Eight Weeks Later

Hermione knelt in front of her parents' grave, running her fingers lightly over the marble script of their names. Beside them in the grass, she had placed a small, flat rock into which Ginny had helped her to carve Crookshanks' name. It soothed her to think that somewhere, in the unknown beyond, her family was still together. To know that she still loved them unendingly, and yet, that nothing in her any longer yearned to rush toward them and join them in their untimely fate.

She felt, perhaps as Harry did, that her mother and father must sometimes be watching over her, and she knew that if they were, they would be proud.

And they would be comforted to witness, in turn, how much in their absence she herself was still loved. After the trial, when Hermione had returned to school, it had not been easy to reestablish her daily pattern. Although her case had never been made public record, in accordance with the tenets of Gwendyll's law, many students still snickered over the odd rumor of where she had been, what she had gone through. Once or twice these rumors even bore grains of the truth, and Hermione was forced to wonder who might have relatives on the Wizengamot putting vague hints in their owls.

Ron, Harry, and Ginny especially, thus had earned, in a few mere weeks, more detentions apiece than Fred and George could have mustered up in a whole semester together. Each Saturday scrubbing cauldrons and repainting Filch's office ceiling by hand had been proudly won via the use of creative hexes to defend their friend's honor-her secret, her name. It was with a smile that Hermione remembered the day she herself had joined them, ten days after Jacob had been sent to Azkaban. It had been an unexpected conversation, the one that landed her there.

"You know Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall had confided to the brown-haired witch, pulling her aside after a particularly difficult hour of hushing whispers in Transfiguration, "I might not admit to saying so, but a well aimed slug-vomiting charm, perhaps cast in Mr. Smith's direction, might give the boy pause to consider what words are and are not proper to call a young lady. Besides, dear," Hermione's head of house had added with a wink, "I do hate to see you spending all your Saturdays alone."

Like McGonagall, Dumbledore had become her great defender, though not so much just at school, from what she suspected. Only last week, she had opened her Daily Prophet, still anxiously scanning the headlines for the name she knew wouldn't appear, when another, almost as loathsome, name caught her eye:

Dolores Umbridge, former undersecretary to Cornelius Fudge and a one time Head-mistress at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was brought before the Wizengamot on Thursday. Earlier this week, a member of that same court had intercepted several letters of Ms. Umbridge's, all which sought to convey, to unnamed, illicit sources, confidential information relevant to a case tried by the DYWWP earlier this month. Ms. Umbridge, who was given probation and barred permanently from her ministry duties, could not be reached to comment on the proceedings.

It was nice to know that so many powerful adults were watching over her, thought Hermione. Nicer to know that that number included Molly and Arthur. Though she missed her own parents as much as ever, she had begun to truly feel like a part of the Weasley clan. Hermione now regularly received owls inquiring about her grades, fussy remarks about her eating, hand-knit sweaters bearing her name-in short, all the things that Ginny, Ron, and their red-headed siblings had publicly declaimed but privately loved.

The Weasley parents had even offered to use part of Jacob's money to build an extra bedroom into the Burrow for their new daughter. But, after checking to make sure it was okay with her friend, Hermione had sent her reply-owl with a simple, thankful message of refusal-telling her new guardians that a nice bed in Ginny's room would be Galleons better spent.

And indeed it would be, for Hermione's bond with Ginny, forged through the power of intimate moments that they alone had shared, seemed only to grow stronger as the year drew toward a close. Though she loved Harry and Ron's company more than she ever had, it was even rarer these days to see her and Ginny apart.

Hermione still had nightmares from time to time, but even they had grown fewer and farther between, and it was never long before the other girl's arms would find her in the night and chase them away. She could not now remember, looking over the past week, the last time she had cried, but it gave her a certain solace to know that she could, anytime she needed to, in the arms of the friends and family that she really was a part of now, no matter, as Ginny's Christmas present once had claimed, what storms may come.

Lost, as always, in these mental wanderings, Hermione looked over and watched her friend as she buried Tiger Lily seeds at the foot of the Grangers' grave with her hands.

"Herm," Ginny murmured, noticing her gaze, "you okay?"

"Just thinking," Hermione sighed, giving her friend a halting half-smile.

"About?" Ginny replied, returning the expression and adding a hint of curiosity in the way she wrinkled her brow.

"Everything."

Ginny nodded knowingly, but Hermione felt compelled to say more, compelled to try out the truths that had been forming for weeks in her mind.

"You know, Ginny," she started, hesitantly, "after I lost them, after Jacob raped me the first time . . . I had never known that kind of raw pain in my body, but . . . even physically, it hurt so much more in here," she continued, pointing first to her head and then to her heart." After that night, I thought for so long that something had broken off and twisted up inside me, something sinister that would change who I was forever, that would make me unlovable and unable to love."

"And now?" Ginny asked quietly, leaning closer to her and brushing the dirt off of one of Hermione's knees.

"Well, now I know I was wrong, at least about the last part," Hermione answered, taking Ginny's hand, "But no matter what happens from here, I can't make my parents come back. I can't change what Jacob did to me, or permanently erase it from my memory. I was right about one thing. I can't ever be the girl that I once was."

"But you're stronger than that girl, loads stronger," Ginny countered, resting her head again on Hermione's shoulder.

"Yeah, I am . . . It's just that, Ginny, I'll always be in the after. But it's not the place I once thought it was, or at least it doesn't have to be. The after, well, it's my choice now. I can't be the girl my parents knew, the girl everyone knew for years, but I can chose what kind of girl I become and be loved by them all the same. I can't be who I was, but I can love who I am."

"And do you?" Ginny whispered, the murmur of her voice soft against Hermione's shirt.

"Without question," Hermione finished. And she knew that it was the truth.

End Note:

I felt compelled to add this, for I know that there are those out there who read fiction with the purpose of working through their own demons, of not feeling so alone. If you have been raped or sexually abused, know that there is help out there. Call 1-800-656-HOPE, any time of the day or night and you will be connected immediately to someone who will listen and care. The number is free, confidential, and will not show up on your phone bill.

And, if you're still reading this and need to be told once again, Hermione's rape was not her fault. If you were raped, no matter what the circumstances, it was not your fault either.

May all who have suffered find their own Ginnys and know that somewhere inside of them resides the strength of Hermione's final stand.

With love,

Penandpencil

Ps. Thank you all for the reviews. I try to respond to each one personally, but if for some reason I missed you, please yell at me via my inbox and I will respond promptly :-) For those wishing to review, I appreciate any/all feedback and am still open to making edits.