Disclaimer-Alas, I do not own these lovely characters. I'm just borrowing them for a little while. Say it with me- Not mine, and no money.

Warnings-This will be a longer story, and will eventually will feature lemons. If you don't like lemonade, don't take a glass.

A/N-The inspiration for this story came from Jeff Buckley's wonderful cover of the Leonard Cohen song, Hallelujah. If you've been living under a rock since 1994, and somehow missed this version, get your bum over to youtube, stat.

Ohhh, that epilogue. Such a wonderful series, and it had to be ended like that?! Our erstwhile friends, having defeated the Dark Lord simply stroll right into the sunset. They marry their high school sweethearts, have two perfect children, and nothing dark and twisty ever happens again. fin.

Or... not. Trauma always manages to claw it's way out of the dark recesses of our minds; it will only play second fiddle to the events in our lives for so long. Trauma eventually interrupts the plot of everyday life because it doesn't fit what came before, or what happened after. It changes you in ways large and small, and it can take years to even began to detect those differences.

How would our friends deal with all that trauma?

I am musical and literary nerd; you will find that many of the chapter titles are references to songs or books. Ten points if you can correctly identify the source ;)

Many, many thanks to Muggle Jane for beta-ing these early bits.

Comments, questions, reviews and howlers all welcome.

"My yesterdays walk with me. They keep step, they are gray faces that peer over my shoulder."
― William Golding

Prologue

Even at half past three in the morning, the Burrow was something less than quiescent. Tucked away in an upstairs bedroom, Hermione Granger listened to the myriad sounds of the house and its inhabitants, the sighs and murmurs that fell from rafters and coalesced into the hallways to form the nightly symphony of the Weasley home.

She knew it was a cowardly and despicable thing to run away, especially after all that had happened. As she gazed down onto the soft cream of the parchment in front of her, she wondered if she would ever find the proper words to explain what she was about to do. She wondered if they'd ever be able to forgive her.

I am so sorry

That was it; three hours of staring at the tabletop had produced a mere four words. Never mind that in years past, a similar late night sojourn would have meant at least two full rolls of parchment, conclusions annotated and highlighted with verbose precision.

I am so sorry

There had been a shining golden moment in the hours after Voldemort's death where it appeared that everything was going to be fine. Her heart and mind had flared with the giddy disbelief of victory; the possibilities of the future seem to stretch out in front of them with halcyon abandon. But then, as first streaks of dawn had illuminated the shattered stained glass windows in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, it became painfully clear that whilst they had won the war, they had also lost far too many battles.

Fred. Tonks and Lupin. Colin Creevey and Lavender Brown... and Professor Snape. The list of names was long, and yet had grown yet longer still. As the overwhelming swirl of grief and sorrow from the people around her seemed to paint the very air around the castle, she had felt the first insidious trickle of ice ripple through her veins. That ice had buffered her, and allowed her press forward with the necessary tasks that happen after battle.

I am so sorry

As it turned it out, it may have been Voldemort's last battle, but that certainly wasn't the last fight. Not even one week later, one of the surviving Death Eaters had proclaimed himself as the new Dark Lord. Many more battles were lost. The war raged on. To her surprise, she held up well over the ensuing twelve months of fighting and three succeeding Dark Lords. As the wizarding world had fragmented into a bloody morass once again, Hermione Granger had become well-known for her glacial surety and grace under fire. Then, in a sudden and volcanic act of dark magic, someone hitherto unknown, had used the dark mark to unleash an unbridled killing curse on the remnants of Voldemort's followers. With that, the fight was truly over.

Hermione had waited, rather prudently she thought, for an additional year before returning to the small suburban Australian town where she had hidden her parents. But the town was only a shadow of what it should had been. Under a canopy of sun bleached eucalyptus trees, she had learned that two years prior, wildfires had raged through the area and killed thirty-three residents. Monica and Wendell Wilkens were among the lost. Despite her best intentions and efforts, her parents had died in fear and among flames. In that moment, the ice within Hermione had shattered with an almost audible reverberation. It had been all she could do to get back to London.

I am so sorry

Everyone had been so wonderfully nice to her; sympathetic and understanding and all that could be asked for under the circumstances. After all, she was not alone in her loss or in her grieving. Much to the relief of all, Hermione seemed to rally. There was talk in several wizarding papers of an impending wedding to Ronald Weasley, and of her taking a high-ranking position within Ministry.

It was all a lie. She felt like the ice running through her veins had transmogrified to minute shards of glass, and she was slowly bleeding to death from an untold number of infinitesimal, internal cuts. She knew that if she continued on much longer that she would well and truly break, and then there would be no fixing her. The only thing that she could think of was to run away.

In the ensuing weeks, she had quietly made plans; converted over her remaining money, bought several sets of Muggle identities, and sorted through her possessions to determine what she would take with her. Even with Crookshanks, it had been a small pile.

I am so sorry

There was nothing for it. No matter how long she sat there, the words would not come.

Slowly she got up from the table, scooped up her pack up from the floor, and headed downstairs. Twenty minutes later, a faint crack from a distant Apparition momentarily interrupted the customary night-time sounds of the Burrow. Then the wind rustled through the hedgerows, and the home's sleepy noises began again.