Chapter Text
In Hermione’s humble opinion, the wizarding world often took a concerning amount of pride in its supposed superiority over the Muggle world.
They had wands, magic, and entire enchanted realms at their disposal, and all too often, it seemed they forgot the value of simple, everyday experiences.
They viewed the Muggle world as quaint, inferior even, as if no true wonder could be found outside the boundaries of magic. But no, this—this was something far beyond boring, this was a beauty that no spell could replicate. Standing here now could be described as nothing short of magical.
It was like stepping into a sun drenched postcard. The late summer air wrapped itself around Hermione, kissing her tan and flooding her senses with the perfumes of the riviera. Wooden boats dotted the aquamarine bay and the trees tousled gently in the breeze, singing to the birds who all looked decidedly rotund. No one could deny the romanticism of the scene before her- least of all Hermione- and she found herself feeling like— no knowing— that for the first time in a long time there was no where else that she’d rather be.
The past few summer breaks had soured something within her. It was a punch to the gut every time she was ripped from her life that she’d laboured so tirelessly to build.
She remembered her first summer home in particular—after helping Harry and Ron find the Philosopher’s Stone, when she'd read Hogwarts: A History cover to cover twice and memorised the spell-work for second-year charms before most of her classmates had even touched a textbook.
She had been buzzing with magic— with purpose— but as she returned home, all of that energy had nowhere to go. Her parents had tried, of course. They asked questions about her classes, nodded politely when she explained the theory behind wand movements, but their eyes glazed over.
And as the summers had come and gone, resentment had started to brew.
Every year that she’d build rapport with the people and the culture that surrounded her, made her transition home slightly more painful than the last. Ten months of the year would see her pour over books and papers and practice like her new life depended on it- because it did and every summer she was once again painfully reminded that being muggleborn had its seemingly undefinable challenges. They’d spent so long telling her she was just like them and there weren’t any barriers, just to then starve her of any magical interaction for the next two months.
Adding salt to the wound was the knowledge that Ron and Ginny were still so immersed in magic — surrounded by spells and enchantments — while even prats like Malfoy still had their magical thirst satisfied.
But also she knew, she knew, that Harry had to return to the horror that was Privet Drive. She knew that Ron felt inadequacy every day that he was home, surrounded by the unglamorous truth of the Weasley household, unable to match the grand expectations he had of himself. She knew that by most standards— muggle or magic— that her parents and by extension her life were more than most people could ever hope for.
But still.
Somehow, she could never seem to escape the dread and self-loathing that came with being sent back to where she came from. Going from owls and spells and friendship and even exploding snap to TV and still photos and asphalt and football.
It was a complicated adjustment every June, made more so particularly because she was so delighted to be reunited with parents and the homesickness was something that Hogwarts could never entirely ward away. But more and more, she found herself hating how she was almost spat out by the magical community every time she went home.
However, in the most delightfully serendipitous way, there had been something so spectacularly different about this summer. As though all those other times that she was longing for magic, she had missed that beauty that was her original life.
She’d spent the first few weeks feeling so unexpectedly giddy and untethered— like taking off the time-turner had given her her youth back, even though she’s gained time while using it—not lost it.
After what had felt like a year of just treading water, trying to stay afloat, she was now finally standing back on land. No essays, no escape plans, no late-night homework in the common room.
Just her.
And her parents.
And a holiday sent straight from heaven. Northern Italy.
Oh tantalising, romantic, indulging Italy had lit her soul and thawed her icy heart, gently reminding her that being muggleborn at times, was actually quite enchanting.
~*~
She padded barefoot across the cool marble tiles, her toes brushing against a fallen olive leaf that had blown in from the garden below. The balcony doors of the villa were flung open with abandon and Hermione smiled as the sounds of the coastal life that filled the room. The faint clink of coffee cups and the melodic trill of Italian voices floated up from the town just below their situation, where sun-kissed locals meandered between gelaterias and linen boutiques. Somewhere, someone strummed a guitar lazily — a half-hearted rendition of Volare that made Hermione smile, even as it stirred something deep and bittersweet within her.
Even the Standard Book of Spells (Grade 4) — which she’d commandeered from an unsuspecting Cormac McLaggen during an episode with the time-tuner — laid open but deserted on one of the coffee tables.
This was captivating, Hermione decided, and if this is what muggle life was, then she was proud to say that she was muggleborn.
She glanced over at the book, its pages curling slightly in the incoming breeze. The margins were scribbled with notes — not her own — and she imagined Cormac’s lopsided scrawl, the self-importance that clung to even his handwriting. She really ought to return it, eventually. But that would mean having to talk to him in some capacity, so perhaps not. In any other circumstance, the book would have been read thrice over by now but Hermione was quite content to leave it alone, even just for today.
Instead she eyed one of the settees and flung herself down, tucking her knees to her chest, and uncharacteristically allowed herself to simply exist.
While typically she felt safer and more in-control in the confines of routine and rigorous schedules, it was a small but heady delight to have so much time for herself.
No timetables.
No house points.
No frantic scribbling in the library while Ron whispered about lunch and Harry sketched out Dumbledore’s latest theory in the margins of his parchment.
No impending danger, either.
But that wasn’t something to think of now.
Now, there was ripe peach juice on her fingers and sunscreen in her curls and the promise of nothing pressing for at least a few more hours, except maybe some swimming and sweetened food.
“Honeybunch,” her Mother called breaking her musings, as she strolled into the room from the staircase, “Daddy and I have booked the courts for ten, so have something to eat and make sure you’ve got your factor 50 on, ok?”
Elaine Granger was a tall, willowy woman with the kind of natural poise that made people turn their heads without knowing quite why. Her long chestnut hair, streaked with summer blonde, was swept into a loose chignon, and her hazel eyes—exactly like Hermione’s—missed nothing.
There was a calm sharpness about her, the kind that came not from arrogance but from a mind used to precision. A celebrated dentist back in London, Elaine possessed the sort of intelligence that didn’t need to announce itself—it simply settled into the room like light through a window.
She had always encouraged Hermione’s curiosity, always asked the extra question, the one that made her daughter tilt her head and think a little harder. And though she didn’t understand everything about the wizarding world, she understood Hermione—perhaps better than anyone else.
Most importantly though, there was no-one Hermione loved or trusted more than her Mother.
Dressed very attractively in her skintight tennis whites, she began gathering a book and a few magazines and placing them into the tote that she always took with her to the courts.
She pointed to the Standard Book of Spells (Grade 4) with raised eyebrows, silently asking if Hermione wanted to read while her parents played against each other, but Hermione shook her head, leaving magic out of their family tradition.
Undoubtedly there would be water bottles and drinks packed in there too if anyone needed them.
While, Hermione reveled in anticipating the needs of the trio while at school, she wasn’t too proud to admit that she still very much enjoyed being doted on by her parents and letting them take such great care of her in any way that they wanted to.
Neither Harry nor Ron (or anyone at Hogwarts for that matter) knew of Hermione’s hidden love of tennis. This was a part of herself laid dormant during most of the year, a part of her that stood waiting in the wings while she was rummaging through the footnotes of forbidden books or helping Harry and Ron escape their latest entanglement. So she was more than happy to let it roam free while she had the time, while she still could. She highly doubted that there would be courts at the Ministry.
Hermione had always been resolute in her future plans, her ambitions as clear and as sharp as the top of a freshly sharpened quill. She’d been planning her path to the Ministry of Magic since her second day at Hogwarts. Every step of her journey was mapped out in precise detail—details so meticulous that they could have come straight from an instruction manual on how to live a life with purpose.
She’d thought it all through: O.W.L.s then N.E.W.T.s, the application processes, the internships, the connections she’d need to make. She could see it all, crystal clear, unfolding before her in a future that held no surprises, no confusion, and absolutely no room for wavering. (And these visions most certainly had not come from any of her wasted hours spent in Divination.)
Ron, of course, would roll his eyes at the sheer rigidity of it all. The very thought of Hermione's plans—her schedules, her to-do lists—made him squirm. Harry, on the other hand, would try his best to understand, but the weight of the expectations she placed on herself undoubtedly made him uneasy.
Hermione felt no such discomfort, though. In fact, she felt soothed by the certainty of her plans, firmly grounded, like an oak tree weathering the storm. She had no doubt in her mind who she was and where she was going—each decision already made, each obstacle already anticipated.
But in the theme of unexpected epiphanies this summer, Hermione felt, for perhaps the first time her life, the sands of time shifting beneath her feet.
It wasn’t the uncertain world outside the walls of Hogwarts that caused her pause, nor the anticipation of the upcoming school year.
No, it was the realisation that time—tennis time—was running out. She was standing on the precipice of the future, but before she could take that first step, she was confronted with the harsh truth: the end of her childhood was just around the corner.
Hermione Jean Granger, brilliant, determined, and meticulous as she was, was soon to be fifteen—a far cry from the younger, precocious version of herself. She was almost halfway through her time at Hogwarts, and for the first time, she felt the weight of it all.
It wasn’t fear she felt—not exactly—but a deep, poignant sense of loss. She had a whole life to look forward to, yes, but the person she was right now, this girl with bushy hair and a fierce intellect under the Italian sun, would soon be past version of herself. This version of Hermione—the one still navigating the corridors of Hogwarts, laughing with her friends, struggling with the burdens of growing up—was quickly fading. That everything she loved about her current life would soon be behind her. The world she inhabited now would soon give way to something else—something bigger, but perhaps more silent, as the demands of adulthood grew heavier.
And in that silence, she realised she was running out of time—not to prepare for her future, but to truly embrace her present, to savour these last few moments before she became someone else.
Her Mother called again, this time more distantly, perhaps from downstairs, and Hermione stood, stretching her arms high above her head. A few birds flitted across the sky, casting shadows like inkblots across the whitewashed walls. She didn’t know what the upcoming year would bring, and for once, she purposefully wasn’t going to plan for it, at least not today.
Not here.
Not in Italy.
She slid the book shut — a soft thwack that sounded oddly final — and let it rest on the table. There’d be time for spells. For now, she’d go downstairs, sip orange juice with pulp, and listen to her parents squabble lovingly over backhands and forehands.
~*~
After slipping into her tennis dress and applying yet another layer of sunscreen, Hermione made her way out of the villa and down to the courts, towards the familiar sounds of her Father’s theatrical grunts and the rhythmic thwack of tennis balls.
By the time she’d joined them, the sun was climbing toward its apex and her Father had already lost the first match--foolishly begging a second--presumably in the hopes of reclaiming glory. Her Mother called out a hello, squinting in that way only a Mother can — equal parts affection and sunscreen-related concern.
Her parents were both surprisingly nimble for two people who dealt with teeth all day—her Mother especially. She had a deceptively calm serve, graceful and precise, while her Father played more like a boxer; all power and lunges but lacked finesse.
Hermione held her own, too—the recent years of increased reflexes from dodging Harry and Ron’s wayward spells and navigating moving staircases had their advantages—but she didn't mind losing a few games. At least not here, not with them.
“Ah Honeybunch, you finally made it. We were beginning to think you were too cowardly to defend your title.” Her Father called out after narrowly winning the second match against her Mother. Although, going by her self-satisfied smile, that was exactly how she wanted the game to go.
Hermione adjusted her grip on the racquet and narrowed her eyes at her Father, who stood poised on the other side of the net with a mischievous grin and sweat beading his brow.
“Ready for the rematch of yesterday’s game?” he called again, bouncing a ball from his pocket once.
“Only if you’re prepared to lose. Again,” Hermione shot back, grinning despite herself.
“You’re on.” He pointed at her with his racquet and circled back to the baseline, preparing for Hermione’s serve.
Her Mother chuckled, now at the sidelines seated beneath a striped parasol, her posture effortlessly, as she sipped on a tall glass of lemonade and settled in to watch the match unfold with a quiet, knowing smile.
“Honestly, you two are so competitive, one would think that this is Wimbledon.” This was partly true but the mind games were as much fun as the actual playing.
Hermione bounced the ball a few times, glancing up to plot where she would strike. Satisfied with her choice she lobbed the ball upwards, watched the ball arc into the air, then lunged into motion, her trainers skidding slightly on the terracotta-coloured surface. The racquet met the ball with a satisfying thwack, and the match was on.
Darting across the court, cheeks flushed and eyes alight with joy, her Father put up a valiant fight but Hermione was proud to say that she had retained her title, at least for today.
After accusations of unfair play from her Father and congratulations from her Mother, the three of them made their way back up to their villa to refresh before they headed out again. Today, they would celebrate with sandwiches from a café that served everything with the tiny pickles, and maybe later go for a swim, after some gelato and exploring cobbled streets that whispered of centuries gone by.
By the time their plans were lived through, the afternoon air was cooler now, bleeding almost into dusk, with a softness that signalled the slow approach of August’s end. Hermione had just returned from the villa’s pool, a towel slung over her shoulder and the ghost of a sunburn blossoming on her cheeks, when she spotted it.
There, on the island bench—half-buried beneath the La Repubblica her dad was reading—a thick, slightly crumpled envelope addressed in a familiar, gangly scrawl.
Her heart stuttered.
She didn’t need to flip it over to know. She could picture the ink-stained fingers that had gripped the quill, the way the parchment might have smudged when he leaned on it too soon.
Ron.
Hermione plucked it carefully from the table, ignoring her Father’s murmured protest as she crinkled the corner of the newspaper.
“I’ll be outside,” she announced to no one in particular, already drifting away.
She sank into the sun chair she’d claimed as her own over the last few weeks, knees curled under her, and ran a finger along the edge of the envelope. There were crumbs in the fold—of toast, probably—and a faint smudge of what might have been ink or marmalade.
Her heart sang in delighted approval and with a bright smile blooming on her lips, she opened it.
Mione,
I hope you’re well and not studying already.
Mum’s making me write this properly because apparently asking someone to the biggest event of the year requires "a bit of effort, Ronald." So here’s me, making an effort. You’d better be impressed.
We’ve got tickets to the Quidditch World Cup — I know, I KNOW — and Dad managed to wrangle a few extra from someone he works with. The Irish are playing the Bulgarians. It’s going to be massive! You’re invited and you have to come and don’t whine.
We’re setting up camp a few days early and everything. There’ll be loads of food (Mum’s already panic-baking) and Dad’s borrowed this ridiculous tent that looks like a shoebox from the outside but has an actual kitchen inside. I swear, even you’d be impressed by the enchantments.
Harry’s coming, of course. We’re picking him up next week. You should just come straight to The Burrow if you can. Or send an owl if you need someone to fetch you. I told Mum I’d fly to Italy myself but she said if I tried that, she’d hex me bald.
Anyway, don’t say no.
Sincerely,
Ron
P.S. Fred and George are making “World Cup snacks” and it’s already a disaster. Come help before they burn the shed down.
Hermione read it twice, then a third time, a warmth rapidly multiplying in her chest that had nothing to do with the Mediterranean sun.
For weeks she had felt so wonderfully content with the distance between her and the world she’d left behind — and now, here it was again, reaching out. Not with urgency or with danger or dread or some cursed object that needed deciphering. Just… an invitation.
She stretched her eyes out across the bay, then down at the letter in her hands. The pages fluttered slightly in the breeze, like they already knew what her answer would be.
And just like that a switch flicked within her and she knew: it was time to go back.
Hermione folded the letter carefully along its original crease and pressed it flat between her palms, as though the gesture might imprint the warmth of it into her skin. She laid it on the side table next to a half-eaten peach, and let her gaze drift back toward the sea.
A cluster of sailboats now dotted the horizon, their white sails sharp against the afternoon haze. Somewhere below, a bell chimed the hour — five already — and she knew that no matter what happened in the upcoming year, this was the perfect way to spend her summer — epiphanies and all.
But as the excitement of her upcoming plans had begun gaining momentum inside of her, the homesickness was also stirring from its slumber. Inconspicuously it arrived, as it always did — that dull ache at the edges of her joy, reminding her that goodbyes were never clean.
Still, she refused to let it take hold. With a steadying breath, she gathered herself and stood. There was no more time for heartache, not when she needed to pack.
Still with her towel around her neck, she rose and slipped back into the villa. The tiles were cold now, kissed by shade, and the scent of roasting tomatoes trailed through the air. Her parents’ laughter floated down from the upstairs sitting area, and Hermione smiled to herself as she moved towards her bedroom of the last few weeks, heading straight for her trunk.
The letter went carefully into the inner pocket of the lining, tucked safely between her wand and a dog-eared copy of Hogwarts: A History. She packed slowly, methodically — not because she was delaying anything but because it felt like a ritual. A soft goodbye. She finished the other half of that peach in two bites, licking the juice from her fingers, before snapping her trunk shut with a satisfying click.
~*~
“Everything alright, Honeybunch?” Her Father asked as he sipped on what he had just moments ago described as the ‘perfect, crisp blanc’.
Hermione gathered her thoughts for a second and looked down at the fish her parents had jointly prepared, then nodded. “Yeah but I think I’m ready to go back to school.”
Her Father’s eyebrows shot up in comical surprise. “Back to rainy old Scotland? With those uniforms? And the lizard exams?”
The final question broke through her nerves and she released a true, hearty laugh. “They’re called N.E.W.T.s, Daddy and I don’t take them for a few more years.” He fixed her with a quizzical stare as if to ask what business reptiles had with magical examinations.
“And yes, even the uniforms. I just think it’s time to head home.”
“Well, I for one don’t ever want to leave,” he shuffled his napkin from his lap to his hands “but if you’re ready, then we’ll think about heading home then, hm?”
This launched the usual questions about start-of-year logistics, and her Mother produced the Hogwarts letter that had arrived that very afternoon. The excitement she got from seeing that emerald cursive was something Hermione was sure would never fade. She swiped the letter from her Mother and began to scan the booklist meticulously, already making mental notes of what she could get ahead on.
She didn’t tell them about Ron’s letter though.
Not yet.
There’d be time tomorrow — time for travel plans and ticket details and making sure she didn’t forget her pyjamas again like last year. For now, she wanted one last day like this.
Because summer wasn’t over. Not quite.
And neither was she.
~*~
It wasn’t until the sun began to sink — casting long amber ribbons across the terracotta rooftops — that the ache resurfaced.
Hermione, back in the pool, swum absentmindedly and watched her parents chat and sip Aperol Spritzes like they hadn’t a care in the world. Her Father was re-telling one of his stories — something about a dental convention in Manchester that had involved a very unfortunate mix-up with a false tooth and a buffet table — and her Mother was laughing the way she always did when he told it, like she hadn’t already heard it twenty times.
Hermione smiled faintly, but there was a heaviness pressing at the corners of her chest.
Even as her heart tugged toward The Burrow — toward the lopsided house and the chaos of Weasley laughter and the scent of Molly’s cooking drifting out from the kitchen — another part of her clung stubbornly to this version of herself that existed only here, between tennis matches and seaside lunches and the languid hum of a place untouched by curses or wand-work. It was a version she would dearly miss.
She’d had so much fun these last few weeks. Just her, her Mother, her Father. Books. Food. Her Mother’s food. Long, meandering chats in the kitchen with her bare feet dangling as they sat perched on countertops, her Mother absentmindedly braiding her hair as they talked about books and politics and boys — though Hermione rarely volunteered the latter.
And then, always — regardless of how she was feeling about the summer — there came this moment. The one that felt like the beginning of the end.
How did you grieve something you still had?
Maybe I could hold onto both Hermione thought hopefully. Maybe this was the lesson Italy had quietly, stubbornly taught her; that she didn’t have to choose between worlds. That being muggleborn wasn’t just a technicality, a label slapped on by a prejudiced system — it was a bridge. And she, Hermione Jean Granger, had every right to walk across it in both directions.
She heaved herself out of the water and picked up one of the many towels strewn about, making her way back inside, turning her back on a summer that had healed her. Inside the curtains billowed gently behind a side table where on it, sat an old photo her Mother had brought with them — one of the three of them in Devon, years ago. Hermione couldn’t have been older than seven, still missing a front tooth, smiling up from a tidepool with a jellyfish guidebook in her lap.
A small smile formed on her lips.
They never said it — her parents — but she knew they missed her more than they let on. She could see it in the way her Mother would linger over breakfast, or how her Father would pause in the hallway outside her room like he wasn’t quite ready to shut the door. They were proud of her — beyond proud — but the distance had carved something tender into all of them.
The moment broke when her Mother’s voice floated in from outside, warm and unhurried. “Honeybunch, there’s still some lemon tart, if you’d like? Come and grab a slice before your Father starts his fourth.”
Hermione lifted her head, wiping away a stray curl off her cheek.
“Coming,” she called back, her voice only a little thick.
She marched outside, determined. She would go back to the wizarding world, of course— and she’d love every moment. Of course she would, there was still so much to do.
But tonight, she would sit beside her parents, eat lemon tart with her fingers, and pretend — just for a little while — that nothing had to change.
The sky stretched ink-blue above the villa, now heavy with stars. The sea was murmuring below on the shores, and the cicadas had finally quieted. The air was still warm but gentle now — the kind of warmth that wrapped itself around you like a memory.
~*~
Later that evening, the kitchen was softly lit, with a cool breeze drifting through the open windows. Hermione sat at the counter in one of the woven-backed stools, one knees drawn up beneath her chin, wearing one of her Father’s old university jumpers — something too big and worn soft with age. She was absentmindedly fidgeting with the pearl pendant on her necklace.
Her Mother was standing by the sink, slicing strawberries into a chipped ceramic bowl. The scent of them — sweet and sun-drenched — mingled with the faint tang of lemon balm from the bunch hanging by the window.
They hadn’t spoken much since dinner. Just this quiet kind of togetherness that never felt silent. Just enough.
“You’ve been quiet today,” her Mother said finally, without turning around.
Hermione’s fingers traced the rim of her glass. “Have I?”
Her Mother turned, a knowing smile tucked at the corner of her mouth. “You always are, around this time. Right before you go.”
Hermione felt her throat catch, but said nothing, simply nodding.
Her Mother walked over, placed the bowl of strawberries between them, dusted lightly with icing sugar, and sat down beside her. For a moment, they just ate — fingers sticky with juice, the silence filling in like warm water around their ankles.
Then: “I always feel like I’m mourning something,” Hermione said softly, eyes fixed on the countertop. “Even though I’m excited, I’ll miss you and Daddy so much. I know I belong there, but when I’m home, I feel so wronged that I’m not surrounded by magic still, like everyone else.”
Her Mother didn’t answer right away. She reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind Hermione’s ear, her touch feather-light. “I think,” she said softly, “that’s just what love feels like, sometimes.”
Hermione blinked, surprised.
“You’re not mourning leaving, exactly,” her Mother went on, “you’re mourning how we can’t live these days again. Not in quite the same way. That’s the ache.”
Hermione swallowed. “But I’ll be back. Maybe for Christmas and definitely for next summer.” She professed indignantly.
Her Mother nodded. “Of course. But you’ll be different and so will we. That’s not bad, it’s just… life.”
Hermione looked down at her hands, still stained faintly from the strawberries. Her chest ached in that same sort of way — the kind that didn’t need fixing, just naming.
“I wish I could stay here and go back.” She finally confessed.
“I know. I feel that way too. I wish I could keep you forever and watch you fly away. But that’s the wonderful price we pay for getting to love something so much.”
They sat for a while longer, until the stars began to shift in the windowpane and the bowl was empty. Eventually, her Mother reached over, took her hand gently, and said, “Come help me pack the kitchen things in the morning. We’ll wrap the olive oil in socks again.”
Hermione laughed, the sound small but true. She hated that job. “Deal.”
Her Mother stood first, then leaned down to press a kiss to Hermione’s head — slow and sure, like a period at the end of a sentence that didn’t need rewriting.
“Sleep well, Hermione. I love you so much.”
“I love you too, Mummy. More than anything.”
With one more kiss pressed to her head Hermione watched her go, then stayed at the counter a while longer, breathing in the last notes of the summer.
She didn’t cry. Not quite. But she did close her eyes and sat very still, memorising the weight of this version of her life — the version that smelled like sea salt and lemon balm and her Mother’s perfume.
~*~
The Burrow appeared with a familiar pop just past the rusted gate and the overgrown hedge that always looked like it was on the verge of swallowing the path whole. Hermione stumbled slightly as her feet met solid ground again, the Portkey — an empty bottle of Tuscan olive oil, chosen more for convenience than camouflage — clinked on the dirt beside her. Gnomes dashed through the long grass and Crookshanks--who she’d picked up from a cattery back in London--leapt from her arms in hot pursuit of some fun.
The scents hit her all at once: wildflowers, wood smoke, something unmistakably edible and very possibly on fire... and love. In its own strange way, this place had become a kind of home.
Before she could properly gather herself, the front door slammed open. “HERMIONE!”
It was Ginny, barefoot and beaming, her hair a frizzed halo around her face, wand tucked behind one ear like a pencil. Hermione grinned to herself.
Ginny had always given her so much— love, friendship, memories— and in this moment, she realised how much it meant
“You’re here!” Ginny flung herself down the steps, practically tackling Hermione in a hug that knocked the breath out of her.
“I’m here,” Hermione managed, laughing as she steadied them both. “Gosh, you’ve grown.”
“You always say that.”
“Well, you always do.” A beat before, “I missed you. Terribly.”
“Oh yuck, don’t go all sentimental on me now.”
They grinned at each other for a heartbeat — that unspoken, sisterly understanding — and then Ginny grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the house.
“Come on, Mum’s in a state over the stew and Ron’s been pacing since sunrise like a complete idiot. You’d think he was the one being invited somewhere for once.”
Hermione didn’t have time to reply before they were through the door, the chaos of The Burrow wrapping itself around her like an enchanted blanket: the smell of dinner simmering on the stove, a teetering stack of ’The Daily Prophet’ papers in the corner, and Arthur’s voice floating in from the back garden as he argued gently with something he’d accidentally enchanted again.
And then, from the stairs— “Hermione?”
She turned just as Ron came down, his hair wild, shirt askew, a suspiciously Quidditch-themed bath towel slung over one shoulder.
“Hi,” she said, and it came out a little softer than she intended.
He blinked, mouth opening, closing, then opening again. “Hi.”
A beat. Then Ginny rolled her eyes. “For Merlin’s sake, she’s not royalty. You’ve known her for years, get over it!”
Hermione laughed and gathered him up in a light, quick hug. “It’s good to see you, Ronald.”
“You too, you look-” but apparently decided not to finish that sentence, his cheeks flaming in that way that made her want to both tease and hug him again all at once.
Fred and George appeared just in time to cut the moment short, one of them muttering, “Oh no, it’s happened — Ron’s broken again,” while the other dramatically clutched his chest. “Right when we started to tolerate him!”
“Bugger off,” Ron muttered, but he was grinning, Hermione grinned too.
The kitchen table was soon overflowing with food and voices, the kind of raucous, overlapping conversation that made her feel like no one was listening and everyone was heard at the same time. Molly Weasley pressed a butterbeer into her hand and kissed her on the cheek like she hadn’t just seen her last term. Mr. Weasley asked about Italian plumbing with genuine concern.
Percy, who wasn’t nearly as bad as Ron would lead one to believe, greeted Hermione primly before informing her that he had procured his apparition licence, much to Hermione’s delight. Although Percy was much different from Ginny and Ron and the rest of the Weasley’s, something about him called to Hermione in an unexpected way and although unconventional, a friendship had blossomed between the two. There was no effort made to maintain the relationship but whenever they saw each other, it was always met with happiness and thought provoking conversation.
Harry emerged from upstairs mid-meal, looking rumpled and utterly thrilled to see her.
It was loud. It was messy. It was perfect.
And as she sat at the table, laughter ringing in her ears and Ron beside her with gravy on his shirt and a smile that was all teeth and nerves, Hermione felt peace settle inside her.
“Where’s the books, Hermione?” Harry asked with a grin, his messy hair a familiar reminder of all the long days of running through dust and spells. He slid into the seat next to her, his elbow nudging Ron’s with a well-meaning, half-smirk.
“I think the real question is, why do you always look like you've been through a blender whenever I see you?" she teased, reaching over to tuck a loose lock of hair behind his ear.
Harry laughed, unabashed. “Yeah, I’ve got that charm, haven't I?”
His eyes twinkled as he reached for another slice of bread, the corner of his lip curling up in that endearing, half-cocked grin that made her want to protect him for the rest of her days.
Ron snorted, elbowing Harry. “Yeah, you’ve got charm, all right. The kind that makes people wonder if you’ve been cursed with a permanent state of disarray.”
“Better than whatever you’ve got going on with that shirt,” Harry shot back, eyeing Ron’s gravy stained Quidditch towel.
“Oh, bloody hell.” Ron’s laughter was easy, his earlier awkwardness fading into comfort. The teasing continued, light and familiar, as the three of them fell back into the rhythm of old friendships—comfortable, effortless, and full of the kind of humour that only time could create. It felt like they’d never left.
Ron glanced at Hermione, his eyes softening as if he was searching for something in her face. “So, Italy, huh? You get up to any trouble over there?”
Hermione met his gaze, heart skipping a beat. “Who, me? Never.” She smiled, but her eyes held something more — something she couldn’t name just yet but then a mischievous smile crept onto her face.
“Well actually, there was this one time when I almost had to single-handedly fight a hag—”
Ron’s eyes went wide. “What?!”
“—in a potion store,” she finished, laughing as she caught sight of his exaggerated concern.
Ginny rolled her eyes. “You really have to stop telling him things like that. He takes everything so literally.”
“Literally everything,” Fred added, as he and George slid into the seats across from her, their faces split in identical grins.
“He’s probably still convinced Hermione’s secretly the leader of a wizarding crime syndicate.”
“Fred!” Hermione shot him a mock-glare, but her eyes sparkled with affection. “I thought I had you two convinced I was just a mild-mannered, bookish witch.”
George gave her a raised eyebrow. “Right, the bookish witch who has a secret recipe for cursed cake and an affinity for throwing things at people.”
“Might be true,” Ginny chimed in, her voice light. “Remember the time Hermione hexed that bludger right out of the air at the Quidditch match?”
“That was an accident!” Hermione protested, though she couldn’t help but laugh. “I was just trying to help!”
“You helped,” Ron grinned, his cheeks still a bit flushed. “It hit the wrong person, though.”
Hermione shot him a playful glare. “You’re lucky I was aiming at the bludger and not your head, Ronald.”
“That’s my girl,” Fred said, winking as he plopped a plate of potatoes in front of her. “Taking down bludgers and bullies with equal ease.”
The conversation continued to swirl around her, a whirlwind of chatter and laughter. She felt herself sinking deeper into the comfort of it all, like she belonged here—like she always had.
The meal wound down, and the kitchen began to empty, save for a few lingering voices. Mr. Weasley was still animatedly discussing Muggle contraptions with Harry. Ginny and Fred were leaning against the counter, exchanging excitement about the upcoming events. Hermione found herself leaning back in her chair, letting the quiet of the moment settle in, the warmth of the room wrapping around her like a thick, soft blanket.
Ron looked over at her, a sheepish smile on his face. “You never told us how Italy really was,” he said, voice quieter now, the conversation flowing around them but the two of them lost in their own corner of the world. “Was it… everything you thought it would be?”
Hermione hesitated, eyes flicking to the window where the stars were starting to twinkle faintly in the darkening sky. “It was beautiful, perfect even,” she said softly. “But not the way I thought it would be. There’s a difference between the kind of beauty you can visit, and the kind that feels like it’s been in your life for ages.”
Ron was silent for a moment, clearly thinking. “Yeah. I get that,” he said quietly.
Hermione met his gaze, glad to see warmth in his eyes, but also curious at something else, something more — something unspoken, yet undeniably present.
And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel the urge to rush. She let the moment hang, like a spell, that quiet connection between them.