Hermione,

I believe you about the Malfoys. I have since the morning you left, when George told me about your tattoo antidote potion. I'm not speaking to him at the moment. Or Ron.

I'm sorry they came after you at the Manor, but I can't find it in me to be sorry that my brother's killer is dead. I hope you can understand that.

I miss you.

Ginny

Hermione folded it carefully, sank onto the carpets in Draco's bedroom, and wept.

She thought she'd lost her. But Ginny missed her.

When her tears had dried, she quickly wrote out a response, keeping it short so as to not overwhelm her.

By the end of the week, they had passed eight owls back and forth, asking small questions, giving detailed answers. Hermione had learned that Ginny was going through Molly's cookbook, trying each recipe no matter how disgusting they sounded. She'd declined attending a mission to Egypt, where several members of Romano's cabinet were said to be in hiding. Ron and Percy were in Argentina as part of the team to track and capture Minister Santos of Spain; George was relegated to paperwork for General Jacobs. In turn, Hermione told her all about the meeting with Pierre and Jacobs, and the letters she was receiving around the world. She told her bits and pieces about her time in "captivity." The meeting with Cho. How Draco had Obliviated Charlotte the night Edinburgh was attacked. Ginny never replied to the stories directly, but she kept writing. And that was all Hermione asked for.

She tucked every last one of Ginny's letters into the pouch around her neck, keeping them close to her heart.

Breakfast the next morning was a quiet affair. June 5. Last year, Draco had been injured on his birthday. This year, she could only pray.

Narcissa and Hermione were just finishing their tea when a crack! jolted them. Hermione spun in her chair to see Hix wringing his hands. "Mistress, Miss. There is a person at the gates."

Hermione frowned and darted to the front window, Narcissa on her heels.

Hermione could just make out the figure of a woman in her black True Order uniform, her brown hair pulled into a sharp bun and her hands folded behind her back. Hestia Jones. Apart from the guards stationed ten meters to either side of her, she was alone.

Hermione stared at the solitary figure, her mind working quickly. She'd been wondering when she'd hear from the True Order again. The pressure on them had been growing. The Prophet was more critical by the day; just last week, over two dozen countries had signed a statement by the International Confederation of Wizards sharply rebuking their actions post-war. But she certainly hadn't expected them to show up at the gates.

Nodding to Narcissa, she checked her wand at her hip and pulled open the front doors. Hestia rolled her shoulders back and nodded to her. Hermione descended the steps and moved down the gravel drive at her own pace. The clouds drifted away from the sun, and the grounds lit up as she approached the gate. Stopping five steps away, she examined Hestia's set expression.