Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, and the Plate of Carleigh

Painstakingly bright sunshine poured in through every square inch of every rectangular, circular, and hexagonal window of the Granger household. With the beginning of summer just at the day's edge, such glorious light was purely expected, in most scenarios. The Grangers, two ordinary dentists who lived their lives in the clean-cut ways that dentists tend to like to live, and who had earned a substantial amount of money--enough to buy a reasonably sized apartment in the center of bustling London--went about their day-to-day routines as if nothing had changed since the summer before. Of course, the occasional unexplainable occurrences in their world was answered by the whereabouts of their daughter, Hermione, but to them, the events of the past month left little effect, try as they might to grasp the severity of the situation, and the cause for their seventeen-year-old's dismay.

Instead of taking her usual walk down to the public library every afternoon, and happily taking a seat beneath the oaken window ledge at the North side of her warmly decorated peach bedroom, to write letters to her friends from school, Hermione had spent every minute of every cheery day inside and constantly reading and rereading anything she had ever learned in the magical world, which in her six years of schooling, had accumulated to be an ample amount. She'd never been a girl to cry without some plausible reason, but after the death of Hogwarts' latest headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, the spawning of tears each night was not uncommon. Though she would protest that they could do nothing for her, and she would be alright, her parents felt guilty at providing so little support.

Her latest prey for research had fallen upon history book after history book. The discovery of R.A.B's identity seemed the one thing that she had a grasp upon. Perhaps one clue would lead to another and so forth...

"Darling, your father and I are off to work. Anything you want us to bring home for dinner?"

If she had been in better spirits, Hermione might have laughed at how casual the question sounded when her efforts were supposed to be stemming some plan to save the world. Glancing up for a moment from her reposing text that had managed to find a permanent spot upon her desk in the corner of her bedroom, a quick shake of her head caused the mass of bushy brown hair to bounce lightly. Chocolate brown eyes wavered on the door once more, and rosy lips formed a slight smile as Marie Granger nodded understandingly, her own dark brown hair waving in response. The faint moment of distraction wrenched Hermione away from her train of thought. Somewhere between the crusaders of the Werewolf Rights Movement of 1916 and the Wizangamot's latest inception she dropped a sturdy leather page-marker and gently folded the front half of the book upon the rest of it.

Biting her lip in the usual signal of concentration, she stepped back and brought the wicker chair with her while instantly making her way to the bedroom window where the same sunny sky she'd been staring at all summer hung for another day. Her arms crossed over her chest and a slight shiver rippled up her spine as the memory of dementors bringing a chill to the July air only a year ago lingered. Habitual nature kicked in, and a smooth cream colored hand slid down her pocket and grasped around the polished surface of her wand. What little comfort the object might have provided at one point seemed to have dissolved with Dumbledore's death. If he could be killed so easily, then what chance in the world did she have? What chance did Harry have to change the fate of the world?

For the next few days, Hermione found a subject upon the tip of her tongue every time one of her parent's gave a warm smile, nod, or comforting embrace. Her own eyes would droop slightly out of sadness, especially at the dinner table when the subject more prevalent than ever. Her last conversation with Ron during Dumbledore's funeral reminded her that the time to visit the Weasleys was going to arrive faster than it ever had before, even though the days of absence from her friends were passing slower than she had ever remembered.

"Mum?" Hermione tentatively tried one evening as she dried dishes with a flick of her wand. Being seventeen (the age of adulthood in the Wizarding world) certainly had advantages.

However, Mrs. Granger's look of pure interest and concern shot down any chance that Hermione had once had to reveal what she'd been meaning to say. It was too dark to speak of, and yet the thoughts were festering inside of her just as they had that fateful night. She and Luna...Waiting for Professor Flitwick...

"Nothing," came the immediate response. "Never mind. No big deal." What a lie all of that was.

Of all the things about the Wizarding World difficult to relay to her parents, the fact that someone as evil and power-hungry as Voldemort existed and was going to destroy Muggles and Wizards alike was one of the hardest. But even more than just Voldemort's existence was the fact that Harry Potter, that dark-haired bespectacled boy the Grangers had always adored, who seemed so average and ordinary, was the only one who could stop this ghastly being from ruling the world and that Hermione agreed to stand by her friend until the death was even more so.

Back in her bedroom, the young witch cringed as the sounds of cheerful and eager footsteps made their way towards the front door. "It's the day," she whispered to herself, trembling despite her attempts not to. Had her hair not been so unruly, running a hand through it would have been the customary thing to do.

"Hermione! We're home!" Edward Granger's warm voice sent a surge of heat through his daughter's chest. Immediately the realization of how few the moments of them being together as a family were chilled all temporary happiness and left her face flushed and clammy. Inching up from her calico bedspread covered queen size destination for sleep, and dropping her petite bare feet over the side, she responded robotically and kept creeping towards the door. Her right hand firmly grasped the doorknob, momentarily forgetting its job to turn the round fixture.

As if understanding that she needed to buy herself a little time, but not wanting to feel guilty about it, a high-pitched familiar hoot of Ron's dwarf-sized owl, Pigwidgeon, echoed from her bedroom window. Leaping from her spot beside the door, Hermione shoved the window open and beckoned the minuscule creature into her room. As the tiny nocturnal bird flitted about, hooting joyfully at the sight of a familiar face, it hastily dropped a tiny scroll of parchment carefully tied with a maroon ribbon. A recognizably slanted and scratchy handwriting that Hermione could have picked out of a pile of a million essays to be Ron's could be seen scrawled over the entire page even though it was still tied.

Despite her feelings only moments before, Hermione did finally crack a warm smile as she quickly untied the ribbon. Ron had always complained about the color maroon up until last year when a proclamation had declared his complete and utter change of feeling toward the regal shade. Dropping the smooth fabric to the ground, she slowly unraveled the scroll and stretched it out to a length for decent viewing, allowing Pigwidgeon to nearly crash into her shoulder from overexertion of his petite muscles.

Dear Hermione,

How has your summer been? Seems I ask that question every year, but...You know...It's something you're supposed to ask someone after you haven't seen them for almost a month. It seems a lot longer than that actually.

A painful lump of emotion swelled in the back of Hermione's throat just as an unprecedented amount of fluttering in her stomach burst forth. Things between her and Ron were different now. At the funeral a door had been opened, and though afraid of what might come charging through in the way of giving in to hidden emotions, she allowed it to remain ajar hoping the redhead understood that it was safe for him to step through. They couldn't deny the feelings anymore. She was still tentative about letting teenage crushes get in the way, but Ron, though clueless and idiotic at times, would be around as long as she would and they might as well be honest with one another in the time that was left.

Everyone here misses you. To Hermione's utmost glee the faint words of "I miss you" could be seen. Ron's erasing charm still needed much work.

Harry...Well, you know all about Harry. It's been rough. He's sort of out of it. Hate seeing him like that, and honestly Gin isn't much better. Things are sort of awkward over here at the time being. It's worse when all sorts of relatives that you've met once in your life are swooping in unannounced and staying for prolonged periods of time. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy for Bill and Fleur but right now it's chaos over here and things feel strange.

You're coming for the wedding. Doesn't matter what you think about it but you're coming. (You have started to think better of Fleur, haven't you?) And then...We'll see what needs to happen after that. It's only two weeks away so Mum says to have you over in about a week. I know that because of this summer's circumstances things are a little different. You're probably hoping to stay at home for as long as you can. I get it. Just let me know if you need anything.

-Ron Weasley

So it was clear now that she was not crazy for having such sad thoughts about the future. She was not alone, and now felt ashamed for ever believing such a thing. Ron, Harry and Ginny were all feeling her pain. They needed her and wanted her, and she knew it was time to muster all that natural courage and go to them. She'd been putting it off for far too long.

Gently setting the letter down on her cluttered desk in the corner of her bedroom, she bit her lip, considering what she'd just realized while fumbling together a letter to send back with Pig who yipped gleefully before flying out the window. Had she really been putting off seeing her friends? She could honestly answer with a no. Her friends meant the world to her and she couldn't wait to see them! Looking at the picture taken of the four of them during last year always made her smile. But it was the picture just to the right of it, on the same nightstand by her bed that made her cringe. The smiles of her happy family might never be the same after what must be done. After Voldemort...If such a thing was going to happen. She didn't like to talk about the death and destruction, but realistically, she knew it was all going to happen, and that is what she'd been putting off just as Ron had informed her.

Hearing the cheery laughter of her parents downstairs brought knots to Hermione's stomach, and yet it made her realize something: the happiness of the people of this world is what they were fighting for and their sacrifices, in the long run, would be worth it.

Reaching once again for the brass doorknob, she gripped it and felt its smooth surface against her own smooth skin. This time, she felt a bit surer of what she was doing, while firmly twisted the fixture and pushed open the door before taking a deep breath and calling down the stairs, "Mum! Dad! Ron has written to me and I think we need to talk."