This is a good thing, she reminded herself for what felt like the thousandth time.

Cold feet are deadly, especially when you're trying to make life decisions. This wasn't the first time Hermione had learned this lesson, and it certainly wasn't going to be the last.

She wasn't having second thoughts when she had hassled the teenaged Oliver into toting her across to the island. No.

She hadn't even had second thoughts when she'd clambered off of the small motorboat and onto the hot white sand. Not even then.

That knot in stomach had only made its grand appearance when she dropped her suitcases onto the dusty wooden floor, and it was overwhelming when it did.

It doesn't matter. She scolded herself for being so flighty. She had already made the payment for six months, as far as she was concerned, she was stuck.

Gone without a trace.

First things first, she began wordlessly as she plopped onto cot that was such a poor excuse for a bed. With a careful glance around her, as though someone would be watching her, Hermione reached into her charmed rucksack and after a bit of rustling around, pulled out her wand. As she strengthened her grip on it, a tingling surge of magic danced up her fingers and across her arm. It had been a while.

"Repairo," she murmured with fervent concentration, the mattress returning to its original state. The first charm was followed by a very quick Scourgify.

Within ten minutes, her small bungalow had running water, a small bit of electricity, and furniture suitable for human survival. She even had a working refrigerator (albeit incredibly small), and fan, thank Merlin. She regretted not having properly researched Australian weather, her decision to come here was spur of the moment. This was quite the statement too, because Hermione was one who rarely did anything without careful planning.

"Maybe things will be okay," she reassured herself as she stretched her arms over her head and took in the ocean-view from the open window.

The bungalow was built sturdily enough to withstand the harsh Australian rainstorms. The doors were wooden, and could be propped open to reveal the screen doors behind them, which could also be propped inwards. Just outside the French doors was a small porch that wrapped around the front and sides, a set of steps leading down to the sands below the house.

Hermione padded around the porch for a few minutes, assessing any repairs that may have needed to be made. With a quick flick, the creaky plank of wood ceased its incessant groaning, and the bench swing was back hanging in the air. Before returning inside to explore all the cupboards and other rooms, she gazed across the long stretch of the beach and the shadowy forest that surrounded the remainder of the island that lay behind her.

As far as she could tell, the privacy she had been promised was as to be expected.

With an optimistic smile, the witch bounded back into her new found safe haven. A place far away from the problems of her past.

Far away from prying eyes, and prying questions.

…

...

It had been a week since Hermione had arrived on the island. Any prior thoughts of worry had disappeared without as much as a fleeting cheerio then, and she was content with that.

Today was the second Friday she had been there, which meant she would be meeting Oliver at the docks so she could go into town.

"Mornin' Miss Granger!" he was young, maybe fifteen, sixteen at best.

"Good morning Oliver," they exchanged their usual smiles.

He offered her his hand as she carefully stepped into the boat, and as she found her purchase on the wobbly belly of the boat, a flash of red caught her eye.

"Oliver," she began as she took her seat on the plank opposite him, he hummed in acknowledgement, "whose boat is that?"

"It's so rare to see him that I can't remember his name," he shrugged before starting the motor. Seeing the skeptical expression on her face he continued, "Don't worry yourself over it any, he never bothers anyone. Keeps to himself."

"Mm, all right," she bit her lip as curiosity began wriggling its way into her thoughts.

The ride to the town was about ten minutes on a good, clear day, which they usually were.

Said rides were always pleasant, Oliver proved to be quite the conversationalist when you asked him questions. Which of course, Hermione did continuously. It was something to keep the topic from steering toward her own personal life.

That's how she spent her time, at her little seaside shack, and on Fridays she met with Oliver and he took her into town. Sometimes when she was busy baking herself a cake or doing something equally lovely and relaxing, she could swear she heard a motor boat starting up, but the sound was muffled by the constant crashing of waves and birds chirping, so she thought nothing of it.

It was her fourth Wednesday, one month since she'd first gotten there, when she went out into the jungle-like forest searching for raspberries. She'd heard from Oliver that Australian raspberries were delicious. She was learning that neither of them served as very good influences for each other.

She'd quickly found a path beaten down from previous inhabitants of the island, and she followed it deep into the woods.

"Ah," she sighed excitedly, "Finally!" she squatted to the ground in front of the shrub and began plucking the ripe berries and depositing the small fruit into the wicker basket she had brought with her.

Just as she popped one of them into her mouth, she let her eyes glance upward and she taken aback by what she saw.

It was huge, at least by her standards, and in comparison to her tiny shack it might as well have been Hogwarts. The entire thing was painted white, and was two stories high with a small screened in porch on the second floor.

Hermione could have sworn she'd seen someone on that porch. Feeling flustered at the closeness to her island companion, she scrambled up to her feet and ran back to her home as fast as she could manage.

There was a part of her that was still as intrigued as ever about the man's presence. Then, the other part, the sensible, non-Gryffindor part of her, warned her to keep her distance.

She had come here for one sole purpose, and that was to escape, not make acquaintances. Oliver was her only exception; he had been an accident. Hermione made herself promise to not try to find out who was sharing her island.

…

...

Besides the whole, "no-contact-with-anyone" thing, Hermione hadn't been sleeping well. One could assume the two went hand in hand. She decided to write Ginny a letter on her sixth Monday.

Ginny,

I'm alright, really, I'm sure you understand that I need some space. I'm sorry if I've worried anyone. That really wasn't my intention.

All of a sudden, life had gotten very overwhelming, and it was going to drive me barmy.

I'm not quite ready to tell everyone where I'm hiding out yet, but I promise you'll be the first to know when I decide to.

And please, for the love of all that's good, don't tell Harry or Ron you got this letter. I don't want the search party coming to steal me away and drag me back to England.

Much love,

Hermione

Hermione heaved out a heavy sigh; she didn't even have an owl to be sending letters. She knew there must be other wizards and witches in Australia; she simply had no idea where to find them. She'd just have to wait to owl Ginny.

Instead of allowing herself to brood over her own thoughtlessness, and wandering curiosity that kept circling its way back to the mysterious man in the white house, Hermione slathered on some sunscreen, threw on an old, too-big shirt and laid out a forest green beach blanket. She was in Australia after all.

It wasn't long before she had fallen asleep, and she only woke up when an unusually large and heavy raindrop fell onto her sensitive belly with a defined plop. Her eyes shot open, and she sat up with a start.

She looked across the beach and saw wet dents in the sand appearing; before she could react, they started appearing more frequently with angry smacks.

She quickly gathered her blanket into her arms and made a dash for her porch. Just as her feet steadied themselves on the wooden planks below her, lightning lit up the scenery and rain began pouring down in buckets.

Thunder followed soon after.

With a pitiful whimper, she disappeared into the house and charmed the doors locked, along with a few quick wards for good measure.

Hermione hated storms. Everything about them scared her. Nothing could prevent them, and if lightning decided it was you it wanted channel itself through…You can't run away from lightning. She had transfigured her bed into a Queen-size, and had created quite the blanket fort. Childish, yes. But it was keeping her from having a panic attack.

Between the cacophony of the ocean beating the beach, and the battering of the rain against her new home, the Gryffindor had only just fallen asleep.

A particularly bungalow-shaking rumble of thunder roused Hermione from her accidental slumber, "Ugh," she groaned. "Bloody hell."

With a few joint popping stretches, she brought herself back to reality.

A very rainy, very stressful reality.

...

Malfoys were known for many things, but the one characteristic never associated with them was courage. Malfoys cowered in the face of danger, and would jump ships to whichever side they thought would win.

It was a sick game of chance.

Draco had been no different, mind you. Although, his decision had come before those final moments. His opportunity to join the other ranks was simply a bit more public than he would have liked. So ridiculously public. Maybe he could have chosen to run away with his cowardly parents. Maybe he could have just let himself be the only person to know the change that had taken place, but he had been scared - terrified actually - as things quickly began drawing to a close.

It was in that moment when Potter's army swallowed him into the crowd and protectively pushed him back, that he felt safer than he ever had before.

Memories of his involvement in the Second Wizarding War had been plaguing him lately. Not that this explained why his glimpse of a girl had been bothering him so much. He couldn't care less about the bloody raspberries, it was the fact that someone was on his island. Invading his privacy.

This didn't explain why he was sloshing through the woods to that ridiculous little shack, though. His black umbrella was faring much better than he had originally predicted.

And none of this explained why he was knocking on the worn wooden door. He'd actually just planned on surveying the area, seeing how the little pigpen was holding up.

When the doors opened to reveal who had taken up residence, it took everything Draco had to keep his face an expressionless mask. And not even that had been enough, his jaw had gone a bit slack and his brows had shot up to his hairline.

Granger's reaction on the other hand, had been so overwhelmingly predictable. As soon as it registered with Draco that it was in fact the know-it-all, he'd instinctively reached for his concealed wand.

Lucky for him he had, because it gave him just enough time to protect himself from the Gryffindor's onslaught of hexes and curses. He barely managed to deflect her immediate Stupefy, his umbrella landing discarded somewhere on the wet sand. Draco stumbled off the porch and into the downpour.

"What the fuck, Granger?!" he yelled over the storm.

"Get the hell away from me!" she shouted dangerously, her eyes wide as they constantly flicked from Draco to the stormy grey sky above them.

"Afraid of a little rain?"

"Shut up, Malfoy!" she sent another spell his way.

This went on for a few more minutes, the two having a one-sided battle as Granger continued to attack Draco. Once she stopped and leaned against the post to catch her breath, he said, "If I turn my back to leave are you going to kill me?" It was an honest question, taking her barrage of abuse as a steady indication of her intentions.

The incredulous look on her face said it all, he was safe to go, but her words stabbed him like a razor-sharp blade.

"I'm not you," and with that she had disappeared into her shack.

He couldn't just leave with a barbed comment like that hanging in the air. With an exasperated sigh, he slowly climbed back up the steps and knocked on the door once again.

"I made it perfectly clear that I want you to bugger off," her voice came from inside.

"You owe me an apology," he replied churlishly.

"Matter of opinion," she shot back. A blinding flash of lightning illuminated everything in sight; it was followed by a vicious crash of thunder. He could have sworn he heard a very small whimper from the other side of the door.

"If I get struck by lightning, Granger, the blood is going to be on your hands," the Slytherin shivered, running a hand through his wet hair.

The door was cracked open a sliver, so Draco continued, knowing bloody well she didn't want to be left in that pigpen by herself, "Headlines would say, 'GRYFFINDOR PRINCESS LEAVES DEFENSELESS SLYTHERIN TO DIE,' Skeeter would absolutely eat it up."

The door opened wider, Granger's face visible now, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she continued to worry away at it. Her eyes were completely focused on the black clouds that were rolling towards her pigpen. Finally, after a few moments of silence, her eyes slid to Draco's, brown meeting grey. The silence continued as she kept their eyes locked together, Draco held strong, refusing to be the one to break contact. She'd started this whole thing.

He felt like she was examining him, as if she had unsown him to take a peek at what made him tick. Every fiber of his body screamed for him flinch, but he held strong, noticing the light flecks of gold that speckled her brown eyes.

Another flash broke the spell that had fallen around them, and suddenly Draco was being dragged into the shack by the front of his long-sleeved grey shirt. The doors were drawn shut by the gusts of wind as thunder ripped across the island, goosebumps riddling his skin as his eyes came back to focus.

"I'm sorry," he looked down to see that she had slid to floor, her forehead resting against the tops of knees, her arms hanging gracelessly at her sides. "It's just, what you said about you getting struck by lightning," she trailed off and he watched, as the tips of her ears became a rosy pink.

He couldn't help but laugh at how childish she sounded, she drew her head up, looking amazed that he had any humor in him. It only made him laugh harder.

This entire situation was so ridiculous.

After he recovered himself, he offered her his hand, which she refused, preferring instead, to clamber clumsily to unsteady feet.

"I should be the one to apologize, I shouldn't have come over here in the first place, you have as a much a right to privacy as I do," he stated earnestly, he scowled when his eyes caught sight of her poorly concealed smirk.

"Thank you, I appreciate that," she ran a hand through her unruly mass of hair. "There's no point in just standing around, you might as well sit down," she motioned to one of the high chairs set by the island counter. He conceded, although he was finding the entire situation far too strange for his peace of mind.

He had been sitting on the barstool for a good five minutes, simply watching her buzz around the shack, when another rumble of thunder sent her hurrying toward the area where her bed was, and when she returned she had a blanket wrapped around her torso.

The growing urge to ask her just what her problem was with thunderstorms was quickly snubbed when she murmured, "I'd really rather not talk about it."

"Whatever you say, Princess," he shrugged apathetically, running his hand across the tiles of the counter he was currently seated at.

...

She scowled at him before busying herself at the bookcase that lined one of her walls. She began by pulling down all of the books and organising them into piles. Malfoy seemed perfectly content staring intensely at the counter. Realising she'd never seen him do much else, Hermione decided to leave him alone.

A rumble of thunder startled the heavy hardcover book from her hand, and it fell loudly onto the hardwood floor. She braced herself for Malfoy's cutting remark.

"Why don't you just cast a Silencing Charm," he asked dryly, now inspecting his nails.

For a moment, Hermione considered telling him that she didn't have to explain herself, but she thought it was a reasonable question. "I prefer being aware of my surroundings, even if that means I have to be uncomfortable." She returned her attention to the bookcase.

Even though your bloody presence is making me uncomfortable… she thought to herself.

It was quiet for a little while, and the pouring rain dulled the sharp silence.

"The Gryffindor Princess afraid of a little thunderstorm, you know, I find that quite surprising," his lazy drawl interrupted Hermione's busy thoughts.

"Maybe you have a skewed perception of Gryffindors," she quipped.

"Maybe." There was a welcomed silence long enough that Hermione felt she could return to her current task. "Or maybe the Brightest Witch of Our Age is hiding something."

Hermione stiffened at the nickname given to her by the Daily Prophet. "What could I possibly have to hide that hasn't already been dug up?" This wasn't untrue, she was still being chased around by story-hungry journalists when she made her disappearance. She did, however, have a few secrets she had yet to divulge. To anyone.

"I'm sure there are people just dying to know," he replied acerbically (word choice).

"I'm sure there are," she said coolly. An unexpected rumble of thunder elicited a quiet gasp from the witch.

"Not even just reporters."

Hermione mulled those words of his around for a little while before completely realising what he was insinuating.

"What are you getting at, Malfoy?" she asked hotly.

"I'm just trying to figure out why you of all people would run away from civilisation."

"I didn't run away."

"Semantics."

"Malfoy, I'm not running away from anything," she said tartly.

Hermione knew one thing for sure: Draco Malfoy was a Slytherin, and he never did anything without having already thought it out. He seemed to always have some sort of ulterior motive.

"If you want to know so badly, why don't you just ask." She had turned away from the bookcase, and was now facing him with her hands on her hips, impatiently waiting for his answer.

"I don't think you would answer, do you?" the condescending tone in his voice was slowly picking away at her nerves.

"For good reason," she shot back, her eyes trained on his.

"Something waiting for you in London then, Granger?" an eyebrow quirked up, but quickly settled back into his usual mask of indifference.

Hermione clenched and unclenched her jaw. "Not particularly, no, " she answered vaguely.

"Then why not tell me why you're here?" he was leaning his elbows on the counter now, his fingers steepled in front of him.

Hermione was smart. Hermione knew that he wasn't really interested in her life decisions. He was either trying to piss her off or get some other information that was useful to him. She would keep her temper under wraps, and she wouldn't give away anything about herself… or anyone else for that matter.

"I don't really see how it's any of your business."

Malfoy closed his eyes for a moment, and Hermione used the opportunity to gather her wits. Lightning flashed outside.

"Yes, but I'm allowed to be curious, am I not?" his eyes were still closed.

Hermione scoffed, "Slytherins aren't exactly known for being curious, Malfoy." She knew she had him there, and wondered how he planned on tactfully replying.

"You're working hard to avoid my questions, Granger."

Of course I am, she thought irritatedly to herself. "Am I?" She replied smoothly, finally moving back to face the bookcase to start shelving her books alphabetically. Having made the decision to be done with the conversation, Hermione planned to be just as irritatingly vague as he was.

"Let's see… Maybe the Gryffindor Princess secretly cheated on her O.W.L.s?"

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"I'll take your silence as a no," he continued. "What else could you possibly be keeping from the public?" the question was obviously rhetorical because she knew he was smart enough to know she wasn't going to reply.

She'd made it to the "c"s before Malfoy said anything else.

"Maybe Weasel, your former best friend and current lover, caught you in bed with Scarhead. Drama ensued, and now you've run away to escape the pressure of the press and your two star-crossed lovers." Malfoy had his palms pressed against his cheeks in mock interest. She considered asserting the fact that she and Ron were not lovers, and questioning Malfoy's reference to Shakespeare, but she instead envisioned her first making contact with his dumb face. His stupid, arrogant, ferret face.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione reminded herself that he was doing everything on purpose. Every word he said had already been carefully chosen to elicit whatever reaction it was that he wanted. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

"Wrong again, Malfoy," she replied placidly. Hermione was pleased with how unfazed she sounded.

Humming in response, Malfoy returned his attention to the tiles, running his finger against the smooth stone.

Hermione glared at him for a few more moments before putting The Canterbury Tales next to Dracula on the shelf. She frowned when she realised there were a few books missing that were supposed to go in between the two.

She wasn't enjoying this intrusion in the slightest. If this was supposed to be some ironic twist of fate because she'd wished for a little companionship, she was prepared to start inspecting her tea grounds.

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them was correctly shelved when Malfoy reopened his surly mouth.

"I've figured it out," he announced with his familiar smirk, and Hermione reluctantly turned around.

The two stared at each other for a few agonising moments, and his harsh, grey eyes reminded her of all the cruel things he'd ever said to her. Every time Hermione's eyes had ever locked on his, too intimidated to look away, her feeling of inferiority almost stronger than her sense of self-assurance and pride.

Voldemort was gone now though, his followers were gone now. The War had definitely had its share of negative effects on her, but it had also taught her that she was a strong witch, and a strong woman. Her blood had no effect on her talent or intelligence.

Even though she'd rather direct her eyes somewhere else, she refused to break contact. As dumb as she knew it was, she found great pleasure in confidently holding his gaze.

Another smirk quirked at his lips, and his eyes slowly dragged to her stomach, which was currently covered with an over-sized, light blue t-shirt.

The realisation hit her immediately, "Get out." A rumble of thunder didn't deter Hermione one bit, and her anger only grew when he didn't move from the counter. Without looking away, Hermione tried to remember if her wand was close enough to be summoned with wandless magic.

"You didn't give me a chance to ask whose -"

"Get out." She demanded again, this time stretching her magic out in the direction she thought her wand was in.

The git slowly stood from the barstool and made his way to the other side of the counter. Hermione knew that she tended to overanalyse things, it was simply in her nature, but there was something about the way he was standing that irked her. He was leaning against the counter, his legs stretched out in front of him with his ankles crossed, and his hands planted firmly on the counter.

He wasn't taking her seriously. Hermione didn't even have to look at his stupid, smug face to know that.

"What an interesting turn of events," he said acerbically. His smirk was only making her even more exasperated. She was practically seething now.

"Malfoy, get out." She silently summoned her wand to her, and it didn't go unnoticed by Malfoy.

"Hey now, Granger, no need to start waving your wand around," he pushed up from the counter and drew himself up to his full height.

For some reason, he seemed to think that he still had some amount of power over her.

After everything she had seen and been through, Malfoy the spoiled Slytherin was not intimidating in the slightest. He could throw his shoulders back all he wanted. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand move, and on instinct she immediately lunged forward, the tip of her wand against his chest.

For a fleeting moment his eyes widened, before he resumed his normal bored expression, and held his hands out in front of him. She'd been in too many life-or-death situations by now. It was too soon after the War, and her nerves were still on edge.

"I won't be bothering you again, Granger. You've got some issues you need to sort

out," and before she could respond, he'd Disapparated with a startling crack.

Hermione adjusted the blanket around her shoulders and considered if there was anyone she liked less.

There wasn't.

…

...

After Malfoy left, the storm turned into an impressive rainshower. Hermione found rain quite relaxing… it was just thunder and lightning that made her anxious.

Having finally finished shelving all the books, Hermione made herself a cup of hot chocolate and plopped down onto her sofa with as much inelegance as she could muster. Resting her head against the arm of the couch, Hermione closed her eyes and shut off as many of her thoughts as she could. She just let the sound of the rain relax her. There was no Malfoy bothering her, there was no drama surrounding her. Just the rain beating against the bungalow (is it a bungalow?) Focusing on her breathing, she slowly became even more calm, and she eventually fell into a light sleep.

When she woke up she was feeling significantly better about the predicament she'd found herself in. There was something about naps that she found quite enjoyable. Back at Hogwarts naps were practically taboo for her, but now she finally understood the beauty of a midday nap.

With yet another long, joint-popping stretch Hermione shook the sleep off, and slowly got up from the couch. She glanced at the clock on the wall.

It was only seven o'clock, which meant there was time for her to prepare for her next trip to the mainland and to start her dinner.

For the most part, Hermione spent her time practicing magic, writing down her experiences during the War or reading the hoards of books she'd been steadily collecting.

...

Draco, on the other hand, had been spending his time ensuring his privacy from his former comrades, which was actually more difficult than one might think. A wayward owl of Parkinson's had found its way to his windowsill, and it had taken an excessive amount of treats to get the bloody owl to take the letter back to its owner.

Of course, he hadn't thought that putting wards around his house and into the forest was necessary, because he was the only person dumb enough to move onto an empty island fifteen minutes away from civilisation.

He had been embarrassingly mistaken.

Surprisingly enough, even Muggles recognised that they should steer clear of Draco, and while the notion was greatly appreciated, it reminded him too much of his first (and last) walk through Diagon Alley after the War. He'd always lived an isolated existence, so he didn't understand why it was starting to bother him now.

Not that he was complaining. Draco much preferred the averted eyes and strange looks of the Muggles on the Mainland over everyone else who knew exactly what he had done. Not only what he had done. What his father had done. Now that his father was hidden away in Azkaban, Draco was left to face everyone his father had ever hurt.

It was quite a list.

Ideally, Draco would have been enrolled in Uni… not that he would know what to study. If circumstances were different, maybe he would have trained to become an auror, but he was completely positive that the Ministry had no interest in the only Malfoy heir. Traitor and coward extraordinaire.

Desperate to take his mind off of things, including his visit with Potter's brain which he would analyse later, Draco walked over to his towering bookcase and scanned all of the titles at eye level.

Not seeing the book he wanted, he muttered a quick, "Accio Hogwarts: A History." He really did like the book, and had almost every edition of it, mostly in compensation for his inability to ever read it because Granger always bloody had it.

Looking down at the book that was yet another reminder of her presence, he sent the book back onto the shelf and turned in the other direction to go downstairs and into the kitchen.

At least there was a good chance that he wouldn't have to see or interact with her again. Messing around with her had been fun, but she would definitely get just as irritating as she had been at Hogwarts.

The house he was currently staying in was for the most part, unknown. Some Muggle socialite decided to have it built here to get some privacy. This being said, the kitchen still had all the strange Muggle appliances that Draco opted to completely ignore.

...

Hermione hadn't actually given any thought to her bizarre interaction with Malfoy until she was on the mainland in the local supermarket. She wasn't exactly sure why her thoughts had decided to veer off in that direction when she'd pulled her crumpled grocery list from her back pocket, but they had.

Things had gone from dangerous spell-throwing (which she still thought was completely understandable), to strangely cordial, to as irritatingly argumentative as they had always been. What bothered her the most was that she couldn't figure out why he'd found it necessary to ask her all of those bloody questions.

Maybe he was stupid enough to actually think she was pregnant. She didn't really know, or care to know. If he was that dumb, she was shocked that he was second in the class (behind her, naturally). Hermione carefully considered Malfoy's overall weirdness while she carefully considered the vast selection of wine and other alcoholic delights.

Vodka.

Okay, so maybe she'd tried to hex him into oblivion, but he hadn't seemed to mind all that much. He would have taken his snarky arse back to his mansion if he'd been offended.

Rum.

He'd laughed too. It had been an honest laugh. Maybe she was making things up in her head, but she could swear he'd actually smiled. Not smirked. Not sneered. Smiled.

Whiskey.

Those first few minutes before he'd started being his usual ferret self weren't… awful. To be entirely honest with herself, she'd enjoyed his silent companionship. Not that she would ever admit that out loud. Ever.

Gin.

It was now that she realised she had filled her basket with various bottles of alcohol. The last thing she needed was to become the weird English girl who may or may not be an alcoholic. She was already the weird English girl who was living alone on an island. In an attempt to make her basket look slightly less pathetic, Hermione tossed in a few snacks for good measure.

Hermione was now making her way to the bookstore to see if they had any books that she didn't.

The bookstore was a pleasant cross between contemporary and cluttered. In the front they advertised new releases and when she ventured into the back rooms, she found older books, like a collection of Shakespeare's sonnets and an anthology of various other English poets. She quickly tucked them against her chest as if someone was going to come and try to snatch them away from her.

Hermione was tempted to just sit down on the floor and start reading, but her rumbling stomach convinced her to pick out a few more books and head back to the docks, but first, she was going to pick up a pizza.

Pizza.

The thought of warm, gooey cheese brightened her mood.

…

...

Having taken off her trainers, Hermione was sitting contentedly on the dock, her slender legs dangling over the edge and her toes just skimming the surface of the water. It was moments like these that reminded her of why she had chosen to escape.

Her life was founded on carefully structured routines. Hell, she had been waking up at seven ten every morning for nearly ten years. She had forgotten how great it felt to sleep in until her body was ready to wake up.

Here she was pondering her life in England as if it had been decades ago, it really just seemed so far away. Time was becoming an odd concept to her now. She had always compartmentalised her life based on slots of time. Even when they had been out searching for Horcruxes she organised everything they did by hours… days… weeks… In that situation, it certainly seemed reasonable. Harry often told her that her insistent time management was what had kept them alive. Ron stood strong by his opinion that her "insistent time management" was actually "incessant nagging". Hermione knew for a fact that Ron was wrong.

With a slight grimace on her face that was quite unbecoming, Hermione wondered what Ron was doing right now. Probably signing autographs or fending off hordes of witches, or something equally wonderful.

Being the newest recruit on the Chudley Cannons had its perks, you see.

While "Harry Potter's Best Friend" had brought its own share of attention, it had never been quite this beneficial.

Hermione's frown only deepened.

Only two more weeks, he would assure her when he was off on tour. Then two weeks would turn into two months. At first he'd send postcards from every place he stopped, often accompanied by some sort of story about his adventures as the Quidditch team's new Keeper.

She'd arrive at the Burrow exactly fifteen minutes after receiving a new letter, excitedly relaying the information to Mrs. Weasley.

Then the postcards' arrivals grew further apart, each one prefaced with an apology for the delay, until one day there wasn't an apology at all. Eventually Hermione had to read of his adventures in Witch Weekly.

The separation had been tolerable at first, his letters had gotten her through the days that she dutifully ticked off on her calendar while she awaited his arrival back in London. Even after subscribing to Witch Weekly she continued to mark the days she spent waiting for him to come back.

His return had been… extravagant.

A word she'd never associated with the Weasleys.

Ron had dutifully kept Hermione by his side while he graciously answered questions from the press and made his rounds speaking to every person in attendance. When Hermione looked back, she could never remember having any conversations, she simply clung onto him and smiled at every person he talked to. She did, however, remember washing her face of the makeup Ginny had coated on her, and rubbing her sore feet while she waited for Ron to get back to their flat, eventually tiring of waiting and going to sleep without him.

Ron had been content to show her off to the camera. Despite her general distaste for public displays of affection, she allowed him to kiss her. It was later that she understood the kisses were for the Daily Prophet, and not for her.

A heavy thud nearly startled Hermione off the dock, and she stifled the instinct to pull out her wand.

With a scolding look, she glared at Oliver who was offering an apologetic smile.

"Bloody hell Oliver, I nearly toppled into the water," her heart was still pounding, and it was taking too much effort for her to keep her hands from shaking.

"Sorry Mione, didn't wanna interrupt all that deep thinkin'."

Hermione simply blinked at him for a few seconds, knowing he was curious about what had her concentrating so hard but not wanting to ask. Well, he would just have to be disappointed.

Not seeming the least bit bothered, Oliver starting telling Hermione everything that had happened while he was in town. Everything. Merlin, the boy really needed to find a girlfriend.

While he was talking. he started untying the boat from the dock, his cheery voice carrying over to Hermione with ease. She swiped the back of her hand across her forehead, resisting the temptation to cast a quiet cooling charm. Not that it would do much, she wasn't in a closed area, so the charm would just dissipate into the muggy air. She did, however, cast a quick, wandless heating charm toward her box of pizza.

Hermione realised she'd completely zoned out, Oliver's endless discourse becoming as much a part of the background noise as the splashing water beneath her. Glancing over at him, she was relieved to see that he hadn't noticed her inattentiveness.

Tuning back into the entirely one-sided conversation, Hermione was pleased to hear that Oliver had met a very pretty girl in the bakery. She'd given him a free donut, and now he was practically professing his undying love.

Hermione giggled and rolled her eyes as he dramatically clutched his chest and teetered back on his heels, emphatically describing her long blonde hair.

"Ladies first," he grinned, finally done wrangling with the ropes.

With all of her bags and pizza carefully clutched in her hands, Hermione gingerly stepped into the boat. Even with Oliver on the dock to steady it and keep it in place, the old boat still rocked and nearly sent Hermione off balance. Just like it always did.

Hermione set everything down and turned to grab onto the dock to ensure the boat didn't float away.

"Gentlemen second."

…

...

Hermione had spent her time considering the entire Malfoy situation while she ate. There really wasn't any reason for her to worry about having the arse for a neighbor. If he wanted to do anything to harm her, he would have done it already. Maybe.

She had no bloody idea.

Either way, she wasn't going to waste her time thinking about him. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. That being said, Hermione recast all of her wards. Just to be safe.

She may not be concerned, but she certainly wasn't careless.