Disclaimer: I only own the few meager possessions in my apartment, not any of J.K. Rowling's characters, spells, charms, potions, plants, animals, and so on.

Note: The following story begins in the summer after Year 5 and proceeds through the trio's 6th year at Hogwarts; thus it does not align with any book past Order of the Phoenix. The good news is that those characters lost in the final two years are still among the living. If there's bad news, it's that I couldn't resist adding a little Umbridge. Also, as the warning stated, this story does focus on rape/sexual abuse, and it's aftermath, although it does not condone these acts. Please read safely. Finally, the story is complete, but I am open to suggestions for edits and/or extensions. Feedback of any kind is, as always, appreciated.

Hermione sat staring at the yellow-and-blue checkered border of her wallpaper, tears dripping onto the pile of letters that lay spread out before her on the bed:

Dearest,

All of us still hold you in our hearts at this time of great sadness. Please write and let us know you are well, or at least as well as you can be, considering. As I've said before, you are welcome at the Burrow any time.

Love,

Mrs. Weasley

~x~

Hermione,

It's been so long since anyone's heard anything from you, and Ron and Ginny are driving me bonkers with their worrying. Seriously though, I'm more than a bit worried myself. Seems nothing is as hard as losing your parents, and I know it must still hurt, must still be such a shock . . . Sometimes it helps me to think that my mum and dad are watching me, seeing me grow up and do great things, even if they can't be here. I bet yours are watching you too. I hope you are happy at your new place. It sounded like it in your first letter, but that was nearly two months ago . . . You're my best friend, Hermione. Please write. Term starts soon and we'd like to all meet up before.

Harry

~x~

Miss Granger,

The staff send their deepest regrets that so many of us were kept from your parents' funeral by duties of the Statute and the Order. Please know that you are in all of our thoughts and that should you need anything, before term begins or after, you may call upon any of us.

With Deepest Sympathy,

Pfs. Dumbledore, McGonagall, Sprout, Sinistra, Hagrid, and Flitwick

~x~

HERMIONE?

Please write. Please. It's all I can do to keep from getting Fred and George to help me & Harry sneak away to check on you. I hate that you're hurting. Send us something, anything!

Ron

~x~

Wiping her nose on the sleeve of a discarded jumper, Hermione shoved the letters back in a tight pile with those that had come before and pushed the lot under her bed. Write? How could she, and what would she tell them? That yes, she knows Harry is only trying to help and that she misses Ron and him both, but this is a different pain than the one they have imagined? That she couldn't call on her professors no matter how much she longed to, and that nothing in the world would help her more than an escape to the Burrow, even though that was the one thing she could not have?

No, she wouldn't write, hadn't written. Let them believe that Jacob was afraid of owls or that she had spent the summer with a case of mono or some other muggle malady. Let them believe that her grief for her parents was so great it struck her senseless. After all, it almost had two months ago when the uniformed officers had stood on the porch, speaking dismembered words like "accident," "sorry," and "if you'll just come with us . . ."

No, she was determined not to think about that now. She wouldn't go there again, not when there was so much else to grieve. Let them believe whatever they wanted. She'd figure out something before the term began.

Yet, Hermione could not stop her thoughts from wandering back to that night, barely a week after the end of last term. She rifled through her new Potions book, ordered by owl, and tried a fifteenth jab at Hogwarts: A History. She started a journal entry brainstorming possible slogans for volunteer campaigns she'd like to start for S.P.E.W., tried to close her mind to all but the feel of her prefect badge in her hand, the smell of fresh parchment.

Still, the images came and with them the guilt and accusations. Why hadn't she thought to put protective spells on her parents' car in this stormy weather, even if was against the law? Why had she ever taught Crookshanks to enjoy riding around with them, never insisting that he only go in the car in a seatbelt-secured crate? And why hadn't her mother told her about Jacob?

Lost in her wondering and drifting to sleep, Hermione did not hear the footsteps on the stairs nor the whirr of the battered sneakoscope that she had leaned against the door to provide just such a warning. It was the light that startled her out of her reverie, the light and the shadow he cast in it.

Hermione tried to count the splinters in the eaves above her, "one, seven, thirteen," tried to alphabetically list all of the spells she had learned in the past year, tried even to bring her thoughts back to that night and the policemen at the door, despite the pain it would bring.

It had to be better than being here, in her body, with the creaks of the bed springs sharp in her ears and the hot salt of tears, she didn't remember starting, now burning in her eyes. She tried not to smell the sweat and the gin, to hear his murmurings and whispers of "That's my girl." But it was the same as every other night-She still saw, still heard, and worse of all, still felt, everything-the ropes sharp against her wrists, the subtler pains in a dozen other places.

Hermione could barely move beneath the pressing weight but was determined not to cry out, knowing that the slightest resistance would only cause him to prolong this. Hadn't she learn that? Hadn't he taught her? Not that there had ever been much point in fighting. Her wand was still in the trunk that she could not get until term began, in storage with the heirlooms and keepsakes garnered from her childhood home before the sale. She hadn't known she'd need it then, but it was only her grief that made her forget to fetch it. And as for fighting him off in other ways, she wished perhaps more that she could have the wand to heal the hurts that each attempt at that had earned her.

With the tense grip of trimmed fingernails on her shoulders and a guttural groan, it ended. Hermione pressed her eyes closed, feeling the slack that meant her body was once again hers. She heard the shuffle of his lean-muscled limbs away from her bed, but still she did not move, terrorized by the thought that the slightest gesture, the wrong cast of moonlight on her breast, would bring him right back as it had once or twice before. No, she would wait, wait beyond the closing of the door and the sound of Wingtip on wooden step. Wait until the clink of glasses and the hum of Late Night talk shows confirmed that he had found other games.

She would wait, and then curl up, and then let come what tears may.