Disclaimer: All the characters displayed in this fic are property of their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

Please see the Notes at the end of the Chapter.

Note 19/04/2020: Edited, unbetaed

Chapter 5: Her last bow

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. It is a privilege for me to stand before you today, commemorating all those who died for our freedom. I would like to thank Minister Shacklebolt and Auror Potter for inviting me here tonight. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for them."

"When they asked me to come here tonight, I wasn't sure how to face you. How someone who decided to leave was somehow the right person to deliver these words. So, I realised that I needed to apologise to you first. There are some things I did that I am not proud of, and I think we can all agree on that, it's a common feeling. When I left, it was out of impatience. For me, things weren't moving fast enough. I wanted everything done there and then. Difficulties were an excuse for inaction, caution was cowardice in disguise, and justice was yet to come. Leaving was a balm to my battered spirit. But the truth is, I was too young to see the bigger picture. "

"We foolishly thought the war ended the moment Lord Voldemort touched the ground. Finally, the sun was rising, the dark times were already behind us. But like the change from night to dawn, it doesn't happen in an instant, but gradually. And that's what we did not understand. That's what I did not understand. Our greed for a better, fairer world burnt us. We all had different priorities, we wanted to do too much, too soon."

"I cannot pretend to know a thing about politics, and I knew even less then. But now it's obvious that changing years of immovable politics and how society works is harder than we thought. Such a complete restructuring doesn't come for free, and decisions had to be made. For better or for worse, whatever those decisions may have been, what we can say today is that we are not persecuted for things we cannot change about ourselves and that we are all equal to our fellow neighbour."

"We survived a war. Some of us survived two. Some of us fought, some of us didn't. We all made mistakes. But what we were and what we did, it doesn't matter. What matters now is what we are willing to do to achieve the kind of world we want. There is a quote that says 'I was very lucky; I was part of the post-war period when everything had to be redone.' Those of you who stayed, you are building a better, fairer Wizarding Britain. And those who were once soldiers are now politicians, and they are ready to lead you to the future you deserve."

"All I ask from you is to have faith. As a community, we have endured the worst pains and humiliations. We were slaves, but we managed to break the chains. For that, I can say: I am proud of you. I am proud to have fought for you. And I am proud of having risked my life for those who are not here today."

"Now I want to propose a toast to our brothers and sisters, who fell in battle. May our actions always honour them."

Resounding applause erupted and bombarded Hermione's ears like a thunderstorm. Blood was pumping through her veins, pulsing in her temples with such force that she had to close her eyes. She felt dirty. Minute by minute, the audience was getting more and more enraptured, shedding tears and whispering praise that she knew she didn't deserve. Every word she had spoken had turned to dust in her mouth. A wave of nausea made her stomach tighten and she opened her eyes, searching frantically for Sirius. He offered her a hand and led her down the small three steps until she was wrapped under his arm. Hermione heard someone who sounded like her hurling words of gratitude to those who approached her on the short walk to the table. By the time she sat down, two lonely tears ran down her face.

"You know," Sirius whispered at her side. He had placed a glass within her reach, probably the same Ogden whiskey she smelled on her breath. "If Mycroft ever fired you, you'd be an excellent actress. Well done, pup. I'm proud of you."

Hermione swallowed the drink in one gulp, welcoming the burning sensation as punishment. Sirius' hand moved to her right shoulder, massaging the tension while the Head of Magical Cooperation talked. The next applause was less hearty. Apparently, no one was interested in the proposal for centaur recruitment for the Department of Mysteries.

"Hermione. I just wanted to thank you—," started Kingsley.

"Don't." Hermione cut him off, and Kingsley shifted on his chair. "I did what you asked me. I've traded my integrity for my freedom. I bought you time." The words were above a whisper of anger, but everyone at the table could hear them. Hermione felt the tears of rage start to sting in the corner of her eyes again. "I don't want your thanks. All I want from you are the documents you have on me. And I hope that Mycroft Holmes will have them in his office in the morning."

"He will, I give you my word."

"It's a shame your word doesn't mean shit to me." Holding her clutch, Hermione stood up as she picked up her coat.

"Hermione, please." This time it had been Neville who had spoken.

"No! You thought I was going to stay here and play whatever this was? You've blackmailed me, threatened me with jail. You've got what you wanted, now leave me alone."

Hermione made her way out through the side of the ballroom towards the door, followed by Sirius. As soon as she was out in the main foyer, she dropped all her weight against the stone wall before her knees could give in. Her breathing was fast, and she was sure she was going to have a panic attack. Sirius appeared around the corner and took her in his arms. Then the devastating sobs that she had been trying to hold overtook her body and when they stopped, left her exhausted.

"You have to go back, Sirius." Hermione looked up at him.

"I don't have to do shit. I didn't know you would use a word like that in a formal setting, by the way." He teased her, wrapping her coat around her.

"Yes, you do. People are going to ask about me, so you need to make up a credible excuse. And this is part of your job." She let go, and she buttoned up her coat. "I'll be fine, I promise."

"Go to mine. I'd like to have you around tonight."

Hermione shook her head. "I'm going home. John said he'd wait for me."

Sirius gave her a cheeky smile, and Hermione slapped him on the shoulder, but he let herself be kissed on the cheek and promised to call when she got home. Once alone, Hermione took one of the many corridors, returning to the Atrium, and stopped in front of the fountain that replaced the dreadful Magic is Might that Voldemort had built. In the new version, a witch and a wizard protected other magical beings, with the word "Unity" engraved on the bottom. Engraved there by the same people who had returned to give and take privileges to whomever they wanted. Everything she had sacrificed had put these people in power, who in turn had used her as a political tool, the very thing she had never wanted to become.

When she reached Whitehall, she had no more tears left.

Hermione stepped out of the taxi in front of 221B Baker Street and noticed the lights of the living room were on. She had lied to Sirius when she had said John would wait for her, but John was up and now she knew that a conversation with John was unavoidable. Once inside, Hermione looked at herself in the mirror and tried to clean the black smudges under her eyes. Then, she dragged herself up the stairs. There was some noise in the kitchen. As she entered she saw that John's armchair was empty but he had a newspaper on his armrest and a steaming cup of tea on the next table. Hermione shrugged out of her coat and threw it on the couch with his purse. She sank on the leather chair, taking off her heels, exhausted. She hated the aftermath of an adrenaline rush, she thought, while resting her head in her hands. She barely heard the noise of John's footsteps approaching. Hermione opened her eyes and looked at him, and took the cup John was offering. "That bad, eh?" Asked John. He sat down and sipped on his tea.

"Worse. I detest all the nonsense chatter, the fake interest, the hypocrisy. It makes you hate people." She looked up at John's laughter and saw his fond expression.

"You remind me of him, sometimes. Sherlock. Without the sociopathic tendencies, of course. "

"I'll take that as a compliment."

A series of beeps broke the silence.

"Aren't you going to take it, Hermione?"

Hermione sighed and went to get the phone. "It's Mary." She wrote a brief reply, then texted Sirius, and turned the phone off. "I don't have the energy to talk to her today. Mary wants to solve all my problems, and her pragmatism is sometimes annoying."

She slumped in her seat. The leather was warm from her body heat, and now it was starting to lull her to sleep. "Why is being an adult so complicated, John?"

"Sometimes I think it's us who like complicated. Look at me, I escaped the war only to enter the world of spies, dominatrix, and evil masterminds."

Hermione's heart leapt to her throat. And you don't know half of it.

"Do you wonder how your life would have been without Sherlock?"

"No." John sighed. "It would have been easier, but I don't know if it would have been better."

Hermione nodded and kept quiet. John got his newspaper back and continued reading.

"John," the man whispered a soft affirmation, and Hermione continued. "You've never asked me if I believe in Sherlock."

John put down his newspaper. "Do you?"

"Yes," Hermione replied, and John relaxed. "I'm surprised you didn't bring it up."

"Maybe I was afraid of the answer. Moriarty made everyone doubt, even me."

"People still think Moriarty was an invention."

"Why don't you, then?"

"It all seemed too..." Hermione moved her hand in circles, trying to find the right word. "...convoluted. The hired actors and the fake cases. The simplest explanation was that it was all a ruse."

"Everyone thought the easiest thing was that Sherlock was lying."

"For some it's easier to think that geniuses lie about being geniuses, rather than face their own mediocrity. We fear what we don't understand, and then we try to destroy it. Someone turns a brilliant man into a lie, and you buy him to cover up your own shortcomings. It's hard to accept that you're not special. Hermione smiled at him and buried his head in the back of the chair.

"I think he would have liked you." It was the last thing she heard before falling asleep.

"Well, Hermione, why now?" Ella's question was not answered, not even a gesture of recognition. "Hermione, you have to work with me. I can't help you if you don't talk."

"Fine," Hermione sat in the white chair. She hated feeling scrutinised as if she were a criminal and her interlocutor was in control. Her rational mind told her that she was the one who had chosen to come and start solving the obstacles that were preventing her from moving forward. Her sympathetic nervous system, on the other hand, had transformed her into the human version of a cornered lion.

"I'm not your enemy, Hermione."

"I know that, I'm not daft," she gulped and exhaled, immediately regretting the words. "Sorry. That was out of line."

"You're not the first nor the last to get defensive in this room." Ella handed her a glass of water and returned to her notes. "Now, what brought you here? Do you want to start from the beginning?"

"There's no time for that, believe me."

"We have time, Hermione. I'm doing this as a favour to John, but that doesn't mean you can't do this regularly with another therapist."

"I've been to therapy before. This is just...A top-up."

"Something triggered you, then." Hermione nodded. "Well?"

"Last week, I saw some… old acquaintances."

"Friends, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Good friends? More than friends?"

"There was a point in my life that we were thick as thieves, family. We could have given our lives for each other."

"That's a strong bond. What happened?"

"Adulthood. Our priorities changed, I guess. We haven't talked since we were eighteen."

Ella made some notes, and Hermione tried to read them, but the light was too dim to discern the movements of the pen. Anyhow, she could almost deduce what she was writing. Trust issues, abandonment issues, possible toxic romantic relationships. Nothing she had not heard before.

"What exactly prompted your visit?"

"I…" She got up, and started pacing around the room. She thought better when walking. "I thought I felt nothing anymore. I don't think about them." The street behind the window was quiet, fat drops of the previous rain still trailing down the glass. "They are vague ideas, I made sure to hide them away in the deepest corners of my mind. They got on with their lives, so did I. But when I saw them… All the angriness and disappointment came back. And the love and the friendship. And I miss them and hate them so much at the same time that... I just don't know what to do with what I am feeling."

"You made a beginner's mistake."

Hermione sat on the window sill, crossing her arms over her chest. "What?"

"You don't overcome your problems by hiding them, because they will come back. It takes courage to move on by facing the mistakes and the losses we collect with the decisions we make. Your feelings are proof that your technique doesn't work. If you really want to begin a new chapter, you don't get a new notebook, you don't erase what you have written. You turn the page and start making sense of everything up to that point." Ella left her notes on the small table and came to her, her hands taking Hermione's elbows and looking directly at her. "You accept your past, so you can build your future."

Hermione's fingers brushed against the kitchen door frame, where there were little lines of different colours, with dates starting from 1980. Before she bought it, the house had been painted over, but she sanded down all the places she knew she could find memories. She remembered the scribble of a five-year-old girl, obsessed with dragons, on the small spot of the wall next to the stairs. And the three purple handprints in the pink room upstairs. She stroked the wooden countertop, her usual place on Sunday mornings when her father was making breakfast. Right in her line of sight, outside in the well-kept garden, was the swing her parents decided to build. The big plush couch by the window was different, but it was the same place where her mother used to read.

The doorbell startled her. She opened the door and let in a woman wearing a red suit,who was holding a brown folder with the real estate company's logo on the cover. Hermione accompanied her to the dining room, and took the documentation she was handing over.

"Well, Miss Black, as you know, the house is selling lower than when you bought it. Are you sure you want to do this?"

She stared at the empty space that presided over the room, where an old family portrait used to hang. The first Mr. and Mrs. Granger, French immigrants in the wool business. His father always told him the story. His ancestors came from poor families and had made a name for themselves through hard work and integrity. But that was another life, another Hermione. Now she had to accept that her parents weren't coming back. There will be no grandfather to tell his grandchildren this story, or any other.

"Yes. I have no use for it anymore. Never did."

Notes

Here it is. This is a very personal chapter, as I have been going through a very dark part of my life where writing has helped me overcoming my anxiety. I tried to put my own experiences in therapy here, but our problems were slightly different, so I might not have gotten my point across. There might be some redone involved during the next week.

Again, I am sorry for any grammatical mistakes. I wanted to give you this as soon as I could, so I revised less than normal. Word says it is fine, but I do not believe it.

I present you my idea of how Hermione was after the war. A broken girl, deciding if she should follow her friends sacrificing her ideas, or if her integrity is worthier than them. Knowing Hermione, I think she would have had a hard time choosing. She tried to keep her parents present by buying their house again, but all that baggage was drowning her. She is in a healing path now, together with John, and they will both help each other to overcome their losses.

Next chapter: John has a rough time around Sherlock's death. Hermione decides to spend Mycroft's birthday with him. Some secrets come out.

I hope you've liked this,

Beth