Disclaimer:I do not own Harry Potter, or any of its characters.

Inevitable

It was a matter of honour.

Ronald Weasley looked across the chess board with narrowed eyes at his opponent, speculating on what his next move should be. This move could make – or break – the game. He had never lost a game of wizard chess before, and he wasn't planning to start anytime soon. Shifting his gaze back onto the board, a broad smile spread on his face.

"You know, Hermione," he said casually, leaning forward and making his magically enhanced knight move forward, "You're really getting good at this." Before she could reply, the knight was in front of her king. "But not good enough. Checkmate." Leaning back with a smug smile, Ron waited for Hermione's response.

He was not disappointed.

"This is probably the only thing you're good at," Hermione replied frostily, getting up from the table. Ron maintained his smug smile. "Oh Hermione, you can't be jealous, can you?"

Hermione glared at him, and was about to counter his remark with a sharp retort of her own, when the door to The Burrow's living room opened, and Harry Potter entered. The twenty-one year old took in the whole situation in an amused glance – one could imagine that he was well used to it by now – and spoke. "Hermione, Mrs. Weasley is wondering if you could give her a hand in preparing lunch today…"

She nodded. "Sure." Without a backward glance at Ron, she strode out of the room. Harry closed the door behind her and grinned broadly at his friend. "Must you make her so angry, Ron? Now that you and Hermione have finally gotten together?"

Ron shrugged. "Hey, fighting is the essence of it all. It becomes boring otherwise, yes?"

Harry shook his head disbelievingly. "I think Fred and George have just rubbed a little too much on you." He settled himself on a couch. "Now that everybody's coming, the entire house is going to be the site for a fiasco."

Ron laughed. "You exaggerate, Harry. I mean, we're not children anymore."

Harry smirked. "I wouldn't be so sure."

But there was truth in what Ron told, Harry thought. Now that the War against Voldemort and his Death Eaters was in full swing, everything – and everybody – had changed. Bill was still working in Gringotts; Fleur was pregnant with Bill's child; Charlie, while still studying dragons in Norway, had become engaged to a fellow researcher; Percy, still the undersecretary of the Minister of Magic, had reconciled with the family, if only partly; Fred had expanded Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes into a large, booming chain of joke shops – in Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, and various other nearby magical settlements; George, while still a partner with Fred, had pursued Auror training, and so had Harry; Ron had plunged into professional Quidditch; Hermione and Ginny had pursued Healing. Everybody was set in life, with certain set goals and objectives to achieve, and their old frolicking seemed like a distant dream.

But then again, Harry mused, you could never really tell with the Weasley family…

Ron was the sniffing the air with a delighted expression on his face as Harry came out of his thoughts. "Lunch's ready, I think," he said. "Blimey, it smells fantastic!"

Harry nodded. "'Sides, I think the others should be arriving" – He glanced at his watch – "any moment now."

He was right. Almost in no time at all, the rest of the Weasley family Apparated one by one in the kitchen. First Arthur Weasley, then Percy, followed by Bill and Fleur. Charlie came next, and after him Fred and George appeared together, identical grins on their faces. Ginny was the last to appear. Ready to help themselves to the generous helpings of the delicious lunch doled out by Mrs. Weasley, they sat at the table, where the buzz of conversations immediately started.

"You know, Ron," Hermione began while helping herself to some more mashed potatoes, "I don't think I know your house that well. I mean, there're just so many new and random doors I keep running into these days…"

"Oh, don't worry, I don't know half the house myself," Ron assured her. "For instance, it was only today that I discovered that my old room is not the only attic in the house – there's another one, right under my nose" – he rubbed his nose as if to emphasise the fact – "that I haven't noticed all these years. Can you imagine that?"

"It's not that difficult," Hermione muttered dryly. Then she continued, "Do you know what's in that attic?"

Ron shrugged, piling some stew onto his plate. "Thought I'd check it out today."

"May I come?"

Ron froze and turned his face slowly to look at Hermione. "Eh?"

"May I come?" she repeated. "I mean, the experience might be interesting."

"Sure, it'll be interesting." A low mocking voice interrupted their quiet conversation and Ron and Hermione nearly jumped out of their seats. Ron turned his head to see George, who was seated next to him, leaning in to listen to their conversation. "George!" he said, annoyed.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything here," George said smoothly, smiling. "But I just couldn't help listening to your conversation." He took a sip of water, looking at them mysteriously through hooded eyes. "So you want to explore the 'Forbidden Attic', eh?"

Hermione raised a sceptical eyebrow. "'Forbidden'?"

"Yeah," George said, nodding. "In all the twenty-three years of our lives Fred and I were absolutely forbidden from even going near that door. Something about 'unneeded information'…"

"But that doesn't mean you didn't try," Ron said.

"Of course," George said, apparently looking offended that Ron could even have such a doubt. "Fred and I tried everything we could to try getting near the door – I remember the time when Fred pretended he had Mumps, so that Mum and Dad would be paying all attention to him, so that I could sneak over to the door, only to have the 'illness' discovered as a sham a tad earlier than we had planned. Plus, the door was magically sealed." He sighed. "We were six then, and were excused, but that did not deter us. We tried smashing a garden gnome into the attic window, so that we could climb up and in later, but the stupid creature crashed through Percy's window, and of course, the prat whined, and we were grounded for three weeks."

George took a deep breath, interrupting his monologue. Ron immediately cashed in on this break. "So, what happened next?"

Resting his elbows on the table, and lacing his fingers together, George grew solemn. "Then, Ron," he said seriously, "Then, we performed the gravest mistake of our lives."

Ron and Hermione waited with bated breath.

George spoke.

"We decided that it was not worth our time anymore."

Ron's head dipped to the table in frustration at the anti-climax, while Hermione blinked. "That's it?"

"What do you mean 'that's it'?" George asked in an offended tone, though his blue eyes twinkled. "Are you saying that Fred and I giving up is not a bad thing – a thing to greatly regret?"

Hermione stared at him for quite some time. Then she smiled. "You really don't know anything about this attic, do you?" Ron started and looked at her in surprise, his eyes going wide. They were very nearly in danger of popping out of his skull when he heard George's reply.

"You're right, Hermione. Never knew the place existed till now."

Ron turned on his brother abruptly (causing Hermione some concern about the elasticity of his neck), eyes flaring. "You mean to say that you made it all up?"

George laughed. "Of course. I'm surprised you didn't figure it out earlier, Ronnie-kins." He winked at the two of them. "Do take Hermione on your 'exploration'. I'm sure she's dying to spend some time with you alone."

Hermione and Ron flushed as one. "Of course I'm not!" Hermione cried shrilly.

There was a sudden silence after that, in which "Of course I'm not!" echoed again and again in Hermione's head until her cheeks burned. Then, Fleur spoke, rather tentatively, "Of course you're not what, 'Ermione, dear?"

Hermione looked around the table to see everyone staring at her. "Well, um…" She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear nervously. "It's…" Abruptly, she got up from the table. "Excuse me," she muttered hurriedly, and ran out of the kitchen. The family heard her bounding up the stairs.

"Er, Ron?" Harry said suggestively. "Maybe you should go too…?"

Ron gave him a blank stare.

"Yeah, why not," George chimed in. "You could ask her what's wrong, you know."

Ron opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and finally spoke. "I think she… um… just needs to be… alone." With that statement, he returned to studying his dinner with an intensity that might've fetched him excellent grades back in school.

Harry and George's eyes met in silent understanding, and they shook their heads.

He'll never learn.

Finally, we're alone.

Hermione glanced out of the corner of her eye at Ron, who was walking by her side up the stairs. Most of the family was just relaxing in the living room after lunch, while Harry, Ginny, Fred and George had set out to the village. Ron and Hermione had stayed back in order to explore Ron's 'discovery'.

After a sharp turn in the staircase, and after passing by Ron's bedroom, he looked back at her, a small half-smile on his face. "Be careful," he said. "The stairs are a bit narrow here, and the banister is not too strong."

She nodded, and the two of them made their way carefully up the staircase, which grew increasingly shabbier and unused-looking. After a series of sharp turns that even Hermione was unable to keep track of, they finally stopped in front of a door covered with cobwebs, the paint on the wood peeling away. "Well, this is it," Ron said, pushing the sleeve of his robe back and drawing out his wand, and pointing it at the deceptively rusted lock on the door. "Alohomora."

With a loud creak, the door opened, and the two entered cautiously, holding their breaths against breathing in the dusty air. Sunlight filtered in from a window in the corner to light a fully furnished room in a soft glow, the cloth-covered tables, chair and bed throwing long shadows over the dusty floor. There were some old cardboard boxes stacked off on one side, and a huge dusty trunk in another corner, but it was evident that the room had been lived in for quite some time before.

"What do you reckon this place is?" Hermione said finally, crinkling her nose.

Ron shrugged annoyingly. "I really don't know." He went forward and dusted the mattress of the bed. "Somebody's lived here a long time ago, obviously." A puzzled frown crept over his face. "But who? I didn't know anything about anybody living here…"

"Look at this." He looked up to see Hermione near a table, holding up a faded black leather-bound book. She dusted the cover, coughing slightly as she did so. "I think this might be a diary. Who knows, it might've even belonged to the person who lived here."

Ron joined her at her side, and the two of them squinted at the golden lettering that Hermione's dusting had uncovered. "Emmo – no, Emm… Emmeline… Marie… Granger." They stared at each other, startled.

"Granger?"

Hermione was the first to recover from the shock. "Let me check out the year," she said, peering at the corner of the book cover. There, in faded lettering, it was printed: 1907. Once again, Ron's and Hermione's gazes sought out each other. "Is this woman related to you, Hermione?" Ron asked.

"I don't know," Hermione closed her eyes, rubbing her forehead with her fingers. "The name seems to strike a bell…" Abruptly, her eyes shot open, and she snapped her fingers in realisation. "I know!" she cried. "Emmeline Marie Granger was my great-grandmother! I think she was a witch too, though her children never inherited her magic…"

Ron's jaw dropped. "You mean to say that you're a half-blood?"

She shook her head. "No, everyone in my family – in my great-grandmother's family – are Muggles. She was the only one… a mutation, one might call it." She sighed. "But I don't know what she was doing in your house…"

Ron reached over and turned the cover to open a randomly selected page in the middle. "Well, there's only one way to find out."

The yellowed pages were filled with sprawling writing, faded beyond comprehension. Hermione drew out her wand and tapped it once against the page, muttering under her breath. The ink darkened instantly, and the sprawling, highly slanted writing came into sharp focus. "This is the entry for June, 1907…" Hermione said distantly, but Ron had already started to read.

-

4 June, 1907.

Wednesday

It ought to have been happier.

Seventh year at Hogwarts is finally over, but the end of our tenure at school was marred by widespread protest against Muggles studying wizardry by so-called 'pure-blood' wizards. I must say, diary, that I fail to understand their intentions. What's wrong? Why can't we live together, like we should? Magic will always retain its true self, regardless of the blood origins of the person who uses it…

I know I sound terribly naïve, but I'm deeply unsettled by this. I can't return to my home, nor can I stay at Hogwarts anymore… I really don't know what to do; just crying won't help, I suppose…

-

Here the entry was disrupted by huge blots, and discontinued. Eyes wide, Ron gestured for Hermione to turn the page. Wordlessly she picked another entry, and they began to read again.

-

8 June, 1907.

Sunday

Things are not so black, after all.

I have a relatively safe place to go until the riots are suitably controlled: Andrew Weasley, of my year, has invited me to hide in his house until it was safer for me to return home. I couldn't have been happier! Maybe I shouldn't; I'm causing his family to bear an extra burden – another mouth to feed, and they face much danger if I'm discovered, after all. But still, I feel so… I guess I'm at a loss to explain this feeling…

Maybe it's relief. As I sit in his house, writing this entry, I'm completely safe from the murdering rioters. My family should be safe, as I'm the only witch in my house…

I suppose I'm wondering this for the umpteenth time, but: is being a witch really something to be proud of? No, let me rephrase that: is it something my family's proud of? They assure me that they are, but… dear God, I keep going in circles, don't I?

I shouldn't be worrying like this. Andrew is here, and he'll protect me…

-

The silence was almost overpowering as they finished reading the entry. "Andrew Weasley was my great grand-dad, too…" Ron said softly, looking at Hermione again. Who would've thought that the threads of Fate could connect them like this?

Hermione's head was still bent over the book, her hair partly obscuring her face. "Let's continue," she said quietly, turning the page to read yet another entry.

-

13 June, 1907.

Friday

Friday the 13th… maybe one should begin to trust Divination a lot more, for today has been full of nothing but bad omens. The rioters have thought of the thing we had been so hopeful that they would never realise – that pure-blood wizards might be hiding their Muggle-born comrades. And… and those fiends have come here! A nightmare come true, indeed!

Andrew has told me to stay put in this hidden room, sealing the door with the most subtle concealment charms we could devise of at the moment. As I write, I can listen to Andy and his family arguing with the fiendish Muggle-haters…

Wait. Did I just write 'Andy'? I… I suppose I did…! Have I subconsciously reached such a level of intimacy? I, as a lady? Maybe I have… maybe…

I can hear the arguing come to an end – finally – and the door close. Danger is eluded – once again, but judging from the news reports that have been coming in, I should be able to stop burdening Andy's family any more.

Andy… I don't know why, but just writing his name brings a smile to my face, and a blush to my cheeks. We hadn't shared a relationship that had been any level beyond friendship in Hogwarts, but now… everything feels different. We spend so much time together these days… despite his new Ministry job, he tries to spend as much as time as possible with me, playing chess (which he inevitably wins), or just talking. Not that our conversations go anywhere constructive: we only excel in infuriating each other more often than not, and then reconciliating with each other… Somehow, I've come to enjoy these squabbles.

Somehow, I've come to love Andy.

-

"Woah."

Ron's exclamation dispersed the fog of astonishment that had been congealing in Hermione's head. She looked up at him, noting his open jaw, and wide eyes. Why was he so surprised? Was he pretending to be so? Or was he really astonished at the workings of fate that had connected their pasts so intimately? A kaleidoscope of emotions flashed within her, and she began to feel confused. Just then, she felt Ron nudging her gently.

"Go on," he said.

Nodding, she turned the page, and they resumed reading.

-

23 June, 1907.

Monday

Well, this is it.

Today's my last day with the Weasleys, and what a day it has been. They have given me so much, and I just can't find words to express my gratitude suitably. As I sit in this room for what might perhaps be the last time, the memory of every one of them is burned into my mind… especially that of Andy.

Andy… oh, my delight was unparalleled when I had discovered, not much after my previous entry, that he reciprocated my feelings! Now, that very delight has sunk to the deepest depths of despair. Andy and I can't even think of love, let alone marriage, in these troubled times. Not only would we be putting our lives in danger, but also those of our families'. We will have to drift apart, and only God knows when we might meet again…

My hand trembles as I write this – with good reason! – and I'm consumed with an overwhelming longing that everything were different, somehow, that wizards and Muggles can finally live in peace, learn from and love each other. Wistful dreaming? Maybe, but I do bear the hope that this glorious vision would one day come true.

There. Optimism always helps, I suppose. Andy and I still love each other, and that's enough for me. Maybe one day in the future, when everything is peaceful, when everything has entered a whole new generation, we'll meet again, in different forms – and fall in love all over again. Wait, I should strike out the "Maybe" in that sentence: I know that we will meet in the future. The puppeteer that is fate will pull us back together again – somehow, somewhere.

And that time, perhaps, we'll finally be able to reach the golden destination we'd always dreamed about – together.

-

And there the journal ended.

Hermione closed the book with a dust-raising snap, and the two of them stood in companionable silence for a while. Finally, Ron spoke. "Well," he said with a sigh, "That was quite an experience."

Hermione smiled weakly. "I can agree with that." She ran her fingers over the cover of the journal thoughtfully. "I can't help but wonder… over the last few lines written in this book…"

"That she might've guessed the future?" Ron said softly. Hermione looked up at him, startled. Since when had Ron become so perceptive and… understanding…? He smiled at her. "It's kind of funny to think about it, you know," he said. "Our meeting in the Hogwarts Express, getting sorted into the same house, getting involved in all those adventures in school with Harry… I see now that they weren't coincidences, not by a long shot. Our running into each other… it was… it was…"

Hermione placed a hand on his, smiled up at him, and spoke.

"It was just inevitable."

Finis