CHAPTER 12

The pull of Apparition left Hermione with a distinctly queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, not to be outdone by the sinking nausea that greeted them at the sight of Shell Cottage. Broken windows stood in stark contrast as tattered curtains blew from the open glass. Everything was in complete shambles; the back door was lying on what was now a cracked open porch. As they approached, they realized the inside was no better than the out. It had been thoroughly ransacked and rummaged through. The long table—where dinners and meetings were held—was on its side, and broken chairs were scattered around the floor. A cupboard door was hanging from its hinges, a scorch mark running down the outside of it. The protective enchantments were in shreds, and the lingering traces of magic were only a whisper, too faint to decipher. Whatever had happened here, the house was no longer safe. Her friends—their family—were gone and had been for quite some time.

Shortly after arriving, George had found his way to their old dune, where he picked at the grass and stared blankly towards the water. Hermione dug her toes into the hot sand while she cast familiar enchantments around the property to ensure their protection, at least for the night. She found herself mildly distracted at the despondent demeanor he had so easily adopted since discovering Shell Cottage in such a state, and that same moroseness carried into their evening together.

She and George found comfort in each other's arms in the upstairs room where she had slept during her first nights here. They did not speak about their destitute circumstances—there were no words anyways. They both knew that the Order, the Weasleys, and every one of their friends had been lost to them. They did not have access to Kilchurn Castle where the majority of people had been taken after the Final Battle, and all other known safe houses, including The Burrow and Grimmauld Place, had been compromised. Unless they found a way to draw them out from under the Fidelius Charm, there was not a great chance Hermione or George would see any of them again.

Tonight, she clung to him—her safe harbor—as she had so many nights in a row. The salt rich air floated in through the open window as the silver of the moon washed their pale, exposed bodies in light. Hermione had long ago memorized each freckle and each ripple of muscle, and she traced each dip and valley as a cartographer mapping a discovered wonder. Her mind was blessedly silent as she worked, allowing her more primal instincts to guide her.

And when she took him in her mouth, she relished the hiss that slid past his gritted teeth as he restrained himself from pumping into her. In a world where everything was out of control, at least in this—in his pleasure—she could be the one in perfect control. She could be the one who had the answers; the key to his undoing.

The next morning was a somber affair. The barren cupboards echoed their creaky-hinge song as the pair silently ate their baked beans which had been heated over a conjured bluebell fire. Eventually, they rose and scrounged for every last item that could possibly be of use to them. Even the torn drapery and broken doors came down and were stowed away, to be transfigured into something more favorable on another day, in another place. What remained of the furniture was shrunken and added to Hermione's small, magically expanded, beaded bag which was now bursting to its capacity.

The Order had done a thorough job of cleaning the place of most everything; all traces the home had recently been inhabited were removed before they had even arrived, save for a few cupboard staples forgotten in the out-building. The Weasleys had clearly not planned on returning here, and the thought that they had not planned on returning for them stabbed at Hermione's heart. They were her family in every right, and she felt an acute sense of abandonment by them—however misplaced those feelings were. For every bit of loss she felt, though, she needed only to look into George's hollow gaze to realize he felt it tenfold.

She caught his eyes, and the naked grief displayed there crushed her. He was a shell of the former jovial and spirited man he had finally begun to resemble in the aftermath of Fred's death, and, now, with the realization of possibly losing his family forever, Hermione worried the sorrow would be too much to bear. How would they survive if they were both sinking?

After they finished eating, George left, wordlessly, through the front door, and Hermione did a final sweep through the home, erasing any evidence of their presence.

When she found him again, it was at the ocean's edge, staring out into the water. The blue sky and lapping waves were exactly as Hermione remembered—a wide open expanse to swallow her whole. Their eternally stretching horizons were a welcome contrast to the isolating seclusion of the woodlands, and she wished it were safe for them to remain at the beach and hide away here forever.

George held his shoulders rigid and straight, and it was clear he was working very hard at keeping it together. She approached him carefully, the sand swallowing the sound of her footsteps, and wrapped her arms around him, resting her cheek against his back. His body slackened at her touch and shook with the tears he had tried so hard to keep locked away. She held on securely, keeping him afloat as the waves of his grief pummeled him down.

His feet dragged slightly as he finally trudged away from the last home he had shared with his family. Hermione's hand gripped his firmly—a last reassurance that someone was there for him still.

Pausing thoughtlessly at the edge of the dunes where the old Apparition site used to be, she closed her eyes against the bright midday light, imagining the woods she had previously shared with two families—first with her parents and then with Harry.

The Forest of Dean.

It took several weeks to get the totality of Hermione's bag unpacked and sorted through. The tent was set up and magically expanded, and the furniture was returned to its normal size. A bedroom space was created with the old double from her room at Shell Cottage. Neatly stacked on top of the bureau beside the bed were the myriad tomes she had collected over the last few years, and its drawers housed all of their clothes and food supplies.

After a few hours practice, they were able to break down their camp site in just a few minutes; Hermione worked to shrink down the furniture and everything stored inside the drawers, summon the books, and break down the tent—all of which was stored in her little beaded bag—and George took down their wards while erasing any magical signatures lingering.

It wasn't perfect, nor was it permanent, but it was home for now.

George installed a homemade irrigation system of pipes conjured from fallen limbs, which led to a transfigured bathtub. The fishing traps he built caught salmon from a nearby river, which provided more than enough for the two of them, and the surplus was smoked and preserved for future months when the fish would be small or unavailable.

With every new solution and invention, Hermione could see some of George's hurt exterior crack aside, and brief glimpses of the joyful man inside shone through. With every smile, every casual touch, every glimmer in his eyes, Hermione took a deep breath and relaxed just a little bit more. George was returning to her, and the purpose he had in getting their camp running smoothly seemed to bring him out of his misery and distract him from the reality of their solitude.

They were a surprisingly capable team for a number of weeks together. Her skills in charms and transfiguration complemented George's natural penchant for ingenuity and creation, and together they built a quiet corner in the Forest of Dean where they felt remotely safe and could recover.

"I've been thinking—"

George grumbled audibly. "Oh no, not that again."

"Very funny." She smacked him on the arm teasingly. "We need a way to go into town and get some news. There's a Wizarding village not far off from here, and I bet we can find a copy or two of the Prophet. It could help us—George, are you listening?"

He had turned his back on her and was rummaging around in their magically expanded chest of drawers, seemingly uninterested in the topic at hand, and she waited impatiently for him to return his attention to her. A few moments later he let out an "Aha!" and twisted sharply back, proudly displaying a flask in one hand.

"Whisky? Honestly . . . As I was saying—"

"Not whisky. Take a sniff," he offered, unscrewing the lid and proffering it for her inspection.

She studied his features for any hint of mischief before tilting her head down to cautiously discern the flask's contents.

"George, you have Polyjuice?" she shouted, snatching the container from him.

"Well, it's not pumpkin juice!"

Her eyes widened in excitement, and her mind buzzed with possibility. "I happen to have a few hairs in my supplies that I have been saving since my time on the run with the boys—"

"I hope they are male," George cut in. "As cute as I would look in your bra, I don't think I can pull off pink."

Hermione stuck out her tongue at him. "Of course there's both male and female. I am not keen on having extra bits either, thank you very much."

George brushed his hands over her ribs through her thin tank top, emphasising the curve of her breasts as he passed them. "No, I very much like these the way they are."

"Well, hopefully the hair I pulled doesn't make you too jealous. I could be an extra fit super-model, you never know."

"Or I can just take the juice, and you can stay here," he offered casually—too casually.

"What are you talking about? Of course I'm going with you!" She angled away from him, and he moved to grip her waist, keeping her from leaving.

"I wouldn't want to risk it," he said.

"Risk what? We would be strangers—"

"Risk you getting hurt, or found out . . ." His eyes were sincere, but she could barely look at him through her frustration. "You should stay here," he added more firmly.

Hermione felt heat warm her cheeks as her anger flared. "As I'm sure you are aware, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"Of course you are, that's not what—"

"I do not need you to protect me, George Fabian Weasley!"

He suddenly stepped in close to her, pressing their bodies together, hip to hip. Involuntarily, Hermione felt a shiver rise over her with the anticipation of their proximities. He bent his head down low, ghosting his breath over the shell of her ear as he whispered, "You are far too valuable to me, Hermione, to risk even a stray hex. This is something I have to do . . . alone."

His teeth grazed her sensitive earlobe, and she whimpered, needy.

"I am asking . . . Please," he breathed.

And with those words, she exhaled her frustration—capitulating.

"All right," she conceded, drawing back to place the flask in his palm once more and shooting him her best Molly Weasley look. "But I will not have you screwing about. You get the papers and come straight back."

He kissed her deeply, and the remnants of her anger at his handling of her melted away with her resolve.

"I feel like we have been eating fish and your mother's beans for two months," Hermione grumbled.

"That's because we have, love," George replied consolingly, patting her knee affectionately while scooping out another bite from the jar.

"I'm sick of beans."

"Beans, beans, the magical fruit. The more you eat, the more you—"

"And I am sick of that song!" she cried.

"I think you like feeding me beans. Better to keep you warm at night with." He winked, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"You are such a child . . . Fart jokes, really?"

He chuckled and leant in to give her a kiss. Turning her head at the last second, his lips caught her cheek instead. She promptly wiped away the tomato sauce left behind in disgust.

"Lovely, George. Thanks for that."

"Happy to be of service." His grin was smug, and she rolled her eyes once more, half amused and half irritated.

They were well into August now, and Hermione could not help but think about the many summers she had spent with a different Weasley, waiting anxiously for the return of the first of September and a chance to stand on platform nine and three-quarters.

She smiled tenderly at the thought of sharing sweets and chasing Chocolate Frogs in the last cabin of the Hogwarts Express with Harry and Ron, their smiles bright and expectant of what another year at Hogwarts could bring. The initial sting and swell of emotions coupling any thoughts of her boys had abated somewhat, and she was now able to think on them and their memories together with some fondness interlaced with the sadness.

Even with a Horcrux around their necks and death chasing their heels, the trio had always been able to find some hope in their circumstances, and that is the same hope she drew upon now. She allowed it to push her, to change her, to make her better. Their deaths shook her to the very core of herself, and the important things became the only things, while the extraneous fell away like sand through her fingers.

She drew out the vital Daily Prophet editions George had brought back after his Polyjuice foray. With the articles, they had been able to piece together a much clearer picture of the world changing around them. While they had not encountered any problems in their corner of the forest, Wizarding villages everywhere were being raped, pillaged, and plundered on a regular basis by a villainous group calling themselves the Knights of Walpurgis. People were being murdered in their homes while they slept, and kidnapped from Diagon Alley while they shopped. Even Hogwarts was not reopening—closed indefinitely—without an acting headmaster available to oversee repairs.

Amidst all of the horrific news, she was surprised to find that the most unsettling to her was the front page of one particular paper. On it was the face of a boy—a man, really—Hermione had not thought about for a very long time.

WANTED, DRACO MALFOY.

SON OF A DEATH EATER, ATTEMPTED MURDER, USE OF UNFORGIVABLES, SUSPECTED KIDNAPPING OF ASTORIA GREENGRASS, EVADED CAPTURE, CONSPIRATOR WITH THE LATE TOM RIDDLE.

Hermione had spent long moments studying the picture of her childhood rival, and, even now, she could not find it in herself to hold one scrap of resentment against him. Perhaps it was the simple fact of time apart that helped to dissolve the bitterness she had carried towards him, or maybe it was her knowledge of Severus Snape's true allegiance that had cast doubt upon the boy's own loyalties, but as Hermione sat cross legged in her hammock above the forest floor, staring into the eyes of Draco Malfoy, she knew that she was not looking at the face of a true Death Eater.

Like Harry, far too much was asked of Draco. And like Hermione, far too much loneliness haunted him. It was written all over his face—the fear, the pain, the abandonment. They might be different fears, different longings, but the desperation in his gaze resonated with Hermione. She wondered where this picture was even taken, and if he even knew he was being photographed. It looked to be a recent picture, but his surroundings did not seem like somewhere Draco Malfoy would live, and the look etched upon his features was not his normal mask. She watched the picture over and over again; his silhouette moving behind a curtain, his hand appearing, brushing the fabric to the side as he placed both his palms heavily against the window sill, staring out towards the camera.

She ached to see a world set to rights, fearing her failure to see it through. She hurt with the burden of every child who would not receive their Hogwarts letters, their childhoods forever altered by war. She cried in her loneliness, even more hollow now without her best friends than before she had ever had any to begin with.

Draco and Hermione were not the same, but they were not so different either.

She jumped when something touched her back, quickly unsheathing her wand and twisting around to point it at . . . George. It was just George . . . who was apparently peering down to read over her shoulder.

"Merlin, you startled me," she said, exhaling in relief.

"Sorry, love. You were quite immersed."

"Yes, I was just looking through the articles again to make sure there wasn't anything I missed the first 203 times," she responded dryly.

"The git is finally getting what's coming to him after all of these years, eh?" he joked, flicking Draco's nose with his fingers.

"Right, what's coming to him . . ." she agreed dispassionately, her stomach dropping as she spoke the lie.

September did not provide any relief from the sweltering heat, and Hermione pulled at her top which was already sticking to her skin uncomfortably though it was not yet half ten. Perspiration ran down the back of her neck from her riotous curls which refused to be tamed in the unseasonable humidity. They had been camping for too long, stuck with just one another and a jar of beans between them. In her irritation, she snapped at him too often, and he continued to make jokes and play pranks in retaliation, refusing to let her sour the mood.

The last few weeks found her engrossed in revisions. She was more determined than ever to come across a breakthrough in her modified Location Tracking Charm which had been giving her trouble. By force of habit, she continued to read into the late hours of the night and had even taken to sleeping in her hammock amongst the sheaths of parchment and bottles of ink—weather permitting, of course.

George regularly brought her tea or homemade sweets in an attempt to coax her back into their tent, but she shooed him away each time. Though she was grateful for the effort, she could not be bothered. Finding the Knights was of even greater importance than all of her tests at Hogwarts put together, and she was consumed in her attempt to do something.

She leant back against the cool stone of a large boulder, relishing in the relief it gave her overheated skin. The Cooling Charms were only so efficient in heat like this, and really someone should look into fixing that. Not her though. Not today, she reminded herself.

Rubbing the fatigue from her eyes, she gathered her thoughts and began scratching quill to parchment once again.

A few equations later, a horrible smell assaulted her senses, and Hermione found herself instantly annoyed with the creator of such an interruption.

"George, will you move?" Hermione called out without looking up from her parchment.

"What?" he asked.

"Move, you dolt. I am trying to concentrate."

"I'm concentrating too," he said matter of factly.

Glancing up from her arithmancy calculations, she watched as George added a few wild mushrooms to a concoction he had bubbling over the fire. His eyebrows were drawn together while his gaze remained fixed on the brew in a single-minded effort.

"I can see that," she affirmed gently, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. "But you're still being horribly distracting."

"I'm being distracting?" he questioned, looking up at her finally. "You're the one talking, and now my potion is going to sour since I lost count on the stirs."

"Don't blame this on me," she scolded, thoroughly annoyed now. "I am trying to read, and that ghastly experiment is giving off a rancid smell. I can barely breathe with the wind blowing the fumes this way."

"So move somewhere else."

"I asked you to move," she corrected.

"And I asked you. You can read anywhere," he pointed out, gesturing to the open space around them, "but there's only one fire."

"Do you have to do that now? I will lose daylight shortly."

"The day you stop reading because the sun is down, is the day I give up humor."

"Ha-ha," she said dryly. "Be serious, I am trying to work out the probability of our success rates—"

He sighed loudly and returned to his soup-pot cauldron. "Very important brewing happening here, love."

"Oh yes, so utterly important," she said sarcastically. "Those Puking Pastilles will bring the Knights of Walpurgis to their knees."

"I am not making Puking Pastilles."

"Whatever you're brewing can wait. That's for fun, and my calculations are for something of paramount significance. If we can figure out a way to put a trace on the suspected Knights members, I am sure that we can find the Order—"

George interrupted her with an exaggerated snoring noise and a nod of his head, as if he fell asleep listening to her.

"This is serious, George! Don't you want to find your family?"

"Of course I do," he snapped. "You know I do . . . But I have listened to you ramble on about this insane plan for ages now, and we are no closer than when we started."

Hermione opened her mouth to cut him off, but he continued on.

"Listen, if the Knights know where anyone is in the Order, they would have probably already been killed by now. I don't see these guys wasting their time—"

"George! Don't talk like that!"

"It's true, and you know it. They are even worse than the Death Eaters. You've seen the papers. Hell, you've memorized the papers. These are not the sort to follow around Kingsley and wait for him to make a wrong move. They will kill anyone they deem a threat without hesitation."

"This will work," she protested. "It's our only shot."

"So, what, you're going to put a charm on a bunch of mad men and follow them around, hoping they lead you to one of my ginger relatives before they rape and dismember you?"

"Yes, do you have any other ideas?"

"You know I don't, or we wouldn't be stuck here still!"

"If you would stop tinkering around with your rubbish inventions and help me, maybe we could come up with a better plan together," Hermione challenged.

"You spend all your time planning, and it gets us nowhere," George retorted. "At least my tinkering results in something."

"It results in nonsense that doesn't help us in our current situation."

"I thought we could use a bit of fun," he remarked.

"And I thought without Fred here, you would have grown up a little."

George's eyes cast downward instantly as his jaw dropped open in shock. He looked as if he had just been slapped. The knuckles of his fists turned white as they clenched tightly at his sides in a visible effort of restraint.

Oh, shit, what did I just do?

"George, I—" she began.

"DON'T!" he snarled.

"George, that's not—I didn't—"

"Don't bother . . ." He turned bruskly away from her, stalking back towards the tent.

Hermione jogged to catch up to him, grabbing his bicep to stop him. "Please . . ."

He turned on her, his face colored with fury. "What are we doing here Hermione? Playing house in the woods?"

"No, George, I am . . . I shouldn't have."

"No, you shouldn't."

She reeled back, chastised. "That wasn't supposed to have come out that way. I . . . You're so brilliant, and I have seen so much of your potential in the things you did to set up camp, and I thought that . . . It feels like a waste sometimes. If you could only apply yourself . . . I mean, do you want to make sweets and toys the rest of your life? Prank people? There's a whole world out there that is hurting, and we should be out there fixing it."

"Enough," he snapped. "I don't need your explanation. And I certainly don't need your guilt trip. I'm not interested in going out to fix anything. What I . . . What we did—Fred and me—was important. We took care of people and made them laugh when there was nothing in the world worth being happy over. I thought . . . I thought I was doing the same for you, but apparently I was wrong."

A thick silence fell between them, and, for once, Hermione was at a total loss for words. She was hurt, upset, and confused; making sense of it was impossible. It was as if the current had shifted, and she could not find her footing. They were standing just a few feet apart, but it felt as if they were separated by oceans.

Long minutes passed, and Hermione watched George's features change, a countenance of sadness replacing that of anger. He took a deep breath and finally spoke quietly, "I need some air."

"We live outside."

"Well, I need some fucking space, then."

Hermione watched his retreating form through the trees until he was out of sight. She huffed in annoyance, but, at the same time, she was angry with herself for what she had said. Somewhere along the way, things had begun to change between them and that scared her. Hermione had felt so much of her original self die with the deaths of Harry and Ron, and she had found a solace in George for so long in her recovery, but something had shifted as time went on, and lately she did not find the need to be under his wing all the time. However, she could not do this without him.

Still, what she had said, even if the words were somewhat true to how she felt, was out of line; she should never have mentioned Fred—that was a low blow, the lowest of low. Hermione sighed in resignation, knowing she needed to make this right between them. Looking around their campsite, it occurred to her that maybe this place was what the problem was. She was stir-crazy and irritated about everything, and maybe taking a break from camping would help bring them closer again.

She resorted to waiting for George to return in the tent entrance, cross-legged and a newspaper splayed out on the ground in front of her. When she heard his footsteps she closed the paper and stood to greet him. The look of calmness and remorse etched across his face, which mirrored her own countenance, soothed her immediately, and the lump in her throat eased so she could swallow.

"I'm sorry," they both said at the same time. George smiled at her, and she returned his shyly.

Hermione rubbed her hands on her trousers and decided it was best to just get her thoughts out now.

"George," she started, hoping he would be up for her idea, "I'd like to go to a nearby Muggle city for the night. There's a Wizarding hotel there . . ." She looked up to see his eyes widen a bit. "We need a break from this," she said, gesturing around them at their campsite. "Let's go be normal for just a bit. Get a proper meal, and you never know, maybe we'll be able to round up news."

George's expression softened from slight surprise to more of a gentle look he often gave her in their more intimate moments, and then his eyes sparkled with mischief. "Are you asking me on a date, Hermione?"

She rolled her eyes but still smiled happily at him. "We just need a break from camping, George."

"Alright, I agree we've been cooped up here for far too long, but if we do this, we both use Polyjuice, okay?"

She nodded her assent.

They made quick work of breaking down their camp, deciding it would be best to Apparate to the hills beyond the city's border and then hike to the heart where the hotel sat. They lingered at the edge of the town, sitting on a low garden wall and watching the people pass.

George snagged a tourist's map from a rubbish bin, and they chatted about what their plan was once they made their way into the crowd.

"Let's see if we can get a room at the hotel," she said as she dug around in her beaded bag to find the satchel of galleons to pay for the room. She palmed the stack of gold; it wasn't much, but it would get them a room and a proper meal with a little to spare for later if they found to be in need.

"I think maybe we should head for tea first," George replied. "We only have a few swallows of Polyjuice left, and I bet we could grab a few papers to see what the Muggles are saying in their news and maybe even catch some gossip at the hotel."

Hermione huffed as her impatience grew, knowing that she was nervous about being in public after so much time alone. "Which means we should get settled first so we make a well thought out plan and make sure to allow enough potion to get us out of this bloody town again."

George responded by grabbing her hand and pulling her to her feet. "Ok, you win, let's go."

She let him take the lead, and they walked hand in hand toward the throng of people. The cobbled streets and flowered gardens were very welcoming, and the small city had a feeling of life, even with the cloud covered sky that left a fog hanging over the rooftops.

They travelled up the street, taking in the buildings around them. Hermione could hardly suppress a groan as they passed a bookstore, the window piled high with tomes; George laughed, and he squeezed her hand as they continued their walk up the sloping hill. At last they halted in front of a large building which was clearly the focal point of the street; its whitewashed sides and darkly painted beams gave the hotel a very medieval look, and it stood out prominently from the smaller storefronts and cottages surrounding it. Magic made it viewable to other wizards, but Hermione knew that Muggles must pass by it without a second glance with the strong Notice-Me-Not Charm placed around it.

"Maybe we should just eat and then go back to camping?" Hermione asked nervously, glancing over to George.

"Nonsense, we're already here. We may as well enjoy ourselves."

"But there's going to be Wizards in there . . ."

"That's rather the point, isn't it?" George questioned.

Groaning, Hermione forced herself to relax. "Yes, I'm just being paranoid."

George led her towards the building, resting his hand on her lower back as he opened the door. She tried to push away the unwanted feeling of irritation at this gesture, but it lingered heavily in her chest. Stepping inside and away from his palm, Hermione found herself relieved to be separate from him once more, and she did her best to shake off the unsettled feeling that persisted.

After making reservations for the night, they made their way up the stairs to their room. It wasn't much; a single bed sat against the wall, and a small desk was in the corner, but they had a view that overlooked the cobbled street below which more than made up for the sparse furnishings. Hermione opened the window, taking in the fresh air and relishing in the floral scents that blew past her on the breeze. The murmured sounds of women talking floated up to the open window, but she turned away from them to look at George who had now reverted back into his true appearance and was propped up against the pillows on the bed, hands behind his head and feet crossed at the ankles.

"Not so bad, huh, love?" he asked her, eyebrows dancing up and down as he bounced on the mattress, causing the springs to creak.

"I think I will take a bath," she said, feeling her own body shift back from her Polyjuiced form. She turned away from him, careful to not let him see her as she rolled her eyes at his suggestive comment.

Hermione made her way to the small bathroom and sighed in pleasure at the sight of the claw footed bath tub. While she was able to bathe in the tent, the basin was hardly bigger than a kitchen sink. She turned on the tap, letting the hot water fill most of the tub before turning on the cold. Steam rose up from the water, and she dipped her naked toe in a bit to feel the temperature. It was too hot, just the way she wanted it. As she sank the rest of her leg in and slowly lowered herself into the scalding water, a tingling sensation crawled up her body; it took her breath away, and she was sure her skin was red from the heat. After a few moments, her body adjusted, and her head rested back against the porcelain. Closing her eyes and swirling her hands through the water, she made a hot undercurrent flow over her flesh. She had no intentions of getting out of this tub until the water was ice cold.

Hearing hurried footsteps coming toward the bathroom, she cracked her eyes open and propped herself up just as George stepped through the door.

"Where's your bag? I need the Extendable Ears," George demanded quickly, eyes raking the white tiled floor where she had left her clothes.

"It's right there." Her head nodded to the sink, where she left the bag propped on its edge. "George, what's going on? Why do you need those?"

"Here, just hold onto this end while I get the other situated."

George handed her two sets of the flesh-colored strings and took off with the other end out of the room. Hermione's brain was spinning too fast; she could not begin to come up with a reason why George was listening to someone's conversation, and there was a nagging fear that if they needed to leave quickly, she was sitting naked in a bathtub. He returned quickly and shoved one string into his ear, motioning for her to do the same with the other. The voices were clear, as if she was sitting right next the two women she had heard from the window.

". . . the rumor is that some people tried to break into the Ministry a few months ago to save those people held hostage, and now they are all on the run. Those crazy bastards are burning down all the Wizarding villages in search of them." There was a pause in the conversation, and she heard a tinkle of china as she assumed the speaker had taken a drink of tea.

"And supposedly," the woman continued, "the only one left of Harry Potter's friends is that frizzy-haired girl—Remember the one that broke Harry's heart a few years ago? Well, I guess she is their number one target."

Hermione felt her mouth drop open, and she looked to George to see him staring at her, eyes wide as they continued to listen.

"Where did you hear all this, Blanche? Surely, not your crazy sister?" a different voice asked.

"Don't you ever read the paper, Dorothy?! Not that it's all the truth, but you can read between the lines. "

Hermione heard the telltale sounds of stirring sugar cubes in a tea cup, and then the first speaker, Blanche, continued. "I don't know . . . Seems like they are hellbent on finding that girl though."

"Who could be in charge of these terrors, burning everything and kidnapping Ministry workers?" Dorothy questioned. "No one was more powerful than You-Know-Who?" Her voice lowered nearly to a whisper, "What is their cause?"

"Hush, Dorothy! Don't ask such questions out in the open! You already know they want power."

"Okay, okay," she responded hastily. "So what of the resistance? Has anyone been able to track them down as of yet, or are they still in hiding?"

"No, still missing. The way I see it though, it's only a matter of time until they are caught or come out fighting. Those sods think they can just run around trying to take down these evil people . . . It's probably for the better they are in hiding . . . Either way, we might as well keep our heads down and mind our business. Let them try to fix this. That's why we moved to this Muggle city to begin with, right?"

"Yes, I suppose you're right."

The conversation paused for another moment to the slurping of tea, and then the voice of Dorothy spoke again, "My flutterby bush keeps wilting and the leaves are curling up on the ends. I have tried Mooncalf dung, but it just …"

Hermione pulled the string from her ear, and stared past George unseeingly. He stood and began wrapping the strings around his hand. She didn't know what to make of the situation. There was the hope of the Order still out there, but, then again, she had half a mind to listen to the elderly lady and just keep her head down. And then there was the fact that they were actually hunting specifically for her—that little detail had not made it into any of the copies of the Prophet that George had been able to procure. The terrifying chill of Death's finger-tips crawled up her spine, and the hot water was no longer soothing. She sat upright in the tub and began to pull herself from the water.

George moved from the room as she reached for her towel. "I thought you said this was a Muggle town?" he asked from the bedroom, irritation clear in his voice.

She clamped her jaw hard and fought back the retort she wished to throw his way. Wrapping the towel around her body she followed after him. "It is a Muggle town, but I also told you it was a Wizarding hotel. Didn't you see me pay in galleons?"

"Whatever you say, dear." He rolled his eyes. "I'm going to go knick a newspaper. We need some more information about where the Order could be. Maybe I'll get lucky and come across a Prophet," he said as he strode towards the door. "I won't be gone long, okay?"

He did not wait for her to argue, and instead shut the door firmly behind him. The lock clicked tight from the outside, and she flopped down on the bed, beyond annoyed with him. She wasn't sure how to fix things between them, but she honestly wasn't sure if she wanted to right now. He was being a right arse to her, and she was frankly starting to wonder if it was the camping that was their problem or something more.

Setting aside her frustration, she set off to the bathroom again and began to rummage through her bag for clothes. Catching her reflection in the mirror above the sink, she noticed the way her eyes seemed tired and abused from lack of sleep and the strain of reading in low light for too many hours. She was pleased, however, to see the harsh angle of her cheekbones had filled out some since leaving the Cottage—maybe those beans had not been all bad. She realized for the first time, that she looked and felt a bit like her old self again. Her work in creating charms and running arithmancy to find the Knights was not unlike the younger Hermione revising for her O.W.L.s, and she was reassured by the familiarity of the only slightly haggard and worn thin version she found of herself now.

She combed her fingers through her hair—snagging on the tangles as she went— in a poor attempt to get the knots out, but eventually she ended up just wrapping it up in a messy knot on the top of her head instead. When she walked back into the other room, something silver on the bed caught her eye—the Polyjuice flask.

George had not taken the flask with him.

"Oh, George, you idiot. Please don't get caught," she whispered to herself.

Hermione paced up and down the small room and adjoining bathroom, filled with anxiety. Every few passes, she stopped to look out of the open window into the street below, hoping to see George—or even better the brunet Polyjuiced version of him—walking in the hotel's direction.

Her watching was in vain; he did not return. It had been over an hour since he left her alone in the room. She had played their last interaction over and over in her head, and she was nearly positive that he had not stopped to take a swig from the flask before he left.

The stupid man was going to put her in an early grave for all of the stress he put her through lately, and she had half a mind to take a dose of the potion herself and go out to look for him. Visions of throttling her red-headed companion were interrupted when she heard the door to their room burst open and bang against the wall with a thwack.

George rushed into the room, eyes wide with alarm. "We have to get out of this town. I've been spotted."

"George, you prat! I can't believe you forgot the potion," Hermione lectured as he grabbed her arm, ready to Disapparate. "Wait, I don't have my bag."

She had just reached the bathroom sink when all hell broke loose. There were screams from outside, and the window panes rattled in their frames as a loud noise rang around them. The floor shook and Hermione hustled to the bedroom to find George, fear coursing through her body.

"Let's go," she screamed over the deafening noises.

George nodded as she grabbed his outstretched hand. He raised his wand to Apparate back to the Forest of Dean, but nothing happened. "I can't, they must have put up Anti-Apparition wards."

The sounds of glass breaking, stone crumbling, and wood splintering filled the air. Above all of it was the sickening sound of screams being cut short; Hermione was paralyzed in fear at what could be stopping the voices mid-scream. Something hit her shoulder, and Hermione reached over to collect what seemed to be small bits of plaster. Her eyes travelled upwards to a crack in the ceiling that was growing larger and larger by the second.

"Come on, we have got to get out of here!" George said, pulling her from her frozen stance and moving towards the door. Once in the corridor, the smoke assaulted her senses, not only blinding her for a moment, but making her gag with what she knew to be burning flesh.

The smoke was coming from below, but looking up she noticed the banister of the upper floor shaking dangerously. She looked to George who was also assessing the situation. Moving downstairs meant they would be greeted by chaos and possibly death. If they attempted to go up they had no way of getting off of the building, and it would make escape even more impossible with fire possibly consuming the building and the structure ready to collapse in on itself.

"Hermione, we have to go down. It's the only way out." Shaking his head, he began to pull her by her hand toward the stairs that led down.

"No, it's too risky." Hermione held her ground, curling her toes and leaning back as she ripped her hand away from his, giving him a scornful glare in defiance. She pulled her wand from her sleeve and turned her back on him, moving upwards. One step later, George shoved her to the side and against the wall as he stood protectively in front her, wand at the ready.

"Move over," she said as she pushed him away. "Are you a wizard or not? We can transfigure a parachute and fly our way out, but we are not going down there!"

"What's a parachute?" he asked, clearly confused.

"It's a cloth canopy that fills with air and allows a person or heavy object attached to it to descend slowly when dropped from the sky," she recited from the dictionary in her mind. "Though, we might have issues since we aren't up nearly high enough to adequately slow our descent . . . Perhaps a ladder might be better?"

"You're mental. This coming from the girl who is afraid of heights," he scoffed, grabbing her wrist and yanking her down a step.

She wrenched her wrist free and scowled at him. "I have ridden a dragon's back through Gringotts before, and I would do it again. This," she pointed at the steps below, "is completely barmy. You will be dead in an instant."

"We don't have time to argue about this. You're coming with me!" he insisted.

"You're right, we don't have time." Turning bruskly, she took the steps two at a time to race toward the upper floors, expecting George would have some sense and follow her.

He might have made the decisions for them for the past few months, but she was tired of watching the boys she cared for run head first into danger without considering the alternatives. There had to be a better way out of this mess than launching themselves straight into the fray.

Before she could make it to the next level, she heard a person from below yell above the din, "There he is!" She turned to look for George behind her, but her gaze was drawn to the landing above as it began to crack loudly. The posts collapsed away from the railing and rained down upon her. She ducked to avoid the debris, raising a quick Shield Charm to try to soften the blow, but the steps beneath her began to quake violently, and before she could cast anything additional, she was plunging through the air.

She fell hard and fast, her bones crunching as she collapsed onto damp earth. Two gulping breaths later, she hastily covered her head with her arm as the rest of the building followed her body in its descent, covering her completely and taking her consciousness with it.

A/N:
Pierrej92, thank you for encouraging us so much with your excitement for our story. Your reviews, messages, and general love have been just what we needed to make this chapter happen. This one is for you. Xoxox

Pierre writes an amazing Sirimione (Sirius x Hermione) called "The Time Traveling Wife". Please check it out and leave some love for her while you're there!

I was BOTWP, thank you for being our Alpha reader! Your insight to this story is invaluable. YOU make this story better for our amazing readers! YOU make us better writers!

Thank you to our many readers and reviewers. We have missed you all tremendously.

George singing about beans is credited to TheFifthBiscuit!