A/N: I just *had* to resurrect Verity from ASOT. she was too brilliant to leave behind.


The Ministry Years

Hermione stopped where her couch would be in a moment, looked out the wall of windows, and let out a happy, exhausted sigh.

"I know," Harry said from a few feet away as he put down another of her new (to her) dining chairs. He was giving her this small, half-hidden smile. "It's a great space. You really lucked out."

And she had. She bounced a little on the floorboards, grinning as she looked out at the north bank of the Thames. She felt free here, lighter. Light as air.

It wasn't even seven months later that she stared out the same windows with tears running down her raw, swollen face. The midnight skyline twinkled back at her and she shivered, then winced at the forceful sound of Ron yanking his coat off the coat stand.

"I should've known," he bit out, trying to shove his arm through an inside-out sleeve. "I should've known you didn't feel the same way when you didn't want to move in together."

Hermione turned then, steeling herself. "Ron, please don't—"

"What, Hermione, what?!" He managed to get his coat on, and he stared at her with eyes full of tears. "Don't what, don't get upset when I saw myself spending the rest of my life with you, but you didn't?"

"Ron." She squeezed her eyes shut. "I didn't mean—"

"Clearly, you did." Ron pulled open her front door and turned away. He didn't look back before slamming it shut behind him, the sound a deafening echo in the remaining silence.

Hermione shuddered, pressing her hand to her mouth, and wiped away her tears. Before she could think about it, she pulled out her mobile and began a text to Harry, her hands shaking:

Me: go to ron's. bring ogden's. NOW

Once it was sent, she turned off her mobile and tossed it onto the couch. When she sank into her pillow a few minutes later, a wet washcloth over her eyes, Crookshanks curled up against her stomach, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was on a precipice, leaning over a dazzling infinity far below.


"I am going to get drunk, Hermione, off my head, balls-to-the-walls—"

"Drunk," Hermione finished for her, rolling her eyes but smiling. "I do pay attention."

"Better than any man I've ever known." Verity gave her a wink and kissed the air next to her cheek, then pulled open the door of The Golden Hippogriff with a flourish.

The pub was packed with Ministry employees from every department, and Hermione quickly scanned the crowd, side-stepping a plume of purplish smoke from someone's pipe. She shrugged off her coat and spotted Draco. "He's at the table in the corner," she half-shouted in Verity's ear above the noise, pressing her coat into Verity's hands. "You get the seats, I'll get the drinks."

People were hanging off the bar like it was going out of fashion, and Hermione had to squeeze behind a clump of witches from the Transportation typing pool to even get to the bartender. She ordered two neat Firewhiskys and a Gigglewater Twist, then leaned against the sticky edge while she waited.

After a few moments, she realized she was being watched. She swallowed, her stomach jumping, and cast a casual glance around the crowd of people. Her gaze landed on a wizard at the other side of the bar, and then her stomach flipped for an entirely different reason.

He was gorgeous. Lean, tall, skin the color of rich chocolate, a full mouth, and sleepy eyes that were watching her with a sparkle of amusement.

Hermione took a quick breath, feeling heat flare across her exposed back, her chest, down to her belly. Then the bartender brought her drinks and she busied herself opening a tab, and found her way back to Draco and Verity, who greeted her with a cheer of delight.

"Did you see?" Verity said some time later, spinning a cherry stem in her fingers. Her gaze was bright, darting to something across the room. "He's here."

"I did," Hermione said evenly, as Draco attempted a not-so-sneaky glance over her shoulder. If he timed it right, he would see Ron sitting with Harry and a bunch of other Aurors in training, flushed and grinning over a round of pints. "Good for him."

"It's been what, six months?" At Hermione's nod, Verity added, "Do you think you can do it? Go back to being friends?"

Hermione shrugged, and Verity changed the subject.

Later, after the pub had emptied out and both Draco and Verity were hunched over the table, giggling uncontrollably, Hermione shook her head and took their glasses back to the bar.

"Club soda and lime," she told the bartender, leaning on the edge again. The pub was nice like this — end of the night, a little quieter, a little—

"Hi."

Hermione turned, heat flooding her face, and found herself looking up at the gorgeous stranger. Now that he was closer, she could see things she hadn't noticed before — a freckle above the left corner of his mouth, dark brown eyes, the black lines of matching tattoos curling up the sides of his neck. Then he offered her his hand, and she saw that the tattoos edged around his wrists as well. "Theo."

She smiled, shaking his hand. His grip was warm, smooth. "Hermione."

"Hermione," he repeated, like it was a spell. He had a velvety Mediterranean accent.

"What is it you do, Theo? I don't think I've seen you here before, and they drag me here often enough to—"

He was smiling. "Curse-breaker," he said. "But I'm based in Cairo, I'm just here on a temporary assignment." He cocked his head to one side. "What about you?"

A half hour later, Hermione fell back against her mattress with a gasp as Theo made quick work of her jeans. His fingers were hot and gentle, pressing against her thighs, her hips, her belly with a reverence that made her shudder.

He paused between her legs, his hand sliding up the line of her ribcage. It made the tattoos along his arm ripple, and she watched in fascination. "What do you like?" he murmured, sucking a kiss on her inner thigh. His gaze was bold, dark.

Hermione blinked, her stomach jumping. "I—I—" No one, not even the handful of one-night stands she'd had since breaking up with Ron, had ever asked her that.

Theo smiled, then found her hand and brought it back down with him. "Show me."

The next morning, her legs were liquid and her body ached with satisfaction. "Sorry to run out like this," Theo said as he buttoned his shirt, and it seemed like he meant it. "Portkey."

Hermione nodded, not caring if it was an excuse. They didn't owe each other anything. Then she stretched, her toes curling into the sheets, and he slid her a look that was all heat.

"You," he growled, crawling on top of her to suck a mark on her hip, "are very unhelpful."

Even Verity noticed that something was different. "You seem smug about something," she said at some point during lunch on Monday. She eyed Hermione with a knowing look. "Maybe we should get you laid more often."

Hermione smiled, taking a sip of coffee. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

When Harry walked into her office just a few days later, she later blamed her response on her lingering good mood, because that was the only thing that explained—

"Hi," he said, giving her a small, tentative smile.

She returned it, putting down her quill. "Hi."

"Been busy?" Harry glanced around her cupboard-sized office.

"You know I have, as I know you have." She tried, for a moment, to forget how little they had seen each other since she'd ended things with Ron, how tired Harry looked now, dark circles under his eyes. It must've been the training. "What's up?"

He took a quick breath, shoving his hands in his pockets. It was still strange, seeing him in a pair of slacks, a shirt and tie. "I'm inviting you out, Friday night. There's a new club, and we're getting a whole group together. Luna, Hannah, Neville—"

Hermione cocked her head to one side, putting the pieces together. "Harry, are you sure Ron wants me there?"

"Yes," he said quickly, but not quick enough to feel like a lie. "He wants…" Harry tried again. "He wants things to go back to normal."

"Normal," she repeated, a few dozen replies itching to spill out of her mouth. He can tell me so himself, she wanted to say. Ron can speak for himself. "Friday?" she said instead.

Harry nodded, a real smile threatening to break through. "We're meeting at the Hippogriff at nine o'clock. Can you make it?"

"Yes," Hermione found herself saying. "Yes, I can."

And she did. She walked into The Golden Hippogriff at precisely 9:03, and steeled herself as she made her way over to the large group of Hogwarts' finest. She hugged Neville, kissed Luna and Hannah on the cheek, and noticed, with a tickle of surprise, that Ginny wasn't there.

"Training," Harry half-shouted at her later, over the club's insanely loud music. "She's in Wales for the weekend."

He seemed happier, she realized, watching him laugh at something Seamus was saying from her perch at the bar. Lighter. And Ron had been so normal with her — saying hi, keeping a respectable distance — that this whole evening felt like a trick.

"Come on," Hannah said into her ear, pulling her towards the dance floor, and Hermione let her, even though she'd never—

The club was a very posh one, with dark, velvety walls, high ceilings, and colorful lights that moved with her, around her. It took a while, and a lot of encouragement from Hannah, but eventually, she went with it, dancing and laughing, dizzy and electric, and then Hannah and Luna grabbed her with shrieks of laughter, because the boys were descending on the dance floor, and Neville spun Luna in a beautiful turn, Seamus shimmied up to Hannah, and Harry—

"Come on then, Granger." He was so close to her face, and half-hidden by the darkness of the club, that she felt like she could see all of him and none of him all at once. His hands were warm on her arms, his body so close to her own, and she let herself go. "Let's see what you've got."


"Stop asking, Harry, because it's not going to work."

He followed her through the doors and down the hallway, his Auror robes flapping dramatically. "Don't be like that, Hermione—"

She snorted. Maybe she'd be able to shake him in the research hall, there were enough books in there to rival Hogwarts' library. "What, dedicated?"

"Obstinate," he fired back. "All I'm asking is one little favor—"

"What you're asking is far beyond the bounds of a favor, Harry Potter—"

He sighed through his teeth. "One month, I'm asking one month—"

Hermione turned around to face him, too exasperated to notice the people staring at them. "Do you have any idea how long I've waited to get this resolution in front of the Wizengamot? The arguments I've had to make, the promises?"

"If it's anything like what I've had to go through, then—"

"No." She gritted her teeth. "Harry, it's not my fault they put me on the werewolf desk. But I need to make this happen, and one little word from you isn't going to stop it." I need this to happen, she didn't say. I need to prove that— "That might work in the DMLE, but it doesn't here."

Harry rolled his shoulders, clearly nettled. "You're—" He bit off a humorless laugh. "You're undoing a six-month investigation, Hermione—"

"That's hardly my problem," she replied, her face burning. "Work faster next time." And with that, she turned on her heel and marched away. Harry didn't follow.

The following week, she was surprised but pleased to get an owl from Theo. He would be back in London, and wanted to see her.

"I knew it," Verity crooned over a hurried lunch in the canteen, heedless of the people around her. "I knew he wouldn't be able to help himself."

She was right, in a way, but Hermione barely had the wherewithal to think it as Theo fucked her ruthlessly into the mattress, slow and unhurried and aching, pulling sounds out of her that she didn't know she could make. The next morning, he stroked patterns into her skin, looked her in the eye, and said, "I'll be back in six weeks."

And that was how they started… whatever it was they started. Hermione, somewhat to her own surprise, was fine with it — Theo was lovely, but after the slow-burning disaster with Ron, she wasn't interested in a relationship, and work kept her so busy she barely even had time to see Crookshanks. Seeing Theo every once in a while was perfect, a treat she could look forward to with a pleasant ache between her legs.

"Tell me," she said almost two months later, her fingers grazing the pattern of his tattoos — tattoos that were traditional in his family, that helped him to channel his magic — "about your Greek name and your Egyptian rituals."

He smiled, his eyes crinkling. "Greek mother, Egyptian father. Born and raised in Cairo." He pressed a kiss to her mouth. "I make a mean spanakopita."

And then, Ron showed up in her office with a smile on his face. "Hermione," he said, hand on the doorknob. "Got a minute?"

She blinked, then nodded. "Yes, what is it?"

Ron glanced around before closing the door, and sat down across from her desk. "I'm here as a part of a sacred obligation," he said, his smile growing into a grin. "As best man."

Something ugly and empty swooped in Hermione's stomach, but she plastered on a smile that was sort of genuine. "Really?!"

"Really, as of last night." Ron looked so excited he could burst. "Obviously, it's not going to stay quiet for long, so I thought I should tell you before it hits the papers. Harry wanted me to— well, he's been put on recon, otherwise he'd—"

"When?" As Ron's frown, she added, "When, when's the date?"

"Harry says a year, but Ginny doesn't want to wait longer than six months." Ron chuckled. "I don't think they'll leave it long, do you?"

No, Hermione thought, watching Harry and Ginny spin in the middle of an enchanted dancefloor, a rich purple haze fizzing into the air with each turn of her gown. They won't.

Later, she was standing at the bar, lost in a memory of Theo's hands on her legs, thinking about the hearing she had on Monday, what lines she'd have to spin this time to get Warlock Bennell on her side—

"'Mione." His voice in her ear was rich, amused. "Care for a spin?"

She shouldn't, but— "Yes." Hermione glanced over her shoulder and let Harry take her hand. He looked far too good in his dress robes. "I think that's the first time you've called me anything other than 'Granger' in months."

"You exaggerate." His smile was warm as he spun her onto the dancefloor.

She followed, a little dumbstruck. Since when did he know how to do that? "I assure you," she said, feeling his hand settle at her lower back, "I don't."

Harry gave an exaggerated sigh. "No shop talk tonight, all right?"

Hermione couldn't hold back a smile. "All right, if it'll make you happy." After a moment, she cocked her head, looking him in the eye. "You are happy, aren't you? Harry?"

He looked back at her, and they stilled, the music fading, but before he could say anything, a volley of fireworks shot off on the lawn, and the tent erupted in a cheer.


"… elementary, when, following the precedent set by Somhurst v. Wizengamot in 1837—"

Theo hummed into the skin of her lower back, pressing his mouth to the space between her hip and her bum. "Hermione…"

"Theo." She shot him a warning look, even as she smiled. "Come on, we agreed. Food, fuck, and flashcards. I have to be in court tomorrow, just in case you've forgotten."

He sighed dramatically, but didn't budge. His fingers joined his mouth, trailing a teasing line down her spine. "It's not my fault, you're the one saying the sexiest shit I've ever heard—"

"Hush." Hermione flicked a few flashcards into his face, then pushed him over and straddled him, rolling her hips. His cock grazed her still-wet crotch and he hissed, his fingers digging into her thighs. She raised an eyebrow. "What were you saying?"

"Ugh," she said later, when the lights were out and she was checking her phone one last time. "I'm sick of all this wedding bullshit, I don't even know why I'm in this chain—"

"Ron, right?" Theo slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck.

"Yes." Hermione turned off her mobile and chucked it somewhere under the bed, yawning. "It's such a nightmare, and he gave me a plus-one, sick little shit that he is, I don't even know who I'm going to bring, it's not like I can bring Draco, besides, he's visiting Azkaban that weekend—"

Theo hummed, his thumb stroking her lowest rib. "Bring me."

There was a pause. An elephantine pause.

"Theo," Hermione tried, her throat unexpectedly clogged. "You know we don't do that."

He hummed again, his thumb stilling. "What if I wanted to?"

Another pause. Then:

"No, sorry, not with the light off." Hermione turned on the light and sat up, staring at him. He looked completely calm, and he was smiling. "What did you just say?"

"What if I went," he said, smug and genuine all at once, "as, like, your date, or something?"

She hit him with a pillow and he laughed, ducking away. "Be serious," she hissed, her heart thundering in her face. "Explain yourself."

Theo nodded, sitting up as well. He got close, his hand cupping her face. His eyes were deep, dark eternities that swallowed her whole. "Hermione," he said. "They're transferring me to the London office. It's a promotion, a good one. Less travel, more reasonable hours. I'd be able to be here, to see you. So—" he took a breath— "would it be all right if I asked you out?"

For a moment, she had no idea what to say. Then, she tackled him to the bed, narrowly avoiding a concussion. "Yes," she said between kisses. "Absolutely, yes—"

He was laughing, wrapping his arms around her. "Good. At least I can meet your friends—"

Hermione pulled away with a frown. "You've met my friends."

Theo looked at her like she was crazy. "Not Harry or Ron."

That gave her pause. She leaned back, thinking quickly. She'd met Theo five years ago, and in that time, they'd had a handful of pub nights with Draco and Verity, much to Verity's unconcealed delight— "Oh." Hermione shook her head. "You're right."

He grinned, toying with a bit of her hair. "The Golden Trio. It'll be funny to see you all together, trying to imagine what you were like at Hogwarts." The word sounded extremely strange in his accent, clotted and heavy.

Hermione made a face. "Please don't call us that. And we—" She stopped just short of saying, we're never all together anymore. "We haven't seen each other that much since school."

Theo shrugged. "There's always the open bar to take the edge off."

The open bar was definitely helpful, Hermione decided as she polished off her third martini.

"Easy, tiger." Theo brushed a kiss to her temple, his hand resting at her hip. "Much as I enjoy three-drink Hermione, I'm not sure—"

"I hate this," she said through a smile, trying not to look at him. "Why haven't they come up to us yet, this is—"

The ceremony had been too hectic — squeezing several dozen witches and wizards into a Muggle church was no mean feat — and she'd barely even had time to give Ron a hug and Harry a nod before the priest was marching in and telling everyone to clear the space before—

And then, because the universe hated her, Ron appeared, grinning fit to burst. Sally was still on the dancefloor, getting twirled around by one of her bridesmaids. "I'm so sorry," he said to Theo, "I don't think we were introduced—"

It was like a slow-moving nightmare. Hermione gulped as Harry approached a few moments later, something in his face hidden and sharp beneath the smile, Ginny at his arm. Hermione squinted at him as he approached, hoping that he would behave here, at least—

"Congrats, mate," Theo was saying to Ron, and Ron clapped him on the back.

"Bliss, mate. It's bliss." Ron pushed Harry forward. "Theo, this is Harry and Ginny. Harry and Ginny, this is Theo. Hermione's date." He was definitely tipsy, maybe even drunk, because there were about three levels of meaning hanging onto the word date, and that was a level of subtlety Ron could never pull off sober.

"Right." Harry shook Theo's hand. "I've seen you. At the Hippogriff."

This was news to Hermione. Theo chuckled, pulled her in close to his side. "Seems like it's everybody's favorite haunt."

"Yeah, seems like." Harry didn't even look at her, then he stepped away, Ginny shooting him a confused glance. "Nice meeting you, Theo."

Later, Theo gave her a knowing look and said, "I have to admit, he wasn't what I expected."

Hermione snorted, stumbling as she kicked off her heels. "Welcome to the club." Shoes gone, she stumbled into the kitchen. "Nightcap?"

Theo laughed, a short, bright sound, and followed her. "What happened between you two?"

Something jolted in Hermione's stomach, and she paused before uncorking the cognac. "What do you mean?"

"You weren't…" Theo seemed to cast around for the right word, watching her. "Friendly."

"No. We aren't, most of the time." She handed him his glass and he followed her to the couch, where Crookshanks was curled up and purring. "Not since I became his bureaucratic enemy number one."

Theo's hand went to Crookshanks' belly and he took a sip of cognac. God, he looked beautiful here — in her flat, in her life, on her couch. "Explain."

Hermione sighed a little. "He's been on the warpath, trying to track down everyone Greyback turned during the war. You know Fenrir Greyback, I assume?" At Theo's nod, she continued. "Greyback wasn't picky, and he had a thing for children. Doesn't help that our Wizarding society is severely prejudiced against werewolves, and they have almost no legal protections or freedoms, so they would have no reason to want to register themselves in the first place." Hermione swirled her cognac, almost surprised she could talk so coherently at this point in the evening. "The higher-ups put me on the werewolf desk. It's my primary focus, followed by house elves and centaurs. Kingsley is determined to start fixing things as soon as possible, and some of the protections we're pushing through, well…" She sighed a little. "It makes it more difficult for Harry to prosecute and sentence the older werewolves, the converts who were loyal to the cause. And the irony—" she almost stopped here, but she didn't— "the irony is that Harry's godfather to a boy whose father was a werewolf, someone who was turned by Greyback himself. His godson faces layers of discrimination, both legal and not, that we can barely even fathom—"

Theo hummed, his fingers twisting in Crookshanks' fur. "Sad," he said, his voice low. "It all sounds… very sad."

Hermione swallowed, looking down into the amber cognac. "Yeah."

"He wears all of it," Theo went on, to her surprise, "like a shroud. He's heavy with it."

Hermione tried to swallow again, but she couldn't. Her gaze drifted to the skyline across the river. "Yeah. He is."


Theo tapped his knife against his glass, and the crowd around their table went silent. "Everyone," he said, standing up, glass of wine in hand. "I'd like to call a toast — a toast to my incredible girlfriend."

Hermione couldn't hold back a grin, her eyes meeting her mum's across the table. Her mum was beaming, as were her dad, Draco, Verity, even Blaise was sort of smiling—

"A toast to the Department's youngest Deputy Counsel in history, their toughest prosecutor, the only person who knows the Wizengamot like the back of her hand. I am honored to be her partner, to have the privilege of watching her take this world by storm. To Hermione, a woman like no other."

"Hermione," the table echoed, followed by a cascade of cheers.

"You spoil me," she murmured into Theo's ear much later that night, shuddering as his hand dragged up the length of her cunt.

His laugh was a rumble against her neck. "Not enough." His thumb teased her clit and her shudders multiplied, her entire body clenching and quaking, and both of them were surprised when her inner thighs and the sheet below her grew damp.

And then Theo was on her, biting a hot line of kisses up her chest, the shell of her ear, and he was pressing inside her, pushing a gasp out of her throat. "So good for me," he growled, one hand tangling in her hair and pulling her head back, his breath ghosting along her jaw. She shivered, goosebumps erupting, and could barely hold on as he fucked her senseless.

The only problem with being Deputy Counsel — apart from the increased workload — was her position on the Board of Internal Budgetary Oversight. It would've been fine, but—

"The Department of Magical Transportation does not need an extra credit line for Emergency Portkeys," Hermione argued, "those are already covered under—"

"Their current Emergency Protocol is severely lacking," Harry fired back. He had dark circles under his eyes, his robes were creased, and he clearly hadn't shaved that morning. "And the DMT has resisted all attempts to force an overhaul of the existing process, so in the meantime—"

Hermione seethed, ignoring the way everyone at the table was watching them like a ping-pong match. "That money should go towards International Magical Cooperation, they haven't received a supplementary grant in—"

And so it went, on and on and on. It seemed like they could never stop fighting, and soon, she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Harry in a non-work setting. He was always busy, always somewhere else, always with Ginny. On that particular day, the day of the great battle between the DMT and the DIMC, Hermione tried to pull Harry aside after the meeting ended, but he was already gone, his robes flapping as he disappeared down the end of the hall.

She sighed a little, suddenly feeling exhausted, and made her way to the Atrium, where she was meeting Verity for lunch. She was early, so she leaned against the edge of the fountain, and then the headlines at the Prophet stand caught her eye—

MRS. POTTER AND HARPIES HOP OVER TO HAMBURG FOR TRAINING SEASON — DOES THIS SPELL TROUBLE FOR THE YOUNG COUPLE?

Hermione's stomach flipped, but before she could think about it, Verity appeared, and they were off to lunch.

The next time she saw Harry outside of work, it was in Ron and Sally's sitting room, and a newborn Jessica was being passed into her arms.

"Oh, Ron," Hermione managed, tears blurring her eyes. Jessica smelled like milk and warmth, and Theo squeezed Hermione's shoulder as she cuddled the baby. "She's perfect. She's absolutely gorgeous."

"I don't take any of the credit," Ron replied, brushing a kiss to Sally's cheek. Sally blushed and smiled, beautiful and exhausted all at once. "She takes after her mum."

Harry was watching this from an armchair in the corner, his hair half-vertical and his eyes mussed. His knitted jumper had holes in it, and a nine year-old Teddy was perched on his lap, his eyes huge as he watched the baby. Harry looked nothing like the terror of her career, and everything like the Harry she'd seen the morning after they'd rescued Sirius. Brimming with love, disappointment, anger, and hope all at once. Ginny, she'd noticed, was not present.

After Teddy promised that he would be extra-specially, super-duper-fantastically careful, she handed the baby back to Ron, then stepped aside and watched as Ron showed Teddy how to hold Jessica the right way. Teddy nodded, as focused as a laser, and moved carefully, letting Ron help him tuck Jessica's head into the crook of his elbow, leaning in to brush his nose against her forehead, tickle her cheeks with his messy forest-green hair.

Then, Hermione made the mistake of glancing at Harry. He was staring at Teddy, arms crossed against his chest, and he was completely still, hunched a little like he was protecting himself from something. As she watched, his throat worked, and he turned away to look out the window instead, his hands clenched into fists.

They hadn't spoken in so long, she realized, once she and Theo had gotten home. Not as friends, anyway. She didn't know what was going on in Harry's life anymore, just as he didn't know what was going on in hers. And Ron never dropped any hints, either, which was very unhelpful.

But then, suddenly, none of that mattered, because she and Theo were sitting at her dining table, holding hands, and she was crying.

"It's your dream job," she forced herself to say, her chin trembling. "You can't turn it down just because of me. You can't."

"I can," he said, so fiercely that she almost relented. "There will be other opportunities—"

"No," she said. "There won't. We both know how hard it is to get a permanent assignment within spitting-distance of the Singapore office, let alone in the Singapore office itself. You have to go, Theo. I won't let you stay."

He swallowed thickly, and liquid pooled in his lovely, dark eyes. His thumb stroked the back of her hand, and she knew, then, in spite of what she wanted to believe, that they would probably never see each other again.

Her apartment felt empty without him, like she'd lost half of her own body, half of her own mind. Her walls were bare without his artwork — magical ink on papyrus — her kitchen was stale without the smell of his favorite imported coffee, and her bed was always cold. She cried, a lot. Verity dropped by with Ogden's and ice cream almost once a week, and Draco began planting himself on her couch, turning on some Eastenders marathon, and refusing to budge for at least twelve hours. Crookshanks started pressing against her legs and looking up at her, even when he wasn't waiting for dinner.

It took a long time, longer than she'd expected, and then, then.

The Department Head came into her office with a smile on his face and said, "Hermione, we would like to advance you to the position of Head Counsel."

Verity gave her a tearful, tight hug, her engagement ring getting tangled in Hermione's hair, and said, "I'll come back every Christmas and every July, it'll be like I never left, Ireland's only a Portkey away—"

Malcolm from the DIMC's Trade Commission shot her a smile across the canteen, talked to her after meetings. She always responded, friendly but polite, and tried not to think about the disappointment that would flash in his eyes.

The ten-year anniversary of the War came and went. She had to sit through too many speeches, make a few of her own, and stand between Harry and Ron at the Hogwarts memorial, a circle of the remaining Hogwarts Heroes (the Prophet's phrase) clustered behind them, for the five-minute Observation of Silence. Harry hadn't said anything to her that day other than the usual pleasantries, and it wasn't until a few days later that she realized he and Ginny hadn't touched each other once during the whole event. But, at every moment that he wasn't in the spotlight, Harry kept Teddy's hand firmly in his own, Teddy, who was pale and red-eyed, who looked up at his parents' names on the commemorative plaque with a glimmer of determination in his gaze.

She went to Ireland for Verity's wedding, stood in the line of bridesmaids, flowers in her hands, cried a little as the ceremony ended, drank too much at the reception, had so much fun that she almost felt guilty about it.

For many years, the first week of September had passed Hermione by without much notice — it was ages since she'd thought about Hogwarts, about the clusters of children arriving for the train — but that all changed when she went into work the Monday after she got back from Ireland and the newspaper headlines blared:

HARRY AND GINNY CALL IT QUITS — WHAT DOES THIS MEAN FOR THE FUTURE OF THE BOY WHO LIVED?

Her stomach twisted, and it hit her like a brick wall, leaving her face numb and her hands shaking. She couldn't stop her first thought from surfacing, even though it was insane. Had Ginny waited— waited until Teddy went to Hogwarts to—

What followed could only be called an uproar. Harry, now a Deputy Head Auror, was put on leave, and his absence from the Ministry only made things worse. For months, Hermione couldn't go two feet without hearing some new gossip about the split — about how much Ginny would get in the settlement, where Harry was going to live, about the men who had been caught sneaking out of Ginny's apartment in Hamburg—

But she ignored it. She worked, kept her head down, and told reporters "No comment." Spent evenings with Ron, Sally, Jessica, and baby Peter, went for drinks with Draco, went to the theater with her parents, passed a few laws, paced around her silent apartment, and when Malcolm asked her out to drinks in the new year, clearly as part of a last-ditch attempt, she said yes.

The Hippogriff was crowded, as usual, and Hermione was glad that they'd chosen a table near the back. Malcolm was nice, which she'd known before this, but he was so— he was so—

Then, the door opened, and Ron stepped into the bar, windswept, brushing snow off his shoulders. And behind him was—

"Wow," said Malcolm, before taking a sip of beer. "Haven't seen him in a while."

Hermione's heart thudded in her chest, and she tried to ignore it. She watched as Harry — rosy from the cold, smiling a little, his glasses fogged and his hair crooked — ordered drinks and made his way to the table of Aurors, who greeted him with a cheer—

"There's our free man!"

"What's it like to be back on the market, Golden Boy?!"

"Got a copy of those papers? Prophet's offering a small fortune, and I could do with a long holiday in France—"

Even Ron laughed, shaking his head ruefully, and Hermione put together the pieces — the divorce must've been finalized today.

"I guess he's back," she said, then took a sip of her whisky. "So tell me about your family, Malcolm—"

It wasn't until later, much, much later, that she came out of the toilets, stepping into the dim back hallway, and found herself face-to-face with Harry Potter.

Hermione let out a breath, and saw him smile. "Harry," she said, her voice much steadier than she'd expected.

"Hermione." He stepped closer, his movements slow and measured, and she realized, on pure instinct, that he was drunk. "Having a good night?"

He must've seen her with Malcolm. He saw everything. "Yes," she breathed, somehow frozen to the spot. Behind Harry, the roar of the pub continued. "You?"

He nodded, and stepped closer. He was less than two feet away now, and— had he always been this tall?

"I'm sorry," she blurted, and he frowned. "I'm sorry that you— that that happened—"

Harry seemed surprised now. "No, I—" He cleared his throat. "It was for the best."

Hermione nodded, then suddenly found that she didn't know what to say. She tried to walk past him, but then he turned towards her, and she backed into the coat rack, her heart in her throat and her eyes huge as he looked down at her, his gaze burning into hers.

He looked different. Older.

"Harry—"

"I saw you with him." His voice was low, intent. "That prick from the Trade Commission."

Her face heated for all the wrong reasons. "He's not— He's quite nice, actually—"

Harry laughed without humor, and something twinged between her legs. "What a ringing endorsement from Hermione Granger."

And then, to her astute shock, his hand pressed against the wall beside her, his thumb grazing her hip, and suddenly, she was eighteen all over again, weak-kneed at their proximity, at the low-grade hum of magic in the air between them. "Hermione," he said, and she bit her lip to trap a truly embarrassing gasp from escaping.

And then—

"No," she said, before he could say anything else. Her heart thudded in her ears and he blinked, confused. "No, Harry."

He twitched, stepping away, his arm falling to his side. "No?" he repeated.

"You're drunk," she said, clenching her fists. "And your divorce was finalized just a few hours ago. I will not," she went on, gathering steam, "I will not be your rebound."

And with that, she walked away, going back to Malcolm and their conversation about the new interest rate proposal on both their desks. It was only after they'd finished their drinks and left the Hippogriff that she realized she hadn't seen Harry come back from the toilets. Hermione reached for Malcolm's hand, smiling when he blushed, and walked with him into the night.


It was like a line of dominoes after that. Second, third, sixth, tenth dates with Malcolm, sex that was sweet but not mind-blowing, nights spent cuddled into his couch — he had the bigger flat, after all — and the occasional dinner with her parents, ignoring the way her mother watched her with eyes that could see too much and not enough.

Three new laws passing the Wizengamont. Ron having the twins. Becoming Department Head, then the news of Andromeda's death hitting the papers. Hermione sent flowers, trying not to imagine the way Teddy must've cried, how small he must've looked in a little black suit. How Harry would've taken him home, Teddy asleep on his shoulder, and tucked him into a bed that was probably too big for him.

Moving in with Malcolm, shedding a few tears as she looked out of her windows at the Thames one last time. Spending Christmas with Malcolm's parents. Saying goodbye to Crookshanks, her grief looming ridiculously large, realizing that she was mourning her childhood as much as she was mourning a companion.

Butting heads with Harry at every turn in the few meetings that overlapped on their calendars. Ranting about him in the toilets to her new secretary, Jill. In a moment of weakness, entering into a Ministry-wide bet about who would raise their voice first in a certain number of meetings. Losing the bet and having to dance with Harry at the Christmas party, grinding her teeth the whole time, ignoring the way his hands felt impossibly right on her body, trying to understand why he was horrible to her at work but lovely outside of it.

Receiving an invitation to a seat on the Wizengamot, opening her confirmation letter with trembling hands. Learning through the grapevine that Harry was named Head Auror, then realizing the true extent of that promotion when she started hearing his words, his guidance, in the testimonies of every Auror who came before the court. It made her clench her jaw, jealousy flaring hot under her skin, because it seemed like no matter what she did, she would never have as much influence as Harry fucking Potter.

Once, when they passed each other in the hall, Harry with a flock of trainees, Hermione with her team of junior researchers, Harry grinned and said, "Nice job in court today, Granger," and without missing a beat, her gaze straight ahead, she said, "Bite me, Potter."

Then, a candlelit dinner in their kitchen, and Malcolm down on one knee, a lovely diamond ring in his hands. Hermione's breath caught in her throat, because in that moment, a stream of memories flashed through her mind — Theo's hand in hers, his mouth on her neck, going to Brighton on a last-minute train, catching the first act of a terrible play and spending the rest of the night wandering around Soho, ducking into hidden bookshops, then going home and mapping constellations on the ceiling of their bedroom. That wasn't Malcolm. Malcolm was serious, not spontaneous; careful, not passionate; settled, not adventurous.

But maybe that was what she needed. So she said yes, and smiled when he whisked her off to Spain for a few weeks to celebrate. The trip was planned within an inch of its life, but she still enjoyed it, telling herself that this was the right thing to do.

Within five minutes of her first morning back on the job, the ring on her left hand feeling odd and heavy, Ron was in her office, his face pale. "Hermione," he said, and she was glad that they'd already gone through the whole congratulations thing before she'd left— "Harry got hurt."

She inhaled, then exhaled. She could hear her watch ticking. "When."

"While you were gone. Bombarda hit his knee." Ron took a quick breath, and she could see his exhaustion, his worry. "He's fine, he's home, and he kept the leg, but—"

Hermione nodded. "Thank you for telling me."

The dominoes kept falling — Kingsley showed up in her office one day, after everyone else had left, and said, "I think you should run for Minister."

She thought about it for days, weeks. She imagined finally having enough influence to actually get her Muggle-born legislation in front of the Wizengamot, to spearhead the rights of any and every magical creature who had been oppressed by Wizarding Britain, and it was at two o'clock in the morning, Malcolm snoring beside her, that she whispered into the cool, dark night— "I'm going to be the next Minister for Magic."

The campaign — the longest days she'd ever known, more speeches than she'd thought she could ever make, fighting tooth and nail to make herself heard over the sneering tones of Octavius Crane. Ignoring Harry's eyes on her at her events, in the Ministry halls, in the meetings where now, sometimes, he was silent, his hands on the table, his face open and careful. He walked with a limp, occasionally, but she always looked away whenever she saw it.

Internal meetings with the Purebloods, with the people who had never thought that a Muggle-born would become a power player in government. Keeping a hard line in the sand, learning things about people, using information to get further ahead than she'd ever been, feeling a nameless thrill under her skin, pushing and pushing—

"I'm done," Malcolm said late one night, his back to her. His words were cold, full of hurt and disappointment. "We're… we're done."

Hermione inhaled, ignoring the jolt that went through her gut. It felt far too much like relief, and she couldn't— "Why?"

He looked at her, and his face said far too much. "You're not—" Malcolm swallowed, and he looked away again. "You're not who I thought you were. I can't do this anymore."

She left that night, her ring sitting cold and bright on the bathroom counter, packed with a few sweeps of her wand, and immediately sent a Patronus to her campaign manager, letting her know that she had to start preparing for the fallout. She checked into a hotel, left a voicemail for her parents, and ignored every call from them for the next week. Within a month, Hermione had a house off Marylebone, and a pair of wheezy, greasy kittens that nobody had wanted.

This is where I begin, she thought, looking out the windows of her empty sitting room, the kittens fast asleep in her arms. This, now, is me.

When she won a few weeks later, it felt like champagne, something ending and something beginning all at the same time. Which only made it worse when a roomful of officials applauded her success, Harry clapping the hardest of all, his grin blinding, only for him to turn around and needle her all the way through her first Departmental Oversight meeting.

It was ridiculous, she realized. But, a small part of her thought, late one night after Draco and Blaise had invited her over for drinks that turned into charades and takeaway and a sleepover in their guest room, it was also kind of fun.

And sometimes, the dark, treacherous part of her brain thought, it was fantastic.