Hermione Granger stood on the steps of number 42, Cook Lane, wondering if she would faint or be sick or both, considering her sweaty palms and trembling knees.

Come on, now, you're a Gryffindor! she thought to herself, clenching her hands into fists. She had certainly faced much worse than this before, but she couldn't deny that she was still absolutely terrified. She had fought Death Eaters, destroyed a piece of Voldemort's soul, made it to the very end of the Battle of Hogwarts alive, and still she doubted her courage.

She had researched everything ages in advance. The moment Harry had confided that he would abandon his final year at Hogwarts to stop Voldemort, she knew what had to be done. Now, over a year later, came the true test. Now she would see if her spells had worked.

She rang the bell, half hoping they weren't home. Their car was parked in the driveway, and considering the dismal weather, she doubted they would go on a walk. At the Burrow, the sun was shining as the August sky celebrated the departure of the dementors and the gloom they brought with them. Hermione wanted nothing more than to be there, enjoying the weather and pretending to read while watching Ron play Quidditch with Harry, Ginny, and whichever Weasley brother had stopped by for dinner. George had caught her staring once; he teased her terribly, but it was good to see him smiling again. He had been so quiet, so unlike himself lately. She pushed the thought away. Thinking of Fred and George always brought her such a terrible feeling of emptiness, she thought she might cry if she hadn't run out of tears weeks before.

After a painfully long moment standing on the doorstep, she began backing away from the door. If no one was home, she would have to come back later, she would have to...

She froze, not daring to believe her ears. There were footsteps approaching, and with it, a woman's voice.

"Really, Wendell, didn't you hear the doorbell? Who could it be at this hour? Poor soul must be half frozen by now!"

The door swung inward, revealing a middle-aged woman with bushy brown hair and perfectly straight teeth. She looked at Hermione as if she had never seen her before, but smiled just the same, waiting for Hermione to speak.

"Mu— I mean," stuttered Hermione, whose chest felt horribly constricted. "Are— are you... are you Monica Wilkins?"

"Yes," said Monica, looking utterly bewildered.

"Yes, I'm— I'm so sorry to disturb you. I was wondering... I'm sorry." She took a deep breath. A week worth of practicing what to say and she completely lost her head! She made Ron drill her endlessly for this moment; she wasn't about to ruin it now. She tried again, this time more clearly, without the hint of desperation that lingered before. "My name is Hermione Granger, and I was wondering if I might have a word with you and Mr. Wilkins? It's a government matter, Mrs. Wilkins."

Monica's eyebrows all but disappeared behind her fringe. "A government matter? Miss... er... Grange did you say?"

"Granger," corrected Hermione, feeling most out of place. She was suddenly reminded of the end of her third year, and Harry's voice seemed to echo in her head.

"This is the weirdest thing we've ever done."

Well, she thought grimly, nodding to a flustered Monica Wilkins, who ushered her inside. This is certainly the weirdest thing I've ever done.

As she followed Mrs. Wilkins down the hall, she noticed the absence of old photographs on the wall. The house was quite clean and devoid of any superficial furniture. The only things that appeared to be kept in abundance were books. Each room that they passed had at least twenty; they sat on coffee tables and counters, on shelves and desks, disguised as paperweights and centerpieces. Hermione felt reassured by these books. She felt at home where there were books, and this place was no exception.

"Wendell, this is Ms. Granger. She wants to speak with us about a government matter." Hermione jumped. She had almost forgotten why she was there. Monica stood behind her husband, who sat in an armchair, clearly in the middle of perusing the latest issue of Dentistry Today. The Wilkins looked at her expectantly and once again, Hermione felt sick. This was the moment. She had gotten in, and now she had to do it.

But what if it went wrong? What if it had already gone wrong, and her first charm had been too strong? What if it couldn't be reversed? They both seemed perfectly content as Monica and Wendell Wilkins. Hermione wrung her hands as the thought she had been dreading most once again surfaced.

What if they're happier here than they were as my parents?

She had no strength left. She couldn't do it. She couldn't possibly...

"Would you like some tea, Ms. Granger? You look quite ill." Wendell peered at her through his glasses as if surveying another patient with a particularly large cavity. The situation looked rather bad indeed.

"Oh, you must be chilled to the bone Ms. Granger!" said Monica sympathetically. She came around to lead Hermione to a couch to sit down. "Come rest a bit, and then you can tell us what you're here for."

As she released Hermione's arm, she smiled. "What a beautiful necklace! I wore a locket when I was your age, too. Wendell gave it to me as a gift, but I lost it when we were on holiday in St. Jean de Luz, lovely city in southern France, if you've ever been. It must've come off in the ocean!" She gave a merry laugh and went to the kitchen to prepare some tea. Wendell excused himself for a moment and Hermione was left alone, clutching the locket around her neck, her heart pounding harder than ever.

She knew Monica hadn't lost her locket in the ocean on holiday. She remembered the locket, remembered playing with it when she was three, taking it with her while Mummy was on the phone. She had dropped it in the toilet while trying to reach the sink to wash her hands. Hermione, being the clever child that she was, knew that things in the toilet were dirty and supposed to be flushed. Waving bye-bye, she flushed Mummy's necklace down the drain, and that was the end of that.

Of course, Monica wouldn't remember how her locket disappeared because she had no idea that her name was not Monica Wilkins, that Hermione Granger was her daughter, or that Hermione was a witch who had modified her memory to protect her from Lord Voldemort. Hermione knew that she couldn't just explain all this to her parents before fixing their memories. They would think she was a raving lunatic and send her off at once.

She gripped her own locket, trying desperately to find the courage to fix what she had done. She thought of Ron. He was strong, and he had given her this locket so that she could be strong, too.


"Hermione, I want you to have something," Ron said, turning to look her in the eye. Part of her wished he hadn't. She knew she looked a total mess. The cool breeze had turned her nose pink, her hair was bushier than ever, and her eyes were brimming with tears. He smiled and her heart leaped.

"Don't cry, 'Mione, it's all right." His large hangs brushed her cheeks and she smiled despite herself. She loved it when he called her 'Mione.

"I'm sorry, Ron." For what, she wasn't quite sure, but she couldn't think of anything else to say. He ignored it; he didn't seem to want to say any more than was necessary. Not that she could blame him. They had been talking about the Horcruxes and she had finally asked him what really happened the night he came back, when he destroyed the locket. He had been hesitant, but she had not interrupted, other than to burst into loud sobs at the end of his story. He was quite taken aback, but he put his arm around her anyway until she stopped crying enough to tell him that Harry was like a brother to her, and she was sorry she didn't tell him how she felt sooner. He had seemed quite pleased with this reaction and they sat in an easy silence for some time before he spoke again.

Now he was helping her up, and with her legs numb from cold, she stumbled into him and he laughed. It was one of the first laughs she had heard from him or anyone else at the Burrow in weeks. She laughed, too, and they were smiling ear to ear when they reached Ron's room.

All the moving Quidditch players had stopped their practice to watch Ron's movements, which were clumsy and nervous. The back of his neck and ears were very red, and he didn't speak or turn to face her as he looked for something on his bedside table. She stood very still. Something important was about to happen; either she would end up snogging him or yelling at him by the time it was over. She hoped it was snogging because she rather enjoyed it.

When Ron turned around, was holding a small box in his hand which he thrust towards her.

"The other one— well, it's a locket, you're going to open it anyway— but the other one, the Horcrux..." his face seemed to crumple, but his voice stayed strong. "The other locket made me think you didn't give a damn, but if you wore this one I... I know I drive you mad and I always say the wrong thing, but I just want you to like me and I—"

But Hermione had already thrown his arm aside and tackled him in a fierce embrace. She didn't stop kissing him until they were both so out of breath that they could just grin at each other before they spoke again.

"So," Ron began, the red returning to his ears. "That means... you'll wear it?"

She smiled. "Always."




"Ms. Granger?"

Startled, Hermione jumped again, letting go of the locket as if it had burned her. She had forgotten she was sitting on the sofa of number 42, Cook Lane with Monica and Wendell Wilkins, who were looking at her with expressions of alarm. Monica set down the tea tray and she and her husband exchanged looks.

Before they could say another word she stood up and raised her wand, pointing it straight at Monica's head.

A few incantations later, a very dazed Jane Granger stood looking at her daughter with a mixture of confusion and joy. Mr. Wilkins was beside himself.

"What the devil have you done to my wife?! You're not with the government! What's that you're pointing at her? Who are you?"

"George, why are you shouting at Hermione?" said Jane, quite perplexed by her husband's behavior. Normally he was very tolerant of magic, although he sometimes expressed regret that Hermione could have been an excellent dentist like him had she not been a witch.

"Who is George, Monica?" Mr. Wilkins shouted. Hermione was so happy that her mother seemed to be herself again that she forgot she still needed to fix her father's memory. She rolled up her sleeves once more.

"And who is Monica?" Jane Granger shouted right back.

"But—I say, what the deuce..." But Mr. Wilkins never finished his sentence, and moments later he had forgotten the argument and was embracing his daughter.

Weak with relief, Hermione sunk back onto the couch and listened to the barrage of questions from her parents with an expression of bliss on her face.

"Where are we? This isn't our house—"

"Oh dear, where have you been? You're so terribly thin!"

"Say, has this got to do with those friends of yours? Harry and Ron! You always seem to get into trouble with those two."

She laughed and hugged them close to her, happy to have her family once again.

I did it, Ron, she thought. She took a deep breath and began to explain, omitting stories where there was too much danger, so they wouldn't worry, or where there was snogging Ron, so they wouldn't tease her.

The tea tray sat forgotten on the coffee table, wedged between two stacks of books at number 42, Cook Lane in Australia.