If The War Didn't Kill Us All

by dariaa_ria

Summary:

Hermione Granger-Weasley is appointed Head Historian to document the war that nearly broke her. But as she dives into sealed memories and redacted testimonies, she uncovers a truth the Ministry buried — and the names they sacrificed to protect their legacy.

The Slytherins weren’t traitors. They were weapons. And the heroes she once believed in turn out to be the real villains of her story.

Her marriage crumbles. Her life is threatened. And Draco Malfoy — the boy she was told to hate — may be the only one who remembers what they all chose to forget.

This is not a story about forgiveness.
It’s a story about memory.
And what it costs to finally tell the truth.

Notes:

So, hello everyone!
This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction about my favorite pairing ever, and — well — I’m already so grateful to anyone and everyone who decides to read it. My writing is heavily inspired by all the beautiful fics I’ve read here, so thank you to the wonderful writers whose words have been the biggest influence and motivation for me to finally do this.

This fic will likely be quite long and rather dark at times, so please make sure to read the warnings — I’ll do my best to tag everything properly with each chapter I publish.

I hope you enjoy it and fall in love with them all as much as I already have.

And finally, I dedicate this work to Margarita and Marina — my two beautiful friends and my first beta readers, who share my ever-lasting love for Dramione and the wizarding world.

Fair warning: English is not my first language.
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters in this story, nor do I condone the actions or views of their original creator.

Chapter 1: Chapter 1 – History Writes Itself

Hermione

On January 13th, Hermione Granger-Weasley is officially appointed Head Historian by Kingsley, who is all charm and compliments. Hands are shaken, a press release is issued, proclaiming her the Legal Prodigy, War Hero, Brightest Witch of Her Age — chosen to document and archive war events for future generations to study and memorize. So that another war may never happen. So that the truth may be delivered — about the horrendous events of her adolescence.

She is, of course, all polite smiles and appropriate behavior. She wears long navy-blue formal robes and modest heels, her hair tamed into a slick bun. She has the unwavering support of her friends and family: her husband, Ronald Weasley — another war hero and young, promising Auror — shaking hands and celebrating beside her; Harry and Ginny Potter — the most famous wizarding couple, The-Boy-Who-Conquered-Them-All and his dutiful wife — clapping and whistling along with their young children; the entire Weasley clan making an appearance to pay respects to their daughter-in-law; and the Minister himself, introducing her in her new role, beaming with pride at yet another of his young protégés.

She should be happy, really. Somehow, she’s not.

She makes small talk, generically. Her smiles are tight-lipped, her posture too tense for the attentive eye. The hand of her husband, never leaving the small of her back, trembles with the aftershocks of his never-ending Ogden’s hangover, and it all feels like a cage of her own choosing. George’s chair sits empty at the Weasleys’ table, and Molly stares at it blankly through the entire dinner — red-eyed and disheveled. Ginny makes small attempts to stand closer to Harry, to touch his hand, and he flinches. Subtly enough for everyone to ignore — but not for Hermione’s trained eye.
Cho Chang, the newest addition to the Auror Department, watches her with such anger from the Ministry officials’ table that Hermione wants to shower without even understanding why.

She needs to run, desperately, so she politely excuses herself from the table and makes her way to the small balcony of the celebratory venue. She breathes like she’s on the verge of a panic attack, and it takes her a few minutes to collect herself. She wants a cigarette — preferably two or three — and as she contemplates the idea, she’s startled by approaching footsteps.
Minerva McGonagall — her long-standing mentor and friend — steps onto the empty balcony, shoes clicking hollowly on the white marble.

“Here you are, Miss Granger. Congratulations are in order,” she says crisply, not quite meeting Hermione’s eyes. And it’s so different from the usual warm embrace of the woman who once insisted she call her Minerva.
“None of this would be possible without you, Minerva, and you know it. I can’t be grateful enough.” Hermione smiles — and it’s the first close-to-sincere smile she’s given all evening. “I’m happy you could make it. I know how busy you are with your Head duties at Hogwarts this time of year.”
“Pish-posh, my darling,” she says dismissively, still not meeting Hermione’s gaze. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
The questions roll to the tip of Hermione’s tongue — about the strange detachment, the tiredness in Minerva’s face, the guilt hiding beneath the surface. Her mentor looks aged and burdened. Hermione opens her mouth to say something — anything — but is promptly interrupted.
“I’m sure you’ll achieve more than any of us ever could in this position, Miss Granger. You have a rare kind of honesty and determination to give the wizarding world what it truly deserves — and even more. I only ask you to be careful with what you do... once you discover it.”
With that, she offers Hermione a sad smile — her eyes meeting hers for the first time that evening — and presses a small piece of paper into her hand. Then she turns and walks away without waiting for a response.

Hermione silently tucks the paper into her purse, deciding that’s enough mystery for one evening, and pulls out a pack of Muggle Marlboros. She smokes in silence, not noticing at first that she isn’t alone.

She’s startled again by strange sounds and whispers — until familiar voices reach her, and shock begins to course through her veins.
She hears her husband’s broken whisper:
“That’s right, baby...”
A soft, unmistakable moan follows — and she wants to vomit on the spot.
She angles her head, cigarette falling from her fingers, and blankly watches Ron’s hand slip beneath a dress she recognizes. Cho Chang’s.

She stands there for a few more seconds — frozen, breathless, nausea twisting inside her. It feels like some sick nightmare. Then she shakes her head and says, voice hollow but sharp:
“You could have at least waited until the end of dinner to fuck her in some shitty hotel, Ronald Weasley.”
Cho lets out a startled scream. They jump apart, panting. Cho bolts, beet-red and battling tears. Ron just stands there — ashamed, gaze dropping — before launching into excuses that make Hermione physically ill.
“Mione, baby, that’s all just a misunderstanding — she started it.”
“I was too drunk to realise what was happening.”
“That was just a mistake, Mione — you have to believe me.”

She breathes. In through her nose. Out through her mouth.
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Ronald. Just go home. Or... wherever you want, honestly.”

And with that, she leaves. She doesn’t say goodbye. Not to her friends. Not to her family.
She picks up a bottle of Ogden’s from the hidden stash in her Ministry office and apparates straight into the living room of her empty childhood home.
She casts the strongest Colloportus she can manage on every door. Then she finishes the bottle in silence, crying not a single tear, and shatters every piece of furniture she can touch.
She sleeps right there, on the floor, among the shambles of her childhood memories and her broken marriage.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Try Not to Die Married

Notes:

TW: smoking, infidelity, alcohol consumption, curse words

Hermione

She doesn’t leave the house that weekend. Ron sends a ton of Patronuses and tries to break her wards multiple times — the wards stand. Then the letters start — brought by owls one after another — varying from I’m so sorry, I love you so much, I didn’t mean to to You never loved me, you cold-hearted bitch , You just have to always be right, yes?! and You will fucking die alone . Some of them are tear-stained, some are torn by Ron’s aggressive writing; in the later ones, the words start drunkenly slurring.

She reads two or three aloud, mockingly, like she’s performing in some theatrical tragedy with no audience. She shreds another two. She Incendios each one that comes after.

At 8 o’clock Sunday evening, when she’s nursing the last glass of her Ogden’s stash, Harry comes through the Floo looking tired and defeated.

 

“You can just talk to him, you know,” he says in a low voice, staring at her kitchen intently, not meeting her gaze.

“I can’t and won’t just anything to him, Harry. And if our friendship is important to you, I suggest you bring this narrative elsewhere.”

“Mione, I know he’s troubled — better than most — but he lost so much, and he’s trying, and he says it was just this one…”

“IT WAS NOT ONE TIME!”

The silence falls heavily between them.

“It was not one time, Harry. It was Lavender first, because I was finishing my eighth year and he was so lonely.

Then it was Susan Bones when I was on my first French assignment in Paris — and it was Fred’s birthday.

Then it was Hannah Abbott, and he was too drunk and too stupid.

He’s not the only one who lost someone, and he doesn’t get to parade his grief and use it as a shield to avoid responsibility. Not anymore.”

She’s out of breath, staring at the same spot in the kitchen as Harry. Hot tears burn her eyes, and she feels strangely embarrassed — for breaking down like this, for saying it all out loud.

“You never said anything,” he says, voice strangled and vaguely accusatory.

“Harry James Potter, you will not talk like that to me! I held your hand through every loss and every hardship. I never left you when he did. I was there for every. fucking. heartbreak. And yet you never asked me if I was okay.

So don’t you dare come here questioning my lack of communication when all you do in this mess is ask me to give your fucking friend Ron Weasley another benefit of the doubt,” she spits it out venomously, her hair crackling with magic.

 

He sits on the sofa tiredly and asks for a cigarette — she throws a pack at him and looks away again. They smoke in silence. He pulls another bottle of Ogden’s from his coat.

 

“It feels like I failed everyone,” Harry says. “And I don’t know how to fix this anymore.”

“I didn’t ask you to fix me, Harry. I asked you to be there for me,” she answers hollowly.

They sit for a long moment, taking turns with the bottle until they are both positively hammered.

“I’m not sure I know how to do that, Hermione,” he says, taking a long swig from the bottle. “I am a bad fucking friend.”

“Oh, stop with the pity party,” she mutters, taking the bottle from him and drinking, then kicks him lightly with her calf. “But I commend your honesty and self-awareness.”

“Well, therapy helps, but I still suck,” he starts — quickly interrupted.

“Since when are you in therapy, Harry?”

“Since autumn. We also went together — me and Ginny,” he sounds almost defensive.

“Why didn’t you say anything? I could have helped.”

“It’s not your job to fix me too, you know,” he says, lighting another cigarette. “I talked to Andromeda once — about our marriage struggles, with her experience and all. She connected me with a friend who has a Muggle therapy license, because I was fed up with the Ministry’s mandatory mind-healers and all their questioning. I can put you in touch, if you want.”

“That is really great, Harry, but I’m not sure yet,” she sighs. “Right now I just feel like smashing something — everything — with a bat. The first thing on that list being Ron’s fucking face.”

He chuckles dryly, then looks at her.

“I’m really sorry for not being there for you. For what it’s worth. I’ll really try to do better.”

She looks at her childhood friend with bleary eyes.

“I’m not ready to be grateful for that yet. But at least I don’t want to hex your ass anymore.”

“Hexing the Head Auror wouldn’t look great on your résumé.”

“You know me too well, Harry, to still think anyone could catch me if I did.”

He laughs wholeheartedly, throws his head back, takes his glasses off.

She feels a bit lighter for the first time in three days.

 

Hermione wakes up the next day alone and disoriented on her parents’ old sofa, her head throbbing with a horrible hangover. She finds two vials on the small coffee table and a piece of parchment with unsteady handwriting — Harry’s, which makes it even more difficult to read than usual.

“Pepper-Up and Sobering Potions to suffer through your first day. Try not to vomit on your new robes when you enter the Atrium. — H.P.”

She takes a deep breath, battling the nausea, and downs both potions in one go. Her empty stomach is not happy about this, but now she can at least eat something and think somewhat clearly.

She contemplates going back to the flat she shares with Ron to get ready for the Ministry, but then remembers she has yet to pick up the additional set of robes from Madam Malkin’s and settles on visiting Diagon instead.

Hermione charms her hair to the best of her abilities and applies light spells under her eyes to hide the deep purple circles that have taken up permanent residence there. She looks at herself in the mirror and sees a tired, slightly aged version of the once Brightest Witch of Her Age — with lifeless, red-rimmed eyes and a permanent crease forming between her brows. She shakes her head, sighs deeply, and leaves her parents’ house.

The Apparition point at Diagon Alley greets Hermione with early morning bustle and the smells of pastry and coffee. Snow falls heavily this Monday, and she starts making her way to the closest café, burying her head deeper into her coat.

She buys her first coffee of the day, and it smells heavenly, so the day officially starts getting better.

That is, until she bumps into the first reporter just as she steps out of the café.

“Madam Granger-Weasley, will there be any comments on your relationship with your husband? Are you planning on divorce?”

As she tries to process what’s happening, more reporters appear out of thin air, each shouting louder, shoving microphones and flashing cameras in her face with similar questions. The flashes blind her one by one, and she hears the words “affair,” “divorce,” “infidelity,” “separation,” and “Cho Chang” what feels like a million times — completely disoriented and frozen in place.

One floating headline reads: “Golden Couple in Ruins?” Another: “Granger Remains Silent on Husband’s Infidelity Scandal.”

Until someone physically grabs her by the hand and starts dragging her down the street with avid determination. She stumbles once, trying to pull away, then gives in. She smells sweet jasmine and whisky in the air and comes out of her stupor somewhere near the outskirts of Knockturn Alley, being shoved through a small, uninviting door.

Hermione draws her wand, ready to hex whoever is taking advantage of her confused state — only to be shouted at:

“What the actual fuck do you think you’re doing? I know I should’ve just left you there to rot!”

Hermione blinks, trying to adapt to the darkness of what looks like an abandoned shop, and sees a woman dressed in all black — someone she never, in a million years, imagined facing in a situation like this. Pansy Parkinson rolls her eyes, pulls a black leather cigarette case from her purse, and lights one with the tip of her wand.

“Are you daft or something, Granger? I just saved you from those vultures — the least you can do is lower your fucking wand.”

“I didn’t ask you to save me,” Hermione says defensively, lowering her wand but still staring at the black-haired witch across the room.

“Of course. Merlin forbid the Gryffindor Princess actually says ‘thank you’ to the likes of me. Au revoir , Granger. There won’t be a next time, I hope.” Pansy starts to move toward the door.

“Wait! Please, wait — I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened out there or what they want from me... I just—”

“Granger, haven’t you seen the papers? Your Weasel’s face tongue-fucking that Cho Chang bitch is plastered all over them.” Pansy blows out smoke in perfect round circles. “Are you living under a rock or something?”

“I was out for the weekend,” Hermione huffs angrily and pulls out her own pack of Marlboros. “I can’t believe that fucking bastard...”

“Oh, she smokes and curses? That’s a plot twist for Holy Granger. Maybe you’re not the stuck-up bint I remember after all.”

“Fuck you, Pansy.”

The witch laughs and brings her lit wand toward Hermione’s cigarette. In the dim light, Hermione takes a closer look at what was once the polished, aristocratic figure of Pansy Parkinson — the proudest daughter of the Great Slytherin Elite. Small cracks now show through: wrinkled clothing, the faint smell of whisky, slightly smudged mascara.

Pansy, noticing Hermione’s gaze, pulls back and drops the remains of her cigarette to the floor.

“That’s enough Gryffindor bullshit for one day. Bye, Granger. Try not to die still married to your absolute jerk of a husband.”

With that, Pansy leaves — not waiting for Hermione to say another word.

Hermione stands in silence, the smell of jasmine and burnt tobacco still hanging in the air. She lights another cigarette. She doesn’t know why, but it’s the first time today she doesn’t feel like she’s about to shatter.

 

Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Just A Mug And The End Of The World

Summary:

A chapter with Harry's POV!

In which Harry wakes up hungover, reads a headline he’ll never unsee, tries (and fails) to hold his marriage together, suspends his best friend, loses the last bit of faith he had left in the Golden Trio — and finds temporary comfort in a neon-pink mug with an inappropriate message and a whole lot of history.

Just another Monday of his freaking life.

TW: smoking, implied alcohol consumption, curse words

Harry

There is one single moment in Harry Potter’s daily routine when he doesn’t hate the world he lives in — and life in general — and that is the short thirty minutes between 6 and 6:30 a.m. He makes his own coffee the Muggle way — barefoot, not even stopping to brush his teeth on his way to the kitchen. Number 12 Grimmauld Place is eerily still, and everyone has yet to wake up except for its current owner, who sits alone on a single chair near the window and hypnotizes his coffee mug.

Today’s mug says “Best farter father ever,” because Hermione thought it would be a hilarious tradition to gift him a dad-joke mug every Christmas since he became a father.

He listens to the clock ticking, watches the street outside begin to stir — a few early risers rushing past. Sometimes he smokes at the half-open window, or just stands there, breathing.

This is the single moment of the day when he is not Harry Potter, The Great Saviour of the Wizarding World, not Harry Potter the Head Auror, not Harry Potter the father of two beautiful sons, and not Harry Potter the dutiful husband.

He is just 26 — and absolutely lost.

This morning, he sits in the aftermath of last night’s drinking, and his head feels even foggier than most days. Bits and pieces of yesterday’s conversations rise to the surface, and he scratches his faded scar absently. Today is going to be a long fucking day.

The moment the thought appears, his precious thirty minutes are interrupted by an unfamiliar owl knocking impatiently on the window. He opens it quickly, breathing in crisp, frosty air. The owl drops what seems to be a newspaper on the windowsill and stretches out her foot with a small piece of parchment attached. Just a moment later, Harry unfolds the note — one phrase, written in Ron’s hasty handwriting:

“Tell her I’m sorry. — R.”

“What in the actual fuck?!”

Harry snaps his head around and sees Ginny, shell-shocked, holding a newspaper in her hands that clearly bears the headlines “THE DEMISE OF THE GREAT GOLDEN COUPLE” and “Weasley’s Infidelity Uncovered” in bold letters across the front page. He takes the paper from her and sees a huge photo of Ron kissing Cho Chang — tongue-heavy and messy.

EXCLUSIVE from Rita Skeeter — Special Correspondent for the Daily Prophet
War Hero or Love Villain: Ronald Weasley Caught in Midnight Tryst with Auror Chang!

In a scandal hotter than a dragon’s breath, war hero and Auror Ronald Weasley was spotted locking lips with none other than Cho Chang — yes, that Cho Chang, the once-luminous flame of Harry Potter — in what witnesses describe as a “desperate and thoroughly public display of affection” outside The Ministry Lounge late Friday night.

Eyewitnesses report that Weasley, still legally bound in marriage to Witch Weekly’s Brightest Witch of Her Age , Hermione Granger, appeared “glassy-eyed and grabby,” while Chang, arms twined around his neck, was “just as eager, if not more.”

No word yet from Granger herself, who, sources say, has “not been seen at her marital residence in days.” Could this be the first crack in the Golden Trio’s glittering legacy?

Stay tuned for more from your favorite truth-seeker —
Rita Skeeter, telling it like it is.

When Harry feels nausea rising in his throat, he finishes reading and watches his wife pacing the kitchen nervously, muttering under her breath:

“That fucking… hex his balls… and this absolute bitch… dumber than a troll… Bat-Bogey might be good…”

He envies her ability to be angry — to feel something, anything.

He calls her name a couple of times before he can break her out of her enraged trance.

“Ginny… Hey, Ginny, please…”

“What, Harry?” she snaps, irritated.

“Could you take the kids to Bill and Fleur’s, at least until tomorrow? This will be a shitshow for a couple of days at least.”

“How can you be so fucking calm? Haven’t you seen what he’s done?” Ginny waves the paper in his face. “How are you not already somewhere breaking the bastard's nose?”

“I can’t just go around breaking people’s noses, you know. Especially the noses of my subordinates, Ginny. I have responsibilities — both at work and here, at this family,” he says tiredly and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, I think I’ve missed my invitation to another lecture about Harry Potter the Martyr and his Great Responsibilities! ” she spits out. “Aren’t you the first one to THINK about our children when you are not here to actually RAISE them every fucking day?!”

“I don’t have time nor mental capacity for this conversation, Gin,” he gets up to leave and vanishes the long-cold coffee from the mug. “Just bring the kids to Bill’s and let’s try to be civil — at least for the evening. Hermione will need us after what she’s going to be through today.”

“You never have time for this conversation, Harry Potter. I haven’t seen you in weeks. Literal weeks, Harry! You’re never home, you work crazy hours, you barely see the kids… If you have someone on the side, I hope you’re at least more careful than my fuckhead of a brother, and I won’t learn about it from Skeeter’s word vomit.”

When she finishes, she’s on the verge of tears and sounds small, deflated. All he feels is his shame rising — and an unbearable desire to run.

“That’s bullshit, Ginny, and you know it. Today is not about us.”

With that, he marches through the kitchen without looking at her — and leaves.

“When is it ever about us?” follows her broken whisper.

Harry Potter — the youngest Head Auror in wizarding history — enters his quarters in the Auror Department via private Floo at 7 a.m. on the dot.

His head already hurts, and producing a corporeal Patronus takes him a few impatient tries. At last, he forces his mind toward a memory: the first time he held James in his arms, the warmth, the overwhelming flood of pure love. A stag bursts to life in the middle of the cramped room.

“Find Ron. Tell him to come to my office now. Tell him to use my private Floo and stay the hell away from the public entrances. Go.”

With that, Harry flicks his wand through the warding pattern, adjusting the security around the fireplace, and summons another Patronus. This time, he thinks of the moment Teddy finally mounted a broom properly — the two of them flying crooked laps around the Burrow garden. The stag appears again.

“Find Hermione. Tell her to avoid public spaces and to wait for me in her office. I’ll be there in a minute.”

The stag vanishes.
And almost instantly, Ron stumbles through the Floo.

He looks wrecked — disheveled and miserable. He hasn’t shaved in days. His robes are wrinkled, his collar stained. His bloodshot eyes, the evident tremble in his hands, and the stench of stale liquor confirm the obvious — he’s been drinking. A lot.

“You smell like a distillery in decline,” Harry mutters.

“Yeah, well. I feel worse,” Ron rasps. “Look, Harry, mate, I didn’t want—”

“Just stop. For fuck’s sake.”

Harry cuts him off, voice sharp and tired. Then his training kicks in. He straightens his spine and continues with controlled authority.

“Ronald Weasley, you are being placed on indefinite personal leave, effective immediately. Your duties will be redistributed until further notice.”

Ron blinks.

“You’re... you’re benching me?”

He actually sounds surprised. But the shock fades fast — replaced by rising fury.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Harry? You can’t just kick me out!”

“I can,” Harry says coldly. “And I will. Given the current circumstances, your presence in the Department is likely to cause more disruption than actual benefit.”

“Oh, brilliant. Now I get the Head Auror speech? I’m supposed to be your fucking friend — your right hand! Not some departmental screw-up you get to boss around!”

He’s panting now, red-faced and furious, emotions spilling out of him.

“Then fucking act like it.”

Harry’s voice cracks — just a fraction — before the mask slides back into place.

“Leave the premises. Sleep off whatever you need to, sort yourself out, and we’ll talk about what’s next.
Now give me your badge — and don’t tempt me to write you up for showing up to work visibly inebriated.”

Ron’s glare sharpens into something poisonous.

“You’ll regret this, mate,” he spits the last word with such disgust that Harry finds himself wondering if he ever really knew the man standing in front of him.

“You might want to remember who you’re talking to—”

But Ron doesn’t let him finish.
He throws his badge onto the floor and storms out, slamming the door shut behind him.

Harry steps into Hermione’s office and finds her assistant, Rose, sitting stiffly on the sofa, wringing her hands. The older woman jumps to her feet the moment she sees him and starts speaking quickly.

“She’s not here yet, Head Auror Potter — and you know, she’s never late. Have you heard from her? I’ve seen that absolutely vile article and came straight here—”

Rosalind Fenwick was a renowned Ministry secretary who’d once run the entire Legal Department tighter than the Minister himself. She’d taken an immediate liking to Hermione when she first arrived as an intern — recognizing her ambition, integrity, and thirst for knowledge. Over the years, she’d stepped quietly into a motherly role — never crossing official lines, but always making sure Hermione was well-fed.

When Hermione earned her promotion, Rosalind told her how proud she was — then followed her immediately, ignoring Hermione’s flustered protests.

“You know, Madam Granger-Weasley, that I’m not here for a pay rise, but to make sure the truth is spoken to Wizarding society. And I promptly believe you, more than anyone, to be the bearer of said truth. By the way — please, call me Rose, for Merlin’s sake.”

The debate ended there. Rose moved her desk into Hermione’s office the very next morning.

This was the first time Harry had ever seen her anything less than calm and composed — and it only fed his own anxiety.

“I’m sure, Miss Fenwick,” he said carefully, “that even though I haven’t heard from her yet, Hermione is more than capable of holding her own.”

He glanced toward the office door, where memos were already swarming like angry pixies.

“Right now, I need your help managing the press — and keeping this place clear of any… unwanted visitors.”

Rose straightened at once, her expression hardening.

“That I can do, Head Auror Potter. Just leave them to me.”

She gave him a crisp nod and swept from the room.

Harry stands there in silence for a moment — surrounded by worn furniture and Hermione’s neatly organized things.

He lets out a tired breath and chuckles softly when he spots the mug sitting on her desk, tucked between stacks of parchment and sharpened quills — the one he gave her this past Christmas, after the news of her promotion.

It says:
Boss Ass Bitch — in the ugliest neon-pink cursive imaginable.

Notes:

sooooo, the third chapter!!!
I'm really happy with how it turns out, and I'm waiting for your opinions and feelings about this part!

I know that everything is rather sad for now, but it will be a long road for my guys to come to healing and happiness, haha, so, buckle up :)

And thank you so-so much for your comments, I couldn't be more grateful!

Chapter 4: Chapter 4: Golden Couple, My Arse

Hermione

When she finally reaches her office, she already feels better — collected, composed, assured.
She’d received Harry's hurried Patronus mere minutes after Pansy had left her.

“Great timing, Harry. Tight as usual,” she muttered, and made her way to the Ministry under the strongest Disillusionment Charm she could muster.

She expects chaos waiting at her office — cameras, shouting, a shit-ton of memos. Instead, she’s greeted with eerie calm.
When she walks in, Harry is standing there, smiling at her Boss Ass Bitch mug. She can’t help but smile weakly in return.

“I was ready to throw some hexes to get through here — count me surprised,” she says, smoothing her robes and crossing the room toward her desk.

“I thought throwing my Head Auror title around would be a better choice for the future of Wizarding society... and for you still having a job by the end of the day,” he replies sarcastically. “Also, I unleashed Rosalind’s wrath on them.”

“Wow, Harry, that’s so Slytherin of you. They wouldn’t even know what hit them.”

They stand in silence for a moment, the quiet filled only by the distant Monday buzz of Ministry life carrying faintly through the walls.

“I’m on your side in all this, Hermione,” Harry says, voice steady. “I’ve suspended him for now, because he was in no shape for work, and I won’t be the one to excuse his shortcomings anymore.”

She wants to say something bitter about Harry finally putting on the right pair of glasses. But when she sees the hope on his face, her anger dissolves just as quickly as it came. She just nods in return.

“We…” He flinches slightly. “Me and Ginny — we fully support you. Both publicly and privately.”

“Thank you, Harry. It means a lot.” She turns to face him. “But as much as I appreciate the sentiment, I feel like I’m not the only one in need of support right now.”

He exhales through his nose, gaze flicking away.

“Let’s just focus on you for now,” he says quietly. “Your name is the one in the papers, and I want — for once — to be a better friend, if you’ll let me.”

She decides to leave it there, for now, and steps forward to hug him tightly. When they part, there’s something close to tears glistening in both their eyes.

“I’ll pick you up this evening, and we’re going out for a drink,” he says as he turns. “No rain checks.”

He heads for the door without waiting for a response.
As he opens it, Rose steps in — her expression etched with determination and the faint traces of worry. She and Harry exchange a glance, a small nod, and he disappears.

“I brought your schedule for today, the documents you wanted to review, and your favourite sandwich from the Leaky,” Rose says in her usual no-nonsense tone. She places a stack of vials and papers, along with a small takeout bag, neatly on the desk.

“Have a good first day, Miss Granger. I’ll take care of the rest.”

She turns to leave, but Hermione stops her — the use of her maiden name not slipping by unnoticed.

“Thank you, Rose. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Her voice is heavy, emotion just under the surface.

“You’d be just fine, my darling — albeit missing your lunch, that’s for sure,” Rose replies primly, her voice slightly unsteady.

She leaves.
And Hermione is alone for the first time that morning.
Her stomach rumbles.
She smiles.

The rest of the day passes quickly, with Hermione buried in work.

She outlines the structure of her research meticulously, rearranging documents in chronological and alphabetical order across her desk. When she starts reviewing the paperwork, she’s briefly annoyed by inconsistencies in dates and interrogation notes — but chalks it up to the usual sloppiness of post-war documentation.

By noon, she realizes the reports are getting her nowhere. It’s time to begin with the first memory vials — but the Pensieve still hasn’t been delivered.

Her first instinct is to call for Rose, but then she decides she needs a breather. She pushes back from her desk and heads to the Magical Evidence Office herself.

The Ministry corridors are blissfully empty (thank Merlin), though she catches the occasional whisper or glance — nothing she can’t handle.
After all, being called a whore at fourteen by the majority of the Wizarding press wasn’t exactly a character-building moment — but it had certainly made her tolerance for gossip and public scrutiny near-impenetrable.

She steps into the lift and is startled when Arthur Weasley offers a reserved greeting.

“Hermione, darling,” he nods and leans in, clearly intending to hug her, but settles instead for an awkward tap on her shoulder. “What a day… what a day.”

She flinches — unintentionally — at his touch. For a moment, she doesn’t know what to say.

“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Weasley,” she replies, her voice cool.

“As I’ve told you many times, you can call me Arthur. We’re family, after all,” he says with a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Especially now — when we need to be a united front in the face of struggle.”

“Excuse me?” she asks, caught off guard.

“Public faith needs anchoring, Hermione. We all do our part — even if it means swallowing a few private storms,” he says gently, like he’s explaining something obvious to a child. 

She stares at him in blunt disbelief.

“I’m failing to understand what you’re implying, Arthur.”

“The world still believes in the Golden Trio and worships the Golden Couple. We can’t break that image, can we?”

“Golden Couple, my arse,” she mutters. 

He looks at her with calm calculation — composed, precise.

This is not the same light-hearted Arthur who once asked her how to use a “tay-le-fun,” or practically bounced in his seat when she gave him an electric razor for Christmas.
This Arthur is a high-ranking Ministry official.
A crucial member of the War Investigative Committee.
A public face of grief and righteous justice.
And now — Senior Advisor for Magical Communications and Public Trust Office.
A loyal supporter of Kingsley’s political party.
A Wizengamot chair.

“I don’t believe our views align on this matter, Arthur,” she says coldly with a sense of finality. “So let’s leave it at that.”

He doesn’t blink.

“Be careful, Hermione. With what you do — and what you try to accomplish. The consequences may not be as favourable as you’ve grown accustomed to.”

“If you’re trying to threaten me, Arthur, then you’ll need to do a better job. Because I won’t be swayed by your carefully crafted political insinuations. I won’t back down just because I’m ‘family’.
And mark my words — I certainly won’t hold back with anyone who stands in my way.”

The lift doors open. She walks out without another word — onto a floor that isn’t even hers.

She’s not even sure what they just argued about.
But something hangs in the air behind her — heavy, unspoken, and impossible to ignore.

When she returns to her office, she finds a small note waiting on her desk:

I am one Floo call away, baby — and ready to find him and Bat-Bogey his ass into next Christmas at your first word.
They wouldn’t send the most popular wife and mother of the Wizarding World to Azkaban even if they wanted to.
The kids are sick. Couldn’t get them to Bill’s. Have that drink for me, would you?
P.S. — If you ever need to hide some unnamed black-haired, skinny-ass Ravenclaw body, just send a Patronus.
— Love, Gin.

Tears tug at the corners of Hermione’s eyes at the sight of her fiery friend’s unwavering support — even if it means going against her own family.

She flinches slightly at “most popular wife and mother of the Wizarding World,” but smiles, making a mental note to take Ginny out for some long-overdue girls’ time as soon as she can.
She quickly scribbles back:

Friday night. You and I. Lots of tequila shots and Taylor Swift karaoke.
Tell your husband he’s on kid duty until Saturday evening — even if it means he has to quit the Auror Office.

P.S. — I pay for the tequila, you wear that silver dress you bought last month.
— Love, Mi

Then she dives into the memories — and doesn’t notice the next six hours fly by.

When she finally stops, worn out and spinning from repeated Pensieve use, the sky outside her window is already dark. And something’s nagging at her.

It’s the same feeling she used to get rereading The Tales of Beedle the Bard for the hundredth time — that something important was missing, hiding in plain sight, and she just couldn’t put her finger on it.

She reaches for a scrap of parchment and starts scribbling a list of names — the testimonies and memories that raise the most questions. She can’t even explain what’s wrong, exactly.

Their stories match what she’s heard. The events align.
But the memories themselves feel... too clean. Too smooth.
The emotions on their faces — too flat. Too rehearsed. Almost robotic.

She stares at the list for a long moment, her eyes catching on the final name like it’s waiting for something.

Nott
Parkinson
Zabini
Greengrass (D.)
Malfoy

The silence breaks when Harry appears in her doorway.

“Okay. We’re leaving. You have five minutes. Ginny is—”

“With the kids, yes. She wrote to me.”
Hermione glances up, already stretching her neck.
“You need to get her out more, Harry. Not me.”

He looks at her — and the guilt starts creeping into his expression.
She notices it immediately, sighs, and waves him off.

“Okay, okay. I’m coming. Give me five.”

They enter a small Muggle cocktail bar that doesn’t even have a sign outside — practically invisible to anyone who doesn’t know what to look for.

Only once she’s nursing her first Manhattan of the night does Hermione allow herself to really remember what’s happened over the past three days.
She lets out a long sigh… and then starts laughing. Maniacally.

Harry watches her carefully, eyebrows raised, clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“He... told me once… when we were eighteen or something... that cheating and fucking with your friend’s ex were the two worst things someone could do in a relationship…”

She hiccups, practically crying from laughter.

“Look where it got us...”

Harry chokes mid-sip, spluttering and coughing into his glass. He starts laughing too — ragged and breathless — as if the absurdity finally breaks through.

They sit there, eyes glassy, shaking with laughter, until Hermione breaks. The laughter caves into quiet tears.
Harry rests a hand gently on her back. He doesn’t say anything — just nods at the bartender and buys them another round.

The second Manhattan goes down slower.
They sit in compatible silence, weighed by a mutual understanding: something huge shifted today, and nothing will ever quite go back to the way it was.

The silence breaks again — this time by loud, drunken slurring from somewhere behind them.

“If it wasn’t you, Granger, I’d say I’ve got myself a stalker,” Pansy Parkinson slurs as she sways toward their table, thoroughly inebriated. Her eyes are hollow, her expression void of emotion.
“The Golden Swot, looking for revenge in the warm embrace of Holy Scarhead? I see the headlines already.”

“Get lost, Parkinson,” Harry mutters, clearly frustrated.

“Oi, Potter, are you trying to hurt my feelings?” she pouts dramatically. “Isn’t the Great Hero of the Wizarding World happy to see me?”

“I’d honestly prefer a good old Cruciatus. Did your lovely parents teach you that while the Order was out fighting the war?”

The sharpness in his tone is unmistakable.

“Fuck you, Potter.” Her voice slurs, but the fury in it cuts clean.
“You don’t know anything about me. Or your precious Order. Because you’re too fucking dumb to understand anything beyond what they fed you.”

She sways again, barely upright, her voice full of venom — but her face is numb. Broken.

“I could arrest you right now for insulting War Heroes,” Harry growls, his face red.

“Let’s not escalate it, Potter,” another voice cuts in — cool and controlled.
“She’s clearly drunk. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

Draco Malfoy steps out of the shadows. He gently grips Pansy by the elbow.

“What, are you threatening me now, Malfoy?” Harry rises slowly to his feet.

“No,” Draco says calmly. “I’m asking you.
Please.”

He looks exhausted — pale, but sincere.
Hermione finds herself staring.
This isn’t the version of Malfoy she ever imagined growing up.
And judging by Harry’s silence, he didn’t expect this either.

She takes advantage of the pause.

“Just take her and go, Malfoy.”

He nods once and begins steering Pansy away. But as they reach the door, Hermione speaks again — surprising even herself.

“Pansy… take care of yourself. Please.”

Pansy turns. For a second, she seems smaller. Younger.
Like someone who’s forgotten where she is and how she got there.
She doesn’t reply. Just stares — blinking — then disappears out the door.

Hermione turns to Harry and sees the same haunted look on his face that she saw in Pansy’s just moments ago.
He finishes his drink in one long gulp, leaves some money on the counter, and hugs her briefly — silently.
Then he, too, leaves.

She orders another drink.
Whiskey, neat.

And she drinks it alone — in the silence of a mostly empty bar — unable to stop thinking about Pansy’s hollow eyes…
and even more about Malfoy’s.

The calm storm brewing behind them.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5: A Single Rose For Every Trauma

Summary:

Ginny’s marriage is circling the drain, her mother throws vases now, and someone remembered her enough to send a rose.

She cries. A lot. But also maybe flirts with Blaise Zabini. Small wins.

TW: depression, suicidal ideation, emotional neglect, addiction (parental), marital dysfunction.

Ginny

She doesn’t leave the bedroom until 6:30, knowing exactly how much her husband treasures his morning routine — respecting his thirty minutes of calm. By the time she gets down to the kitchen, he’s already gone, his mug of the day sitting emptily on the table. No goodbye said. Not even a note.

The mug says “More espresso. Less depresso.” But she can’t find even the faintest smile in herself looking at it.

With a sudden surge of emotion, she grabs it and smashes it against the nearby wall. The tears fall silently. She sits on the floor among the shattered pieces of ceramic, not caring about her bare feet. She stays like that, hugging her legs, shaking — until a young voice pierces through the stillness of her suffering.

“Mommy is coming, love. Just a minute,” she tries to say in a cheerful voice — and fails.

She scrambles to her feet, reparoes the broken mug, and hurries out of the kitchen.

With that, her daily routine starts: cooking, cleaning, playing, pleading with the kids to eat, cleaning, cooking, washing something, pleading again, calming the tears, getting them to sleep, breaking up a fight or three, calming the tears once more.

Somewhere between cleaning and cooking again, she locks herself in the bathroom. One of her sons is crying hysterically outside, but she can’t bring herself to care.

She looks at herself in the mirror — once a promising Seeker, a Quidditch player offered spots in multiple international professional clubs, War Hero, chosen to be a wife and a mother, because that’s what the world expected of her.

Subservience. Obedience. Happy silence.

She fucking obliged, didn’t she? And what’d she get in return?

A husband who never touches her. Never home. Never sleeping in the same bed with her. A nonexistent career with no prospects, no future. No personality. No fire in her veins. No life in her eyes at all.

She stands there for another minute until she’s able to look at herself again without wanting to hurt someone. The guilt of hearing her child’s cries strangling her. She pushes it aside for now. She can deal with it later — crying over a bottle of wine in her empty bedroom.

Right now, her kids need her. So she has to persevere and come out of this fucking bathroom.

Right now, she needs to stop thinking about how easy it would be to just leave — lock the apartment and run. Or worse — stay here, end it, make the noise stop for good.

She comes out.

She goes mechanically through another day. She kisses her children on their chubby cheeks. She blows raspberries on their sweet tummies.

How could it be that she loves them more than anything in the world — and yet feels like she’s dying a little more with each day she spends with them?

Harry comes home late again, long after the kids have gone to bed. Ginny is waiting for him in the kitchen — her bottle of wine already half-empty.

When he walks in, she sees the exhaustion etched into his features, and it only fans the flames of her anger.

“They’ll leave for Hogwarts sooner, you know,” she says, voice tight with exasperation, “than you’ll actually spend any real time with them.”

He looks at her like she’s an annoying bug — and that’s the most she gets from him most days.

“You know better than anyone I didn’t choose this job — or how little time I get to spend away from it,” he mutters, tired, and as always, just a little ashamed.

But Ginny doesn’t care about his shame anymore.

“I don’t care for your excuses anymore, Harry. I’d be better off handling it all alone than being alone and always waiting for you to come home, just to feed me the same tired shit about who needed saving this time. Everyone’s always craving your time and effort more than I do — and I’ve spent years being a single spouse and a single parent in a marriage.”

“Gin, I really—”

“Oh, just save it.” She cuts him off. “It’s our wedding anniversary tomorrow. I knew you’d forget, so I booked us a table at Cursed & Cured. If you don’t show up, I’m done, Harry. Honestly.”

With that, she grabs the bottle and walks out of the kitchen, avoiding his gaze.

She locks herself in what used to be their bedroom and cries — staring at the side of the bed he hasn’t touched in months.

They say betrayal is the hardest thing in a relationship.

Ginny thinks the hardest thing is being perfect on paper and still failing in reality.

There was a time when she spent so long imagining what they could’ve been — avoiding what they were — that now it’s almost impossible to accept the truth: her marriage is broken beyond repair.

She isn’t even sure she loves him anymore.

But what terrifies her more is that she can’t remember a version of herself not in love with him — and she has no idea who she’ll be if that ends.

 

The next day comes and goes like dozens before it. But by the end, she brings the kids to Bill’s and finally gives herself some long-overdue self-care.
She spends at least an hour in a decadent, ancient-looking bubble bath. She applies shaving charms to every inch of her body. Then she stands in front of the mirror — naked — for a full thirty minutes, just looking at herself.

The two births she went through are etched across her — in the weight of her breasts, in the softness of her far-from-flat stomach. The despair and unhappiness of the last few years are written in the creases on her forehead and around her eyes. Even her once-fiery red hair seems dulled, as if it, too, is tired of trying.

She dresses up, pins her hair in a loose cascade, and puts small diamonds in her ears — Harry’s first anniversary present.
She looks good. Feels good.
Matching lingerie beneath a flowy red dress and high heels.

He can’t not show up, she tells herself, grabs her coat, and leaves for the restaurant.

When the first hour she spends there alone comes to an end, she allows herself to contemplate the thought that he really can .
Then she runs to the bathroom to cry.

She spends the next hour ordering dinner and wine for herself, eating hungrily while staring blankly at the same spot on the table.
She leaves a big tip for the waiter who’s been watching her with growing sympathy all evening and steps out onto the cold, almost empty street.

Ginny doesn’t smoke, but right now she feels like she could kill for a cigarette.
So when she catches the scent of strong tobacco in the air, she instinctively turns her head and follows it.

She sees a tall, tanned figure leaning lazily against a cold red brick wall, and for some reason, her stomach flutters.
Her feet move on their own accord — closer to the man she now recognizes as Blaise Zabini.

“Madame Potter,” he greets her with a nod, flashing a small smile and perfect white teeth.
“Would you join me for a smoke?”

He pulls out a small leather cigarette case and opens it, and she just stares at him, momentarily dumbstruck.
Then, finally, she stretches out her hand and shyly takes one of the cigarettes, placing it between her lips.

He meets her gaze as he lights her cigarette with the tip of his wand — and the moment feels so intimate she nearly cries.
She breaks eye contact quickly, berating herself inwardly.

“So, what is a woman as astonishing as yourself doing all alone in Diagon Alley so late in the evening?” he asks, teasing.
“Must I send an owl to a certain War Hero and explain the basics of l'étiquette when it comes to wooing a lady?”

And that’s when she breaks.

She begins crying — not delicately, not prettily, but with full, guttural sobs, the kind she hasn’t allowed herself in years.
Blaise watches her at first, clearly startled, but then his expression changes — eyes flashing with cold fury before softening unmistakably.

“Mia cara,” he whispers, “tell me how to help you.”

She looks up at him through blurred vision, and for the first time in years, she feels seen .
“Hold me,” she sobs. And she’s just broken enough to give in to it.

And hold her, he does.

There, in a quiet, forgotten corner of Diagon Alley, he holds not the wife of his old rival — but the woman who once took his breath away when they were both young and stupid.

Minutes pass.

Eventually, the tears slow. She stirs from her trance and becomes abruptly, painfully aware of herself.
The embarrassment hits hard.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, wiping at her wet, stained cheeks. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

She tries to pull away, but Blaise holds her tightly, then moves her gently to face him.

“Don’t apologize to me, mia cara , for taking what’s yours,” he says, eyes gleaming with something she can’t quite name.
“Find me when you’re done with your bespectacled disappointment of a husband.”

He bends his head and places a soft kiss against the pulse point of her wand hand — and it melts her insides in the best possible way.

“Blaise…” she whispers.

“Don’t.” The word comes out low, strangled. “Not yet.”

He looks her straight in the eye, and it’s like he’s seeing through to the deepest corners of her soul.
She is on fire.

Then Blaise Zabini lets go of her hand and quietly Apparates.

And all she wants — as she stands there breathless and alone — is to feel that fire again.

The next morning, she wakes up with a jolt — the events of last night hitting her like a brick wall. She cries again — softly, desperately — out of the sheer loneliness surrounding her.
Until an unfamiliar owl knocks impatiently on her window.

Startled, she opens it and a gorgeous eagle owl stares at her with bright amber — almost red — eyes. It pecks her hand affectionately, drops something on her desk, and flies away without waiting for a reply.

She approaches the wooden table.

A single, beautiful red rose lies there, next to a small piece of parchment.
Ginny unfolds it with trembling hands to find five small words:

— Smile for me, Mia Cara.
B.

She lets out a shaky breath and smiles — not caring about the tears streaming down her face again.
She presses the rose to her chest and just stands there, for a long moment, surrounded by its exquisite aroma — alone in her house, and maybe a tiny bit less alone in her heart.

Later that morning, Ginny feels a deep longing to see her mum.
She dresses quickly, pours her coffee into a charmed travel mug, and Floos to the Burrow.

She’s greeted by Pippy — the elf her father hired after his Ministry promotion and Molly’s mental health decline.

“Miss Ginny!” Pippy bounces excitedly, clearly thrilled. “Pippy is so-so glad! Did Miss Ginny bring Pippy’s favourite boys to watch?”

Ginny smiles tiredly and crouches out of habit to get to her eye level.

“Hi, Pippy.” She shakes the elf’s small hand. “I’m very glad to see you too. The boys are at Bill’s today — I came to see Mum.”

Pippy’s ears droop as she shakes her head. “Missus Molly is not good today, Miss Ginny. She asked Pippy for more potions, but Pippy can only bring two. Missus Molly got angry — she threw her glass… and she cut her finger… Pippy wasn’t fast…”

Ginny sees the elf spiraling into distress. She gently cups Pippy’s trembling hands.

“Pippy, that’s not your fault. If anything, we should be the ones apologizing for putting you in danger when Mum’s behaviour is unstable.”

“Don’t say that, Miss Ginny,” Pippy protests, affronted. “Pippy can manage Missus Weasley. Pippy is a competent elf.”

“I’m absolutely sure you can,” Ginny replies, her voice soft but steady. “And we are so grateful for everything you do.”

Pippy beams at the words, nods proudly, and gestures for Ginny to follow her.

As she walks through her childhood home, Ginny can’t help but notice the changes.
Gone are the saliva-inducing aromas of Molly’s cooking.
Gone is the soft clicking of charmed knitting needles, the warm tick of the old family clock, the cheerful chatter of overgrown bushes creeping in through first-floor windows.

After Arthur’s political career took off, he’d claimed there was no time to maintain the Burrow like Molly once did. Despite the children’s pleas to help, he packed everything that once made the house a home into attic boxes.
He remodeled the cramped living room, replaced the mismatched furniture with sterile new sets, and repainted the whole first floor.

The result is a Burrow that is clinical in the worst way.
And it’s part of the reason Ginny visits so rarely.

She just can’t stomach how the dreams of her children growing up in a loving, if chaotic, home have crumbled into an empty house, a detached father, and Molly… a potion-addicted, suicidal shadow of the Great Weasley Matriarch.

Ginny enters her mother’s bedroom, and it smells so unbearably stale and lifeless that she wants to cry all over again. Molly lies asleep in her bed, empty potion vials scattered across the bedside table. Pippy shuts the door behind them with a soft click and leaves Ginny alone with her mother, who mumbles incoherently in her potion-induced sleep.

“Hi, Mum,” she says in a small, broken voice.

Silence.

“You know, you always taught me it’s rude to ignore someone when they’re talking to you,” she chuckles dryly. “Now who’s being rude.”

Unable to stand still, she moves into action. First, she pulls up the blinds and cracks open the window to let some fresh air in.

“The boys are so big already, Mum. James lost his first tooth and he’s immensely proud. Albus said his first sentence recently, and it was ‘My poo stinky.’ Still not sure what to think of that.”

Next, she conjures a vase and fills it with a bouquet of fresh peonies. The mix of floral aroma and the chilled air makes it just a bit easier to breathe.

“Harry is… well, I don’t know how Harry is, honestly. We haven’t really talked in weeks — unless you count arguing.”

Then she vanishes the vials and the nonexistent dust from the room. Tears start threatening again.

“I don’t know what to do, Mum. And I need you so much…”

“Ginny, baby…” comes her mother’s hoarse voice — the first in weeks.

“Mum?” Ginny crouches by her bedside, instantly alert. “I’m here, Mum!”

“Did you bring me my potions, sweet girl?”

“No, Mum. You can’t have any more today,” she says softly, trying to sound firm. “But I can bring you something to eat. Would you like some chicken soup?”

“But I need my potions, Ginny. Don’t you understand?” Molly pleads. “I feel so bad… You won’t let your own mother suffer, would you?”

“Mum, please. We’ve already—”

“ Bring me my potions, you ungrateful brat!! ” Molly jolts upright, her voice suddenly raw and venomous. “You are a disgrace! I never wanted you in the first place!!”

She grabs the freshly conjured vase and hurls it at the wall above Ginny’s head. Ginny flinches, frozen, her gaze fixed on her feet as if refusing to accept what just happened. Her mother’s hoarse screams blur in her ears.

Then — a pop — Pippy apparates into the room.

Ginny bolts.

She runs blindly through the house, not stopping until she’s back at Grimmauld Place, locked in her bedroom. She collapses onto the floor in a fetal position, the scent of a single red rose still lingering faintly in the air.

And there, she breaks.

Notes:

I think that's the darkest one I've written yet, but also the closest to my heart.
Shout out to all the moms out there doing invisible labour and being the actual heroes of the world – I dedicate this to you and I see you.
Let me know what you think!

Love you all!

Chapter 6: Chapter 6: O.W.L.s in Coping Mechanisms

Summary:

The plot is thickening here, guys!
As always, let me know what you think at the comments, because I am deeply, genuinely interested and because it just warms my heart!

TW: alcohol consumption

Hermione

The week flies by without Hermione noticing. Between combing through countless memory vials, fending off the press, and making her parents’ house somewhat livable again, she barely registers the days passing — until she’s woken Friday morning by Ginny’s owl tapping furiously on her window.

In case you’ve forgotten — the silver dress is ready, and so am I.
Dress up your skinny ass, ’cause I really need this tequila.
— Love, Gin.

Hermione curses under her breath, because she has, in fact, forgotten. Still, the thought of seeing Ginny makes her smile. She misses her terribly.

She digs out the sexiest black dress she owns — one of the few things she refuses to wear to anything work-related — slips it on under her robes, pairs it with matching black heels, and Floos directly to Harry’s quarters, which she’s been using lately for quick and discreet Ministry access.

Harry is already there, buried in paperwork. He glances up at her over his glasses, looking like he hasn’t slept in days.

“Morning, Harry. I brought you a breakfast muffin,” she says, placing a paper bag carefully on his desk. “Are you okay? Because, honestly… you look like shit.”

He groans and runs a hand through his already messy hair.
“Feel like shit too. There was a magical explosion in Muggle London last night. Ashwinder egg contraband. I was on call the whole time — managing the Aurors, coordinating Obliviators, cleaning up the mess…”

“Oh, Harry. I’m sorry.” She hesitates. “Maybe Ginny could take the kids to Bill’s again tonight? We made plans, remember—?”

“Fucking fuck ,” Harry mutters, burying his face in his hands. A second later he’s on his feet, pacing the office, cursing like it might stop time.

“What happened? Something with Bill?” she asks, confused.

“Our anniversary, Mione.” He stops pacing, eyes wide. “I missed our fucking anniversary dinner yesterday. I didn’t even send a note. I’m such a dickhead. Fuck fuck fuck. ”

Hermione blinks. “Well, fuck.”

She sighs, already resigned. “Maybe we need to cancel girls’ night after all.”

“I don’t think she’ll talk to me anyway,” he says, collapsing back into his chair. “She said it’s over if I don’t show up. And I just— I screwed up. Again.”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean—”

“Believe me, she did. And she’s right. It’s all my fault. I keep doing this. Everything I touch…” His breathing grows shallow. His hands are shaking.

She steps forward. “Harry James Potter, look at me .”

He does. Eyes wide, chest heaving.

“Listen to me,” she says gently but firmly. “And I mean this in the kindest way possible: Stop the pity party. Right here. Right now. If you fucked up — go and apologise. You’ve saved the Wizarding World multiple times. You can beg your wife for forgiveness.”
He’s quiet for a long beat. Then:

“I’m not even sure I want to.”

Hermione blinks again. “What?”

He slumps back in his chair, eyes hollow, voice low.

“I mean—of course I should. Of course I should want to. But I don’t know if I do. Not anymore. Not after... everything.”

He doesn’t look at her. He stares somewhere over her shoulder.

“I’ve spent so long making things right for everyone, being the one who shows up. But somewhere along the way, I stopped showing up for her. And she—she stopped asking. Then we started screaming. And now it’s just… silence. Guilt. Routine. I come home and it’s like we’re strangers living under the same roof. And that’s on me. I know that. But I don’t know how to want something that feels so far gone.”

Hermione doesn’t speak for a long moment. Her heart aches for both of them.

Finally, she says quietly, “Then maybe don’t do it for the marriage. Don’t do it for the version of you that people expect or for the kids’ sake. Do it because she deserves the truth . And so do you .”

He nods slowly. Quiet. Defeated.

She pats him on the shoulder and leaves the office. 

—----------------------

Quiet Ministry chatter follows her as usual as she makes her way to her office.

“Madame Granger-Weasley,” booms Kingsley’s voice when she’s nearly there. She straightens her face and turns to meet him.

“Minister. Good morning. How are you? How are the kids?”

“Breathing down my neck, like the little gremlins they are,” he chuckles lowly. “I just wanted to check in — ask about your progress, with all this media spotlight and everything.”

“You should know better than anyone, Minister — if press nonsense stops you from doing your job, then perhaps you ought to consider a less public career path.”

He laughs now, loudly — with his whole body.

“Witty as ever, Madame Granger-Weasley!”

She flinches slightly at the full use of her name but continues regardless. “I’m making good progress, should you ask, Minister. I’ve found some inconsistencies…”

“Inconsistencies?” he repeats, raising a brow.

“Yes. In witness statements and memories. Now I’m working through the early documentation — trying to restore as much as I can. I’m confident in the outcome, but I may need to speak to—”

“You know, Hermione,” he interrupts smoothly, “that proper documentation procedures were not exactly our top priority in the aftermath of the War.”

“With all due respect, sir, that doesn’t make my job any easier now,” she responds, voice even.

Kingsley chuckles again.
“Hermione Granger-Weasley,” he says, enunciating her surname with particular care. “Meticulous as ever. Don’t be too hard on us old fools, Hermione. We all did our best.”

And with that cryptic farewell, he nods politely and walks away — leaving Hermione standing there, brows furrowed in quiet confusion.

_____________________

She spends the whole day hopping in and out of other people’s memories until the dull throb behind her temples turns into a full-blown headache. She checks the time — dinner and drinks with Ginny are only an hour away — and for a moment, she’s tempted to pack up early. Rummaging through her purse, hoping for pain relief, a potion, or at least a snack, her fingers brush against a piece of parchment she doesn’t recognize. She carefully unfolds the note.

It’s unmistakably neat Minerva McGonagall’s handwriting.

You always preferred facts to feelings.
But sometimes, the feeling is the fact.
Trust yourself. Start at the very beginning. Tread lightly.
Veritas inter umbras.*
— M.

Hermione stares at it, blinks, then mutters, “The hell…”

Whatever this is, it feels miles from her mentor’s usual direct, unsentimental approach. The vagueness alone is enough to make her doubt the note’s authenticity — and yet, she remembers clearly the moment Minerva slipped it into her hand on that damn balcony.

She spends nearly half an hour alternating between reading the message and scanning her case files again and again. The words circle in her mind like a mantra. Start at the beginning.

Eventually, she huffs in frustration, Accios her coffee mug wandlessly, and rolls up her sleeves.

Fine.

She dives into the documents again, this time methodically combing through every vial and report that could qualify as “the beginning”. Another thirty minutes pass before she finds it — a memory vial logged with the very first witness by date, but misfiled alongside later testimony. It belongs to Theodore Nott.

She hasn’t reviewed it yet.

Hermione lowers the silvery contents of the vial into the Pensieve. The sensation of falling is familiar by now. In the next breath, she’s standing in a dim, claustrophobic room, seated across from a much younger Theodore Nott.

It’s one of the old Ministry interrogation chambers — and even inside a memory, she swears she can smell the damp, musty air. Theo sits perfectly still in a Ministry-issued chair. He’s immaculately dressed in dark robes, hair neatly parted, expression carefully blank. His hands rest folded in his lap. He looks like he’s waiting for a dinner party to begin — not giving a post-war deposition.

His voice, when he speaks, is smooth. Even faintly bored.

“I had no direct involvement in the active combat operations of the Death Eaters. My father insisted I remain at home — for protection, he claimed. I stayed at the estate for most of the war. Attended meetings occasionally, under duress.”

“I was present at Hogwarts during the final battle, yes. But I cast no spells. I assisted no one. I remained until I was permitted to leave with the other Slytherin students. So I did.”

“No, I don’t recall seeing Draco Malfoy in the final hours. We arrived separately. I heard he was given a task… something involving retrieval, but I wasn’t involved.”

“Yes, I know Blaise Zabini. We were in the same house. We didn’t fight together. He avoided choosing a side — as did I.”

He continues like that for several more minutes. Smooth. Polished. Every phrase measured — like someone who’s spent years rehearsing.

Hermione narrows her eyes. The emotion doesn’t match the narrative. Not unless Theo Nott is the most skilled Occlumens she’s ever encountered. There’s no flicker of discomfort. No guilt. No hesitation. Nothing.

Until—

His fingers start tapping against his thigh. Left hand. An irregular, but steady rhythm.

She leans closer. He swallows. The next question lands.

“Did I… agree with the cause?”

He looks up — directly at the interviewer — and for the first time, something breaks. A shadow passes through his eyes. And in that split second, Hermione sees the same haunted look she remembers from Pansy Parkinson.

The room is utterly silent.

“I find it rather hilarious,” he says, voice menacing now, “that you are the one asking me that question… after sending me to the epicentre of that cause, when I begged you not to.”

He clearly says a name — but the memory glitches . A burst of white noise. A fog filling the room. And when the image clears, the mask is already back in place.

Theo straightens.

“My testimony is complete,” he says crisply. “If the Ministry has no further need of me, I would like to be excused.”

The memory begins to dissolve and Hermione feels herself being pulled back into the present.

She starts pacing — agitated. Surely they wouldn’t, would they? But the memory has clearly been tampered with. Maybe Theo named an informant who needed protection, she thinks, mind racing — or perhaps the original memory was damaged, and they had to reconstruct it somehow?

But then why did she feel the same unease with other memories and files?

She needs to rewatch all the testimonies — now that she knows what to look for. At that moment, her wand buzzes, reminding her it’s time to leave for dinner with Ginny.

She scribbles a quick note to herself:

Theo — interviewer? Sent to the epicentre of the cause?

With that, Hermione summons all her files and notes into a neat stack and rises. She touches up her hair and makeup, grabs a Muggle coat from the hanger, and hurries out of the Ministry — for good, at least for the night.

When she meets Ginny at the entrance of their favourite Muggle bar, her friend’s eyes are bloodshot and teary — and she’s most certainly not wearing the silver dress.

“Hey, baby, is everything alright?” Hermione pulls her into a quick hug.

“Can we just go home and drink every bottle of wine you own? Because it is most certainly not alright,” Ginny sniffles, smudging her mascara further with her sleeve.

“I don’t promise wine, but I grabbed at least two bottles of Ogden’s just in case.”

“I love you. You know that, right?”

They quickly Apparate to the porch of the Granger house and make their way inside, flicking on the lights as they go.

“This is my first time here,” Ginny says carefully. “The house is beautiful.”

Hermione stares at her feet for a long moment, then sighs.
“This is my first week here in almost seven years too. I haven’t… I haven’t been able to come back since they told me my parents’ Obliviation is irreversible.”

“Okay, we need this whiskey now, ” Ginny grabs her hand and tugs her further inside.

The living room is nearly bare — a single oversized sofa facing the fireplace, the aftermath of Hermione’s earlier breakdown.

“I smashed everything. Then vanished it. I just… couldn’t look at the empty photos. Or the family relics.”

“Please don’t leave me, Mi. Whiskey — first. Trauma-dumping — next.”

Hermione chuckles and summons two glasses along with the bottle of Ogden’s from the kitchen. She pours them each a generous portion, and they raise their glasses with matching bitter smiles.

“ Fuck the Fucking Fuckers before the Fucking Fuckers Fuck us! ” Ginny proclaims with exaggerated pomp.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” they yell together like they’re sixteen again — and for a moment, Hermione feels the echo of those chaotic Gryffindor common room nights.

“So. Who’s first?” Hermione raises a brow once they collapse onto the sofa in the mostly empty room.

“Oh no. For me to open this particular can of worms, I need at least three more drinks. Maybe five. You start.” Ginny nudges her with an elbow.

“Okay… so,” Hermione begins, swirling her glass, “my husband cheated on me. Again. With the Ravenclaw bitch. I moved into my parents’ house — the ones who don’t even know I exist because I Obliviated them and the reversal didn’t work — smashed everything in it, because who needs therapy, right?”

She takes a breath.

“Then I buried myself in work because when I work, I don’t spiral. And when I think about refurbishing this house or filing for D-I-V-O-R-C-E, I have a full-blown panic attack. So… yeah. Wow, that felt good.”

Ginny snorts and replies in her best McGonagall voice,
“ That’s Outstanding for usage of sarcasm as a coping strategy, Miss Granger, and Excellent for trauma-density over a one-week span. But you really must improve your avoidance techniques if you wish to pass your O.W.L.s. ”

They both laugh — and drink again.

“Your turn,” Hermione gestures with her glass.

Ginny exhales deeply.
“Alright. I married the love of my life. Had two kids. Worked myself into a depression trying to be the perfect wife and mother — so he could focus on being the Hero. ”

She pauses, swallowing.

“Then we stopped talking. Then we started fighting. Then he missed our second anniversary in a row. And when he finally apologised, he said he doesn’t think he loves me anymore.”

She finishes her drink in one long gulp, voice trembling.

“Oh, also, I only talk to my father at public events where we pretend to be a happy family. And my mum—who’s so far gone she threw a vase at me yesterday and called me a disgrace because I wouldn’t give her more potions.”

Her voice breaks.

“I’m twenty-five. I don’t have a job. I never imagined I’d be divorced and a single parent. I don’t know what to do. I have no idea where to go. And I have two fucking kids to take care of.”

By the end, she’s fully sobbing. Hermione pulls her into a tight hug and just holds her while she cries.

“You can move in with me — that’s one problem solved,” she says quietly.

“What?” Ginny looks up, dazed.

“You can move in with me. Here. With the kids. We’ll call it the D&D House: Divorced and Depressed. ”

“Are you fucking with me? This is the whiskey talking.”

“The hell I am.” Hermione gets to her feet, suddenly animated. “Look — it makes perfect sense. The house is huge. Plenty of space for everyone. I’m home more than Harry ever was — I can help with the kids. I am their godmother.”

She starts pacing, hands flying.

“This gives you space to breathe and figure out the separation. And it keeps me from drinking myself into oblivion every night in an empty house. It’s a win-win.”

“I don’t know how the hell you think that’s a good idea,” Ginny laughs, wiping at her face, “but I’m in. Let’s confirm tomorrow — when we’re sober enough for good old grown-up decision-making.”

The rest of the night is a blur of drinking and laughing, then drinking and crying, then laughing again. They fall asleep tangled on the sofa, feeling five years younger and at least a hundred pounds lighter — all their worries blissfully forgotten.

Well, at least, until the next day comes knocking.

* (lat.) truth among the shadows

Chapter 7: Chapter 7: Apologies Aren’t Sexy

Summary:

let's see the Harry's perspective of things!
TW: Mental health struggles, therapy session (grief, shame, emotional repression), alcohol use, brief self-deprecating humor about suicidal ideation (not graphic)

Harry

Harry’s life is a fucking mess, and he feels like he’s drowning.
Ginny left Grimmauld Place with the kids just a day after their hangout with Hermione, and he still hasn’t quite wrapped his head around it. Lately, he used to find every excuse to leave the house on weekends — selfishly, he knows — just to avoid the tension, the silence, the crushing guilt of failing again, both as a husband and as a father.

Now he sits alone in an empty house on a Sunday morning and feels like a total disappointment. No toys in sight. No screaming children. No smells coming from the kitchen. He fucking lost it all. He nurses his coffee in a mug that says “D.I.L.F. – Damn, I love football!” and even that doesn’t bring his spirits up.

And yet — the relief. It punches through him so hard that the shame doubles. He hates himself for even thinking of it, but it's there: the unbearable lightness of not pretending anymore. Of not performing the role of trying to fix something that is too far broken. They didn’t talk it out — couldn’t. Too much animosity for that. But at least the pretending is over.

They agreed on a cover story: Grimmauld Place is under reconstruction. Should anyone ask, that’s the official line for why Ginny and the kids don’t live there anymore. They haven’t discussed legality, or what their separation even means, not really. They haven’t had a civil conversation longer than ten minutes without screaming or crying.

He’ll pick up the kids on Wednesday — assuming nothing explodes at work — and return them on Saturday, just in time for James’s playdate with someone whose name he can’t even remember.

Hermione, sweet as ever, sent him an owl again this morning, confirming that everything was going well with the move — and with the kids. She included small, unnecessary details, like how James (predictably) picked dinosaurs as the theme for his new room, and how Albus was thrilled about the swing in the backyard. The guilt rises like bile in his throat again. That should’ve been his responsibility — the swings, the playdates, the quirky dinosaur names, teaching them something new every day. Instead, Albus can’t even say dada properly, because dada is never around.

Harry scribbles a quick note to his therapist, asking if she has an emergency session available — because right now, he either wants to smash something or drink heavily, and it’s only 11 a.m. on a fucking Sunday. Luckily, Agatha responds quickly. She offers him a two o’clock window, and somehow, just knowing that softens the pressure on his chest. He can make it until 2, he thinks. Agatha will help make it make sense. She always does.

He spends the next two hours buried in paperwork — the eternal constant in his life — until, by one o’clock, he’s already showered, shaved, and out the door on foot, which is rare. The January air has a bite, but it feels good — clean. He arrives at Agatha’s office twenty minutes early and stops by the café on the corner to grab two coffees — Americano, one sugar for himself; flat white, no sugar, for Agatha.

The office smells faintly like the Divination classroom — tea leaves, spices, something floral. 

Agatha is already waiting for him when he enters. Her long silver hair is pinned back, reading glasses perched on the edge of her nose, a worn journal floating lazily in the air. She accepts the flat white with a small, familiar nod.

“Thank you, Harry. Sit down — no need for pleasantries unless you really want to pretend you’re fine today.”

Harry gives a huff of laughter and sinks into the armchair opposite her.
“I’m not fine.”

“I gathered.” She takes a slow sip. “You look like you haven’t slept again.”

“Didn’t realize this was a beauty contest,” he mutters. “Thought I was here to talk about feelings.”

“Your sarcasm is duly noted. Shall we begin the feelings talk, or do you want a few more rounds of verbal fencing to feel in control?”

He exhales sharply. “Fine. Ginny left.”

Agatha sets her cup down. “You say that like it’s a weather report.”

“I don’t know how else to say it. She took the kids. Moved out of Grimmauld yesterday.”

“And how are you feeling?”

“Christ, I don’t know,” he says too quickly. “I feel like I’m supposed to be devastated. But I’m not. Not entirely.”

“And that bothers you?”

“It’s a bloody horror show, Agatha. I should be begging her to come back, sobbing into pillows or whatever the hell people do.”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “Instead I’m… grateful. Like I can finally breathe without waiting for the next argument. And then I hate myself for feeling that.”

“Can you expand on the self-hate you feel a bit more?”

“I let it rot. I knew things were broken, and I didn’t do anything. I picked every late shift and every mission. I disappeared because I couldn’t stand the silence at home. Or worse — the small talk. Like we were strangers pretending to be spouses.”

He’s wound up now, talking a little louder.

“I left Ginny with everything. The kids. The house. The mess. Every bloody morning I watched her pack lunches and wipe noses, getting depressed, not sleeping enough, and I just—left. I told myself I was doing it for them — the providing part. But really? I just didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to look at her and feel like a failure every fucking day.”

Agatha watches him closely. “You felt like a failure as a husband. Do you feel that way as a father?”

He flinches like she hexed him.

“…They’re better off without me around all the time,” he says, voice suddenly low. “I don’t even know what their favourite toys are! What father doesn’t know his kids favourite fucking toys?! James cries when I leave and I just… go anyway. I hide behind duty, behind being the Head Auror. But the truth is—”

“What is it, Harry?”

“I’m not good enough to be a father,” he says in a small voice.

He drops back into the chair, hands trembling.

“I swore I’d be different. I grew up without a father, and I thought — if I just showed up — that’d be enough. But I didn’t even show up. Not really. I left Ginny to carry everything while I hid behind heroics and reports and late shifts.”

“Let’s say you did. Where do you go from here?”

“Don’t I pay you to tell me that?” he snaps, then softens instantly. “Sorry, Agatha.”

She waits a beat. “You’re not the only one who makes mistakes in a marriage,” she says gently. “Or in parenting.”

“I know that. But it doesn’t make this any less mine.”

Silence.

Finally, he adds, “I look at them, and I see the relationship I’ve already destroyed. And all I can think is — they’re going to hate me one day. And they’ll be right to.”

Agatha waits a beat, then speaks with calm firmness.

“We can’t do this, Harry. We can’t speak for other people or be sure of what they feel exactly. Even as Wizards, we are not destined to predict or divine the emotions of others. It is not our responsibility — the feelings part. But building our relationships is.”

He meets her eyes — hollow, defensive still, but listening.

“Harry, guilt is a heavy thing. And avoidance is so easy to fall into. But you can either move hand in hand with them and spend your life being rather miserable, honestly — or… if you want to be present — not perfect, just present — then that starts here. In this chair. Dealing with what you call the bloody horror show .”

He swallows. Hard.

“I just want to fucking run as far as feet could get me, Agatha. Or just vanish from existence, you know.”

“I find it helpful to voice all these thoughts that eat at you out loud. Can you do that for me?”

And he finally does.

After his session, he just wanders through Muggle London — thoughtless — for what feels like hours, until he finds himself in front of the same small bar they visited with Hermione. He goes in and asks for a glass of whiskey — something she introduced to their group gatherings not long after the War.

He sits there, blissfully numb for once, until someone takes the barstool next to him, breaking the silence.

“Came here to finally arrest me, Potter?”
Pansy Parkinson. She doesn’t even look at him. It takes him a moment to really see her, to register the sheer absurdity of the situation he’s in.

Pansy Parkinson has pale white skin that contrasts sharply with the deep circles under her green eyes. She still wears her signature short bob with a sharp fringe that frames her face beautifully.

Well, she is beautiful. Painfully so — the thought comes to his mind so fast he can’t even interrupt it. But she has that familiar edge to her — the haunted shadow on her face, something he’s seen a million times in those who’ve been through the War. 

“What are you doing here, Parkinson?” he asks.

“I was here first,” she replies simply.

They sit in silence, drinking.

“I was a jerk to you the other night,” he says eventually. “But I’m not self-aware enough to properly apologize for it yet.”

“Apologies aren’t sexy, Potter, so shove it.”

“Are you okay? Because it seemed like—”

“Oh, enough with the never-ending Gryffindor bullshit.” she says, clearly annoyed. “Listen to me, and listen well: I don’t need saving, I don’t need checking on, and I most certainly don’t need your fucking pity.”

Her tone is sharp, but her face doesn’t match the bite.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes, Parkinson. Okay. I fucking heard you. No more basic human decency from me.” He downs the rest of his drink.

“Decency’s overrated, Potter. Live a little.” She raises her glass like a toast.

He doesn’t know why he isn’t leaving. But he’s tired enough not to analyze it, so he just orders another whiskey and stays.

She breaks the silence again.

“Do you have a phone, Potter?”

“If this is about hating all things Muggle, I don’t have the mental energy. Go harass Hermione.”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” she says flatly. “I’ve started to think you’re not a complete fucking idiot.”

“Yes, Pansy, I have a phone.”

“Give it to me.” She stretches out her hand and wiggles her fingers impatiently.

He’s completely, utterly dumbstruck. But his hand moves on its own — and he pulls the cheap Muggle phone from his pocket. Pansy snatches it and immediately starts tapping away.

“Whatever you’re doing, please don’t text my wi— Ginny anything stupid. It’s already hard enough.”

“Trouble in paradise?” she says, raising a perfectly shaped brow without looking up.

“None of your business. No offense.”

“None taken, Potter. I’d be happy to never learn anything personal about you, ever.” She hands him the phone back. “I programmed my number into it.”

“You… what?”

“I also called myself, so now I have yours.”

“I really don’t understand what’s going on here, Parkinson.”

“Don’t overexert yourself,” she deadpans. “You’ve got a vein in your forehead twitching.”

He just stares at her.

“It’s not that deep, okay?” she blurts, suddenly sounding almost nervous. “I bought a phone today. And I just wanted to give my number to someone. To know what it feels like. I’ve never had one before.”

He tilts his head. “Help me out here... So you — Pansy Parkinson — bought a Muggle phone. And you want me — Harry Potter — to be the one who has your number.”

“Okay, give it back. I’ll delete it,” she snaps, instantly defensive.

“Oh no, Parkinson. I’m going to enjoy being your first.”

The line lands before he can stop it — and they both freeze. Blinking. Tension floods the space between them, until she’s on her feet and seething:

“You may be the Head Auror, Potter. You may be the Saviour of the Whole Fucking World. You may be Merlin himself, for all I care. But it doesn’t mean you get to be my. fucking. anything.” She grits the words out, then bolts from the bar before he can say a word.

By the time he stumbles outside, she’s already gone.

When he gets home, he texts her:

I didn’t mean to offend you, Parkinson. I’m sorry if I did.

She doesn’t reply.

Notes:

Some of you commented on Harry’s emotional immaturity, so here’s a bit of insight into how his mind works — all the avoidance, guilt, and the way he’s trying to cope with the growing pressure of adult life without ever really having had the chance to be a kid and learn.
Let me know your thoughts and I hope you enjoyed it!

Chapter 8: Chapter 8: Post-War Side Effects

Summary:

so, meet Theo – he's one of my absolute favorites, and I'm not ashamed about it in the slightest!

TW: alcohol consumption

Hermione

Hermione apparates to the infamous Nott Estate on a crisp Monday afternoon.

She curses herself for not casting a Warming Charm — or, at the very least, wearing more fucking clothing. As she approaches the entrance, she spots a massive iron fence and elegant gates with what looks suspiciously like… an electric doorbell? She presses the call button, frowning and mentally double-checking the address.

“State your name, please,” calls a distorted voice from a small speaker.

“Hermione Jean Granger-Weasley.”

“Didn’t know your middle name was Jean, Granger,” the voice replies dryly. The gates beep and swing open.

As she steps past them, Theo Nott appears with a small pop, making her jump.

“You just scared the shit out of me, Theodore,” she says, panting slightly.

“My apologies, Granger. I simply thought it preferable to apparate you in, rather than watch you walk half a mile in those heels from the gate to the house.” He offers his arm with smooth, aristocratic courtesy. “Shall we?”

“Thank you,” she says simply, and takes his elbow.

After the familiar tug and a smooth landing, she finds herself in an exquisite lounge that looks like it was lifted straight from a high-end interior design magazine. Unlike the dark, imposing halls of Malfoy Manor, the Nott Estate is airy — sunlight pouring in through tall windows, casting warmth across pale blue walls and modern art. The furniture is contemporary, sleek, and expensive. She’s fairly sure she’s seen the same sofa on a luxury Muggle design site during her own frustrated search for something livable.

Theo moves across the lounge with his usual liquid grace, dressed immaculately. His curly hair is perfectly styled, and his robes tailored to perfection — but despite the polish, there’s a subtle exhaustion around his eyes.

“Tea, coffee, elf-made wine, whiskey?” He gestures at a coffee table stocked with an elegant assortment of beverages and snacks.

“Coffee, thanks,” she replies. With a flick of his wand, a delicate cup appears in her hand — fragrant and perfectly hot.

“Electric doorbell, Theo? Really?” she asks, brow raised.

“Were you expecting blood magic or animal sacrifice?” he replies with a smirk.

“I’m sorry, that was rude. I just… expected something different, that’s all,” she says, instantly self-conscious.

“It’s fine, Granger. Don’t over-analyze it with that big, beautiful brain of yours,” he says lightly, though there’s a faint shadow behind the smile. “I do a fair bit of business with Muggles these days. Blood wards aren’t exactly ideal client hospitality.”

“Muggles come here? To the Nott Estate?” she asks, startled again.

“Now who’s being prejudiced?” He arches a brow. “But yes. They do. My father would be so fucking proud.”

His sarcasm is thick — but the shift in his face at the word father is unmistakable.

Hermione’s cheeks flush with heat. She feels caught.

“You’re right, Theo. It was wrong of me to assume. I apologize.”

“After everything that was assumed about me, Granger, your surprise is a walk in the park,” he says. “But I doubt you came here to discuss investment strategy or to reminisce about good old Hogwarts days. So—spill.”

“I am still sorry, Theo, but alright.” She glances at him and straightens her skirt shifting into an official tone. “As you’ve probably heard, I was appointed Head Historian recently. I’m currently working on restoring proper documentation and archives of the War. While conducting my preliminary research, I saw the memory of your interrogation and I found it… interesting, to say the least.”

His eye twitches.

“Which one?”

“The first.”

“And what’s the issue? I told everything there was to tell. Multiple times.” His voice suddenly turns tired, defeated — and defensive.

“I heard what you told, Theo. I’m not here to question your honesty. I just want to know who interviewed you — that’s all.”

“I don’t know,” he says plainly.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I meant what I said, Granger — I. Don’t. Know. And I can’t tell you why, even if I wanted to.” He jerks his head slightly, like something’s tugging at his throat.

“I’m sorry, Theo, but I’m thoroughly confused. Why can’t you?”

“Use that big brain of yours, Granger. Help a man out. I… can’t… tell you…” His head jerks again, more violently this time, as though something’s physically restraining him.

“God, Theodore. They didn’t make you take an Unbreakable Vow—”

“Don’t make me confirm or deny it… Ahhh—” He clutches his head in his hands, clearly in pain.

“Okay, okay, fuck — I mean shit — let me think…”

He just sits there, breathing hard, while her mind races to catch up.

“Does it restrain you from speaking directly , or is it tied to your intention to speak — even allegorically?”

“Second.” His voice is hoarse now, strangled.

“Fuck, okay. That’s… more extreme than I thought.”

“Not bad when they really need to be, right? But you’re the Brightest Witch of Our Age, Granger — think. And hurry , because I’m already on the verge of a fucking migraine, or fainting. Or both.”

“Think, Hermione, think …” She starts pacing, heels clicking across the wooden floor. “Okay, Theo — I think the best course of action is to not agree on anything. I’ll just start listing things I know, or assume, out loud. No questions.”

He nods weakly.

“I think the statements you gave about your participation in the War were heavily redacted or falsified.”

He blinks once. Then gasps for air.

She takes that as a yes.

“Okay,” she whispers, heart pounding. “You don’t know who interrogated you, or who tampered with your memories… because you don’t remember . Merlin, Theo. You were obliviated .”

Another blink. Then a fit of coughing. He clutches at his chest.

“I don’t have… much more in me…”

“Okay, okay… Jesus… Fuck …” She clenches her fists. “There were other Slytherins submitted to this.”

One more blink. Then he starts to wheeze, his face reddening as he fights for breath. Finally, he chokes out:

“Mung—go…”

And faints.

Hermione stands frozen in the center of the gorgeous light blue lounge, staring at Theo’s unconscious form crumpled on the floor.

Then she snaps into action.

A light diagnostic spell — stable vitals. She wipes cold sweat from his forehead with shaking hands, then levitates him gently onto the sofa. She transfigures a pillow into a warm blanket and tucks it around him.

She feels so fucking guilty.

Grabbing a sheet of parchment from the stack on the coffee table, she scribbles out a note in a rush:

Theo,
I hope to Merlin you wake up feeling fine — I didn’t use Rennervate, figured you need the rest. Here’s a Pepper-Up of my own brewing — drink it when you wake, and please write me immediately .
I’m also sending an owl to Pansy to come check on you — assuming she’s on your wards.
P.S. I’m so sorry, and so grateful.
Please come to my place Friday night — I’m having a housewarming. And I don’t take no for an answer.
— Hermione

She Accios a potion vial from her bottomless bag, then scribbles another note — vague but urgent — and ties it to the leg of an ancient-looking owl.

“Find Pansy Parkinson,” she whispers, sending the bird off into the sky.

Shaken, aching, and with a migraine blooming behind her eyes, she apparates straight home.

It’s more than enough for one day.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Hermione’s home greets her with the smell of home cooked food, and it feels like taking a Bludger to the chest. The last time anyone cooked here properly was when her mum — unaware of what her daughter would do to her — made her favourite pancakes the morning Hermione Obliviated her.

She hears James’s cry — “Aunt Miiiiii!” — as he barrels down the stairs, and she quickly blinks away the tears.

“James, darling,” she crouches down to catch the small boy in a tight hug. He reminds her so painfully of Harry it stings. He immediately launches into excited chatter, eager to share every detail of his day with his favourite godmother.

“Albus fell and hurt his knee, you know! It was sooo cool! Lots of blood!”

“James Sirius Potter, don’t you dare say ‘cool’ about your brother hurting himself,” Ginny’s reprimanding voice floats in from the kitchen.

“Okay, Mum!” James shouts cheerfully, then turns back to Hermione. “So, Mum used some healing water on his knee, and it just got fine! Can you imagine, Aunt Mi?”

“And do you know that the healing water your mum used is called the extract of Dittany?” Hermione replies, smiling. “Dittany is a powerful magical plant used in many healing potions. ‘Extract’ means someone took a lot of leaves and used special tools to collect just a few drops — the ones with the strongest properties. I actually grow Dittany here, in my garden.”

“Wooow! Can we go see it?” he bounces excitedly.

“You can even help me water it — but only after dinner.”

He cheers and races off to the kitchen, already shouting to tell his mum what he just learned.

Hermione enters the kitchen and her stomach growls at the smell of Ginny’s cooking. Her friend beams at her.

“You give me hope about their future, Hermione, when they’re around you,” Ginny says. “Me and Harry…” she falters on his name, “We’re not exactly academic role models.”

“Don’t be silly, Gin. They’re loved, they’re fed, and they’re happy. That’s the best foundation a child can get. I just provide additional trivia,” she chuckles, wrapping Ginny in a warm hug. “And I don’t remember the last time this house smelled like an actual home. You’ll spoil me.”

“You deserve to be spoiled. This is the least I can do for everything you’ve done for us.”

“Oh, stop. You don’t ask your sister for help — you just move in and steal all her best dresses. Or so I’ve heard.”

“I’ve never had a sister. In my case, it was more like surviving Hogwarts while being harassed by a bunch of overprotective morons. But I like the sound of it. Can I have the green one with the high slit from last year’s Christmas Gala?”

“Don’t even think about it — I put a roof over your head!”

“You bitch…” Ginny swats her arm.

They burst into laughter.

Dinner is delicious. With the kids’ cheerful, messy presence and Ginny’s warmth, Hermione starts to feel at home again. She sends Ginny off for a well-earned bath and takes the boys to the garden. There, she tells James stories about magical plants and tries — with varying success — to stop Albus from destroying everything in sight.

Later, after teeth are brushed, stories read, and two small boys snuggled into bed, Hermione and Ginny settle on the oversized sofa with a bottle of wine.

“James asked me about Harry when I tucked him in,” Hermione says gently after the first glass.

“I know,” Ginny sighs. “He asked me, too. Three times today. Five yesterday. I keep telling him the same thing — that Daddy’s away on a job and he’ll see them Wednesday. But they know something’s off. I don’t know how to explain it. I’m scared they’ll blame me.”

“Give yourself time, love. First, you need to figure out what you want. Then you and Harry can decide how to explain it to them — together. You might not be each other’s perfect match anymore, but you’re both brilliant parents. You’ll get through this.”

“Where is all this wisdom coming from, my dear friend?”

“Oh, don’t mind me. Just a very enlightening experience of my own marital greatness .”

They both laugh and refill their glasses.

“Speaking of, did you decide what to do with the absolute moron I have to call my brother?”

“Well, he wrote me something like a hundred letters this week. Most of them are aggressively threatening, some are desperately pleading, and none are worth reading. I’m collecting them for the divorce filing. I plan to visit the legal office by the end of the week.”

“I swear to Merlin, when this is over, I’m going to hex him so hard …”

“Just don’t tell me. That way I’ll have plausible deniability.”

“Deal.”

They clink glasses and drink again. After the last sips are drained, they hug tightly and part for bed. That night, Hermione doesn’t hear Ginny cry through the walls. 

As she goes through her night routine before bed, a familiar owl taps at the window of her bedroom.

The note it delivers is written in elegant, slightly dramatic cursive:

Granger,

I am alive and well — thank you for your concern.
The Pepper-Up is the strongest I’ve ever tried (and I’ve tried Draco’s signature brew, so that’s saying something).
You must send more from your stash — consider it a gesture of gratitude for the immense suffering I endured at your hands.

I accept your invitation, but let me know if I may bring Blaise along — I believe exposure to functional adults may benefit his tragic case of insufferableness.

P.S. Pansy is not pleased about the entire ordeal and is actively threatening to hex you the next time she sees you. I’m merely the messenger.

— Theo

Hermione smiles to herself and falls asleep feeling hopeful.

Notes:

As my vacation comes to an end, I’ve decided it’s time to add even more deadlines to my schedule — so I’ll be trying to post a new chapter every Monday.

Huge thanks to everyone who’s reading and commenting — I love you all so much!

Chapter 9: Chapter 9: Fake Compliments, Real Friendships

Summary:

well, the plot thickens!

TW: emotional manipulation and gaslighting, mentions of past abuse, memory loss, PTSD symptoms and mental health struggles, mild suicidal ideation (referenced in conversation), swearing / harsh language

Hermione

The next few days, Hermione goes through all stages of not being able to solve a mystery clue:
Eagerness. Brainstorming. Self-reassurance. Sleepless nights of researching.
Anger. More research. Light Pepper-Up abuse.
And finally — total despair.

She checks and cross-checks every possible lead, trying to find a connection between Mungo’s and the War survivors that could help her. But there are too many names, too many records — and nothing seems significant enough to crack the case.

Then she dives into Slytherin student admissions. Still nothing.

Then Mungo’s internal records from the post-War period, combed through twice. Again — dead end.

To make matters worse, she finally goes through with filing the divorce papers. Ron’s letters, predictably, stop abruptly after that. She feels relieved, of course. But also slightly… concerned. Knowing the volatile nature of her soon-to-be ex-husband, silence can mean anything.
So she does what she does best — pushes the anxiety aside and buries herself in work.

By the end of the week, she’s tired to the bone and dangerously close to crying at her desk, when she finally decides to reach for help. Minerva.
After all, it was Minerva who gave her the first clue. Maybe she could help her solve this one.

Someone told me I could find more answers at Mungo’s.
Do you know anything?
Can’t find any relevant details.
— H.

After sending the letter, she decides she needs a walk — maybe check on Harry, clear her head.

As Hermione leaves her office, she is promptly intercepted by Rose. Today, her steel-gray bun looks tighter than ever, and her expression suggests she’s just bitten into something unpleasant.

“Miss Granger,” she says crisply, her tone brisk and her eyes sharp behind half-moon spectacles. “I know this may not be the best time, but you ought to be warned. There’s another article.”

Hermione freezes. “Skeeter?”

Rose gives a slow, deliberate nod. “Your former husband granted her a personal interview. Of course he did. The woman’s a banshee in lipstick and rhinestones, but she knows how to sniff out a scandal.”

Hermione exhales through her nose, already feeling the pressure pulsing behind her left eye.

“I’ve handled the reporters — no one will come near your office without tripping three wards and answering five legal questions — but I wouldn’t recommend the Atrium just now. You’ll be ambushed like a Harpy on payday.”

“Can you summarize the nature of the article?” Hermione asks tightly.

Rose hands her a neatly folded copy of the Prophet , frowning, “Short version? He blames you for the state of the marriage, paints himself as a loyal husband abandoned for power, and implies — rather nastily, I might add — that you not having children is a tragedy not just for him, but for the entire Wizarding bloodline.”

Hermione swallows hard.

Rose continues, voice low and direct, “No one in their right mind will believe a word of it. And those who do are exposing themselves as dimwitted cretins unfit for civil society.”

Hermione almost smiles at that — almost. “Thank you, Rose. For the warning. And the honesty.”

“I may work with politicians, Miss Granger, but I never forget where my loyalties lie. And I’m loyal to competence, intelligence, and actual work ethic. You, in other words.”

With a brisk nod, Rose turns and marches off.

Hermione stares at the paper in her hands, dreading what’s inside. She forces herself to look.

The headline screams in gilded font:
“NOTHING BREAKS LIKE A HEART OF THE HERO: THE DEMISE OF THE GOLDEN COUPLE”

Her stomach churns, but she goes back to her desk and reads it anyway.

NOTHING BREAKS LIKE A HEART OF THE HERO: DEMISE OF THE GOLDEN COUPLE
By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent

In a stunning turn of events that has left the Wizarding World gasping into their teacups, Hermione Granger-Weasley, famed war heroine, Ministry darling, and all-around insufferable know-it-all (sources say), has filed for divorce from her long-abandoned husband, Ronald Bilius Weasley — yes, that Ronald Weasley, one-third of the Boy-Who-Lived’s legendary trio.

While the ink is still drying on the official paperwork, this reporter has been granted an exclusive glimpse into the emotional fallout from the man left behind. In an interview given from the modest confines of his brother’s flat (so relatable!), Weasley shared his heartbreak and confusion at the unraveling of his marriage.

“I did everything I could,” Weasley shared, his voice raw. “But somewhere along the way, I lost her. Or maybe she was never really mine to begin with.”

Friends of the couple have long whispered about “growing distance” and “philosophical differences.” Translation? Granger-Weasley’s relentless ambition — and her public stance against motherhood — may have left little room for a traditional happily ever after.

“I always imagined a home full of noise and love,” said Weasley, blinking back what this reporter is confident were real tears. “She said she wasn’t ‘built for that kind of life.’ I suppose I thought she’d change her mind.”

Sources within the Ministry confirm that Granger-Weasley is now “married to her work,” having recently ascended to the role of Head Historian, a title which — while impressive — is perhaps no substitute for warmth, companionship, or the cry of a child in the crib. But that, my dear audience, is for you to decide –– as always.

While Hermione declined to provide a statement (perhaps too busy rewriting history to explain her own?), one can only speculate: Is it possible that the brightest witch of her age burned too hot, too fast, and left even love in the ashes?

The Boy-Who-Lived was unavailable for comment — though some say he’s been seen visiting his longtime friend more frequently these days. How interesting.

One thing is certain: the fairytale is over. And this time, the cleverest girl in the castle may be left alone in her tower, turning pages no one wants to read.

By the time Hermione reaches the last vile paragraph of Skeeter’s article, the door to her office bursts open so hard it ricochets off the wall. Harry stands in the frame, looking even more disheveled than usual.

“Hermione, I didn’t know about any of that!” he blurts.

“I know,” she replies without looking up.

“And I would never support—”

“I know.” Her tone is even, distant, eyes still fixed on the window behind him like she’s trying to win a staring contest with the glass.

“And I didn’t visit him anywhere! Between the job and the kids I hardly sleep — I don’t have time for bloody social calls. What even is that claim?!”

“Typical Skeeter drivel,” she says plainly, folding the Prophet with surgical precision.

Harry hovers, watching her like she might spontaneously combust. “Well… are you alright?”

“Perfectly.”

“You don’t seem… I don’t know. Angry? Furious? I half-expected to get hexed the second I walked in. Or at least catch you mid-planning my brother-in-law’s murder.”

At that, she finally looks at him. Her voice is low, but dangerously sharp.

“Oh, Harry. Don’t mistake my calmness for indifference. This”—she taps the paper—“is a declaration of war. And I wouldn’t count on him surviving the last one without me by his side. So let’s just say…” Her lips curve into something cold. “I plan to make them pay. And I’ll enjoy every second of it.”

Harry swallows. “Okay, now I’m honestly terrified.”

She stands, slowly, with the kind of composure that screams danger. “I would’ve eaten it all — the rumors, the articles, the whispering behind my back. But a public attack on my stance on motherhood?” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Painting me as a cold, frigid workaholic after years of trying?” She scoffs. “He thinks I’ll let it slide because I have a Ministry title now? He’s clearly forgotten who I am. And what I’m capable of.”

“I’m so sorry, Mione,” Harry says quietly. “The old me would’ve promised to talk to him. But I’m a slightly better friend now, and wise enough to know you don’t need me to fight your battles. I’m just here. To back you. No questions.”

Hermione’s expression softens, going from fury to a quiet sadness. She takes a long, deep breath and exhales.

“Thank you, Harry. Truly.” Her voice is quieter now. “How are you, actually? We haven’t talked properly in days.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m managing. The kids are with Andromeda. Work’s bearable. Ginny and I even managed a few actual conversations about kids this week with little to no shouting.”

He gives her a crooked smile, and with a wink, heads for the door.

“Take care of yourself,” he says. “And if you need me—”

“I know where to find you,” she finishes for him.

The door clicks shut behind him. She stands in silence, her hands trembling just slightly. 

She’s interrupted by the arrival of not one, but two unfamiliar owls.

The first is official-looking — a lean tawny with steely eyes — and drops a small scrap of parchment onto her desk before vanishing into thin air. It reads, in Minerva McGonagall’s unmistakable script:

5th Floor. Don’t tell anyone what you are doing.

Hermione stares at it for a moment, heart giving a strange little thud. Before she can process it, the second owl swoops in with far more drama — large, glossy, and clearly pampered — bearing a scroll of absurdly luxurious parchment and a package wrapped in emerald silk.

She unrolls the letter, already bracing herself.

Dear Granger,

I realize that we are not friends (yet — but I foresee us becoming ones. The tea leaves told me so yesterday. Also, our birth charts align. Tremendously). And I may be overstepping, BUT—

Ronald Weasley is an absolute piece of troll feces and a disgrace to wizardkind. He never deserved you and never will. I still remember what you did to Umbridge, and let me say: I remain both traumatized and deeply impressed. You’re genuinely terrifying, and I mean it with respect. That being said, I have no doubt that you will eventually decimate him into a fine, humiliating powder.

In the package, you’ll find a bottle of the finest and most expensive French wine from my cellar (not elf-made — I am not demented yet). Please enjoy it. Celebrate your impending divorce and the blessed, inevitable freedom from ever being chained to that ginger embarrassment again.

—Theodore Nott

P.S. Please do not mistake this for a misguided attempt at flirting. I am, as the Muggles say, extremely gay.

P.P.S. Will Neville Longbottom be in attendance at your party tomorrow?

Hermione can’t help it — she laughs. She wipes her eyes, shakes her head, and tucks both letters away.

She doesn’t open the wine. Not yet. But she places it on the windowsill next to the owl treats and the cursed article and lets herself think. 

After barely five minutes of calm, another knock sounds sharply against her office door. Hermione rolls her eyes and mutters, “Come in.”

To her mild horror, standing on the threshold is none other than Elphias Doge — former co-Chairman of the War Investigative Committee and current Senior Advisor to the Wizengamot. His expression is fixed in a too-wide smile that makes her instinctively sit up straighter.

“Madam Granger-Weasley, you look as fabulous as ever!” he beams as he steps inside.

“Mister Doge, sir,” she says coolly, standing and offering a polite handshake.

Instead of taking her hand like a normal person, he lifts it and plants an antiquated kiss on her knuckles. Hermione suppresses a shudder.

“Thank you for the compliments, but it is Miss Granger now.”

“Oh, of course, I had heard... How unfortunate. My condolences,” he says, not sounding remotely sorry. “But I thought it wasn’t official yet?”

“It’s official the moment you say something that requires a correction,” she replies with a tight smile, lowering herself back into her chair. She gestures to the armchair opposite. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I simply wanted to check in on an old friend, Miss Granger — that’s all.” His tone is oily. “I’m no stranger to the pressures of public scrutiny. I know what it’s like to be targeted by the press. Especially in times of... personal strain. Please, call me Elphias.”

Hermione thinks she’d sooner kiss a Blast-Ended Skrewt than refer to him as an old friend .

“The advantage of being at work, Elphias ,” she says with deliberate calm, “is that personal matters are irrelevant to what I am actually here to do.”

“Of course, of course.” He waves a hand as if to dismiss the very concept of boundaries. “In fact, I was just speaking with the Minister yesterday about your progress. We’re all very eager to see what you accomplish here — especially those of us who, ahem, helped shape the first post-war administration. It’s always the next generation’s burden, isn’t it? To clean up their elders’ messes.” He chuckles — a thin, papery sound.

Remembering Minerva’s warning, Hermione stays composed. “I don’t consider myself a cleaner of messes, Mister Doge. I was appointed to document history — not rewrite it. My goal is simple: ensure our children only know war from textbooks, not from lived experience.”

Doge’s smile widens unpleasantly. “Kingsley should be worried. You’d make a brilliant politician, Miss Granger. All I ask is that you consider which side of history you end up on... and how your future might unfold depending on it.”

Hermione levels her gaze. “As I said, this is a place for research. Not reputation management. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting shortly.”

“Of course, of course,” he says, rising quickly. “Thank you for your time. And I do hope I’ll see you at the Annual Charity Gala in February. You’d be a welcome distraction from all the small talk and drudgery.” He bows with a dramatic flourish and retreats.

The moment the door shuts, Hermione exhales sharply.

That made three high-ranking Ministry officials in the last two weeks — all tied, in one way or another, to the War Investigative Committee . All stopping by under the guise of concern. 

A cold unease settles over her.

She turns to her desk and immediately begins drawing up layered wards — physical, magical, and otherwise — for every piece of her research. Files are no longer to be stored in Ministry-protected archives. From now on, they would be protected by her. Locked behind spellwork she invented in seventh year and improved in secret ever since.

She briefly considers calling Harry. Bringing him in. But... no. Not yet. Too soon.

Instead, she makes a decision: tomorrow, she would bring Rose into this. The older woman had a sharp tongue, a sharper mind, and a long memory. If Hermione was going to war against half the Ministry, she wouldn’t do it alone.

After double-checking her security spells, Hermione sends a discreet owl to Parvati Patil, now a Senior Healer on St. Mungo’s Emergency Floor. The two had remained loosely in touch after school — exchanging warm greetings at Ministry functions, sharing occasional drinks at interdepartmental galas. Hermione’s request is simple: could she use Parvati’s private Floo to bypass the press ambush?

Parvati’s reply arrives fifteen minutes later. It reads simply:
Of course.

Hermione doesn’t waste a second. She rushes to Harry’s office to use the Ministry side of the connection, muttering a hurried, “Need to run, love you, bye,” as she passes. Harry, eyes glued to his paperwork, waves her off without looking up.

Parvati’s office hits her with the sterile scent of medical-grade disinfectants and that oddly clinical brightness specific to hospitals. Behind her desk, Parvati looks much the same — intense, sleek in her green Healer robes, a stack of charts in one hand and a diagnostic quill in the other. She glances up as Hermione steps through the hearth and immediately gets to her feet.

“Hermione!” she exclaims, wrapping her in a firm, familiar hug. She leans back to examine her more closely. “You work too much. Tell me at least you’re taking your vitamins.”

“You are in absolutely no position to lecture anyone on work-life balance, Parvati.”

“Well, you’ve got me there.” Parvati grins, and they both laugh.

“What brings you here?” she asks, moving back to her desk. “Everything alright health-wise?”

“Yes, unless you count the fucking migraines. But this is more of a business call.”

“Well, we’ve got new protocols for migraines, you know. If you came in properly, I could assess you and adjust a full regimen. Customized treatment plan, holistic—”

“You’re an angel, truly, and I will take you up on that. But not today. I need a favour.”

Parvati raises a brow, sensing the shift in tone. “Go on.”

“I need access to the Janus Thickey Ward . I need a list of the current residents. I need to speak to one of them. And—most importantly—I need no one to know it was me.”

Parvati blinks. “Hermione, that’s... ten separate violations of hospital policy and three breaches of Ministry ethics.”

“I know. And if you say no, I’ll walk out and find another way. I would never ask you this if it wasn’t urgent — or necessary.”

“And what is the necessity?” Her voice sharpens. Parvati isn’t one to be easily swayed by sentiment.

“You’ll have to trust me,” Hermione says softly. “The less you know, the safer you are. But I promise you — I only need five minutes with one patient. No harm. No spellwork. Just... information.”

Parvati stares at her for a long, tense moment. Then, with a slow breath, she asks, “Do you swear, Hermione Granger, that you will do no harm — intentional or otherwise — to any patient?”

“I swear.” Hermione meets her gaze steadily. “I could go through the official channels — submit a formal request, fill out all the paperwork — but that would alert the wrong people. And once they know what I’m looking into... they’ll come for me.”

Parvati snorts. “Still throwing yourself into the fire after all these years.”

“That’s who I am.”

“Oh, sod it.” She waves a hand and marches to a side cabinet. “There would still be a bloody war going on if it weren’t for you. But don’t make me regret this, Hermione. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with this.”

“You won’t. And thank you.”

Ten minutes later, Hermione is flipping through a list of names. Some are familiar — War survivors, long-term Spell Damage cases, torture victims. She pauses on one entry, her fingers going still.

Hestia Johnson.

Once an Auror assigned to the War Investigative Committee , she was directly involved in interrogations and evidence review.

That has to be her.

Another ten minutes, and they’re walking through the newly renovated Janus Thickey Ward. Hermione, now glamoured as a middle-aged blonde Healer named Stratford , strolls beside Parvati under the pretense of shadowing a colleague during Spell Damage rounds.

The ward itself is unrecognizable from what she remembers. After the war, their graduating class had pooled a significant sum — reparations, bonuses, and donations — and made it in Neville’s name. And it shows.

The space is bright and open, filled with lush greenery (thank you, Neville), floor-to-ceiling windows, and warm sunlight. A bubbling fountain in one corner feeds into a koi pond. There’s an art therapy room, a small indoor pool, even a reading nook with a modest but well-loved library.

Parvati introduces her smoothly to the staff as “an old friend visiting from the Highlands, doing research on post-conflict trauma and long-term magical afflictions.” Within minutes, they’re handed Hestia’s file.

“She’s probably in the gardens,” a Mediwitch offers. “That’s where she prefers to spend most of her days.”

Hermione flips through the file quickly. Attempted Obliviation. Self-inflicted. No permanent brain damage, but her memory of the last decade is fragmented at best. The staff believes she tried to erase the trauma of the war entirely. They’ve flagged her as low-functioning, high-risk, though stable.

As they near the garden doors, Hermione turns to Parvati.

“You probably shouldn’t come in with me. That way you’re not technically an accomplice.”

“Oh sod off,” Parvati mutters. “I’ve already smuggled you into the most secure wing of Mungo’s. I’ll wait here and stall anyone who comes looking for you. Just get your ten minutes.”

Hermione squeezes her hand once. “Thank you.”

Then she steps into the garden.

The woman sits on a low stone bench nestled between tall flowering shrubs. Her hands, resting on her lap, make slow, looping movements — fingers tapping in rhythm and drawing invisible patterns.

“You’re not my usual visitor.”

“No. I’m here about something you might not even remember.”

A dry laugh, more air than sound. “They always say that. As if I chose this. As if memory was something I misplaced.”

“Do you remember working with the War Investigative Committee?”

Silence, except for the wind flicking at the pages of a half-read book beside her.

“There were… files. So many files. My hands were always ink-stained. There was a draft that blew through the records room. Every day. Even in summer.”

“You were on the front end of it. Interviews. Evidence gathering.”

Another pause. Her jaw tightens.

“I remember a voice. Asking questions. Not mine. A man, I think. Too polite.”

“What else?”

“Something… off. I’d go home and stare at the wall for hours. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. I had dreams I didn’t understand. And then they stopped. All at once. Like someone pulled a curtain down inside my head.”

“Do you think you cast the spell?”

She hesitates, then slowly shakes her head.

“I tried. Once. Years ago. It didn’t stick. My hand shook too much. The spell cracked halfway through and rebounded. Got a burn scar on my shoulder from the backlash.”

She pushes back the collar of her robe slightly, revealing the faint shimmer of a mark, silvery and old.

“But this… what’s in my head now… It’s neat. Clean. No fraying at the edges. No burns. Whoever did this was skilled.”

She turns to look fully now, gaze sharp despite the fog behind it.

“I know the difference between a mind that broke, and a mind that was forcibly adjusted. I was trained for that.”

“So someone else—”

“Don’t ask if , love,” she interrupts gently, but firmly. “Ask who . Ask why .”

She feels her own pulse rising. “Why would someone do this to you?”

“Because I saw something I wasn’t meant to. Or said something I wasn’t meant to repeat. Or maybe I knew something that threatened someone’s position.”

A tremor travels through her. “They didn’t Obliviate you to protect you.”

“No. They did it to silence me.”

“Why don’t you do something.. say something? This is a crime — what they did to you.” Hestia smiles softly at her outrage.
“It is safer for me –– while they think I’m a loony-case, I can lead my quiet life in this garden, among the flowering bushes and singing birds. They treat us well here, you know.”

A long silence stretches between them. In the distance, a Mediwitch laughs softly with another patient.

“Do you remember who you were interviewing when it started? Anything?”

“I remember fear. Not mine. Theirs. And I remember interviewing someone I wasn’t supposed to interview. Someone from the Slytherins. They told me something I don’t remember now, but I remember being not just shocked, but horrified by what we did to win this War.”

“I can try to help. I can keep digging.”

“You dig too far, love, and they’ll come for you too.”

“I’m not afraid of them.”

“You should be.”

She stands then, walking slowly back toward the hedge. Her gait is steady, but her shoulders are drawn in.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she says over her shoulder. “Just be sure you want to know the answer.”

Notes:

so sorry for being absent for a while – life had its own plans for me, unfortunately. but I'm back stronger than ever again, rereading all of your kind comments that warm my soul bit by bit. hope you're still following the story, because oh boy, the next chapter slaps hard...

Chapter 10: Chapter 10: Snake Night And A Little Cyanide

Summary:

TW: mentions of suicidal thoughts and tendencies, alcohol consumption, depression, PTSD

Theo

He wakes up with a throbbing headache. Fourth one in a row since his precious little talk with Granger.

“I hope it was worth it,” he mutters, dragging himself out of his absurdly oversized king bed.

He goes through the motions — teeth, hair, fresh clothes, hand-making the bed like a good little pureblood soldier. Then, black coffee. Always strong and no sugar, for Merlin’s sake — because who even drinks that sweet shite. He takes it into the smallest of the kitchens he owns, because the cavernous silence of the estate proper makes him want to kill himself again.

This is Theo’s life, five years running: wake, bathe, dress, coffee, contemplate various methods of self-destruction. Today’s guest star is cyanide — inspired by an article he read in one of those crisp Muggle encyclopedias he started collecting, hoping to understand the world that now was the only source of escape for him. He’d mapped out a few acquisition methods (money was never the issue), selected two scenic consumption spots, and mentally drafted some final correspondence.

Dear Draco,
You can find my gorgeous corpse on the east balcony — the view of the lake is simply to die for. Please ensure I’m buried in the Italian silk robes I’m wearing, and for Merlin’s sake, don’t let anyone touch my hair.
I leave you the cellar and my Gringotts vault. Donate the gold to Granger’s charities of choice. Keep the cellar — you’ve earned it.
Also: ask her out already, you coward. It’s my dying wish.
With love, Theodore.

And:

Dear Pansy,
Fuck you. I did it first.
Love, Theo.

He chuckles — sharp and joyless — and keeps sipping. The weight in his chest hasn’t lessened.

That’s when the owl arrives with Prophet in tow. Front page: Granger’s face, prim and defiant under a grotesquely gilded headline about the “demise of the Golden Couple.”

Now he’s interested.

Because the woman who sat in his business lounge this week wasn’t The Golden Girl he remembered from school. She was haunted. Hollow-eyed. Grasping at something that kept slipping out of reach. He starts reading, because he loves gossip. Then he keeps reading, because now he’s furious.

He’s seen this game before — how scandal is weaponized, how media becomes a blade in the hands of the loudest and most power-drunk. He’d grown up on that battlefield. And Granger, the Brightest Witch of Their Age, didn’t deserve this kind of dissection.

He frowns, surprised at the heat in his own gut. Since when did he care? Since when did she matter? Maybe it was her dry wit. Maybe those rare times they shared a table in the library during year five or six and she wasn’t cruel to him. Maybe the relentless way she cared about everyone else. Maybe it was the fact that she asked questions no one else would to the people no one wanted to be associated with. And she did it sincerely. 

And if there was one thing Theo Nott knew how to do, it was handle a scandal. But since he couldn’t fight this exact battle for Granger he decided that he would help her in her investigation whatever the cost. And if that also would mean a gentle nudge to bring her and ever-pining Draco closer together, then that’s just a coincidence, isn’t it?

He wrote the kind of letter only he could write — melodramatic, expensive, and barely teetering on the edge of inappropriate. Picked a ridiculous bottle of French wine from the cellar. Sent it all to her.

Then he pulled out his Muggle phone.

The Snake Night protocol had been established years ago: no matter how depressed, how absent, how stubborn — when someone called Snake Night, you showed up.

Text sent:
"I call Snake Night at my place."

Replies followed fast.

Pansy: “fuck you. i’ll be there at 7.”
Draco (still at war with texting conventions): “Okay. D.M.”
Blaise, uncharacteristically warm: “See you at 7.”

He closes his phone, sits back in his chair, and finishes the last of his coffee. Maybe the day wasn’t entirely lost after all.

The drawing room of the Nott Estate looks nothing like it did five years ago. Gone are the looming portraits, the dark wood, and the suffocating weight of pretentious grandeur. Now the walls are soft sage and ivory, the tall windows uncovered to let the fading spring light spill across polished oak floors. The fireplace glows golden, casting flickers against shelves lined with poetry, magical theory, and the occasional Muggle novel.

Theo sprawls across a butter-soft cream settee, a wool blanket barely clinging to one leg, nursing a glass of white wine. The record player hums with slow French jazz in the background.

“I’m calling it now,” he says, just loud enough to rise above the music. “We either help Granger, or we officially accept our fate as emotionally constipated cautionary tales.”

They all look at him like he’s grown three heads.

“We’re already emotionally constipated,” Blaise says mildly. “The tale part is optional.”

Pansy lounges like she owns the house — in a silk robe she definitely didn’t arrive in. “Speak for yourselves. I’m in my healing era. Also, you’re out of your damn mind. Helping her is a death wish. We already barely survived the first time. You act like you don’t remember what they made us do and how they fucking treated us after.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s walking into,” Draco murmurs, still staring out the window. “And she doesn’t understand what it cost us. What it’s still costing.”

Theo sits up straighter. “She found out three days ago. I gave her four syllables — and she put together the bones of it. That Vow almost killed me for blinking. She’s not clueless.”

“And it almost killed you, Theo.” Pansy’s voice slices through the room. “You really don’t see it? Even if we wanted to help, we can’t.”

He looks at her, wineglass clenched. “And you’re fine with that? Watching her charge straight into the fire while we do absolutely nothing?”

“She’s not our responsibility.”

“No,” Theo snaps, “but she’s the only one who’s even tried to see us as human in years.”

“She always does that,” Pansy mutters. “Collects broken things. Turns us into side quests.”

“She didn’t treat me like a side quest. She listened.”

Blaise exhales. “We believe you. But as Pansy said — you nearly died for one blink. What exactly are you expecting us to do?”

“I don’t know yet. But we were trained for these things since childhood, weren’t we? Spy, meddle with powerful magic… survive. We can figure it out.”

“She can figure it out,” Draco says, low and tired. “Even without us.”

“She won’t stop,” Blaise adds. “She’ll dig until she breaks herself.”

Theo drains his wine. “Then maybe we give her just enough not to die.”

“She won’t die,” Pansy says too quickly. Then quieter: “She can’t.”

The room stills. The fire crackles.

“I think about it every fucking day,” Theo says, voice quieter now. “The roles they shoved us into. The War Committee interviews. The bloody Order. I can’t tell her. But I also can’t keep pretending I don’t exist anymore.”

“They’ll destroy us if the truth comes out.” Blaise leans forward, unreadable. “You think we’ll get Order of Merlin medals? ‘The Silver Quartet’ title?” He spits the nickname like poison. “We were weapons.”

“They used us,” Draco says flatly. “Then buried us.”

“But I still don’t see how we help her without ending up in pieces.”

“She’s got Potter,” Pansy offers, though even she doesn’t sound convinced.

Draco snorts. “That’s hardly comforting.”

Theo turns to him. “You love her.”

A pause.

“I did,” Draco says. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does if you’re going to help her.” Theo’s tone sharpens. “You act like you have to earn even a single moment of her time — well, here’s your bloody chance.”

Draco finally looks at him.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to be less miserable,” Theo says, “and maybe use that tragic pining to do something useful for once.”

Draco snorts. “You’re insufferable.”

“Wouldn’t be me otherwise.”

There’s a long silence.

Then Blaise, idly scrolling his phone, says, “What if we talk around it? In front of her. We didn’t vow not to reference it around others. Just not directly disclose.”

Theo brightens. “We try it at the party tomorrow.”

Pansy clinks her glass against her teeth. “I’ll drop a hint. Next time she’s stupid enough to talk to me.”

Theo smiles faintly. “I always liked you.”

“And if it all goes sideways?” Blaise asks.

Pansy shrugs, already reaching for the wine. “I’m haunting you in silk and heels.”

“You’d make a fabulous corpse,” Theo deadpans.

They all pause — then burst into slightly unhinged laughter. Not from joy. Just the kind that comes when you've been holding too much for too long.

 

Theo jolts upright in the middle of the night, yanked awake by his own screams.

He sits still for a moment, gasping in the dark, chest heaving like he’s just run for his life. He drags a hand down his damp face and forces himself to breathe, going through the Muggle self-soothing techniques he memorised last year. None of them work anymore.

The sweat clings to him. The tremor won’t stop. He gets up on unsteady legs and stumbles to the bathroom. The water in the shower is scalding hot — and for one perfect second, it burns away the panic.

Then the second ends, and he screams.

His fist cracks against the cold tile. Pain blooms sharp and immediate. He slides down to the floor in his underwear, curled in on himself beneath the heat and the steam and the silent sobs that come fast and ugly.

The dream clings like rot.

“You think you’re worthy of being a Nott, boy?”
“You think I’ll spare you because of blood? Go ask your precious mother — oh wait, you can’t. Try her fucking grave.”

“You think anyone would miss you? Anyone would look for you?”
“You. Are. Nothing.”

“You dare defy me, worm?”
“I’ll smash that sweet little face until you puke blood.”
“Maybe then you’ll finally look like a man.”

“You’re a disappointment.”
“You’re a disgrace.”
“I will kill you.”

And he almost had.

By ten, Theo knew the taste of Skele-Gro better than pumpkin juice.
By twelve, he’d mastered glamours to hide bruises before returning to Hogwarts.
At thirteen, Narcissa resuscitated him for the first time.
At fifteen, Dumbledore asked about his home life — and for one foolish moment, Theo thought someone might save him.
At sixteen, it was the thought of running that kept him alive after every Crucio.
At seventeen, the Order recruited him, and Theo prayed for them to take him in. They sent him back into that house to spy on the man who had nearly killed him again and again.
At nineteen, they prosecuted him for it, made him swear an Unbreakable Vow, and scrubbed his name from the war he helped win.

He sits there, knees tucked to his chest, the burn of the water long forgotten. The pain never really leaves, he thinks to himself. Probably never will.

He breathes in. Out.

Then he whispers into the mist, just to hear himself over the silence:

“I’m still here.”

When he finally drags himself out of the shower, it’s nearly four in the morning, and the thought of going back to bed makes his skin crawl. He dresses quickly and Apparates to a newer corner of Wizarding London — to the bar he, Draco, Blaise, and Pansy bought together.

They’d never really cared about the hospitality business. Back then, it was the only place they could exist without being stared at like curiosities — or chased out entirely. Draco had just started Muggle university and was insufferably obsessed with Greek mythology, so they named the bar Hecate. The subtle irony pleased them all — the Muggle goddess of magic, of crossroads and shadows. Fitting.

Hecate is nearly empty. Not surprising at 4:30 AM. A couple in the front corner kissing clumsily, a tall man at the bar nursing a drink with his back to the door, and Maggie — always Maggie — behind the bar. Pansy had insisted the staff be exclusively women, claiming Hecate herself would approve.

He gives Maggie a tired nod, mouths “the usual,” and sinks into the darkest booth. The place hums — soft music from the wireless, the glassy clink of Maggie working, the muffled giggle from the couple near the front.

When Maggie returns, she places a neat firewhisky on the table, then leans in slightly.
“The gentleman at the bar says this drink’s on him.”

Theo stiffens, gaze darting across the room — and finds Neville Longbottom saluting him with his own glass. Theo’s heart skips, then hammers.

He watches Neville say something to Maggie — she smiles and hands him a half-empty bottle of Ogden’s. To Theo’s horror, he stands and starts walking toward him. Their eyes lock the entire way.

“Mind if I sit?”

“I don’t.”

“This is a nice place.”

“I own it,” Theo replies, still not looking up.

“I know. That’s called a compliment, Theo.”

His eyes jerk upward in surprise. Neville’s smiling, relaxed, like this isn’t the most absurd moment of Theo’s life.

“How do you know that?”

“Oh, Maggie and I are practically friends at this point. I come in a lot when I can’t sleep.”

“I need to fire her for violating the NDA,” Theo mutters. He tries to sound sharp but lacks venom. Neville just laughs.

“You’d defend her even if she killed someone. She’s the soul of this place.”

He’s not wrong, but Theo won’t say that out loud.

“Why don’t you sleep?” he asks, finally meeting Neville’s eyes. They’re bloodshot, ringed in shadow.

“You know. The Good Old War.” Neville shrugs.

Theo laughs — too sudden, too sharp. “I was fucked up long before the War.”

Neville’s hand finds his shoulder. Warm. Steady. “That’s a familiar feeling.”

They drink in silence. And then, almost inevitably, they kiss — messily, hungrily, like they’re trying to fill the emptiness in each other.

They stumble into the street, and Neville Apparates them to his flat. Theo doesn’t care where they land. He’s burning for it — Neville’s lips, Neville’s hands, the impossibility of being touched like this.

And then Neville’s hand finds the first scar.

It’s like being plunged into ice.

Theo pulls back abruptly, gasping. Panic surges — cold, electric. What the fuck was he thinking? He will never, ever be enough for someone like Neville Longbottom.

“Theo? Did I do something?” Neville takes a step forward, reaching for him, but Theo recoils, staring down at his feet, breath shuddering.

“Theo, look at me.” His voice is gentle, soft like gauze on a wound. “Please.”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes. “I need to leave.”

“Don’t.” Neville steps closer. “You’re not in any shape to be alone.”

Theo doesn’t move.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Neville says. “We can just… sit.”

“You don’t understand.” The words burst out of him violently.

“Then help me understand.”

“I’m broken. Evil. I poison everything I touch. I don’t even want to live.”

His breath hitches and he lets out a sob. He’s unraveling.

“I’m not good with people,” Neville replies. “But I’m excellent with poisonous plants. Suicidal ones, too. You’ll have to try harder than that to scare me.”

He actually has the audacity to laugh.

Theo stares at him. “Did you not hear me? I’m broken. Pathetic. Probably better off dead. Why would you want anything to do with me?”

“Maybe I’m just profoundly stubborn.”

Silence falls — thick and breathless.

Then Neville reaches for his hand and, with quiet certainty, leads him through the flat onto a rooftop patio, warm under enchantments. It’s overflowing with green — plants, trees, small patches of wildflowers and controlled chaos. But Theo stops when he sees it.

A flower — tall and strange. Its stem is silvery-black, its leaves shimmer faintly under the moon. Its petals, deep midnight blue, glow from within like gentle starlight.

“This is Noctis Lux,” Neville says quietly. “Rare as hell. Grows only in certain parts of Scotland. Blooms only at night. Hides at dawn.”

“It’s beautiful,” Theo breathes.

“There’s a lot of lore — prejudice kept people from using its healing properties for centuries, just because it only bloomed at night.” He pauses. “It reminds me of you. Rare. Misunderstood. Fragile. And breathtaking.”

Theo doesn’t know what to do with that. The kindness feels like too much. Too raw. He wants to just disappear.

Tears slip down his cheeks, and he turns away. “I should go.”

“Don’t run from me, Theo. I’m not afraid of your pain. I’ve got my own.”

He stays.

They fall asleep in tangled limbs, under starlight and flowerglow. And for once — neither of them wakes up from nightmares.

 

Notes:

I'm alive, I'm back and I'm sooo into writing this further along
Hope you're still here for the journey, xx

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of If The War