A/N: Here's the second part. The last part is almost done, so it should be available in the next few days.
Hermione is well versed in the language of make-belief. One who had been exposed to as many fairy-tales as she had was destined to recognize the basic patterns of the stories and apply them to reality.
That's why she's not surprised in the slightest when she realizes she's become part of a trio. The most important aspects of life come in threes, she knows this. Triangles are, after all, the most fortuitous of shapes.
So she settles into the comfortable dynamics of her relationship with one Ronald Weasley and the Harry Potter. She knows, during all this, that she has a choice to make.
As the only female in the group, she knows she must choose one of them as a love interest. She really has no choice in the matter.
They can't always exist as they do in their first year, all chocolate frogs and foul tasting beans and gentle teasing. She knows that with time will come deep rumbling voices, and soft flowing dresses and awkward first kisses. When that time comes, she will be ready, a favourite of sorts in the running.
There's a difference in her two unwilling suitors, one deeper than the contrast between flaming and jet black locks as the boys lean together to whisper about whatever petty things boys their age choose to discuss.
That difference is in their roles.
Harry is the hero. There's no way around it. He was born to greatness, selected to do great things by powers beyond his control. As opposed as he was to the idea, his fate was clear even to those who refused to buy into divination. Perhaps he wasn't the archetypal hero, not being blessed with rippling muscles or a chiselled jaw, but his bright, honest eyes and wry grin could easily be the subject of future heroic commemorations.
There were certain advantages to being the hero's lady, of course.
She could expect nothing less than an epic romance, with all that entailed, as well as a considerable amount of fame and fortune. Of course, there were pitfalls down that path as well.
People often confuse the hero's love interest with the heroine. Heroines and heroes never exist within the same tale. If the hero loves a girl, she's there for him to rescue. She's little more than a vapid little burden he must bear, pretty as she may be. Hermione knows she's not the type accustomed to heaving bosoms and fainting spells, to waiting around for her true love to rescue poor dainty little her. And so, she turns her eyes to the other possibility.
Ron's an interesting case, in that everything that composes Ronald Weasley refuses to stay within the confines of one supporting role. He's certainly the hero's best friend, his lifelong companion, but there's more to him than that. All at once, he's the loyal knight, the fool, the comic relief, the bitter rival, the antagonist, and more.
Being his intended means her character has to be dynamic, has to change alongside him. She rather likes that idea. Hermione Granger is always evolving, and she didn't know that she could be ever with someone who stopped this perpetual metamorphosis of hers.
Every bit of him is warm and lively, from his twinkling blue eyes to his hectic home. She can imagine finding happiness within that warmth, as an equal, not as a convenient plot device. At the very least, it's less likely that one of them will die tragically as their tale comes to an end.
This is all fairly difficult for her to work out. That is, until she discovers that Ron has a brother who is a dragon trainer. At that point, her choice is obvious.
Hermione's strength had always lied in words, not numbers. Oh, she was very adept at arithmetic, much more so than even the more intelligent of her peers, but she truly shone when she was allowed to use her extensive vocabulary.
In that way, she was still the smug little girl who would use the biggest words she knew to impress or confuse her audience, depending on who she was speaking to. As she grew older, she found that the Wizarding community favoured simple math, with an emphasis on subtraction. It was all very precise, certainly, and it reeked of traditional, dry Britain. She adopts the system as she immerses herself in the culture.
As time passes, she finds she tallies the negatives, counts who is not there as opposed to who is. In her third year, she watches as Cedric Diggory's desks remain vacant in all his classes. Three years later it is the Headmaster's chair she observes, in all her objective scrutiny.
In gatherings of old faces, she comes to pick out gaps that had previously been filled. She finds places where a little house elf should be strolling along, or a red headed prankster should be spreading merriment and delight.
She keeps reminding herself that these are dangerous times, and she should be grateful to still pick out the flash of broken lenses over green eyes in a crowd, or reach out her hand to find a freckled, sweaty palm beside her. Sometimes, after the all the tallies have been made, she wonders what happened to the bushy-haired little girl who dreamed of cold, shimmering scales beneath her legs.
She and Ron decide to marry after everything's over.
It's a vow he makes to her, springing from chapped lips as they lie in the cold autumn air. They've been searching for Horcruxes for what seems like eternity, and she and Ron forge their romance in camp fires and shielding spells. She chalks it off to be a baseless lover's promise, the kind so many girls hear between pants and moans on nights like this, promises that never come to fruition.
And yet, neither she nor Ron were ever the sort to do things half-assed, and so, after their story, Harry's story really, comes to a freshly inked, "And they lived Happily Ever After", they wed. There are so many meaningful places to choose from, so many meanings beneath meanings.
Hermione chooses a field in the middle of Ireland. Not one of them has ever been there, but it looks nice enough from the brochure. She's the bride, after all, and if she wants to say her vows in the middle of nowhere in Ireland, well, that's her decision.
She leads everyone to believe that it's a whim of hers, nothing more than a passing fancy. Some part of her knows that that's not the truth. All of their meaningful places, every one of them, have their own private ghosts, their own discreet tragedies.
She wants to walk down the aisle in a new place, so new that it's never been tainted by the Great War, or any war for that matter. On the day that the blushing, redheaded man who would always be the same blushing redheaded boy she once knew kissed her at the altar, much went wrong. A great uncle of his was terribly allergic to the cake, the flowers were all but trampled by the younger Weasleys, and her hair was an absolute mess.
She couldn't possibly have been happier.
They go to Romania for their honeymoon. It's certainly not a tropical paradise or an obvious destination for newlyweds, but Hermione wants to, and Ron learned long ago that sometimes it was best to give Hermione what she wanted without asking questions.
He figures it's just Hermione being good old, practical Hermione, figuring she should become acquainted with everyone in his immediate family if she's going to be married to him and all. It's not.
It's not anywhere close to that, but Hermione lets him go on thinking that. She'll let him think whatever he wants, really, because for the second time in her life she's seeing a real life, honest-to-God fire breathing dragon.
She doesn't exactly count Norbert; dragons, to her, have always been gorgeous creatures to be feared and respected. He was more pitiful and adorable than anything. She remembers her first encounter, at the Triwizard tournament.
She can still recall gripping the stands underneath her in an iron grip as she watched each jewelled dragon and its opponent. For once in her life, she's not rooting for Harry. She's not rooting for anyone; she couldn't care less about the silly tournament. All she wants is to sit and breathe and devour the magnificent creatures before her.
Even that experience pales in comparison to her time in Romania. Charlie pulls some strings and arranges for a ride on a very small, sweet-tempered adolescent dragon the colour of a newborn piglet. It's barely large enough for Ron and her to sit on, and the ride is incredibly turbulent, but it is perhaps the most euphoric experience in her life.
There's an ancient joy in it, elation older, she thinks, than time itself. She could never describe how it felt like to confirm her deep-seated childhood belief, that dragons didn't need to be slain, or hurt. They could be tamed. They could be saved.
Her experience rivals Ron's. He's not much for travelling via temperamental monster, but he's never seen that look on his girl's face before. She was never one for flying, for the open skies. She was content to be a little red and gold speck for Harry and him to pick out in the stands. Yet, seeing her, all open eyed wonderment and barely concealed ecstasy, wind in her hair, he wonders if he hasn't fallen in love all over again.
She knows what she wants to do with her life. She's known since she was little; she just didn't know the proper wording.
Unfortunately, she finds that almost all of the positions within the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures are appointed by The Minister of Magic, or his cabinet ministers. The same could be said for a number of the other departments. Due to this, the positions usually went to friends of the Minister, or at least candidates he deemed "acceptable".
A lesser woman might have resigned herself to her fate, and taken up a more respectable profession, like healing. Lucky for Wizarding Britain's lesser citizens, Hermione was not a lesser woman. Her campaign for Minister of Magic is much better received than her school girl SPEW mission of years gone by. She is, in every sense of the word, an underdog.
The negatives once again tally up. The endorsement of the boy who lives helps, but she is not a pureblood. She is not a man. She is not wealthy. She is not experienced. She is, however, experienced in the business of making favourites out of underdogs. Her campaign is much the same as the slanderous ones against her. Isn't it time for Britain to experience a woman's touch? Wasn't it the Purebloods who destroyed the Ministry, as well as much of the lives of the magical folk of Britain? Wasn't it time for change? Time for a candidate who came from humble roots, who understood the plight of the common witch or wizard, who had been instrumental in bringing peace back to the land? It was, according to 72% of the voting public. They would not regret it.
Hermione's reign brings sweeping reforms. Her first acts involve bettering the lives of those born to muggles, as well as muggles themselves. She pores through every known law, finding every tiny instance of discrimination against muggle-borns. Some are horrendous, some miniscule.
Regardless, within a few months time, she has done everything in her power to alter these laws, to balance the scales. She then turns her attention to non-wizards. She focuses less on the house elves than her younger self would have; she knows they are content with their lot in life, though she does not understand it.
She introduces bills to combat discrimination against magical creatures, and appoints a committee to study and improve species-specific social conflicts. To her departments she appoints the most competent wizards and witches she can find, not the most popular. The state of the nation reflects this.
She adds a few personal touches to the education system that is of no interest to anyone other than her. One such tweak is to suggest literature for certain age groups. One of them is a personal favourite of hers, one of those overdone old princess/prince/dragon tales. Only in this one, everyone rides off into the sunset, dragon included.
Two and a half years into her term she becomes ill. It's not noticeable to others, so she pushes it aside, ever the dedicated career woman. It settles in her bones, and it's ever present, but it's bearable so she grins and bears it, as Hermione is wont to do.
Eventually she becomes accustomed to it, and it's at that juncture that she realizes she needs to, at the very least, go have herself looked at. It's the responsible thing to do, after all. The Healers at St. Mungo's poke and prod and run tests until she's sore all over. For her, the level of discomfort she experiences is usually proportionate to the accuracy of an examination, so she is satisfied that she has been thoroughly examined.
Her tests come back negative for every single magical ailment for which tests exist. If all the charts and graphs are to be believed, she's in perfect health. She knows that what she is, how she's feeling, is anything but healthy, so she goes to a muggle doctor. It's an easy diagnosis there, at least.
Cancer.