A/N: This ficlet was originally written for the 2011 Dramione Halloween fest. All submissions were required to be 1,500 words or less.

"Ron!" she shouted, burrowing through a pile of dusty knick-knacks. "Where'd you put your mother's old clock?"

"My what?"

"Your mother's old—"

Hermione broke off with a sigh and made her way over to the stairs.

"Your mother's old clock," she repeated, peering out from the attic. "Do you know where it is?"

"Yeah, it's in my old trunk from Hogwarts!" he called from downstairs.

She turned to look around at the unswept space behind her. Spotting the trunk in the corner, completely covered in dusty old cobwebs, she shuddered at the thought of having to open it.

Of course Molly had to ask for her clock back now. She'd practically forced it on them years earlier, when she'd been desperate to get it out of her house—the stubborn arrow pointing unfailingly at Home had served as a constant, horrible reminder of Fred's death—but suddenly, with absolutely no warning, she was equally desperate for its return. With Rose and Hugo and James and Albus and all the other new additions to the family, she now had plenty to worry about aside from her long-deceased son, and she claimed she needed the grandfather clock back so that she could keep a watchful eye on their whereabouts at all times.

Hermione muttered a quick "Tergeo" under her breath, lifting most of the dust off the trunk with a swish of her wand. Then she reached forward, unlocked the trunk, and cautiously flipped the lid open, wincing slightly at the creak of its rusty old hinges.

Assailed by a cloud of rising dust, she was seized with a coughing fit and waved a hand wildly in the air in front of her to clear it. When was the last time Ron had opened this thing, anyway?

She glanced down and was surprised to see that its depths stretched far beyond what she could possibly have imagined.

The trunk opened into its own world of long-forgotten objects: outdated racing brooms, towering stacks of old schoolbooks, abandoned toys that had once been cherished but were now unusable. The Weasleys' grandfather clock sat comfortably in one corner, bathed in an opaque layer of dust. So Ron had learned to use Undetectable Extension Charms after all. She smiled to herself, imagining him practicing the spell in secret.

The light streaming in from the attic window caught on something obscured by the dust and glinted unexpectedly. Her curiosity piqued, Hermione gingerly brushed off the dust with her fingers to see what lay underneath—before suddenly recoiling with wide eyes.

Surely it wasn't—

But it was.

She stared down at the crystal paperweight that had been a gift from her parents so many years ago and felt her head spin.

Why would this be here? How could it—had Ron put it here? Did Ron know what it was?

She picked up the trinket that she had long considered lost and examined it in disbelief. It was exactly as she remembered: small, sparkling, in the shape of a Muggle angel, with her initials engraved neatly on its base. She had never expected to see it again.

And then, all at once, she understood.

She had only run into Draco Malfoy once since the end of the war.

He pretended, to her irritation, that he hadn't seen her. They'd been walking towards each other in Diagon Alley when their eyes had met; yet just as quickly as they'd spotted one another, he turned and fled into the nearest shop.

Something stirred inside her, and she refused to let him get away with avoiding her. Steeling herself for an awkward confrontation, she quickened her pace and followed him into the Apothecary.

He was hiding behind a shelf filled with dried herbs, and she was pleased to see him flinch slightly when he heard her approach. "Draco," she said loudly, and he turned to face her with a grimace.

"Granger," he replied, reluctantly.

Unable to conceal the spite in her voice, she said, "Congratulations. It looks as though you and your family have weaseled your way out of Azkaban once again."

He seemed unable to look directly at her. "Yes, well, you'd know all about Weasels, wouldn't you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

Rage flooded her veins as she curled her hands into tight fists and spat, "You—you monster—you're pathetic. You're a coward who isn't even man enough to own up to his own actions. You make me sick."

He was visibly tense, and his jaw was clenched in barely suppressed anger; but to her surprise, he said nothing in response. Unsure what to do next, she took a deep breath and changed course.

"So, enjoying peacetime, are you?" she asked coldly. "Even with that evil stain on your arm?"

With a strange, strained noise, he turned on his heel and walked briskly away from her further into the store. Her heart was pounding in her ears as she followed, glaring at him with a ferocity that could have burned the most thick-skinned of wizards. He ignored her, picking up a vial of dragon's blood and examining it intently as though she were not there.

"I heard about your engagement to Astoria Greengrass."

For an instant, his hand wavered. Her breath caught in her throat as he set the vial down, his knuckles white around the glass.

"Yes, well, I couldn't go on waiting forever, could I?"

She was about to ask him what he meant, but his eyes rose to meet hers, and there was something dark and resigned in them that she could not understand. "What do you want from me, Granger?"

She suddenly wished she'd never followed him into the store.

"What do I want—" She broke off with a bitter laugh. "Don't worry, Malfoy. There's nothing I want from you."

With that, she turned and swept out of the aisle.

How careless of Ron, she thought, to leave the crystal lying about undisguised.

She fished the note out of her old copy of Advanced Arithmancy: Numerology in Magical Theory. It was the one book she'd thought Ron would never read.

The parchment was well-worn from the countless times she'd turned to it for hope, and she'd read the words so often that she had them nearly memorized. But as she clutched the angel that she had once so longed to see—that used to haunt her dreams—she knew she needed to see the letter again.

Hermione—

I can't be seen talking to you. It's too dangerous.

I've been given a task. Until it's complete, I know they'll be watching me, even here at school. It was a risk to even send this note, but I had to tell you somehow that you've got to stay away from me until I've finished this.

When it's over, I'll send back the angel you gave me, and you'll know that it's safe for us to see each other again. But until then, remember—no one must know. I promise to do everything I can to get this over with as soon as possible.

I love you.

The note had been unsigned.

It'd been the first time he had ever told her that he loved her.

What she hadn't known is that it would also be the last.

"All right there?"

She glanced up and saw Ron poking his head through the hole in the floor.

For a moment, she was speechless as she stared back at him: the father of her children, the man she'd lived with for years. The one person she'd thought she'd known better than anyone.

"Did you find it?" he asked.

"What?"

"The clock. My mum's grandfather clock? You were looking for it?"

"Oh," she said. "Right."

He cocked his head to the side and examined her, concern etched into the lines above his brow. "Is everything okay?"

Hermione nodded mutely.

"You sure? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

The only thing she could think to say to him was: "It's very dusty up here."

Ron laughed, and the sound of it was warm, open, carefree—everything she loved best about her husband. "That's why I try to avoid it."

When she said nothing, he approached and slung an arm around her shoulder. "We should probably clean it every so often," he went on. "Too bad we're both so bloody busy all the time. Maybe we can get Hugo to do it. We'll tell him it's good practice for Scouring Spells."

She gripped the paperweight more tightly in her hand.

"Ron," she said, her voice cracking slightly.

"Yeah?" When she didn't answer, he turned to look at her. "What is it?"

There were a thousand questions that she needed to ask him. But his eyes were guileless and unsuspecting, and she could not bring herself to speak.

"It's nothing," she choked.

"Are you crying?" he asked in alarm.

"No," she said weakly, as tears rose unbidden to her eyes. "It's just the dust."