder if she has failed somehow. She can already feel their judgment weighing on her.

Sighing deeply, Hermione pushes herself out of bed, the sheets cold against her skin, and her body sore from the restless night. The exhaustion seems to cling to her bones, making every movement feel sluggish. She grabs her wand off the nightstand, still stiff with the heaviness of the night's thoughts, and then grabs a towel and some clothes, before making her way to the bathroom.

The shower is a small solace. As the warm water hits her skin, she lets it wash over her like a temporary reprieve, feeling the tension slowly ease from her muscles. She stands under the stream, her eyes closed, letting the water run over her hair, but her mind never stops. Thoughts about Harry, about where he might be, about how she could possibly find him, fill her thoughts. The search for him feels like an endless maze with no clear exit. She feels completely lost.

Her thoughts drift back to George for a moment, and she frowns, recalling the way he had seemed so distant last night, the way he had walked past her with barely a glance. She understands, of course, his pain over losing Fred, but it doesn't make it easier to watch him shut himself off. There are so many emotions swirling inside her, each one more complex than the last, and she isn't sure where to even begin.

Sighing again, she turns off the water, grabbing the towel and drying off quickly. Her face reflects back at her in the mirror—a woman on the edge, looking more worn and defeated than she has ever felt. She quickly dresses in a simple, practical outfit—dark trousers and a light blouse—before heading downstairs, the weight of her thoughts making her feel as though each step is heavier than the last.

In the kitchen, the stillness of the house feels oppressive. It is hard to imagine that this is the place where things used to feel so full, so warm with life and laughter. Now it feels empty, like a place where echoes of past happiness linger, but nothing truly lives there anymore. She grabs a piece of toast and quickly butters it, barely tasting the food as she eats. Her mind is elsewhere, her thoughts focused on the task ahead—finding Harry.

She finishes quickly, the food settling uneasily in her stomach, and gathers her things—her purse, her wand, and a handful of papers from the previous day. As she stands in the doorway, she hesitates for a moment, her eyes sweeping over the quiet house. Then, with a deep breath, she apparates, the familiar tug of magic pulling her away from the emptiness of the house and into the bustle of the Ministry.

The familiar sights of the Ministry greet her—the clamor of voices, the buzz of activity, the cold stone walls that feel so much more solid than her own fragile sense of stability. She immediately sets her sights on her goal: finding a new way to track Harry down. She isn't sure what else to try, but she can't give up. Not yet. Harry has to be out there somewhere, and she will do whatever it takes to find him.

A COUPLE OF DAYS AGO

Ron and Astoria pull apart, both gasping for breath, the air thick with the weight of the moment. Ron shifts to lie down on his side next to her, his chest still heaving. Astoria takes a slow, steadying breath, a sense of satisfaction settling over her as the adrenaline of the encounter begins to ebb. The room is heavy with silence, save for the faint sounds of their labored breathing, and they lay there for what feels like an eternity.

Finally, Ron speaks, his voice a low murmur, laced with a hint of amusement. "That is... something else," he says, his grin audible even though his face remains turned away. "I'm glad you convinced me to do this."

Astoria smirks, her eyes flickering with a mix of playful annoyance and reluctant enjoyment. She rolls her eyes exaggeratedly, before turning her head toward him, offering him a small smile. The look in her eyes is soft, but there's still a flicker of something calculated in her gaze.

"I'm glad too," she says, her voice now quieter, tinged with a hint of seriousness. "But I should get going now. It's probably for the best." She shifts slightly, as if preparing to leave, but her gaze holds him for just a beat longer. "I'd like to see you again, though," she adds, her tone suddenly warmer, with a touch of curiosity. "Maybe we could meet somewhere sometime?"

Ron's eyes soften as he looks back at her, his usual bravado replaced with something more genuine. He leans closer to her, his fingers brushing softly against her cheek in a moment of tenderness that feels almost out of place after the intensity of the last few minutes. His touch is gentle, as though testing the waters of something deeper.

"I'd like that," he replies, his voice quieter now, a trace of sincerity lacing the words. His smile is more real now, less forced than before, and it lingers for a moment longer than usual. It's clear there's a new depth to his feelings, one he hasn't fully expected to uncover.

"How about Friday, in the Three Broomsticks, say around 7:30pm? I should be off work by then, and we can grab a butterbeer," Ron suggests, his voice smooth but with a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. He watches her carefully, hoping she'll agree.

Astoria pauses for a moment, her gaze drifting to the ceiling as she considers his offer. She lets a small, knowing smile spread across her lips, her eyes meeting his again with a certain warmth. "Friday it is then," she says, her voice light but with an undercurrent of something deeper. She leans in, closing the distance between them, and places a soft, lingering kiss on Ron's lips. The kiss is sweet, almost gentle, a stark contrast to the energy that had filled the room just moments before.

When she pulls away, she stands gracefully from the bed and begins to dress for work, her movements fluid and deliberate. She straightens her hair and smooths out her clothes with a practiced touch, making sure everything looks just right before she turns toward the door.

With a soft pop, she disappears, leaving Ron alone in the room. A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he watches her vanish, feeling a rush of excitement mixed with a tinge of guilt. The whole encounter had been thrilling, but now it is time to shift back into his normal life.

He gets out of bed and starts making quick work of tidying up. His hands move mechanically as he smooths the rumpled sheets and pulls them from the bed. The smell of Astoria's perfume lingers in the air, and he absently tosses his clothes, now soaked with the scent, into the laundry basket. The clock by the door catches his eye, and he checks the time, realizing that Hermione will be home soon.

Ron moves quickly, rushing to the bathroom for a quick shower. The water is cold, but it helps clear his head, washing away the remnants of the night's distraction. When he finishes, he dries off and changes into a fresh set of clothes, the familiar fabrics a comfort against his skin. He throws the soiled sheets and blanket into the laundry before starting the washer, trying to remove any trace of what has transpired.

Next, he makes the bed, replacing the sheets with fresh, crisp ones. A moment of calm settles over him as he steps back to admire the neatness of the room. It's as though nothing has happened.

Once he's done with the chores, he orders some dinner, a quiet peace offering to Hermione. As the food arrives, he sets it out on the table with careful precision, wanting it to look like an attempt at normalcy, even if everything feels far from it.

He sits down at the table, the silence in the room oppressive. With his hands folded in front of him, he waits, the seconds stretching as he mentally prepares for Hermione's arrival.

Thirty minutes.

One hour.

Two hours.

Each minute that passes seems to stretch longer than the last, each second dragging with agonizing slowness. Ron's eyes flick to the clock on the wall again, his gaze tightening with every glance. Hermione still hasn't come home. His fists clench at his sides, and an uncomfortable knot twists in his stomach as frustration simmers beneath his skin.

How dare she? After everything that has happened, after the fight, the betrayal, and the mess of it all, she has the nerve to stay away. Ron's mind spins, thoughts spinning out of control as the weight of the situation presses down on him. This whole thing is her fault to begin with. She's pushed him to the breaking point, and now she isn't even showing the decency to return home.

He should be the one angry, the one demanding an apology. But there he is, like an idiot, waiting for her to come home and make everything better. The more he thinks about it, the more the sting of it all burns. She's the one who left, and now he's the one sitting here like a fool, waiting for her to show up with some sort of reconciliation.

He should have known better.

The anger bubbles up, hot and volatile. Ron can't stay still any longer. With a sharp exhale, he shoves the plate of food away from him, his hands trembling with irritation. The last thing he wants is to sit there and wait like some lovesick fool. His stomach churns with a mix of bitterness and hurt, the taste of the food turning sour in his mouth as his thoughts spiral.

With an angry snarl, Ron pushes himself up from the table, his chair scraping roughly against the floor. The noise echoes in the empty room, and he doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything anymore. His footsteps are heavy as he storms off toward the bedroom, his mind a whirlwind of emotion. The door slams shut behind him with a force that makes the walls shake, the finality of the gesture leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

He paces around the room, his hands running through his hair in frustration as he fights to suppress the overwhelming urge to lash out. But the anger courses through him, relentless and unforgiving. He feels betrayed, alone, and so utterly frustrated. How has it come to this? How has everything gone so wrong so quickly?

Every step he takes, every breath he draws, feels like an eternity as he fumes in silence.

The next morning, Ron steps into the fireplace at the apartment, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, eyes burning with determination. He has barely slept, the remnants of frustration from the night before still gnawing at him. He can't shake the feeling of betrayal, can't understand why Hermione hasn't come home. He has to find her, and he has to know why she's stayed away.

With a burst of green fire, Ron floos into the Ministry, the familiar swirling of the fireplace only adding to his boiling anger. He emerges with an abrupt stumble, quickly steadying himself as he shakes off the soot from his clothes. His brow furrows as his jaw tightens, a mix of hurt and rage coursing through him. People hurriedly sidestep out of his way, sensing the storm brewing within him, some even giving him wary glances as he storms through the crowded halls. He isn't in the mood to be polite; he isn't in the mood for anything other than finding Hermione and demanding answers.

His steps are heavy, his boots echoing on the stone floors as he marches toward her department. His face is set in a scowl, brows furrowed, and his lips drawn tight in a thin line. He isn't thinking about anything except her—why hasn't she come back last night? The weight of it hangs over him like a suffocating fog.

When he finally reaches her office, he doesn't bother with trying to look calm. Ron, with his chest rising and falling with each labored breath, storms over to the reception desk where a petite, brown-haired witch sits shifting through papers on her desk. Her head lifts as she notices the commotion. Her expression shifts from the casual, friendly smile of someone used to greeting clients to a quick look of concern as she registers the anger radiating from Ron.

"Mr. Weasley," she squeaks, her voice a bit higher than usual. Her eyes widen as she takes in the stormy expression on his face. Her quill stills in her hand, her posture stiffening as if bracing for an outburst.

"Julia, is Hermione in yet?" Ron's voice is low, laced with an anger that makes the air crackle with tension. His eyes are dark, narrowing with every second as he glares at the reception desk. The petite receptionist, Julia, is frantically gripping her quill, her fingers trembling as she tries to ignore the cold weight of his gaze. But when she hears his voice, the tension in the air makes her stiffen, her breath catching in her throat.

"No, sir. She hasn't arrived yet," Julia replies quickly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her blue eyes are wide with fear, darting nervously to him and then away again. She can sense his frustration, his anger rolling off him in waves. It's clear that she isn't prepared for this kind of confrontation, and Ron's presence seems to loom over her like a thundercloud.

Ron growls, a sound that is barely human, filled with frustration. His patience has long since worn thin. Slamming both hands down hard on the desk with a force that makes the entire surface rattle, he watches as Julia jumps, her face draining of color. She squeaks in fear and instinctively recoils from him, her body stiff with panic. The noise echoes in the quiet room, and for a split second, the air seems to hold its breath.

"Tell her when she gets in that I need to talk to her!" he barks, not caring one bit about how the younger girl looks like she's about to faint. His anger has completely overtaken his sense of propriety. He doesn't care that Julia is just doing her job, doesn't care that she is scared—his only focus is on finding Hermione and forcing her to face the consequences of her actions.

Julia, her hands trembling as she presses them into her lap, nods quickly, her voice shaking as she tries to hold herself together. "Yes, Mr. Weasley. I'll tell her."

Without waiting for a response, Ron spins on his heel, the sound of his boots thudding sharply against the floor as he stalks toward the door. The cold fury that has built inside him surges to the surface, leaving him with a bitter taste in his mouth. He storms through the Ministry halls, his anger practically vibrating off him. The very idea of Hermione avoiding him, of her keeping her distance, only fuels the fire in his chest as he heads for the Floo. If Hermione wants to avoid him, fine—he can play this game too.

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Days blur into one another for Hermione as she slips into the routine of work and returning to the quiet, empty house of Grimmauld Place every night. The weight of the past few months still lingers in the corners of her mind, but with each passing day, she finds herself drawing a little closer to some semblance of peace, even if it's fleeting. She's learned to fill the emptiness with work, with memories, with the quiet company of George.

Their interactions, though initially strained, have slowly become more familiar, more comfortable. It isn't the same as it once was—nothing ever could be—but there is a gentleness in the way they speak now, a shared understanding without needing to say much. They sit together at dinner most nights, the weight of silence occasionally hanging heavy between them, but more often than not, they find solace in the ebb and flow of conversation. They talk about their school days, about the trouble they got into with the pranks and the chaos, the simple joys that once made their days feel lighter. Hermione shares the pieces of her life over the past five months—the ups, the downs, and the in-betweens. And George, in turn, speaks of his own journey.

He talks about the shop—the legacy of Fred's dream and his own drive to keep it alive. Lee Jordan, the twins' best friend from Hogwarts, has taken the reins while George is away. But George doesn't stay distant. He drops by the shop from time to time, checking in on Lee and making sure everything runs smoothly, as if the pulse of the shop still beats in his chest even when he's not physically there. It's the only connection left to Fred, the only way he can hold on to the brother he lost without completely breaking.

Each night, when George returns from his meetings, his words become more and more animated, describing the various investors he's met, the potential partners, and the plans he's setting in motion for expanding the Weasley business into other parts of the wizarding world. He has a new shop in Bulgaria already picked out, and preparations are underway for it to open soon. Hermione can see the spark in his eyes when he talks about it—something hopeful, something that tells her he's slowly putting himself back together, piece by piece. Even though he never explicitly speaks about the reasons for his disappearance, there's a quiet acknowledgment in the way he carries himself now. He's not fully healed, but he's moving forward, bit by bit.

Their quiet evenings at Grimmauld Place have become a small island of normalcy amidst the chaos of their respective worlds. Hermione no longer feels the same weight of solitude that she once did when she first arrived. George is still the same in many ways—his humor, his unpredictable nature—but there's something different about him now. He's quieter, more thoughtful, and though his smile doesn't come as easily, it's there when he needs it, just like it always was. They've both changed, and perhaps that's the way it's meant to be.

Still, there's an unspoken tension between them, a space that neither of them is willing to cross just yet. They've both suffered losses that have shifted their lives irrevocably, and though they share their past, their future is uncertain. But in the small moments—those fleeting conversations over dinner, the shared laughter about old jokes—they find a fleeting comfort in the company of one another, two souls caught in the wake of everything they've endured, trying to figure out what comes next.

It's been two weeks since Hermione first arrived at Grimmauld Place, and each day that passes without a trace of Harry gnaws at her more. Her hope, once a flickering flame, is now barely a faint glow. The search, the constant digging through every possible lead, has become a monotonous routine of dead ends. The world, which had once seemed so full of possibilities after the war, now feels overwhelmingly empty. Five and a half months have passed, and the future she imagined—one where they'd all move forward, together, finding peace and healing—seems farther away than ever.

Every day she wakes up, goes to work, comes home, and tries to fill the void with tasks and mundane routines. But inside, she feels more hollow. It's a subtle kind of depression—an exhaustion of spirit that settles deep within her chest and refuses to leave.

The weight of it presses harder when she thinks about Ron. She hasn't contacted him since their explosive argument. She can't bring herself to try to make amends. Every time she thinks about it, her mind replays their final moments, his accusations, his coldness. It hurts too much to even consider the possibility of talking to him again. She knows, deep down, that it wouldn't be the way she hopes. He'd twist everything around, blame her for everything that's gone wrong, and she'd end up apologizing for something that wasn't her fault. All she wanted was to bring Harry home, to find the one person who had been there for her through everything, and instead, Ron—her partner in so many things—had turned to the distractions of the bars and his own selfish desires. She hadn't been ready to give herself to him in that way, and it wasn't like she was ever going to force herself to do so just to keep him from straying. She's held on to her virtue, her sense of self, for so long, and after everything that's happened, there's no way she'd give it up now, not just because he couldn't wait.

Sitting at the bar counter in the kitchen, she stirs her tea absently, her thoughts dark and aimless. The silence of Grimmauld Place wraps around her, amplifying the sense of loneliness. The creak of the front door opening is the only thing that pulls her from her reverie. She looks up instinctively, her heart leaping just a little at the sound of someone else entering

George steps into the room, his face a mask of seriousness. It's clear something is weighing heavily on him—his brow is furrowed, his shoulders tense, and his eyes, usually full of mischief, are now clouded with something darker, more urgent.

Hermione's stomach tightens. She can sense it immediately—the shift in the air. It's as if the weight of the world has settled on George's shoulders, and she's caught in its pull.

"George?" she asks, her voice cautious but filled with concern. She's noticed his silences over the past few days, the way he's been more withdrawn than usual, more distant. He doesn't respond right away, his eyes meeting hers briefly before he walks into the room, his boots thudding softly on the floor.

The kitchen is still, save for the faint hum of the clock ticking in the corner. She watches him carefully, sensing that whatever he's come in here to say isn't going to be easy.

Finally, he speaks, his voice lower than usual, tight with an emotion Hermione can't quite place. "We need to talk."

"What's wrong?" Hermione's voice is soft, laced with unease as she looks up at George's grim expression. Her stomach knots instantly—without answering her question, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a folded copy of the Daily Prophet.

He sets it down gently in front of her, the front page facing up, the headline obscured by the way it is folded. Hermione blinks at him, then at the paper, confusion flickering across her features. With a furrow of her brow, she picks it up, the parchment rustling slightly between her fingers.

Her eyes scan the bold black letters that come into view as she unfolds it fully. For a heartbeat, nothing registers. But then—her breath catches. A sharp, audible gasp rips from her lips, and her hands fly to her mouth as her eyes widen in disbelief. The edges of the paper tremble in her grasp.

Tears well up instantly, stinging her eyes, and begin spilling down her cheeks before she even realizes she is crying. Her throat convulses, trying to suppress the sob that claws its way up, but it breaks free anyway—raw, wounded, and utterly devastating.

George steps forward without a word and wraps his arms around her from behind, anchoring her shaking frame to him as her entire body crumples. His chin rests lightly atop her shoulder as she begins to sob in earnest, the paper slipping from her grasp and falling onto the wooden countertop with a dull flutter.

There, in dark print across the front page, the headline screams at them both:

BREAKING NEWS! FAMOUS WAR HERO DEAD!

Earlier this evening, investigators find the body of one of our beloved war heroes in a back alley near a small, lesser-known pub in Diagon Alley. While the cause of death is still being determined, one gruesome detail stands out: a single letter—an "R"—carved into the upper left side of the victim's chest, seemingly with a knife. The implications of this act have left many wondering if a new threat is rising from the ashes of the Dark Lord's defeat.

While no group has come forward claiming responsibility, the Auror Department urges all witches and wizards to exercise extreme caution. Citizens are advised to avoid being out after dark and to travel in pairs. The "question at the door" tactic, employed during the previous war, is once again being recommended to confirm identities before allowing anyone into your home.

For additional details and updates, please refer to page 3.

Hermione can't breathe. Her heart pounds in her ears as her mind tries to reject what her eyes have just seen. The words blur through the tears, but the image accompanying the article—the grainy, dark photo of a cordoned-off alley and the unmistakable flash of red hair beneath a white sheet—is burned into her memory.

She slowly turns her head, her glassy eyes meeting George's, as if pleading with him to tell her it is a lie. That this is some twisted prank. That it isn't real.

But George doesn't speak. He just gives a small, solemn nod, his own eyes bright with unshed tears. One slips silently down his cheek as he looks back down at the paper, still laying on the dark oak counter.

There is only one word echoing between them, over and over again, louder with each beat of their breaking hearts.

Ron.

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Until next time,

HL