And just like that, time rolled forward. He was married in June and while the event itself was happy, how he'd gotten there was marred by strife. Ginny was constantly disappointed by his indifference when it came to the preparations. It would have been hard for him to be fully engaged in it even if he wasn't consumed by his own personal investigation into Hermione's disappearance. Auror training kept him quite busy. The classes were tough, but the physical training was worse. He was braindead and bone tired most days.

She had wanted a big wedding, just like Bill's. But unlike her brother's wedding, hers wouldn't be ruined by the war intruding. It'd be a real celebration of the light triumphing over the dark. He got it, he really did, even though he'd have preferred something smaller, more intimate. He didn't understand why she even needed his help; she knew what she wanted. Quite frankly, he couldn't care less about flowers or the color of the bridesmaid's dresses. He was marrying her, not some ruddy dresses. What did any of this matter?

And no matter how hard he tried to explain to her that he was exhausted and though he was quite glad she was having fun with this; he'd just like to rest... she just didn't get it. Because she somehow juggled her duties as a Hogwarts student with her duties as a bride, she felt he ought to be able to do the same. He'd pointed out that Auror training was vastly different from studying at Hogwarts. It was far more demanding on your body and mind.

Besides, Molly was doing most of the leg work anyway. He knew for a fact that all Ginny had really done was pick out her own dress, her mother had been handling most everything else which he wasn't shy about pointing out. That particular fight made the rows that Hermione and Ron had gotten into seem like pleasant teatime conversation by comparison. They'd nearly ended it before it even began. But somehow, they'd managed to persevere and move past it. Most likely because she'd noticed some of the rather nasty bruising from one of his training sessions when they were snogging.

If he was being honest, Ginny had a point; he sort of lost himself when in training. He pushed harder and faster than he needed to. He worked overtime, piling on extra classes with the kind of zeal Hermione had always tried to instill in him. To those who knew him well, the transformation was a bit alarming. It didn't help matters that he had a long history of becoming single-minded about things, to the detriment of his personal and professional relationships. This time was no different than any other time before.

It normally took four years to become an Auror. Harry could have skipped all those years by virtue of being the one to defeat Voldemort. But he didn't. In his secret heart, he had pushed himself because he secretly wanted to make Hermione proud once he found her. So he took all his required classes and more, passing with distinction. He breezed through every last examination and was welcomed into a post as a rookie Auror a year and a half after he'd began. He was the most promising graduate the academy had ever seen.

A distinction he nearly threw away.

Once he'd become a full-fledged Auror, he had, of course, looked into his friend's disappearance. Her case hadn't yet been closed, as per protocol. Being so close to the case, Harry wasn't technically allowed to have anything to do with it. Despite knowing this, he couldn't stop himself from interfering. He hounded the two other Aurors working the case. They were deferent at first, because of who he was and the man he'd defeated. But their leniency soon wore off. He was reprimanded a number of times and then suspended twice. They'd never go so far as to threaten to sack him, they knew better, but they did their level best to force him to toe the line.

Fact was, despite his insubordination regarding the Granger case, he was an excellent Auror. When it came to closing cases, his numbers were incredible. And of those closed cases, nearly 97% resulted in a secured conviction. The Barristers at the DMLE loved him; the cases he worked were easy. His paperwork was orderly, he gathered evidence meticulously, and who in Merlin's name wouldn't take Harry Potter at his word. All they had to do was put him on the stand.

That being said, his interference with the Granger case meant that he was often passed up for promotion, even though it was clear he deserved to be fast tracked into a command position. Worse, his unyielding dedication to the case caused friction in his marriage. Ginny wasn't happy that he hadn't gotten promoted, true, but it wasn't enough to really damage the relationship... if that's all it had been. It was his obsession with Hermione - his need to find her that was at the heart of the problem.

It was also due to the pervasive media coverage.

The Daily Prophet had a field day over Hermione's disappearance. It had been a relentless and awful circus that had gone on for three full years. Harry had long ago learned to deal with his life being under a microscope, but Ginny, who'd only ever been on the periphery of it, had not. Every single day there was some new featured article or update on the case, and they were almost always filled to the brim with blatant lies and half-truths. His favorite was when someone leaked the charges of insubordination and his suspensions because he got 'too involved' with her case.

The headline blared: 'Potter's Folly: Defeating He Who Must Not Be Named Is Not Enough For The Boy Who Lived' and detailed how his intrusion was bogging down the detectives who were "diligently" working day and night to find Miss Granger. Then there was the insinuation of why he was obsessing about it, bringing up those old Triwizard Tournament rumors. Once again, he was painted as an attention seeking lunatic who was madly in love with his best friend and wanted to singlehandedly solve the case for his own glory. It was mostly horseshit. But it had hurt Ginny deeply. She'd always been insecure when it came to Hermione.

During one of their many rows about the subject, she had tearfully admitted that she felt like there were three people in the marriage. "And the one w-who isn't even here... the o-one who isn't e-even your w-w-wife is more important to y-you."

He didn't even bother to argue with her. She was right, after all. From that point forward, he'd stopped bothering the detectives about Hermione's case. All the boxes of leads and information he had were packed up. The 'war room' he'd set up in the old drawing room in Grimmauld place was abandoned. It was over. He'd promised her it was over.

When they'd declared Hermione dead last year, he pretended not to hear the nearly inaudible sigh of relief from Ginny, who was at his side when they'd announced it. He pretended it hadn't made him furious, that he didn't hate her just a little bit for being relieved. He pretended not to be angry and insulted that the DMLE and the Auror department had barely made an effort to find her to begin with and had given up at the nearest available opportunity. He pretended that it didn't irritate him that everyone got on with their life so easily while he sat here pretending and feeling miserable inside.

But he'd done what he promised. He'd let it go, for the most part. If he thought about it now and again, well, no one would ever know. Ginny rarely asked questions when he got moody. He could tell her he was just thinking about work and it wouldn't really be a lie. She wasn't persistent like Hermione, who would have hounded him until he told her what was bothering him. It had been annoying sometimes... but he could also admit the he liked it when she did stuff like that. It meant she cared about him. And he liked talking to her. He missed talking to her. Missed that exasperated tone she got when she thought he was being stupid. Missed the sweet way she'd say 'oh, Harry' before explaining things to him. Even now, he found himself turning to his right to ask her a question, only to remember she wasn't there.

If he was truthful, he had never wanted to stop looking for her - to this day. He hadn't wanted to give up on her. But he had...

He stopped to make his wife happy. And when he stopped, it had made his superiors happy enough with him that he'd been quickly promoted. He'd made Assistant Chief Auror just last year - the youngest to ever hold the position. He was well on his way to becoming the head of the department, if he wanted it. All because he'd let it go... let her go.

For almost three years he'd kept his promise.

Spread out across his desk was a series of photographs of a woman and a child. The angle of the photo allowed him to see the woman's face but not the boy's. It allowed him to easily identify her. She had dyed her dark hair a light caramel color that suited her well. It was shorter than he remembered it but just as wild and untamable as ever. It was wrapped up in a knitted scarf that Dobby had made her for Christmas in fifth year. He remembered it was her favorite scarf for that purpose, even though the colors the house elf had chosen were hideous. Her dark eyes glittered as she smiled and caught the dark-haired little boy pelting at her at full speed, wincing when his broom banged into her head.

To anyone who didn't know her it looked like a sweet picture of a mother and a son. The kind of heartwarming photo most Quidditch fans would love to see in a feature about their local league. But he knew the woman in the photograph... he knew what her real smiles looked like and the one she wore in this picture was most assuredly not a genuine smile. It was the smile that hovered between mortal terror and blessed relief. The boy had done something to scare the living daylights out of her and she was happy he was on the ground now.

He'd know that smile anywhere. She'd given it to him a thousand times, after all.

According to the note Dean had sent him, the picture was taken at the Paris Urban Quidditch League, Port d'Ivry branch. It was taken by a well-known professional Quidditch photographer named Jehanne-Lucie Méliès. The photo itself was taken in December of 2005 around Christmas. It was July 2006 now, only three days before his birthday. It had been about seven months, then, give or take.

She was in Paris right now and had been there long enough that she had a child. He supposed it might be someone else's - perhaps a friend's child - but the senses he'd honed as an Auror told him the kid had to be hers. In the sixth photo in the series, she'd held the boy out as if she was examining him; gently touching him as if she was making sure everything was okay - it was in the way she kissed his cheek and held him closer. It was something he'd seen both Fleur and Audrey do a hundred times when their children had hurt themselves at the Burrow.

Guessing the ages of a young child from only a photograph was rather difficult proposition and it didn't help they hadn't caught the boy at a better angle; all he could see was the back of his head. His best guess was the boy war around four... maybe five. She wouldn't move around if she had a young child, Hermione was far too responsible for that. This meant that she felt secure enough in her alias that she hadn't moved in a long time.

There was no question she had an alias. He'd figured that out ages ago. It was why no owl was able to deliver a letter to Hermione Granger, because Hermione Granger was someone else now. It was why her envelope was empty and her parent's was not. She had planned on removing their memory charm, therefore her parent's real vital records needed to be intact. But when she'd disappeared all those years ago, she'd taken her own records with her. He was sure that she hadn't meant to make the leave permanent, at first. That somewhere along the line she had made the split-second decision to alter her records - it had been as spur of the moment as Hermione got. The real wrench would be figuring out what that alias was.

Of course, knowing where she was now didn't help him at all. He wasn't as arrogant as he was when he was younger, popping off to Australia in hotheaded fury like an enormous idiot. Paris was a very big city. Without knowing what she was calling herself now, it'd be impossible. He needed a name. That would mean attempting to trace her journey from New Zealand to France, which at this point would be difficult, to put it mildly. Worse, he knew he couldn't use many of the resources he had in the Auror Office. It'd have to be entirely off the record.

Staring at the pictures arranged across his desk, he clasped his hands, one thumb rubbing against the other as he thought. Was he really going to do this? He'd promised... but it wasn't like it was before, when he had nothing at all to go on. He had pictures now and a clear idea of where she really was.

But you promised...

He should just hand it over to his deputy, let her give it to the brass upstairs and leave it for them to figure out. Knowing them, they'd stare at it for a bit before putting it a box and forgetting about it. Assistant Commissioner Dowds had told him point blank last year that Hermione would have to walk directly into the DMLE herself before they'd reverse their decision to declare her dead.

Sighing quietly, he picked out the last photo in the series, the one where the smile she wore was genuine. She was looking at the boy as he spoke, smoothing his messy, wind-blown hair down with a lovely smile on her face. The boy was gesturing wildly, explaining something to her as she listened raptly. She'd built a whole life without them (without him), he realized it then.

And suddenly he was furious at her. Why hadn't she just said something? Explained things? Was it so hard to send word that she was okay... he could have accepted the fact that she didn't want him in her life. He knew he'd fucked up. In the past, when he'd done something stupid or insensitive, she'd never hesitated to tell him off, what had made this any different? Jesus, she'd launched a volley of birds at Ron once... he would have taken his lumps. He deserved it, after all.

In fact, he didn't even need an explanation for why she'd gone. All she would have had to do was owl him to let him know she was okay. He supposed this photo was evidence enough of that, but it stung... it hurt beyond words.

So here he was, staring at this photo wondering if it'd be worth it to start his search for her all over again as his entire body hummed with adrenaline. He had always been brash, reacting with emotion when cool logic was needed. Time had tempered it some, but it was still there simmering just beneath the surface.

He carefully folded the picture of her smiling genuinely and pocketed it. The rest he gathered up with Dean's note and tucked them into a folder. Without a thought, he called in his deputy and handed over the file, giving her instructions to turn it over to Dowd before letting her know he'd be gone for the rest of the day. He strode out of the Ministry purposefully. Usually there were people hailing him, who'd try to stop him with things they thought required his notice. The stormy look on his face warned them away.

Once he was outside the Ministry's wards, he immediately apparated to Grimmauld Place. Standing on the top step, he inhaled deeply, his hand touching the door - splaying his fingers over the worn wood as he contemplated what it was he was doing. He was consciously going to break his promise and he found he didn't give half a damn. Opening the door, he crossed that unspoken line for good as the door closed behind him.

He hadn't set foot here for almost three years. It was as dank and unpleasant as ever. Years ago, he had thought about renovating it and renting it out at Ginny's suggestion, but he could never bring himself to start the process. Even though Sirius hated being here, it was still connected to him. Besides, it'd break Kreacher's heart and Harry couldn't do that to the old house elf.

When the war had ended, he'd shown the old elf the destroyed locket, so that he knew Harry had kept his promise to finish what Regulus had started which had caused Kreacher to burst into a bout of loud, ugly sobs. From that moment forward, the elf had been extremely loyal and had provided years of good service. He kept Grimmauld Place clean as well as Harry's small cottage in Godric's Hollow and the flat in London. Harry thought it would be an insult to gut the house Kreacher cared for so dearly, not to mention unimaginably cruel.

He now mostly used it as a sort of storage space for things they didn't need. Most of it was in the attic, with the exception of the boxes Hermione had left which he'd moved into the old room she'd once shared with Ginny. Coincidentally, that was also where he'd stored all the boxes full of information he'd gathered when looking into her disappearance. Instead of going to the fourth floor, he made his way over to the drawing room. He called Kreacher and seconds later the house elf appeared with a loud crack.

"You called, Master Potter."

"Kreacher, could you please bring down all the boxes relating to the Granger case and clean up this room and get it ready for me?"

The elf eyed him, asking him cautiously with no small amount of disapproval, "Master is looking for Miss Granger again?"

It was no secret that the elf to this day disliked the very idea of Hermione. He called her Miss Granger only because Harry had ordered him to.

"Yes, I am. Don't allow anyone but myself in this room and tell no one what I'm looking into, please." He turned on his heel to head for the fourth floor, knowing that his orders would be obeyed - albeit somewhat grudgingly.

There was one last line to be crossed. When he had first found the box with all her childhood mementoes in them, there had been six Moleskine journals which he had never opened much less looked through. He had felt bad enough that he'd pawed through their family photos and all their vital records. But her journals... it was beyond the pale, if he was honest. Besides, each journal had a year printed on them and they only covered first through sixth year at Hogwarts, and at the time he'd reasoned there was nothing in them that'd be relevant to the case. So he let them be.

But now... now that persistent part of him that was endlessly curious about their contents would not be denied. Most likely, there was nothing in them that would help figure out her new alias. He knew that, he wasn't a fool. It was more the lure of getting inside her head, of seeing what she thought about without all the filters she put on. He'd realized long ago there was a lot about Hermione that he didn't know.

The room where they were stored was dark and quiet. It was obvious a number of other boxes had just been removed, now residing in the old war room. The rest that were left were lined up against the wall, barely visible in the dim light. He opened the musty curtains, disturbing three years' worth of dust. Light filled the room as he coughed roughly before he began searching. It didn't take long to find it. Opening the box carefully, he rummaged through it until he pulled the journals out one by one.

It would make more sense to start at the one marked 1991-1992, as that was their first year and the earliest journal in the series. Instead, he picked the one marked 1996-1997, which was their sixth year. That year had been fraught with tension and perhaps the start of how everything became the way it was now. With great trepidation, he held the journal in his hands and opened it slowly. The very first page of the book had her name and address printed neatly and a sweet message of what kind of reward she'd provide if someone found it when it was lost. He smiled wistfully, brushing his index finger over the words. The second page was a revelation. There was no loopy handwriting, no dated entry that scrupulously recorded what she'd been thinking on that day. Instead, it was two full pages of drawings - Nothing but drawings.

There was a remarkably accurate full-page portrait of Hermione's mum, and a very messy sketch of their compartment on the Hogwart's express. He flipped to the next page; this one was almost entirely portraits. One drawing was of Ron sleeping on the train, his mouth wide open and another of Harry himself at sixteen looking pensively out the window. There were various others, all students or staff of Hogwarts. Each page was something new - there were scientific illustrations of various magical plants, detailed sketches of magical creatures, more than one study of the grounds surrounding the school and an entire two page illustration in ink of Hogwarts itself from the lake that she'd animated to make it look like was snowing. There were a number of still lives. And portrait after portrait after portrait. The subjects she captured most frequently were of Ron and him, of course. Ginny made appearances here and there, so did Luna and Neville. There were also scads of portraits of students he knew, others he didn't, not to mention faculty and staff.

There was some writing, but it was sparse and written almost entirely in French. It usually only appeared on the pages with scientific illustrations, though it occasionally could be found on some of the portrait pages. On the one dated November 1st, there was a lovely portrait of Ron which had been brutally defaced. An addendum had been made in shaky black ink that was dreadfully smudged. It read, 'va te faire fourte, connard' - Harry didn't need to know French to understand it was an insult. If memory served, the day after this drawing was made, Ron had snogged Lavender Brown in the Gryffindor Common room in full view of everyone. Hermione had been devastated.

He sat there for a long moment, gazing at the drawing. His finger carefully tracing the words she'd left behind, wondering what they really meant - wondering if she thought those words, whatever they meant, about him. Closing his eyes briefly, painfully, he shook his head as he put the journal down.

At random, he picked another journal and when he finished that one, he picked another and another. Each page filled with thousands of little drawings. All of them were like that. There were portraits of people long gone in the pages of those journals: Lupin, Sirius, Cedric Diggory, Dumbledore, Fred and a number of animated drawings of Tonks illustrating her rare abilities as a Metamorphamagus. He felt tears rolling down his cheeks... he wasn't sure when that started, but he wasn't exactly able to stop. It took several minutes for him to get himself back into order. He had no idea she drew. No idea at all that she was this talented. Even Dean Thomas wasn't this good, and he'd been considered the best artist in their year.

His favorite was a study she'd done of Sirius' hands. She'd captured the gnarled joints, the scars, and the numerous tattoos so well that it looked more like a photo than a drawing... he wondered if she'd asked him to model for her or if she really was just that observant. He liked to think she did ask him to model for her. His godfather had such a quirky sense of humor and he'd find the whole concept amusing; he could almost imagine the scene - him just sitting there while she drew, fidgeting and asking increasingly annoying questions until she told him exasperatedly to sit still.

It was one of a thousand questions he had saved to ask her when he finally found her. Because he would find her this time - he would find her and bring her back, even if it took him the rest of his life.

J`envoie valser
Les preuves d`amour
En or plaqué
Puisque tu m`serres très fort
C`est là mon trésor
C`est toi
Toi qui vaut de l`or