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Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter; I make no money here.

AN: Many thanks to my beta dreamy_dragon73 for all her help; she makes it all readable.

Truthfully, with the settlement she'd gotten...thanks to Malfoy...and a little sound investing, she'd never have to work again as long as she lived modestly. But it wasn't in Hermione's nature to simply do nothing. Now that she was excited about the idea of writing, ideas kept popping into her head, and she couldn't wait to get started. But it was hard to get anything done with all the distractions by her friends and family. They were constantly popping in or checking up on her, via owl or Floo or Muggle post. Harry had even sent his Patronus a couple of times just to make sure she was okay. She knew they meant well and they were worried about her, but it was enough to drive her round the bend.

She decided the only way she was going to be able to work on her writing was to get away from it all. She had the perfect excuse to want some time to herself after the fiasco with Theo, and she had the perfect place to go.

She had inherited a cottage in Ireland from her great-aunt Maeve, her father's aunt. Maeve had sadly lost her sweetheart in WWII and never married. She had left everything to Hermione as her only heir.

Hermione hadn't had a chance to visit since Maeve's death. Her job had kept her too busy, plus Theo had made it clear he had no desire to lower himself to visit some Muggle hovel in the middle of nowhere...much less stay there. Hermione had never found the time to get away on her own whilst she'd been tied to him. But now those ties were well and truly broken, shattered in fact, and she had the freedom to go wherever she chose.

Having shrunk her luggage and supplies and stowed them in her beaded bag, she Apparated to the back garden of the stone cottage she remembered so well. It was fairly isolated, a bit of a hike from the village and no neighbors in sight, so she had no worries of being spotted by a stray Muggle.

With the key in hand, Hermione felt the first bit of real excitement she'd felt in a good long while. Turning the key proved difficult; the lock hadn't been used in quite some time and was perhaps a bit rusty. At first unsure what to do, Hermione suddenly burst out laughing. Was she a witch or what? "Alohomora."

The door opened with a flick of her wand. Sometimes, it was hard to forgo the habits of her childhood.

The cottage was just as she remembered; it was small, but it felt cozy rather than cramped. The kitchen was fully equipped with all the modern Muggle appliances and two chairs and a drop-leaf table, which could easily expand to seat six if she had guests and they squeezed in a bit. She pushed through into the front room, where she found a comfy sofa where she could curl up in front of the fireplace. A recliner sat by the window with a reading light nearby. Hermione sat down. Leaning back and closing her eyes, she fondly recalled sitting on Auntie Maeve's lap while being read bedtime stories about goblins and fairies and dragons and witches. Ironic to think that all the fantasies of those childhood tales were now part of her real life.

Getting up, Hermione wandered down the hallway to the bedrooms. There was a smaller guestroom on the right with a bathroom across the hall. And at the end of the hallway was Maeve's room...Hermione's now. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open and surveyed the room, the queen-sized bed with a colorful 'Rose of Sharon' quilt her aunt had made. A comfy chair with a footstool stood next to the window...another perfect spot to read on lazy sunny mornings. The wall on either side of the window was covered with tall bookcases, and another was filling the space beneath the window. Perhaps she had inherited her love of reading from her aunt. Hermione perused the titles: classics, fantasy, history, mystery, romance, even science fiction; Auntie Maeve had quite an eclectic collection of books. Looking quickly into the master bath, she was pleased to find it bigger than normal with a garden tub and separate shower.

Going back down the hallway and up the narrow stairway, she checked out the first floor. The smaller room on the right hand side was her aunt's sewing room. It looked as if a fabric shop had exploded within; scraps of fabric, ribbons and trim littered every surface. Hermione choked up a bit, seeing Maeve's last project still laid out on the table, looking for all the world as if she had just stepped out and would be back at any moment to finish it up. Hermione turned to the other room as she wiped the tears away, and her heart soared. The view from the windows was just as spectacular as she remembered; the Connemara Mountains to the West and Lough Mask towards the North. She knew in that instant that this was going to be her office. She would put her desk here with her computer and her reference books on the shelves and posters of far-away places on the walls. She could hardly wait to get started.

~**~

A week later, Hermione had not written a single word. She wasn't worried about it though; she'd been very busy. She had gotten Maeve's things all sorted out and herself settled in. She had sorted through and kept most of her aunt's books, including a rather naughty section of erotica hidden away on the very bottom shelf. It kind of squicked her a bit to think of dear Auntie Maeve reading dirty stories, but it was not quite disturbing enough to throw them all away; these were not her mother's sweet, innocent romance novels. She'd boxed up and distributed her aunt's clothes to local charities and had cleaned the cottage from top to bottom. She hadn't the heart to dispose of the quilt that Maeve had been working on, so she had left the sewing room untouched. Perhaps, she would learn how to quilt one day and finish her aunt's last project.

She had set up her work space and managed to get someone out to get the internet connected. Hermione had developed a clever shielding spell outside the room that protected her computer from magical interference. As long as she avoided using magic in close proximity, her computer wouldn't fry. She'd considered having the main fireplace hooked up to the Floo network, but in the end she decided to forgo the convenience of easy communication with her friends in the wizarding world for the sake of her own privacy.

She'd been surprised when Draco called her on her mobile; she hadn't even known he knew how to use one. She had contacted him previously via owl to have him set up local bank accounts. She now had access to Muggle funds as well as at the nearest branch of Gringotts. She'd had to reveal her location to him, which for some reason had seemed to shock him at first, and then caused him to suffer a bout of uncontrolled insane laughter. He'd mentioned that if she happened to drop in at the local pub, the Green Dragon, to be sure to pay his respects to the owner. When she'd attempted to find out what the heck he was going on about, he had hung up on her. Crazy Slytherin!

Hermione hiked the four kilometers into the village and spoke to the local mechanic about coming out and having a look at Aunt Maeve's ancient VW Beetle that was stored out in the shed. Hermione had learned to drive years ago, and although she hadn't used the skill in quite some time, she figured she could manage quite well if she could get the car going. She'd been in Clonbur a couple of times for supplies. Since she couldn't very well shrink her purchases and Disapparate in front of a village full of Muggles, she'd been forced to just buy a few things at a time and walk home carrying her sacks. Having a car at her disposal would make getting around easier.

She decided to stop by the Green Dragon, where she had a delicious bowl of soup for lunch. She was enjoying the human contact and was in no hurry to rush home to her empty cottage, so she just sat for the next couple of hours and enjoyed the ambiance while she conversed with the harried barman. A barman who looked amazingly just like George Weasley. Maybe that's what Draco had meant. Perhaps, he'd passed through, had a drink at the pub and noticed the uncanny resemblance.

"This is probably going to sound like a line, but you look just like someone I know, his name is George," Hermione confided.

"Ach... my boss said the exactly same thing when he first met me. Maybe, I've got a double somewhere, hey?"

"Maybe," she said with a smile. "So you're not the owner then, I take it? Someone I know asked me to relay his regards."

"Me? Oh, no. He's out and about on business today."

"Well, you certainly seem to have a good crowd here, especially for it being the middle of the week."

"We do pick up quite a bit of the sightseers, especially since the boss convinced one of them tour groups to make regular stops here. Show the tourists a real-life Irish pub, you know?"

Hermione nodded, looking around at the quaint surroundings. "Ummhmm, I know what you mean. Well, I'd better be heading home. Could you fix me up with an order of fish and chips for take-away, Padraic? Then I won't have to cook when I get home."

"Sure thing, love, and just call me Paddy, everyone does. Your order'll be up in a flash," he said, going to turn her order in to the kitchen.

As Hermione trudged back home, she wondered if Paddy and his uncanny resemblance to George was the reason Draco had been so insanely amused. But no, he'd specifically said, 'give my regards to the owner.' So how would Draco have any acquaintance with the owner of a Muggle pub? Who was this mysterious man?

tbc

AN: If you'd like to see an example of Maeve's 'Rose of Sharon' quilt, check here: http://www.rickrack.com/quilt/wrvb.html

This is how I picture Bluebell Cottage: http://i588.photobucket.com/albums/ss323/madeleone/irish%20photos/irishcottage2.jpg