Hermione Granger - After Malfoy Manor

Several days had passed since Malfoy Manor.

At Shell Cottage, that was enough time for the extraordinary to begin acquiring the uncomfortable shape of routine.

The sea rolled endlessly beyond the windows. Wind moved through the grass surrounding the little cottage, carrying salt against the glass, while somewhere downstairs a kettle began to whistle.

Fleur Weasley removed it from the stove and glanced over her shoulder.

“Sit.”

Hermione stopped halfway across the kitchen.

“I am sitting.”

“You are standing.”

“I was going to sit.”

Fleur raised an eyebrow. “Zen we agree. Sit.”

Ron, already seated at the table, made the mistake of smiling.

Hermione turned towards him.

“Something funny?”

“No.”

“You're smiling.”

“I smile.”

“Not usually before breakfast.”

Harry lowered his head towards the parchment in front of him.

Ron looked across the table for support and found none.

“Brilliant.”

Hermione finally took the chair beside the window, moving more carefully than she would have liked anyone to notice. Her face remained paler than usual and exhaustion still came too easily, but several days of rest had at least restored some strength to her voice.

Fleur placed a mug in front of her.

“Thank you.”

“And you will eat something zis morning.”

Hermione's expression suggested gratitude had immediately encountered complications.

“I ate yesterday.”

Fleur stared at her. “Yes. Most people find eet necessary to do so again.”

Ron snorted.

Hermione looked at him.

He immediately became interested in his toast.

Across the room, Luna sat with her legs tucked beneath her, watching the grey morning beyond the window.

“The sea sounds different today.”

Ron glanced towards it. “Does it?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Right.”

Dean, occupying the other end of the table, continued eating.

For a few minutes, Shell Cottage settled again.

It was easy, sometimes, to mistake the quiet for peace.

Outside these walls, there was very little of it left.

The Ministry belonged to Voldemort. Muggle-borns were being hunted. Hogwarts remained under Snape's control, and Harry Potter's face appeared beneath the words Undesirable Number One wherever the Ministry could find somewhere to print it.

Inside the cottage were three people recently rescued from imprisonment, a goblin with little reason to trust wizards, a wandmaker who had spent months in Voldemort's hands, three fugitives who had spent much of the year hunting pieces of a soul, and two newlyweds whose home had somehow become responsible for all of them.

And there was one freshly dug grave overlooking the sea.

Nobody mentioned that over breakfast.

Harry turned the parchment over.

Hermione noticed immediately.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“You've been reading it for ten minutes.”

“I haven't.”

“Nine,” Luna said.

Harry looked towards her.

“Approximately.”

Ron groaned softly. “Here we go.”

Hermione held out her hand.

“Harry.”

“You're supposed to be resting.”

“I am sitting at a table.”

“That isn't what I meant.”

“Then you should have been more precise.”

There it was.

Not quite as sharp as it once had been. Not quite as effortless. But unmistakably Hermione.

Harry glanced at Ron.

Ron suddenly became extremely interested in his breakfast.

Hermione's eyes narrowed.

“You've discussed something.”

Neither answered quickly enough.

“Oh, honestly.”

She pushed herself slightly straighter in the chair.

The movement brought a brief tightening around her eyes before she concealed it beneath irritation.

“I was tortured, Harry. I haven't suddenly become stupid.”

The kitchen went quiet.

Harry's expression changed immediately.

Hermione looked away.

For the first time that morning, some of the certainty left her face. Her fingers settled unconsciously against the sleeve covering her forearm.

Then she exhaled.

“Sorry.”

“You don't have to—”

“I know.”

Harry stopped.

Hermione remained quiet for another moment before looking back towards the parchment.

“What did Ollivander tell you?”

That did it.

Ron looked at Harry.

Harry looked at Ron.

Hermione's eyebrows rose.

“Oh, for heaven's sake. You are both terrible at this.”

Fleur set a plate down in front of Hermione with rather more finality than strictly necessary.

“If you are going to discuss whatever terrible plan you 'ave invented, you will at least finish breakfast while doing eet.”

“Nobody said there's a plan.”

“Which means zere is definitely a plan.”

Harry's mouth twitched.

Hermione looked from Fleur to Harry, then back to the overturned parchment.

“Fine. I'll eat. Now turn that over.”

For a moment, nobody moved.

Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.

Somewhere beyond the kitchen came the quiet opening of a door, followed by movement elsewhere in the cottage as another of its occupants began their morning.

Harry still had one hand resting on the parchment.

Hermione still had hers extended towards it.

Fleur remained beside the table with the expression of someone entirely prepared to supervise both breakfast and whatever disastrous scheme followed it.

Beyond the kitchen, however, Shell Cottage was waking around them. A door opened somewhere upstairs. Floorboards creaked overhead. Bill's voice carried briefly from another room before being lost beneath the sound of the sea.

Not everyone sheltering beneath the cottage's roof had joined them for breakfast, and not every conversation that morning had begun around the kitchen table.

For the moment, Harry's parchment remained face-down.

Hermione was rapidly losing patience.

And elsewhere in Shell Cottage, the morning was only just beginning...

Only hours had passed since Malfoy Manor.

By the time darkness settled over Shell Cottage, the sea had swallowed most of the sounds from the house.

A cold wind moved across the dunes beyond the windows, carrying the distant rhythm of waves against the Cornish coast. Somewhere outside, beneath a stone Harry had placed with his own hands, Dobby lay buried overlooking the water.

Inside, nobody seemed entirely certain what came next.

Fleur had spent much of the evening moving between rooms with the brisk authority of someone who had decided that panic was considerably less useful than blankets, hot water and food.

“You should sleep.”

Ron remained in the chair beside Hermione's bed.

“I will.”

“You said zat an hour ago.”

“I wasn't tired then.”

Fleur looked at him.

Ron rubbed a hand across his face.

“Fine. I was tired.”

“Ronald.”

“I'm going.”

He did not move.

Hermione stirred beneath the blankets.

Both of them immediately looked towards her.

Her eyes opened slowly.

For several seconds she seemed uncertain of the room around her. Her gaze moved across the unfamiliar ceiling, the small window, Fleur standing near the bed—

Then Ron.

Recognition came first.

Relief followed.

And then memory caught up with both.

“Harry?”

Her voice was rough.

“He's here,” Ron said quickly. “He's downstairs. He's fine.”

Hermione closed her eyes again.

Ron leaned forward.

“Hermione?”

“I heard you.”

There was enough familiar irritation in the answer that some of the tension left his face.

Fleur poured water into a glass.

“Slowly.”

“I know how to drink.”

“Wonderful. Zen zis should be very easy.”

Hermione gave her a tired look but accepted the glass.

Her hand trembled around it.

She noticed.

So did Ron.

He reached towards the glass.

“I've got it.”

His hand stopped.

Hermione took a drink herself.

The silence afterwards lasted a little too long.

Ron looked towards the window instead.

Fleur adjusted one of the bottles on the bedside table that required no adjustment whatsoever.

Hermione's sleeve had shifted.

Dark letters disappeared beneath the fabric as she pulled it down over her forearm.

Nobody commented.

“What happened?”

Ron looked back.

“At the Manor?”

“After.”

There was the Hermione they knew again, emerging through exhaustion one question at a time.

“How did we get here?”

“Dobby.”

Hermione frowned.

“The chandelier—”

“He got us out.”

“And Luna? Dean? Mr Ollivander?”

“All here.”

“Griphook?”

“Here.”

Her eyes moved rapidly despite the exhaustion behind them.

“Harry had Draco's wand. Did he keep it? What happened to Bellatrix? Did anyone follow us? Does anyone know where we are?”

“Hermione—”

“What about the sword?”

Ron stared at her.

Fleur folded her arms.

“You 'ave been awake for perhaps three minutes.”

“That doesn't answer the question.”

“No. Eet explains why you are not getting an answer to twelve of zem at once.”

“There were six.”

Ron almost smiled.

Hermione noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You're doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That expression you make when you're trying not to say something.”

“I don't have an expression.”

“You absolutely do.”

For one brief moment, the room felt almost familiar.

Then Hermione looked towards the empty space beside Fleur.

Something changed in her face.

“Where's Dobby?”

Ron stopped smiling.

Downstairs, Harry sat at the kitchen table with Draco Malfoy's wand lying beside him.

Ollivander occupied the chair opposite.

The old wandmaker looked scarcely stronger than he had when they carried him from the Manor, his face hollow after months of imprisonment.

Harry had already asked about the wand.

He had already asked about the Elder Wand.

There were other questions waiting.

None seemed important enough to ask yet.

Bill stood near the window, watching the darkness beyond the cottage.

Luna sat quietly nearby.

Dean had gone upstairs some time earlier.

Griphook remained apart from the others.

“He should know,” Bill said eventually.

Harry looked up.

“Know what?”

“That staying here puts Fleur and me at risk.”

Harry's expression tightened.

“You don't have to let us stay.”

“That isn't what I said.”

From upstairs came the faint sound of movement.

Ron appeared on the staircase a moment later.

Harry stood immediately.

“How is she?”

“Awake.”

Harry's shoulders dropped.

“And?”

Ron didn't answer.

Luna looked towards him.

“Did she ask about Dobby?”

Ron nodded.

Nobody spoke for several seconds.

Outside, the wind continued moving across the newly disturbed earth above the grave.

Inside, Shell Cottage held nine people who had escaped the same place and arrived carrying very different pieces of it with them.

Some had questions.

Some had answers.

Some had secrets.

And some had not yet decided what they were prepared to say.

Upstairs, Hermione was awake.

Downstairs, the war had already begun finding its way back into the conversation.

And throughout the little cottage, there were still doors unopened, words unsaid and choices waiting to be made...

Several days after Malfoy Manor, the weather finally broke.

Not dramatically.

There was no sudden burst of sunshine over Shell Cottage, nor any particular warmth to the afternoon. The clouds simply lifted enough for the rain to stop, leaving the grass wet beneath a pale Cornish sky and the sea stretching grey-blue towards the horizon.

Hermione had been outside for nearly twenty minutes.

Nobody had followed her.

She suspected this was deliberate.

The cottage stood behind her, its stone walls weathered by years of salt and wind. Smoke drifted lazily from the chimney, disappearing almost immediately into the coastal air.

Beyond it, the land sloped towards the sea.

And there, overlooking the water, was the grave.

Harry had chosen the place.

The earth remained darker than the grass surrounding it, freshly disturbed and still settling around the stone at its head.

HERE LIES DOBBY, A FREE ELF.

Hermione had read the words several times already.

She sat some distance away rather than beside it, wrapped in one of Fleur's spare cardigans with a book resting closed across her knees.

That, more than anything, would probably have alarmed Ron.

Hermione Granger had brought a book outside and had not opened it once.

The wind tugged strands of hair across her face.

She pushed them away irritably.

“Honestly.”

The wind remained unmoved by criticism.

From somewhere behind the cottage came the sound of voices.

Bill and Dean were working on something near the boundary of the property. She couldn't make out the words from here, only the occasional rise and fall of conversation beneath the wind.

Closer to the house, Luna had spent several minutes examining something in the grass before disappearing around the other side of the cottage without explanation.

Harry was inside with Ollivander.

Ron had been inside when Hermione left.

Whether he remained there was another matter.

She looked back towards the grave.

Dobby had appeared in the cellar.

That was the part her mind kept returning to.

Not the chandelier.

Not the beach.

Not even the knife.

The cellar.

One moment there had been stone walls, iron bars and Bellatrix somewhere above them.

Then Dobby had appeared.

Hermione's fingers tightened slightly against the cover of the book.

She noticed and deliberately relaxed them.

The sea continued below.

For once, there was nothing demanding an answer from her.

No Horcrux to identify.

No route to calculate.

No spell to remember.

No argument to win.

Hermione discovered that she didn't particularly like it.

She opened the book.

Read the same sentence twice.

Then closed it again.

“Useless.”

“Books usually work better when you read them.”

Hermione turned.

Luna had reappeared several yards away carrying three small shells in one hand.

“I was reading.”

“You weren't.”

“I was thinking.”

“Oh.”

Luna seemed satisfied by the distinction.

She crossed the grass and stopped near the grave.

For a moment, neither girl spoke.

Then Luna crouched and placed one of the shells beside the stone.

Hermione watched her.

“What are those for?”

“I don't know.”

Hermione frowned.

“You brought them here.”

“Yes.”

“But you don't know why?”

Luna considered the question.

“I thought Dobby might like them.”

Hermione looked towards the shell.

It was small, white and almost perfectly ordinary.

Something tightened unexpectedly in her throat.

She looked away towards the sea.

“He probably would.”

Luna placed the second beside it.

The third remained in her hand.

“This one's mine.”

Hermione gave a small breath that was almost a laugh.

“That seems fair.”

Luna sat down in the grass.

Not beside Hermione.

Not particularly close to the grave either.

Simply somewhere between both.

For several minutes, that was enough.

Eventually Hermione looked towards her.

“You don't have to stay because I'm out here.”

“I know.”

“Everyone keeps doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Pretending they're not watching me.”

Luna tilted her head.

“I wasn't watching you.”

Hermione blinked.

“I was looking for shells.”

“Oh.”

Another silence.

Somehow, Hermione found that considerably less irritating.

Behind them, the door to Shell Cottage opened.

Neither looked around immediately.

The cottage had rarely remained quiet for long since their arrival. People came and went between its cramped rooms and the surrounding grounds throughout the day; Bill checking the protections around the property, Fleur managing a household that had abruptly quadrupled in size, Dean finding reasons to be useful, Harry disappearing into conversations with Ollivander, Ron appearing wherever he believed he wasn't obviously keeping an eye on Hermione.

Beyond the cottage, the coastal path continued towards the cliffs.

Nearer the house, voices still carried from somewhere beyond the garden wall.

And overlooking the sea, Dobby's grave remained where Harry had made it.

Hermione opened her book again.

This time she managed almost an entire paragraph before Luna spoke.

“Do you think house-elves like the sea?”

Hermione lowered the book.

“I have absolutely no idea.”

Luna nodded thoughtfully.

Hermione looked at the grave.

Then back towards the water.

“But I suppose Dobby was rather fond of freedom.”

Luna smiled.

The wind moved through the grass around them.

The moment of quiet peace lingered for a beat. Hermione even considered attempting another page of the book she'd abandoned earlier.

But at Shell Cottage, moments of uninterrupted peace seldom lasted for very long...

Several days after Malfoy Manor, Shell Cottage had begun developing rules.

Most had never been formally agreed upon.

Fleur decided when meals happened.

Bill decided when the protective enchantments needed checking.

Griphook decided, with remarkable consistency, that almost every question asked of him required considerably more thought before answering.

Ollivander slept often.

Luna wandered.

Dean found ways to make himself useful.

Harry and Ron attempted to discuss things quietly.

Hermione noticed when they did.

“I can hear you.”

The whispering from the other side of the kitchen stopped.

Hermione continued reading.

Harry glanced towards Ron.

Ron shook his head.

“You were discussing the sword.”

Neither answered.

Hermione looked up.

“I've been sitting six feet away.”

“We weren't hiding it from you,” Harry said.

“You lowered your voices.”

“You were reading.”

“I can do both.”

Ron leaned against the table. “You're supposed to be resting.”

Hermione's expression tightened.

“I am resting.”

“You've been reading for two hours.”

“Yes, Ron. Famously exhausting.”

“Yesterday you nearly fell asleep halfway through a sentence.”

“I was tired.”

“That's sort of my point.”

Hermione closed the book.

“Would everybody please stop behaving as though I've suddenly become incapable of knowing when I'm tired?”

Ron opened his mouth.

Harry intervened.

“Nobody thinks that.”

“Really?”

Harry hesitated.

It was enough.

Hermione pushed herself carefully from the chair.

“I'm going outside.”

Fleur appeared in the doorway carrying folded washing.

“Take your coat.”

Hermione stopped.

For one glorious second she appeared ready to argue on principle alone.

Then she took the coat.

Ron wisely said nothing.

The front door closed behind her.

Fleur watched it for a moment before looking towards him.

“Do not.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You were going to follow 'er.”

“I was going to get some air.”

“With no coat?”

Ron looked down at himself.

Harry almost smiled.

Then something passed through the cottage wall.

Everyone froze.

Silver light swept across the kitchen.

Harry was on his feet before it had fully taken shape.

Ron reached instinctively for his wand.

Fleur dropped the washing.

A great silver lynx landed silently upon the stone floor.

For an instant, nobody moved.

Then Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice filled the room.

“The Ministry is increasing searches throughout the south. Several safe houses have already been compromised.”

Harry's expression changed.

The Patronus continued.

“They are looking for Potter, but arrests of suspected sympathisers have increased. Do not travel unless necessary. Do not answer unfamiliar Patronuses. Assume established routes are being watched.”

A pause.

“There are reports of new detentions following raids in London. I don't yet have names.”

The lynx began to fade.

“Stay hidden. I'll send word when I know more.”

Silver light disappeared.

The kitchen remained silent.

Ron was the first to speak.

“Well.”

Harry looked towards the door.

Fleur was already retrieving the washing from the floor.

“You will stay 'ere.”

Harry frowned. “Kingsley just said—”

“Exactly. 'E said stay 'idden.”

“We need to know who they've taken.”

“And walking into London will 'elp?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You were thinking eet.”

Ron glanced towards Harry.

“He was.”

Harry ignored him.

Bill entered from the adjoining room, his wand already drawn.

“What happened?”

“Kingsley,” Harry said.

That was enough to change Bill's expression.

Outside, Hermione had heard none of it.

The wind coming from the sea carried little beyond the waves and the occasional call of gulls. She had made it only as far as the low wall near the cottage before deciding that standing had been a sufficiently ambitious demonstration of independence for one afternoon.

She sat.

Then the cottage door opened behind her.

Hermione looked around.

Harry stood there.

One look at his face was enough.

“What happened?”

“Kingsley sent a Patronus.”

She was already getting up.

Harry immediately regretted the phrasing.

“Hermione—”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing we need to do anything about right now.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“That wasn't what I asked.”

Ron appeared behind him.

Harry looked back.

“Helpful.”

“I haven't said anything.”

“You've got the face.”

“What face?”

Hermione stepped towards them.

“Would both of you stop doing that?”

They looked at her.

“Doing what?”

“Deciding which parts I'm allowed to know.”

Neither answered.

Hermione's jaw tightened.

“I'm injured. I'm not an idiot.”

Harry exhaled.

Then he told her.

By the time he finished, Hermione had forgotten about going outside.

“Did he say where the raids were?”

“No.”

“Who had been arrested?”

“He doesn't know yet.”

“Were they Ministry raids or Snatchers?”

“He didn't say.”

Hermione frowned.

“That's important.”

Ron folded his arms.

“Hermione.”

“What?”

“You're doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Planning.”

“I am asking questions.”

“You ask questions before planning.”

“That's generally how planning works.”

“Exactly.”

Hermione stared at him.

Behind them, Bill had joined Fleur in the doorway.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck.

Nobody seemed quite certain whether the message had changed anything.

That was perhaps the worst part.

Outside Shell Cottage, people were still disappearing.

The Ministry was still hunting them.

Hogwarts remained under Snape.

Somewhere beyond the cottage's protections, friends and strangers alike were continuing a war that had not paused simply because Hermione Granger needed time to recover.

Inside, the consequences of that fact were already becoming another argument.

Then a silhouette at the edge of the cottage boundary.

Unfamiliar but patient.

Friend or foe, whomever the silhouette belonged to.

They were drawing nearer...

Until that evening, Shell Cottage had been quiet.

The wind coming from the sea rattled faintly against the windows while Fleur moved between the kitchen and sitting room, clearing the remains of dinner. Somewhere upstairs, Bill was doing something that involved opening the same cupboard three times and apparently finding none of its contents satisfactory.

“Bill?”

No answer.

Fleur placed another plate beside the sink.

“Bill?”

“Found it.”

“You 'ave been looking for ten minutes.”

“I knew where it was.”

“Of course.”

His footsteps crossed the floor above.

Fleur smiled faintly and reached for another plate.

Then came the crack.

She stopped.

Not thunder.

Not the cottage settling in the wind.

Apparition.

Close.

Very close.

Fleur's wand was in her hand before the second crack sounded.

Bill appeared on the stairs.

“Did you hear that?”

“Yes.”

Another crack split the night.

This time there was shouting.

Bill was already moving.

“Stay inside.”

Fleur stared at the back of his head.

“Do not be ridiculous.”

She followed him.

The front door opened against the wind.

Beyond the cottage, darkness stretched towards the sea.

For a moment there was nothing.

Then Bill saw movement near the beach.

“Over there.”

They ran.

Shapes were scattered across the wet sand.

A young man was struggling to his feet. Nearby, a girl with long dirty-blonde hair knelt beside an elderly man who seemed barely capable of remaining upright.

Bill slowed.

“Luna?”

Luna Lovegood looked towards him.

“Oh. Hello, Bill.”

He stared at her.

Dean Thomas pushed himself upright nearby.

“Where are we?”

“Shell Cottage.”

Dean looked around.

Then back towards the darkness behind him as though expecting something to emerge from it.

“We need help.”

Fleur was already beside Ollivander.

The old wandmaker looked scarcely alive. His clothes hung from him, his face hollow and grey after months of imprisonment.

“Can you stand?”

“I believe so.”

He attempted it.

Fleur caught him before he reached the ground.

“No. Apparently not.”

Luna moved to help.

Bill looked towards Dean.

“What happened?”

“Malfoy Manor.”

Whatever question Bill had intended to ask disappeared.

“Who else?”

“Harry. Ron. Hermione. Griphook.”

Bill's expression changed.

“Harry Potter?”

Dean nodded.

“They're still there.”

Fleur looked up sharply.

Then came another crack.

Everyone turned.

Several figures appeared farther along the beach.

Ron Weasley struck the sand hard enough to fall to one knee.

Hermione came down with him.

For one terrible moment, Bill barely recognised her.

Her face was almost colourless beneath tangled hair. She seemed unable to support her own weight, one arm caught around Ron as he struggled to keep both of them upright.

“Hermione.”

Fleur reached them first.

Ron looked up.

“She needs help.”

“I can see zat.”

“She was—”

His voice caught.

He looked back towards Hermione.

Her eyes were open, but unfocused.

“Hermione?”

She didn't answer immediately.

Ron tightened his hold around her.

“It's me.”

Her gaze found him eventually.

“Ron...”

“Yeah.”

She looked past him.

The beach.

The cottage.

Darkness beyond the dunes.

None of it seemed to mean anything to her.

“Where...?”

“You're safe.”

Hermione frowned faintly.

“Where are we?”

“Shell Cottage. Bill and Fleur's.”

Her eyes moved towards Fleur.

Recognition did not come immediately.

Fleur crouched in front of her.

“'Ermione. Eet is Fleur.”

Hermione stared at her.

Then something seemed to settle.

“Fleur...”

“Yes.”

Hermione looked around again.

“Harry?”

“He's coming,” Ron said.

Her attention returned sharply enough to him that he immediately understood the answer had been wrong.

“Where is he?”

“He's with Dobby. They're coming.”

“Dobby...”

She seemed to lose the thought halfway through it.

Her hand moved weakly towards her other arm.

Fleur reached instinctively to help.

Hermione recoiled.

Not far.

There was barely enough strength behind it.

But suddenly she was looking at Fleur without recognition again, breath catching as she tried to pull away.

“Don't—”

Fleur stopped.

Immediately.

“I will not.”

Ron looked stricken.

“Hermione, it's Fleur.”

Hermione's eyes moved towards him.

“Fleur,” he repeated. “You're at Shell Cottage. Remember?”

A few seconds passed.

Then she nodded.

Once.

Fleur kept her hands where Hermione could see them.

“I need to 'elp you inside. I will tell you before I touch you, yes?”

Hermione didn't answer.

Fleur waited.

Eventually another small nod.

“All right.”

She moved slowly.

Hermione flinched anyway.

Ron looked towards the empty beach.

“Where the hell is Harry?”

As though answering him, another crack tore through the night.

Harry appeared.

He landed badly, stumbling several steps before dropping to his knees in the sand.

Something small was held against his chest.

Luna stood.

Harry didn't look towards anyone.

“Dobby?”

The elf moved weakly in his arms.

Harry lowered him carefully onto the beach.

Then everyone saw the knife.

For several seconds, even the wind seemed distant.

“No,” Harry whispered.

He pressed both hands around the wound.

“Dobby. Come on.”

The elf's enormous eyes found him.

“Harry... Potter...”

Harry bent closer.

Dobby smiled.

And then he was still.

Harry didn't move.

Ron stared from several yards away, one hand still clasped around Hermione's.

Luna lowered her head.

Dean said nothing.

Fleur's expression tightened.

There would be grief later.

Questions too.

Far too many of them.

But the night had not finished demanding things from them yet.

A low groan came from nearby.

Griphook lay several yards from where Harry had appeared, one hand pressed against his side.

Bill crossed towards him.

“Dean, help me.”

Dean moved immediately.

Fleur looked towards the cottage.

“Ron, we need to get 'Ermione inside.”

“I've got her.”

“Zen help me carefully.”

Hermione's eyes opened again as Fleur and Ron began helping her towards the cottage.

“Harry?”

“He's here.”

She tried to look back.

Ron moved with her.

“He's all right.”

Harry was kneeling on the beach.

Hermione stared towards him.

Something small lay in his arms.

Her brow furrowed.

“Dobby...?”

Ron didn't answer.

Harry bent over the elf.

Luna had moved towards him.

Nobody else had.

Hermione watched without seeming to understand.

Then Harry lowered his head.

Something changed in Ron's face.

Hermione saw that before she understood anything else.

“What...?”

Ron swallowed.

“Hermione, come inside.”

Her eyes remained fixed on the beach.

“What's happened?”

This time he couldn't answer.

She looked at him.

Then Harry.

Then Dobby.

Understanding arrived slowly through exhaustion and confusion.

Her face emptied.

“Oh.”

That was all.

Fleur gently began guiding her towards the cottage again.

Hermione went with her.

Behind them, Shell Cottage stood with its front door open, warm light spilling across the grass towards the beach.

It had been home to two people at dinner.

Now Luna Lovegood, Dean Thomas and Garrick Ollivander needed shelter. An injured goblin needed attention. Ron Weasley was trying to help Hermione reach the cottage while barely willing to move more than a step from her side.

And Harry Potter remained kneeling beside a dead house-elf in the sand.

Nobody yet knew precisely what had happened at Malfoy Manor.

Nobody knew whether they had been followed.

Nobody knew how long any of them would need to remain here.

There had barely been time to ask.

Bill and Dean were bringing Griphook towards the house. Fleur was attempting to manage Hermione and Ron simultaneously. Luna had moved quietly towards Harry, while Ollivander remained near the cottage, exhausted and unsteady.

Questions could wait.

For the moment there were injuries to tend, protections to check, frightened people to settle and far too many things requiring attention at once.

Shell Cottage had ceased being quiet in less than ten minutes.

And the night was only beginning...

Several days after Malfoy Manor, Hermione Granger had discovered that recovery came with an unexpected number of opinions.

Most of them belonged to other people.

“No.”

Hermione stared across the sitting room.

Ron stared back.

“I wasn't asking.”

“That doesn't make it better.”

“I said I was going downstairs.”

“You nearly fell over coming up the stairs yesterday.”

“I stood up too quickly.”

“You walked into the wall.”

“I did not walk into the wall.”

Harry looked up from the chair beside the window.

“You sort of did.”

Hermione turned towards him.

Harry immediately returned his attention to the book in his hands.

Ron pointed.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, don't encourage him.”

“I don't need encouraging.”

“You generally do.”

Ron opened his mouth.

Hermione was already reaching for the cardigan folded across the end of the bed.

That ended the argument considerably faster than words had managed.

“Hermione.”

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Getting dressed.”

“I can see that.”

“Wonderful. Then we've established your eyesight remains functional.”

Ron stood.

Hermione gave him a warning look.

“Don't.”

“I haven't done anything.”

“You're about to.”

“I was standing up.”

“You were standing up because I stood up.”

“I've been sitting here for half an hour!”

“And apparently you've become very attached to the chair.”

Harry made a suspicious noise behind his book.

Ron looked towards him.

“Whose side are you on?”

“There aren't sides.”

“There are definitely sides.”

Hermione pulled the cardigan around herself.

The movement was careful.

Too careful.

Her expression tightened as one sleeve passed over her forearm, but she continued without comment.

Ron noticed.

To his credit, he said nothing.

Hermione noticed that too.

Somehow, that irritated her almost as much.

She crossed towards the door.

“Hermione.”

This time it was Harry.

She stopped.

“What?”

He lowered the book.

“Where are you actually going?”

“Downstairs.”

“To do what?”

Hermione stared at him.

“Do I need an itinerary now?”

“No.”

“Because if we're introducing permission slips, I'd like some warning.”

Harry sighed.

“Nobody's saying you need permission.”

“Really? Because every time I stand up, one of you behaves as though I've announced an expedition to Romania.”

Ron folded his arms.

“You're not going to Romania.”

“Thank you, Ron.”

“Just checking.”

Hermione closed her eyes briefly.

Then opened them again.

“I am going downstairs. I am going to sit at the table. And I am going to find out what we're doing next.”

There it was.

Harry's expression changed.

Ron looked away.

Hermione caught both.

“Oh, honestly.”

“Hermione—”

“No.”

She turned fully towards them.

“You've been discussing it without me.”

Harry didn't answer.

“You have.”

“We've talked about things.”

“What things?”

“Nothing decided.”

“That isn't the point.”

Ron exhaled.

“The point is you're supposed to be recovering.”

“And apparently recovery now requires everyone else making decisions while I'm asleep.”

“We're not making decisions for you.”

“You're deliberately keeping things from me.”

“Because every time someone mentions anything about the Horcruxes, you start trying to work it out!”

Hermione stared at him.

“Yes, Ron. That's rather the idea.”

“You need rest.”

“I have rested.”

“For a few days!”

“And how many would satisfy you?”

Ron hesitated.

Hermione's voice sharpened.

“A week? Two? A month? Shall I stay here until the war is over?”

“Nobody said that.”

“Then tell me when.”

Silence.

That was the problem.

Nobody could.

Hermione looked between them.

Some of the anger left her face, replaced by something quieter.

“The war hasn't stopped.”

Harry closed the book.

“No.”

“People haven't stopped being arrested.”

“No.”

“Voldemort hasn't stopped looking for us.”

“No.”

“And the Horcruxes haven't conveniently destroyed themselves while I've been in bed.”

Harry's jaw tightened.

Hermione saw it.

Her voice softened slightly.

“So what exactly am I supposed to do?”

Ron answered first.

“Get better.”

“I am getting better.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes.”

Hermione looked down.

For a moment her fingers worried absently at the edge of her sleeve.

Then stopped.

“And I'm trying.”

That took some of the fight out of Ron.

“I know.”

“But I can't just sit here while everything carries on without me.”

Harry watched her for a moment.

“It's not carrying on without you.”

“It feels like it is.”

Nobody had an immediate answer to that.

From downstairs came the clatter of something being dropped.

Fleur's voice followed.

“Dean?”

“Wasn't me.”

“It was absolutely you.”

“It slipped.”

“How does a saucepan slip from a cupboard you were not supposed to be in?”

A pause.

“I can explain.”

“You may begin.”

Luna's voice drifted faintly up the stairs.

“I thought it made quite a nice sound.”

Despite herself, Hermione's mouth twitched.

Ron noticed.

He wisely chose not to mention it.

Then footsteps approached the stairs.

Fleur appeared in the doorway.

She took in Hermione standing fully dressed, Ron standing opposite her, Harry holding a book he plainly hadn't read for several minutes, and the atmosphere occupying approximately twice the available space in the room.

Her eyes settled on Hermione.

“No.”

Hermione's mouth fell open.

“I haven't even said anything!”

“You are dressed.”

“I am allowed to wear clothes!”

“Of course.”

Fleur looked towards Harry.

“Where is she going?”

“Downstairs.”

Hermione threw both hands up.

“Why does everyone keep saying it like I'm attempting to escape?”

Fleur considered her.

“Because yesterday you said you were going to ze kitchen and we found you outside.”

“I wanted some air.”

“You were wearing slippers.”

“I wasn't planning a hike!”

Ron looked away.

Hermione pointed at him.

“Don't.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You're thinking loudly.”

Fleur stepped aside from the doorway.

“Fine.”

Hermione stopped.

“Fine?”

“You want to come downstairs? Come downstairs.”

Ron frowned.

“Fleur—”

She silenced him with a look.

“'Ermione is correct about one thing. We cannot lock 'er in a bedroom.”

Hermione gave Ron a triumphant look.

Fleur continued.

“But.”

The triumph disappeared.

“You will sit when you need to sit. You will eat when food is put in front of you. And if you become tired, you will not begin an argument with your own body as though you can win through stubbornness.”

Hermione looked offended by several portions of that sentence.

“I don't—”

Fleur raised an eyebrow.

Hermione stopped.

Harry's mouth twitched.

“Not one word.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You were going to.”

Apparently satisfied, Fleur turned and started downstairs.

Hermione remained in the doorway.

Ron watched her.

Harry watched Ron watching her.

Hermione caught both of them.

“If either of you offers to help me down those stairs, I will hex you.”

Ron blinked.

“You haven't got a wand.”

A dangerous silence followed.

Harry slowly lowered his book.

Ron realised his mistake.

Hermione stared at him.

“That,” she said very quietly, “was an exceptionally poor choice of words.”

“Yeah.”

“Remarkably poor.”

“Got that.”

She stepped onto the landing.

Ron remained exactly where he was.

“Good decision.”

Hermione began making her way downstairs.

Slowly.

Carefully.

And entirely under her own power.

Below, Shell Cottage continued around them. Dean was apparently defending himself against allegations involving cookware. Luna had begun offering testimony of questionable relevance. Bill had just come through the back door, bringing cold sea air with him, while Griphook remained somewhere beyond the sitting room.

Whatever happened next had not been decided.

That, Hermione had apparently decided, was precisely the problem.

By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, the argument upstairs had ended.

The larger one was only beginning...