Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. If I did I'd be riding around on a pony that was trained to drive Porches and making sure the Epilogue turned out differently.

Author's Note: I'm not big on these but I thought I'd mention that the first eleven chapters have been edited and reloaded onto . Also this story is a slow burn and these characters have loads of baggage and things. Also someone is totes gaymo and will be getting some homosexual loving on, but this is a H/Hr foremost so DO NOT FRET Hermione and Harry fans.

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She rather liked the idea of being an expatriate. There was something almost noble sounding about it. Calling herself an expatriate she could count herself amongst great people like Ernest Hemingway and Ezra Pound. They'd been America's "Lost Generation" a group of people who came of age at a point when the world was at it's most chaotic and transformative.

She never wanted to play down the immense importance of that time, but she felt she could relate. She'd grown up in an age where it simply wasn't safe to being a good intentioned witch. The government, the dark wizards, they'd all conspired to hunt her down. She's been attacked, mauled, and tortured.

Like any good expat the horror of it all, being a survivor of such an enormous war, it had weighed on her.

That's why her idyllic looking relationship with Ron had crumbled. After it was all over they were warriors without a war, soldiers without a general. Seven years of their life (that seventh being the worst) they had lived more intensely then any child should have. Every pain and every triumph had seemed magnified.

Some strived afterwards. But Hermione and Ron just couldn't. It had all been too much.

Their relationship ended in a decidedly un-Ron and Hermione way. There was no shouting and no arguing, just that horrific realization that they could never work long term.

That last night they'd wallowed in each other's embrace, desperate for a last grasp at normalcy. Then he'd gotten up and gone to work and Hermione packed up her few belongings and headed west.

America. For the wizarding world it was still a great frontier. There were no well established schools like Hogwarts. No hidden towns like Hogsmeade. The witches and wizards of America were spread all across the country. Some went to America's foremost school of Magic, the Salem Institute, but many opted for the method of magic learning popularized by the Africans. Apprenticeship.

The lack of unity made it easy for Hermione to disappear. In Europe she was a war hero. People recognized her on the street. Unauthorized books about her cluttered the shelves of stores. But the war had left few marks on America. She was just another snotty Brit.

And a bookworm like Hermione loved it.

She had a go at furthering her education. Then found a job importing and exporting magical goods. It was lucrative and interesting and made use of her considerable talents with numbers, runes and general magic knowledge.

She met a man, American and as Muggle as her parents. He didn't care about the world she'd left in England. Didn't care about the war that had left her scarred. He held her close at night and watched her lovingly in the morning and things were perfect.

They had two kids. Hugo was named for her dad and shared the bushy hair of all good Grangers. Rose had her dad's blond locks. She was destined to be a beauty, something that seemed to constantly amaze Hermione—much to her husband's chagrin.

Hermione loved it in America. She liked that people automatically assumed she was smart because she had an accent, and she liked how people always marveled at her perfectly straight teeth. Her parents liked it too. Friends always laughed when they found out both her parents were dentist. The Grangers would just gleam, and then freely advise people on proper flossing techniques.

They flew out once or twice a year. After that year in Australia it had taken a bit of time to get the practice back up and running, and the money had been tight, but they could afford the trips to see their grandchildren. No one ever discussed going to England. Something about seeing that cold and foggy land put a chill in Hermione's bones.

That's why she was constantly amazed at where she was. On a plane. Back to England. Revoking that expatriate status she'd worked so hard to earn. All because her dear husband hadn't seen a red light and gotten himself killed.

It had been three months. Three months of empty stares and heavy sobs. Three months of angry and confused children. Rose was older—thirteen and she'd displayed a remarkable bitterness towards her mother. Some great witch, couldn't even save her husband from a car accident. Hugo, only nine, wasn't as angry, but was terribly confused

Hermione had been surprised to find how suffocating America could turn. Those vast fields and high mountain ranges didn't matter in the end. Only the loneliness, the desperate need to runaway…again.

So she'd packed up the children and contacted her parents and Professor McGonnagall. The flight to England was emotional agony. Rose refused to talk to her, content to listen to music too loudly. Hermione allowed it. The girl would transfer to Hogwarts in a few weeks, and her beloved gadgets would become useless.

Hugo sat curled up in his seat against the window his video game tightly grasped in his small hands. He was still too young for Hogwarts. It'd be another year of Muggle school.

Hermione tried to focus on her work but found it quite difficult. Her boss had been a little too delighted when Hermione had suggested a move to England. He saw it as a perfect opportunity to expand the business to one of the foremost magical society's on the planet. The next few British Air flights would be loaded with other employees sent to help set it all up.

Hermione would be hard-pressed to admit it but she was happy to see a few of her favorite employees making the move. Sarah Ratters was especially welcomed. The woman was a perfect assistant for Hermione, clever and quiet when needed, but prone to Weasely like outbursts when pressed. A pleasant personality to have along.

Hermione tried to make another go at the paperwork on her lap. Their plane would be landing within the hour and she really needed to have some of her work sorted, but the tinny noise from her daughter's headphones and the clack of frantically pressed buttons on her son's video game were desperately trying to drive her mad.

The flight could not have landed fast enough. Hermione had to resist apparating straight out of the plane as soon as the wheels touched down. But abandoning her children to surly customs agents simply wasn't proper. It felt like another hour before they were through customs and baggage claim and on the sidewalk outside.

It was a bit chilly, perfectly natural for October, and the sky was the dull grey Hermione had grown accustomed to in childhood. Her children both shivered in their thin shirts and Hermione tried not to smile. The two had insisted on ignoring all of her dressing advice and worn exactly what they pleased. The draft running along the road seemed to have then regretting that choice, but both kids were too stubborn to say anything.

"You see Gram yet?" Hugo asked. His teeth weren't quite chattering.

Hermione stood up a little taller and looked for her mother's little Volkswagen. She'd purchased it a few years before and had bombarded Hermione's email with photos of the car. Her parents were thrifty enough to make a new car rather exciting.

Sure enough the little gray car was coming around the bend a little too sharply for comfort. Hermione didn't need to turn to know that both her children were watching the fast approaching car with wide eyes. That's how Doctor Harriet Granger did things though. She drove too fast and braked too suddenly. It was why Hermione's husband had always paled when she'd offered to drive. The woman adored driving.

The car was in park and the bushy haired woman out the driver's seat before Hugo and Rose could respond. Soon they were wrapped up in a tight hug. Hermione watched her mother's easy affection towards the surly children, and just, for a small moment, felt like it would be okay.