Brixham House (On Temp. Hold)

1. Paying Rent-Prologue

May 20th, 2007

It's been three years, to the day, since Ron Weasley was hit in the chest with a killing curse. 

It was meant to be a normal work day. Ron was one of the top ranked Auror's, just behind Harry Potter of course. He had the quickest reflects and one of the sharpest minds on the team. Harry had originally been assigned to go on the mission with Ron, but that morning Ginny had gone into labor. 

Hermione couldn't remember if she asked Ron to not go by himself or not. It didn't matter now, because he had. Marched right into an abandoned shack in the middle of a Bulgarian forest, wand raised and an eager gleam in his eye. Twenty minutes later he was found dead by the rest of his team. 

It took four hours after that for the team to decide who to tell first in the Weasley family. It was settled to call Molly. She broke down right there over the floo network, screaming and crying for her youngest son. There wasn't a thing they could do. 

Hermione was the last to show up to Ron's hospital room. Despite the fact she worked at St. Mungo's only a floor above the emergency floor, nobody wanted to be the one to break the news. 

In the end it had been George, he had volunteered. Carrying Hermione's daughter on his hip who was meant to have been at daycare. 

He held Hermione while she sobbed. Cradled her head, and whispered reassurances that did nothing for the newly widowed girl. 

The funeral was held a week later. Surprisingly, not a tear was shed. Ron had died doing something he loved. He had been successful, he had gotten everything he wanted out of life. He was honored, respected and loved. People cherished him, and wanted him around for his good humor and great fun. They had all been proud of him. 

The bright light had been dimmed to soon. 

It took a few months after that, but eventually Hermione did snap. 

She had been teetering on the edge for weeks. Not sleeping, hardly eating. Just simply going through the motions. Rose, her daughter, was only a year old. She cried and screamed, though Hermione knew she wasn't doing it on purpose she couldn't help but feel that was the case. 

So at three o'clock in the morning, on a cold October night, Hermione pounded on George's front door until he let her in. He was bleary eyed, confused but let her in all the same. 

She dropped Rose into his arms, dropped a bag at his feet and fled. 

Eight o'clock later that morning she flew through his door, leaving the old wood hanging off the hinges and sobbed while cradling Rose against her chest. Rocking her on the couch, whispering that she would never do it again. She was sorry, she was failure and she didn't know what to do.

She was lost.  

George watched her break down, and watched her fall asleep on the couch with Rose curled up on her chest. Only then did he call his mother. 

Molly whipped her back into shape. Got her into counseling, and formed a babysitting schedule for the family for Rose. Slowly, ever so slowly Hermione came back. She could spend nights alone now. She could take Rose to the daycare, and then actually make it to work. It was slow, but no one rushed her.

"Rose Weasley, I swear if you do not-oh you little-!" Hermione cut herself off as she yanked the now obliterated package of baby wipes from Rose's chubby hands. She had been chasing Rose for the better part of five minutes, and only after cornering her in the living room did she succeed.