Chapter Text
Grimmauld Place, September 7th, 1998
Harry let out a soft groan and mindlessly turned the page of the Daily Prophet. The words blurred before his eyes. Since the war ended, he felt like a ghost—alive, but not really living. Each day passed in a haze, his heart heavy with memories of the final battle.
Hogwarts lay in ruins. So many were gone—Lupin, Tonks, Snape, Colin, Lavender, Fred… and Luna.
Luna.
Her death hit him in a way he couldn’t explain. She had always seen through the titles, the fame. To her, he wasn’t The Boy Who Lived. He was just Harry. She spoke to him when no one else did, listened when no one else cared. Losing her felt like losing a part of himself.
Across the table, Hermione sat with a book on ancient magical bonds open in her lap, though she wasn’t reading it. She stared blankly at the pages, her expression mirroring his—tired, hollow, lost.
Since Ron abandoned them during the Horcrux hunt, Harry and Hermione had become close. Closer than he’d ever expected. She was like a sister now—his anchor. Even after Ron returned, Harry found himself turning to Hermione for advice, for reassurance. It grated on Ron. And Ginny.
After the war, Ron and Hermione began dating again. Harry tried to rekindle things with Ginny. At least, that’s what Ginny believed. But every time she touched him, Harry felt like his skin was on fire—as if his body rejected her presence. He couldn’t stand it, even if he couldn’t explain why.
He had asked Hermione to move into Grimmauld Place with him temporarily, and she agreed. They planned to return to Hogwarts eventually, finish their seventh year. In the meantime, they made the house livable. Kreacher helped, surprisingly eager to serve. He adored Harry—and even Hermione, whom he had taken to calling Mistress Hermione. But he flat-out refused to take orders from Ron and Ginny.
When the pair heard about the living arrangement, they tried to move in too. Harry gently refused. He told them the Burrow needed them—especially George. Fred’s death had left him broken, barely functioning.
Molly pushed back, of course. She wanted Harry at the Burrow, doted on him more than George. Sometimes, it felt like she mourned Fred less than she should. But whenever that thought crept in, another voice—quiet and persistent—reminded him how much the Weasleys loved him. Molly was like a mother. Ron was a brother. Ginny… she was supposed to be the love of his life.
He didn’t believe that voice anymore. Not really. But it hadn’t stopped whispering.
With a sigh, Harry glanced back at the Prophet. Another front-page article about the Malfoys. The press had launched a full-blown smear campaign against them. He understood—yes, they’d stood on Voldemort’s side. But under duress. Couldn’t people see that?
After the war, the Ministry began rounding up Death Eaters. There were no trials for many. The Malfoys, the Notts, the Parkinsons—even those who hadn’t taken the Mark—were sentenced to the Dementor’s Kiss. No hearings, no defense.
The announcement came from the newly appointed Minister of Magic—Arthur Weasley.
Harry and Hermione had tried to speak with him. Tried to reason. They’d planned to testify for Draco and Narcissa. After all, Narcissa had lied to Voldemort to protect Harry. Draco had hesitated at Malfoy Manor. He’d helped them—indirectly, yes—but still helped.
Arthur dismissed their protests. To him, being a Slytherin was crime enough.
Molly, Ron, and Ginny echoed his sentiments. The other Weasley siblings weren’t so sure.
“Harry… Harry… Harry!” Hermione’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
He blinked up at her. “Sorry… zoned out. What is it?”
Hermione closed the book and looked up at him. “Can we go for a walk? I know we’ve been avoiding the press, but I just… I need air.”
He hesitated.
“We could transfigure ourselves, just enough to blend in,” she added, gently. “Please?”
He saw the weariness in her eyes, the way her shoulders slumped with grief, and nodded.
They transfigured their appearances slightly—nothing too dramatic—and stepped into the cool, grey streets of Diagon Alley.
Diagon Alley
Shops were reopening. Life was returning—slowly, cautiously. But everything felt… different.
When they passed Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, a heavy silence fell between them. Fred’s absence was palpable. George hadn’t been the same since—empty-eyed, broken.
“Harry,” Hermione said suddenly, her voice quiet. “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“I feel like I died too,” she whispered. “Like the war ended, and some part of me never came back. I know Ron's your best friend… but being with him feels wrong. Like I’m betraying myself just being near him. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Do you think… is it PTSD?”
Harry stopped walking. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I feel the same. Being with Ginny feels… forced. Like it’s what I’m supposed to want, not what I actually want.”
“We can’t talk to anyone about this. Not in the wizarding world. They don’t do mental health.” Hermione’s voice trembled. “We couldn’t even see a Muggle therapist without the whole world knowing.”
“I hate not knowing what’s wrong with me,” she added, her voice cracking.
Before Harry could answer, movement caught his eye. Ron and Ginny. Walking hand in hand through the alley, smiling at the people who recognized them. Soaking up the glory.
It made his stomach turn.
Ron had given countless interviews, playing up his role in the Horcrux hunt. Hermione, according to him, had cooked and cleaned. Harry was portrayed as a lost, helpless leader. Ginny’s interviews were worse—gushing about her relationship with Harry, their fairytale future.
Harry clenched his jaw.
“Look,” he whispered to Hermione, nodding toward them.
They watched as Ron and Ginny slipped into Knockturn Alley.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “What are they doing down there?”
Without a word, they disillusioned themselves and followed quietly.
Knockturn Alley – Apothecary
Inside a rundown apothecary, Ron rattled off a list of ingredients. Hermione stiffened beside Harry.
She recognized them.
“Those are for the Liberam Obedientiam potion,” she whispered, barely audible.
A dark, highly illegal potion.
As the old shopkeeper disappeared into the back to fetch the items, Ginny rounded on Ron.
“You idiot!” she hissed. “You might as well have announced what we’re brewing. You know that potion’s banned!”
“Relax, Gin,” Ron said with a smirk. “No one’s going to question us. We’re heroes, remember? And we’re the Minister’s kids.”
“I don’t even know why Mum wants to change the potion,” he added. “It’s been working fine.”
Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance, their hearts pounding.
Potion? What potion?
Ginny scowled. “It’s not working anymore. It worked for two years—Harry loved me, Hermione was into you. But after the battle… it’s like something changed. The effects are wearing off.”
Ron growled. “Hermione’s been fighting it since Malfoy Manor. She should’ve died there—Dumbledore said she would. Same with Harry.”
Harry felt the blood drain from his face.
“We should just poison them,” Ron snapped. “End this.”
“We can’t,” Ginny replied. “I need to marry Harry first—then we can kill him. Once I’m Lady Potter, I inherit everything. Then we get rid of them both and live happily ever after.”
Ron snorted. “Hermione’s loaded too. Dumbledore told Mum. Once we’re married, we can kill her and take it all.”
Ginny smiled coldly. “Exactly. And people will believe us. We’ll cry, pretend to mourn, and then… we live the life we deserve.”
The door creaked open, and the shopkeeper returned with a wrapped bundle of ingredients.
Ron paid without another word.
As the door shut behind them, Harry and Hermione remained frozen in place—completely shell-shocked.
Everything—the doubts, the voice in Harry’s head, the unease around Ron and Ginny—it all made sense now.
They weren’t paranoid.
They were being drugged.