It's hours before things calm down enough for her to sneak away to the room of requirement.
There's the chaos of realizing Dumbledore's dead, the scramble of what it means for Hogwarts—for all of the wizarding world
Draco's at the fireplace in an oversized hoodie, clutching a crumpled piece of parchment in his fist.
The paper doesn't look old, exactly, but—the folds are worn.
(Like he's been unfolding and refolding it repeatedly for hours, desperately intaking the letter's contents over and over.)
She nearly falls in her haste to get to him, arms tight around his waist. "Thank god you're okay."
His grip on her own skin is even tighter—reassuring himself that she's here.
(That she's alive.)
"Everyone's alright?" he chokes out, face buried in her hair.
Hermione nods, letting him stroke her back as though comforting her when he's the one that needs the solace. "We're all still breathing. Bill and Lavender have some recovery ahead—magical wounds, and all that—but Madam Pomfrey was able to patch everyone else up just fine."
She hesitates before asking, but—best to get it out of the way. "Has—has he said anything about whether you—whether it's enough, or not?"
Flashing the letter in hand, Draco nods. "From my mother. He's displeased that I wasn't the one to dispatch Dumbledore, but—since I was successful in getting the Death Eaters in the castle, and Dumbledore is dead…he's decided he's feeling generous. Willing to overlook my failure, since I've proven my loyalty and diligence, if not my strength." He swallows heavily. "It feels like the worst kind of luck. The most terrible reprieve."
She gently drags her nails back and forth along his scalp. "None of this is your fault, Draco. I promise. You always so you believe in me more than anything, so believe me about this. Voldemort would've found a way somehow even if you weren't in the picture—at least this way you're doing more good than could've been done without your insight."
He's still, and she eventually coaxes him out of his robes and into sweats for pajamas, talks him into drinking some tea she'd slipped a sleeping draught into.
(Knowing he'd never be able to fall asleep, otherwise—never be able to get the image of Dumbledore falling from behind his eyes.)
(She'd had to do the same to Harry just an hour before.)
Once his eyes flutter shut, she sighs tiredly, stroking his cheekbone as he holds her tight even in sleep.
"We'll get through this, somehow." Thinking back to Lily's words to Sirius, she repeats them aloud, whispering to herself, "we haven't made it this far to only make it this far."
/
The last few weeks of term are pure chaos.
They thought they'd seen every side Hogwarts had in years past, after the Chamber was opened, after the tournament and a death on grounds, after Umbridge.
But this…this is like nothing else in the school's history.
Exams are cancelled, which—is obviously for the best, as no one has it in them to pretend to care about something as trivial as a fucking test when the war has been on their very campus.
(When their very lives are at stake.)
The downside is that there's no structure, no rhythm to the days beyond meals and attempts to process their feelings, aimless and hopeless as they stare into the abyss.
(If Dumbledore was the only one Voldemort ever feared…what does a world without him look like?)
(What chance do the Order's efforts stand, without their strongest champion in the front lines? Without the power and alliances he'd amassed over the decades behind them?)
The one good thing about it all—and the one Voldemort never could've predicted, with has lack of understanding where love and friendship and compassion are concerned, is the way house unity skyrockets like never before.
The four houses, commiserating and drawn together by their shared suffering, by the overpowering fear and sense of helplessness they're all suffocating in—they just congeal like nothing else, lines between red, green, blue, and yellow blurring.
(Because how can what quality a hat decided your eleven year old self valued matter when there's so much at stake?)
(How can it possibly divide them when they have a much graver enemy to fight?)
ASA is spending more time together than ever, both inside the Chamber and out; there's less need for the secrecy, with McGonagall as interim Headmistress, and everyone falling apart altogether.
Hermione spends most days reading, or playing drinking games with some of the older crowd to distract themselves—Hannah, Blaise, Neville, Pansy, Ginny, of course.
(Harry's not one for alcohol, much.)
It's funny, because any other year, this would be their dream, so many empty days they're allowed to fill with nothingness, with fucking around with their friends and just being teenagers, for once.
Instead, every free moment is a reminder of the peril ahead; the vacancy in the Headmaster's office that the minister gets to permanently fill.
(As they begin to hear whispers of corruption in the ministry, as every copy of the Prophet grows more and more clearly altered, pointedly in favor of Voldemort's pawns in positions of power.)
Remus makes his quarters a safe haven for any and all students—casts undetectable extension charms on the space whenever too many students show up, never turning anyone away. He keeps a running stock of hot chocolate, and tea, and sleeping draught and invigoration draught both (though Hermione and Pansy do the brewing for him, as his heightened senses make potions a painful experience).
He and Lavender sit for a delicate brunch, one morning, talking through the more delicate aspects of her newfound condition—the Gryffindor finds herself fascinated by all the information on werewolves she'd never had a clue about; the way she'd considered herself educated and open-minded, but carried so many of her own preconceived notions and negative stereotypes that had been internalized in childhood.
And Hermione can't help but notice the difference, between this end of year and all the others; it's not their first battle by far, but—it's the first one everyone else has been privy to. The first they haven't felt alone in.
(The first time they haven't felt isolated, after, experiencing grief and trauma as the rest of the school goes on their merry way—the first time they're able to process alongside all of their peers.)
It sucks that this one is hurting everyone, but—it's comforting, in a way they've never had before.
(Her heart leaps at the sight of this different part of Harry—the one who isn't in silent agony while everyone around him smiles, who's able to talk to all of his friends about what he's going through and what he's feeling, and see his own suffering reflected back.)
(Validated.)
She's always done her best to give him that; knows he'd argue she has, but—it's different, when you have an entire team in your corner.
Winky's cross with her, ticked that her mistress once again put her life on the line and managed to sustain serious injury without calling for help; she'd demanded Hermione call for everything she needs for the rest of term, has regularly apparated into the air before her to snatch burdens from her hands if she doesn't oblige.
It's—the best and worst time, somehow.
(The preemptive goodbyes they all say—the just in case goes unsaid, though they're all so, so careful to make the rounds, give extra long hugs, extra meaningful late night talks.)
(Who knows when they'll all be together again—)
(Who knows who will even survive till then.)
Hermione goes numb with the weight of it all—wants to cry, knows it would hurt her enough to if she just let it, but—there's just too much.
(She's always shut down emotionally when things get bad.)
So she forces frowns, squeezes shoulders tight, makes promises and reminds all of her friends, all of ASA how much they mean to her—tries to inspire them all to hope despite the circumstances that good will out.
It's odd, knowing your world is falling apart around you and yet not being able to feel the hit of it all, yet.
She has tea with McGonagall, the day before the train; neither of them makes any attempt to pretend the situation isn't dire.
Hermione doesn't mention that she won't be returning, but somehow her head of house knows, she thinks—happens to mention useful security spells, safe locations away from prying eyes.
(Her confidence in Hermione's abilities and strength. How much she cares for her.)
Hermione has to blink back the burning in her eyes at the affirmation from the woman she's looked up to for so many years.
She still has such a hard time with relationships with older woman, the betrayal by her mother burned into her brain and making her distrustful of anyone intended to protect her, so it's—scary, and daunting, how much her favorite teacher's approval means.
(All she can do is hope to live up to it—and hope McGonagall doesn't let her down, too.)
(But all humans err.)
It feels final—like the next time they're together, things will be different.
/
By the time they arrive at the day of the funeral, everything is—all kinds of complicated.
Hermione can't tell whether Harry or Draco is in more pain, both overcome with guilt and trepidation at the world left before them.
The train is leaving directly after the ceremony, so they all spend the morning packing; Ginny slinks into her room, sitting on Hermione's bed and folding laundry by hand under the guise of helping.
(Really, her friend knows she just can't bear to be alone right now—can't bear the weight the silence places on her chest, the downward spiral it allows her thoughts to tumble down.
(The opposite of Harry, who'd specifically asked for a bit of time to himself before they were to head down—needed it, to be able to process everything.)
Once all of her things are packed and sent to be loaded on to the train, she puts on the long sleeved velvet black dress robes Sirius had sent for the occasion, beaded bag over her shoulder the only pop of brightness on her person.
On her way down to the grounds, though, she has this feeling in her gut—just knows something is wrong.
(Knows Draco is drowning.)
So she asks Ginny to load her trunk, borrows the invisibility cloak, and finds him in the room of requirement, taking swigs from a bottle of firewhiskey as he stares at a portrait of Dumbledore.
Hermione leans up against the door watching him, for a moment; knowing he's aware she's there despite not reacting to her presence in the slightest.
"You're acting like me, turning to alcohol when your life goes to shit."
He doesn't react, which—scares her a little, if she's honest.
(Only the darkest of headspaces would keep him from even rolling his eyes.)
"He was a horrible person," Draco whispers, eyes locked on where his knuckles are white from gripping the bottle so tightly. "I'm the reason he's dead. Does that make me even worse than him? For letting things get that far—not doing anything to help save him before it was too late? He was the leader of the Order, despite everything else…what if we can't defeat Voldemort without him?
Hermione moves to his side, reaching to remove the glass from his grasp and take his hands in hers, tightly squeezing his fingers so he can feel her through the numbness of it all. "Hey, no. Listen, you did—everything, Draco. I have watched you do everything you possibly could, take every precaution in your power, for the last year. You did everything humanly possible to save him. He had the warning from McGonagall, he'd seen the aftermath of your previous attempts…he was well aware attempts were being made on his life."
Her soul mate shakes his head slightly, lip trembling. "I just don't understand. There were no preventative measures or protective enchantments, no security…he didn't even fight back." He whispers the last bit, voice so soft Hermione nearly thinks she imagined it.
"Which is odd, but—" she hesitates before confessing, "Honestly, it makes me wonder whether he didn't intend for this outcome. Whether he wasn't okay with his death. Strongest duelist alive—for him to not even attempt it? Especially someone as accomplished at wandless magic as Dumbledore was…it doesn't add up unless it was intentional."
Draco's brows draw together in thought. "A queen sacrificed that her knights might get to their opponent's king. So that the Dark Lord will think he's winning, when all the while…"
(Like Ron, allowing himself to be brutalized so she and Harry could go on during their first year chess match—the first time they'd ever gone head to head with the dark wizard in question.)
"It must be a possibility, don't you think? It's the only way it all makes sense—Dumbledore's actions, the Snape you know and the one in the Order also being the one to cast the curse…"
She sighs, sliding her fingers through his hair gently, feeling her chest relax as the set of his shoulders grows less tense. "And knowing you, I'm going to guess your guilt is exacerbated by the fact that a part of you is probably glad Dumbledore is dead, after everything he's allowed Harry to suffer, the danger he's put so many people in, the horrible way he's treated your house and the interhouse fighting and animosity he's contributed to while in a sacred position.
He doesn't respond verbally, but she takes his lack of refusal as admittance.
"And Draco, that's—that's okay. We can grieve what the world has lost and that a life is gone while also acknowledging that he was a shitty person who enabled countless atrocities that we might be better off without. Feeling that way doesn't make you any worse of a person than Harry or I, and you've spent too many hundreds of hours reassuring us over the years not to think so."
Draco hums his understanding, pressing his face into her shoulder. "Sorry."
"For what?"
He wets his lips as he searches for the right words. "I feel like…this has been so much of our relationship lately. Me falling apart, you having to comfort me. I—I don't want to be a drain on you."
"That is not what this is, Romeo." Her voice is soft, though her tone chides him. "You've been drowning lately, so it's my turn to comfort you. You've spent years doing the same for me, and I'm sure we'll both keep falling apart once we make it through all of this. Being here when you need me is not a drain; loving you will never be a burden."
Draco surges upward, catching her mouth with his—soft, at first, and then demanding.
She can't help the sigh that escapes her as she matches his pace, as she gladly tilts her head when his mouth moves to her neck, as she arches up toward him the moment her shirt is off.
Her nails graze along the muscles of his back, the ones she praises whoever invented Quidditch for every time she sees him bare, and he chuckles darkly as he leaves bruises all down her throat, her collarbone, her chest.
Hermione's already begun to beg and plead for him by the time he finally sinks home; there's nothing else in the world, and time seems to stop when they're together—wholly safe, and loved, feeling nothing but good as they lose themselves in each other, the only time they can truly forget the rest of the hell around them.
She's humming contentedly as he whispers in her ear, the words he's carefully crafted over the years, perfectly timed to make her come undone while she does everything in her power to urge him to do the same.
After, with a soft quilt pulled over the both of them, she burrows into his chest where she still lays overtop him, curling her limbs around him in a faint attempt to claim the warmth of his body as her own, a faint attempt to sear this one moment of peace into her memory.
(Hands trailing up and down her spine, holding her tight to him like it's his last day, Draco does the same.)
"I—you know this isn't—that I'm not…" Draco makes a face. "I know there have been rumors—since no one knows about us. You know that I'm not—just using you, this, to try to escape. You mean so much more to me than that."
"I know," she promises, pressing her lips to his jaw gently.
And of course she does—she's the other half of him. The one whose shape matches that of his soul.
(The one who's loved him since before he knew who he was.)
"And I think some day when we have the time and ability to see a mind healer, they'll say we've both absolutely turned to physical release when things have gone to shit. But we're not there yet. And you're the love of my life; if we us that to our advantage because it makes the dark days more bearable I don't see anything wrong with that."
Draco twirls a lock of her hair in his fingers, eyes closed even as he smiles. "Can't wait to marry you, baby."
Hermione laughs lightly at the earnest way he says it, the way he desperately pulls her closer, like he'd drag her to the Ministry right this moment if she'd allow it. "Have to survive the next year first."
She means it to come out teasingly, but somewhere along the way the words grow somber, and she finds herself swallowing thickly as she really considers what they're about to face.
(Alone.)
"Hey, I thought it was my day to be emo and pessimistic."
Rolling her eyes, she sighs, pulling the blanket higher over their shoulders.
"I keep thinking we're headed into the worst summer yet, and then the next tops it," she murmurs into his neck. "I'd be impressed by the universe for constantly one-upping itself if it weren't quite so horrid."
"Honestly, it'd be nice if it didn't feel the need to go to so much trouble." He sighs. "I do think by this time next year it'll be decided, though. Which is a terrifying thought, but—relieving, at the same time. We can't go on like this forever."
"Hope so." Hermione props herself up on her elbows, eyes searching him. "Promise me you'll fight—that even when things get dark, even if something happens to me, you won't give up.
"Mia, you are not going to—"
"I'm a mudblood and best friends with Harry fucking Potter, I very well might." She raises her chin defiantly, daring him to prove her wrong. "I can't go into this if I don't know you'll come out of it okay, no matter what."
"I'm just as likely to be offed as you," he mutters with a scowl.
"Draco."
He clenches his jaw, but nods, albeit reluctantly. "I promise."
She lets out a deep breath, shoulders relaxing as she lets herself lean into him for one last moment. "For what it's worth, I promise, too."
"Oh, I don't need your promise. Blaise and Pansy have strict instructions that if anything happens to me they're to stick to you like glue and keep you alive, or I'll haunt them forever."
"Of course they do." Rolling her eyes, she begins tugging her dress back on, helping him to his feet and reaching to hold his face between her hands. "I love you more than this whole world, you know."
He presses a kiss to her forehead. "That's how I know I'm the luckiest wizard in the world, despite it all."
Hermione gags, "Ugh, no, that's too mushy for me. Put the sweet nothings away."
Draco chuckles but acquiesces as he pulls his own robes on.
"Are you ready?"
For the funeral, but also for what comes after—the summer to come.
(And the war beyond.)
Hermione gives a bitter shrug. "As I'll ever be."
/
By the time she makes it down to the funeral, the rest of the audience is in place; Harry squeezes her hand gratefully, well aware she's only attending for his sake, while Ron levels her with raised eyebrows and a knowing look that shows he can guess exactly what kept her.
It's a beautiful ceremony—a sea of witches and wizards too numerous to count, merpeople poking their heads up from the lake, the centaur herd, countless other representatives from magical communities around the world, all there to commemorate Dumbledore's life.
Which—it's almost more frustrating, that it's such a beautiful ceremony. Such an outpouring of love and respect for the loss of a man whose actions have cost so many lives.
(How many have gone to unmarked graves on his watch? How many losses has he been a party to and deemed necessary for the greater good?)
(People never were individuals to him, after all—nothing but a means to an end.)
Harry's at war with himself the entire time, trying to reconcile his anger and guilt with the part of him that can't help but grieve the man who was the first to pull him from the hell that was the only home he'd ever known.
(A hell of Dumbledore's own design, and yet something deep in Harry's brain won't allow him to do away with a misplaced sense of affection and gratitude and debt.)
(It's—hard, navigating feelings towards people who've hurt you when it's all you've known for so long; when you thought they were a hero, once, even if you've long since been proven otherwise in the worst of ways.)
When the service ends, and everyone is milling about, quiet conversations filling the overwhelming silence as they all take turns levitating flowers onto the earth-covered tomb.
(The only headmaster to ever be lain to rest at Hogwarts—but which of his actions make him singularly worthy as such?)
(A man who incited division and allowed harm to befall students, while Flitwick, who had sacrificed his life in defense of a student, in defense of the school's safety, had been buried in a lone grave on the edge of an empty plot near Hogsmeade.)
(Where's the justice? Hermione wants to demand.)
Harry turns to Neville, Ginny, and Pansy, clearing his throat before speaking for the first time in hours. "The three of us won't be coming back next year."
Ginny cocks an unimpressed eyebrow with a snort. "Uh, yeah, we figured."
"Yes, thank you for that scintillating announcement, Lord Potter, but you are utterly predictable," Pansy adds. "We've known for a month."
"How does everyone always—er, never mind that." He scratches at the back of his head uncertainly. "I only bring it up, because—well, we'd be happy to have you, if you want to come with us."
Neville gives a small smile. "Thanks, mate. I know we'd all love to, but—if we did who would be left to protect the younger students who can't defend themselves yet? Who haven't found their place in all this?" He shakes his head, expression grim. "Now more than ever, this place will be the first battleground. Someone needs to be here to make sure there is always help at Hogwarts for those who ask for it."
"One thing the bastard said I ever agreed with," Hermione mutters, nodding with understanding.
Taking his hand, Pansy grimaces likewise. "I have to stay to. My defiance is being tolerated now, but if I were to leave altogether and join the Light movement with the golden trio…well, let's just say they'd find new targets to take their rage out on. Ones that would hurt much more than myself."
She meets Hermione's eyes, gaze meaningful, and the other girl understands—Darrow and his wife, she means.
"I bet you can do more good here anyway," Hermione says, reaching to squeeze her shoulder with understanding.
"Besides," Pansy clenches her jaw. "I want to spend every day reminding them of what they did to Luna.
Ron turns to his sister, eyes pleading. "Gin? Please?"
(He's so desperate because he knows it's futile.)
"You know I can't go when there are kids here who need me." She nudges his shoulder with hers. "You would do the same. And Professor Lupin needs allies on campus—students who can do the things he can't get away with."
Her brother makes a face, but—he understands.
(How could he not?)
"You lot had better take care of yourselves, at least," he grumbles, glaring at them each in turn. "If anything happens I'll learn necromancy just so I can throttle you myself."
"And use ASA," Hermione adds. "It's an invaluable network with impenetrable security—I'll set your galleon to be the master, instead of mine."
Neville balks. "Oh, I couldn't—"
"You're Gryffindor prefect—yes, you can," she insists, staring him down. "You are brave, and compassionate, and exactly the kind of leader Hogwarts needs when things are at their darkest. I wouldn't be leaving if I didn't know the people I care about are in the most capable possible hands."
Neville flushes scarlet, but Pansy intertwines her fingers with his, running the thumb of her other hand up and down his arm with quiet pride.
It's a brutal transition, from the somber mood of the funeral, mournful violins in the background, to the noisy bustle of the Hogwarts Express—though even that is subdued, the student body not quite sure how to proceed with business as usual when things are so clearly anything but.
There are too many eyes, and a spy they still haven't uncovered, so they don't risk sharing a warded compartment with Draco and Blaise; the three of them get their own, and even without any spellwork, everyone can see they mean to be left alone.
(They're given a wide berth, though they can see younger students whisper as they peek in their window when they pass by.)
Harry clears his throat eventually, laying across one seat and staring up at the ceiling. "It's odd—to feel like you're leaving home when it hasn't felt like a home in so long."
Ron's quiet, knowing he'll never quite understand, but Hermione nods her agreement. "I can't help but feel like we're losing something, even though I know it's been gone for so long. But we've always had—at least the illusion of peace and safety there. Strange to be leaving for good."
"We'll come back someday," Ron insists, ever the optimist to counter their cloudy skies. "Maybe not anytime soon, but—that's what home is, isn't it? The place you can always come back to? The place you'll always be welcome, the place where the people you love are? I think someday that will be true again."
"Maybe," Harry whispers. He sits up, pulling his cloak tighter around him. "I have no idea what comes next, but—I'm glad to have both of you with me. Thank you for being willing to—I mean, if you've changed your minds, or—"
"Shut up, Harry," they say in unison, Ron accompanying the comment with a seat cushion chucked at his best friend.
"I mean I had to at least offer you an out, didn't I?'
"Whatever you say," Hermione mutters with raised hands. "Regardless, we're not going anywhere."
(They're all staring out the window, lost in thought, when the castle disappears from view.)
Notes:
chapter title from the one by the chainsmokers
Hi friends! Sorry this took longer than planned—life has really been throwing some curveballs my way but I love you dearly and continue to be so very grateful for this community.
Next chapter: summer, order meetings, possibly bill/fleur's wedding if I can fit it all!
All my love.
Chapter 38: it's a normal thing to feel like this
Notes:
deathly hallows here we go!!! My god I can't believe we've made it this far.
Thank you for sticking with me through this story—I can't even begin to express how grateful I am. It's now been a year of writing it and I can't even fathom what it's become.
Thank you.
This story arc is the one I'm most excited for yet, and I'm just hoping to do it justice
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Aunt Andy picks them up at the train station, Sirius at the castle helping Remus finish packing everything he needs from his classroom for the summer (they'd offered to floo them home, but it seemed wrong to miss out on their last ride on the train).
And then they sleep—for nearly a week, she and Harry both lock themselves in his room and do nothing but sleep, and stare at the wall, and play muggle tv in the background that neither of them is actually paying attention to.
They're in and out of depression naps—which they've had before, but never accompanied by this level of sheer overworked physical exhaustion as the toll the year has taken finally hits.
Occasionally, Harry wakes to find Hermione snoring at his side; snuggles closer protectively, as though he can protect her from the horrors of the world, even though he knows better than to think he can protect anyone from anything.
As time passes, they begin to feel guilt at their listlessness, but they can't bring themselves to do anything else, too overcome with the sheer exhaustion and hopelessness there hadn't been time to process all year, on top of the decade of trauma they'll be forever attempting to work through.
/
Harry opens his clenched fist at the dinner table one night, dropping what he and Dumbledore had retrieved to the table with a clatter.
Remus frowns at the familiar locket. "But we already—" he sniffs, brows drawing together with confusion. "There's no dark magic residue. It's a fake?"
"Yes," Hermione confirms, teeth worrying at her bottom lip. "Harry says all the precautions were up, protective enchantments intact—everything pointed to it being the real deal until he opened it and found the note addressed to Voldemort, from a follower that had turned. We know from Kreacher how it happened, of course, but…"
Harry frowns nervously as he pushes the metal relic towards his father. "There's a note. He—well, you read it."
A heavy swallow, and Sirius accepts it, thumb gently stroking the signoff. "Such a prat," he mutters, though his voice is thick. "He always wrote initials instead of his name, since we were—since we were kids." A sniff as he blinks back complicated tears. "Thought it was pretentious for ages, but—then one day I realized it was his way of distancing himself from the Black name, as much as such a thing was possible for him. Separating himself from the blood supremacist legacy." He shakes his head, feeling his chest tighten. "And I still never realized till he was gone."
"He didn't want you to, Pads," Remus reminds him gently. "He hid it well because that was the goal. An inside man's worth lies in their ability to be convincing. You did nothing wrong, and your brother knew you loved him."
Sirius nods, rubbing at his eyes. "I want to keep the note—proudest I've ever been of him. But—the locket itself we should give to Kreacher, since we have to destroy the real one. He—he'd like to have something of Reg's, and it's what the fucker would've wanted."
Hermione's heart swells with pride, and Remus moves to summon the house elf in question as Sirius heads towards their chambers, to barricade himself long enough to process the emotions.
"So we still have no idea where to find the other two," Hermione murmurs pragmatically, brows knit with worry. "And knowing now that the locations have been so bizarrely different, attempting to find them will be difficult."
"We'll have to look into his family more too." Harry's finger traces along his scar unconsciously, a nervous habit he'd picked up years ago when it began to burn. "The ring and the locket have both been at non-magical sites connected to his past. Even with the memories, I feel like there's so much we don't know…"
"We'll figure it out," his sister reassures him gently. "Somehow." Her eyes glance at the door Sirius had gone through. "I hate this—I hate that he has so much control over us. Over our happiness. Regulus has been gone for so long, and it's still painful in new ways. It never fucking ends." She clenches her fists, even as she trembles with emotion. "I'm so tired of horrible men doing horrible things and the rest of us having to just…Harry, we have to stop him. I can't bear this life if men like him have all the power."
Harry reaches for her hand. "We will."
They return to their comatose state in his room, curled up on opposite sides of the bed and napping to keep from thinking about it all.
When she's awake, she catches herself staring down at the blank spot on her wrist where they'd once written x's on the bad days.
(it's too unsafe for even that, now—and even if it weren't, there'd be no use.)
(every day is a bad day when the Dark Lord is living in your house.)
/
When they pull it together enough to be conscious, they're still numb to the world—in their moments of functionality; it's all they can do to get war preparations handled as necessary.
They take a day—just the two of them, Remus, and Tonks, and go to Little Whinging.
Tonks takes no care in obliviating the Dursleys, not the slightest bit interested in arguing with them when she is saving their lives (reluctantly, she might add; she'd only agreed to it for Dudley's sake).
Instead, she stupefies them and levitates them into the car while Harry helps Dudley finish packing. Hermione assists Remus with getting them all lunch, and it's only once they've eaten and loaded up the car that they drive to the airport.
"You sure you'll be alright?" Harry asks, worrying at his lip with his teeth. "Maybe we could send a protective detail—"
"We've been over this, Harry," Remus reminds him gently. "Any connection to the wizarding world will make them easier for Voldemort to find and thus less safe."
His son grimaces. "I know. It just—feels like we're not doing enough to help."
Dudley reaches to clap him on the back, giving a tight smile. "You're doing—much more than we deserve. We'll be okay. Really." He makes a face. "The only thing is—I know we can't stay in contact, while all of this is going on, but—will you reach out to me, when all of this is over? So I can—see you again, and know you're alright?"
"Of course. And we'll bring you back, unless you want to stay there, and—I can take a train to see you, or something."
Both boys hesitate for a moment, and then Dudley lurches forward, throwing his arms around Harry for an awkward but tight hug.
(Their relationship, and Dudley's sense of security, gone for the forseeable future—just two more casualties in the war.)
(Hermione wonders to herself why all of their pain is still nothing but collateral damage to the rest of the world.)
/
Teddy's on Harry's lap, and Hermione can tell the toddler is the only thing keeping her brother from losing his cool at this shitshow of an Order meeting.
And she can't blame him—she's never been half as impulsive and even she wants to scream at the absurdity of the people around them.
"We still don't know what side Snape is on—"
"—if Dumbledore trusted him—"
"Fat lot of good that did him, isn't it? You want to be the next one the traitor turns his wand on?"
"Regardless," Kingsley enunciates, voice emanating through the room and quieting the others, "Of how we may feel about Severus, the fact of the matter is that we've received confirmation he's been appointed headmaster."
The room erupts in yelling even worse than before, everyone speaking over each other as they all attempt to process the revelation.
Kingsley raises a hand for them all to quiet down, biting back a weary sigh. "Whatever the case of his allegiance, either way he will certainly be presenting himself as a loyal Death Eater—his appointment is precisely the foothold of power over Hogwarts Voldemort has always been after. Traitor or spy, Snape will have to run the castle as though it is an extension of the dark side."
"There's more," Moody says gruffly, magical eye swiveling around the room, constantly looking for threats. "The political upheaval we're seeing in the ministry is worse than even during the first war. Scrimgeour has already has several attempts on his life, and even if they remain unsuccessful things are tumultuous enough I don't believe we'll make it through Christmas before he's deposed."
"They're gaining power," Percy agrees, expression grim. Tonks is tucked into his side, half listening and half snickering at the way her son has the boy who lived wrapped around his finger. "Umbridge has plans to unveil some sort of motion soon…I don't know the specifics, they still don't trust me as of late, but I know it has something to do with blood status and Dolores is far too gleeful about it for it to be anything but horrific."
(None of them trust him anymore because news of his and Tonks's elopement got out, of course—anyone married to such a famous half-blooded light side warrior needed careful scrutiny, naturally.)
"At any rate, Hogwarts won't be safe for Harry this year," Molly frets. "Hermione either, I'd wager."
Sirius nods in agreement. "Remus and I think so as well. We've already decided to keep them home, strengthen our protective enchantments."
They've done no such thing, and Harry and Hermione haven't mentioned the venture they're planning, but—
(somehow, Hermione thinks her best friend's fathers already know.)
(They've always had an impeccable knack for knowing exactly what they need before they process it themselves.)
"And her parents are okay with that?" Arthur checks, eyebrows narrowed worriedly. "You haven't mentioned them in ages."
Hermione stiffens, blood going icy. "It's a nonissue."
Meanwhile, Harry's father offers a vindictive grin. "I plead the fifth."
"That's American," Percy mutters with an eye roll, not at all surprised by the implication
"Sirius, you can't just—if we face an inquisition, or—"
"We won't," Remus reassures them all, his own expression equally unapologetic. "I helped."
Molly's cheeks begin to redden, but Andromeda waves away her worry. "Oh, calm down, love, it's not as though they murdered them. Unfortunately," she mutters, with an annoyed expression that makes it clear she'd suggested it at the time.
It only gets worse, as the summer goes on.
The ministry staff continue to shuffle—small things here and there, injuries and illness and administrative leave—
Many seemingly innocuous coincidences until most all of the known members of the Light have been ousted, and the regime changing is steadily whittling away any light side policies in place.
The paper's completely overrun by Voldemort's puppets, distorting the stories, making people start to question if what they've always thought is good is truly that; and Rita's pieces on Dumbledore, accompanied by snippets of the upcoming biography, only make matters worse.
(After all, if the greatest good there ever was was a monster all along—might Voldemort not be the villain, in the end?)
If allowing nonhumans and non-purebloods in the magical world has brought us to this point, this darkness and chaos and war—so many begin to believe the web of lies she weaves.
Hermione seethes, nails biting into her hands until they bleed, screaming into pillows until her throat is hoarse.
(It's convenient, isn't it, to tell ourselves the beast we must defeat needn't be fought after all?)
(To become the wronged party—to simply allow someone else to bear the burden, that we might be able to return to some semblance of normal life after they're out of the way?)
"Humanity will never learn from our predecessors' mistakes, will we?" she wonders in a whisper, tired eyes staring at the books weighing down her shelves.
Muggle and magical, they all tell the same stories, the same tired prejudices and injustices playing out over and over again because people simply can't help themselves, are too privileged and blind to see the atrocities they're committing because they're so desensitized to the kind of harm human beings can cause one another—
"It's exhausting," Luna's wispy voice comments from the doorway.
She's been spending much more time with Hermione, lately—the loneliness of months and months pretending to be dead, with no one but the Black-Tonks-Lupin family for company.
(It's eating away at her, the loneliness. The inability to contribute anything, to see anything in the world.)
Luna's reading to pass the time, of course, but she's also found plenty of new hobbies and interests to pass the time—is now able to do every variation of hair braid, spends hours learning to cook and bake with Ted every day, and above all has begun immersing herself in every aspect of muggle culture—books, shows, anything and everything.
(It's a whole other world out there, and learning about it all makes her feel less trapped.)
"We can't lose hope, though," Luna reminds her—as she does often, ever the voice of reason. "That's how they win."
"I know." Hermione tugs at her own hair from the roots, mind chaotic darkness. "But I—I can't breathe when I think about what we're up against. I'm so tired of having to argue about my own right to exist, when the opposition is trying to take away my civil rights because of the coincidence of my birth. I'm tired of having to fight to take up any space in this world. Not knowing if any of the people I love will survive till a year from now." She sucks in a breath, realizing what she's said. "Luna, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"
"It's okay," the blonde promises, eyes sad but not offended. "You're right. And losing my father makes it all the more clear what's at stake; I know better than most how easily we can lose the people most important to us right now. And the biggest person in my life is the one with the greatest target on his back of all."
Hermione swallows thickly, squeezing her friend's hand. "I'll protect him. Whatever it takes."
A small smile fills Luna's face. "Of course you will. It's only because you'll be there that I'm not on the verge of a breakdown about it, really—Sirius too, although I think he's mainly still in denial."
"You have to take care of yourself too," Hermione insists, eyes narrowed. "If something happens to you, or to Harry's dads, he'll lose his mind, and we all know he's useless at thinking rationally when he's worried about someone he cares about."
From across the house, they hear a crash and Harry beginning to call out an apology, Tonks's laughter audible in the background.
(Luna snorts but nods in agreement.)
/
Harry's entire body goes rigid at the sound of glass shattering.
It's a familiar sound from his childhood, the breaking and yelling.
He's tense, because usually the bruises and breaks are what come next.)
The old habits instinctively reemerge as he moves towards the noise—moving slowly, legs spread so the fabric won't rub and make a sound, steps close to the heavy furniture so the floor won't creak.
He can't help but hesitate outside the kitchen, when he's found the source of the commotion—
(as soon as he goes in, as soon as he sees the destruction and hurt with his own eyes, the perfect family he'd thought he found would crumble.)
(he'd always known better than to believe it, but—somewhere along the way he'd grown to love his dads enough to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.)
(he should've known better.)
Taking a deep breath, he carefully edges around the corner, the fabric of the invisibility cloak a familiar comfort against his skin as he feels his life falling to pieces.
Before he can even take in the scene, though, both parents swivel towards him, nostrils flaring.
(A werewolf and a dog animagus—he should've known better than to attempt to sneak up on them.)
Remus straightens up instantly, expression worried and eyes alert and the cortisol he can smell. "What's wrong, Harry?"
Harry can't bring himself to say it—can't tear his eyes away from the fragments of glass and ceramic strewn about the floor.
(Too terrified to look up and see the bruises and bleeding they must've caused one of his dads on the way down.)
Sirius follows his gaze, analyzes the tight set of his shoulders, the way he's biting the insides of his cheeks the way he once had to hold in the screams. "Oh, pup—no. That's not what this is."
He takes a step closer to his son, gently reaching out a hand—turning his face away in anguish when Harry instinctively flinches at the movement.
"Harry," his voice breaks, fingers trembling as he grips the fabric of his own shirt. "You're safe. I promise, I wasn't—it wasn't that. Your dad and I are just…"
"We were arguing," Remus says gently, moving to slide an arm around Sirius's waist—his husband leans on him like he hasn't in years, staggered as he is at the thought that he's sent Harry back into that mindset. "But not like what you're thinking at all, Harry. Sirius got a little…overexcited, shall we say—because he's worried I'm not taking my safety seriously."
From afar, he hears a muffled breath, and he sighs, using his free hand to brush back his hair. "You can come out, Hermione, Sofia."
The other two slink into the kitchen, looking equally as rattled as Harry; Sofia's hackles are raised, one arm tightly gripping Hermione's leg, like the older girl is her personal protector from the entire world.
She's at war with herself, clearly, wolf instincts compelling her to trust her alpha—
(But human instincts are just as strong, and it's ingrained in every woman from birth that only among her own can she truly be safe when the swinging starts.)
"Guess this was bound to happen eventually," Sirius mutters, rubbing at his eyes. "So many people with fucked up childhoods under one roof. It's a miracle we haven't triggered each other sooner."
They're all silent, and then Sof whispers, "Sickle in the swear jar."
(And Sirius thinks—perhaps there's hope.)
"Why don't we all sit down for tea, and I'll explain," Remus soothes, hand moving to rub Sirius's back without a second thought.
All three kids acquiesce soundlessly.
The room is still tense, but—the longer they go without anyone yelling or aiming for one another, the more all of their children appear to relax.
"As I was saying," Remus continues, voice gentle as he pours each of them a cup of tea, "Sirius and I were arguing. I intend to return to Hogwarts for the coming year, because I believe I'm needed there."
"And I believe he's not taking his safety seriously because he's a self-depracating dumbass," Sirius growls, before clearing his throat. "I wasn't—I was yelling, but only because I'm terrified he won't make it home if he goes. I started breaking things because—" he forces himself to take a deep breath. "I just—needed to feel like something was in my control. And—nothing I own means anything without him beside me."
"He was being dramatic, of course." Remus purses his lip, but his eyes are still fond, hand still tightly intertwined with his husband's own. "But he'd never hurt me. Or even raise his voice at me—his yelling was more directed at Voldemort, and the world, and the injustice of the first home we've ever known becoming perhaps the most dangerous for us to be."
Harry nods slowly, breathing beginning to deepen again. "I believe you. And I—I know, and I don't think that you would—it's just—"
"I know," Sirius promises in a whisper, eyes filled with such sorrowful understanding because—he does, merlin, does he know.
(The first time he walked in on Dorea biting Charlus's head off for letting James and Sirius do something they shouldn't, when he'd had a full blown panic attack, expecting the worst—)
(James had held him, and promised he was safe, and his parents had done the same—for years, proved it until Sirius believed it.)
(He does the same for his and Prongs's son, now.)
"You're safe," he swears to Harry, eyes wide and welling with unshed tears. "You are safe, and you are loved, and so long as you're with us you will never not be. I promise, pup, I will die before I ever allow you to go through anything like that ever again." He turns his gaze to the girls, just as earnestly. "You both, too. You're ours—pack. We won't let anyone hurt you again. Including ourselves."
He reaches for Harry's hand, desperately holding on when his son takes it; Remus places his own atop both of theirs.
(It hurts, and it's raw, and it's necessary, because that's the only way healing comes, isn't it?)
/
Draco is—all she can think about.
There is so much on her plate, and she's constantly doing research and packing and preparing for their hunt for the remaining horcruxes; she'd trying to devote herself to it, really and truly doing everything in her power to distract herself.
(And yet nothing can stop the constant undercurrent of worry, the fear of what he's going through at any given moment.)
(How many times has he been crucio'd? Is he even alive?)
(But he has to be—she'd know if he weren't, wouldn't she? What's the fucking point of their soulmate bond if not?)
He hasn't been able to send a single message the entire month they've been away, and she just knows he's going through hell.
(Knows it's only going to get worse from here—that as dark and twisty as her headspace is right now, this is the reprieve before her own journey amidst the darkness of it all.)
(That as much as it hurts to spend every moment wondering why she's alive, despairing at the state of the world, wishing her own existence would cease—things are about to get hard, unlike anything she, Harry, and Ron have ever faced before.)
Pansy, too, has been completely AWOL and unable to communicate, in the throes of it all.
(Hermione can't stop herself from imagining the worst, after what her friend had gone through the summer before—can't stop the violent illness she feels at wondering what is happening to her friend, trapped alongside her soul mate in the den of monsters.
At the beginning of July, she starts getting anxious, and nervous, and nauseous at the thought of it all; any time left to her own thoughts she becomes plagued with darkness or just sleeps and sleeps to pass the time, so she seeks out anything and everything to keep herself busy—anything that distracts her from imagining it all.
So she finds herself helping Fleur with wedding preparations, eventually being reluctantly wrestled into a bridesmaid dress alongside Ginny and Gabrielle, while Tonks laughs and provides commentary.
She spends hours with Bill and Charlie, discussing the ethics of cursebreaking and the horrible ways the law treats dragons, hearing both Weasleys' tales about the different wizarding communities around the world—the different ways wizards and muggles interact internationally.
(Countries they've lived and worked, where muggle and magic coexist side by side, no statue of secrecy—just peacefully living their own lives, without animosity and centuries of hate and harm.)
Sofia chases after her and Harry constantly, of course, desperate to spend as much time with them as she can before they leave.
(And maybe they shouldn't have told their seven year old sister that they'd be leaving when it's sensitive information that could jeopardize their lives, but—she's been abandoned before.)
(She needs to know that's not what this is—that they love her, unconditionally. That that's why they're doing this.)
(Some things are more important than duty.)
Perhaps the brightest spot in the otherwise rough days is the joke shop, where she finds herself far more often than she'd ever expected—but then the twins are two of her best friends in this world, and their storefront is one of the few truly unaffected spaces as the world around them turns to shit.
Half the time she doesn't involve herself in the bustle or conversation, just hides up on a balcony or in the back room where most of the inventing happens, altering formulas and jotting suggestions for the various projects they've halfway started.
Something about the chaos of it all is soothing, and the twins have always understood her in a way unlike anyone else.
/
It's obvious, as soon as Ginny tells her Cedric had mailed her an invite too—so clear what this luncheon is for.
And it's—the most relieving thing in the world, honestly, when she walks in to see the host himself, and Neville, and George, Ginny at her side. They all lock weary eyes, and just—collapse into their seats.
(A kind of exhaustion and fear and loneliness the others around them don't understand.)
None of them say it aloud, but Ginny curls into Neville's side on the couch, and Hermione finds a seat on the floor between Cedric and George, and they all sit and stare hopelessly at each other for a moment.
"It's all I can ever think about," George whispers, knuckles white as his fists clench hard enough to hurt. "I know Daph doesn't have it as bad as—but I just—" He sucks in a deep breath. "I'm try to put on an optimistic show, but I don't know how the hell we'll all get through this."
Cedric begins pouring out a bottle of firewhiskey, expression grim. "Me too. Theo is also not at the center of it all, but—this, the not knowing, it kills."
"I find myself," Hermione whispers, eyes far away, "Wishing for bruises and cuts to pop up on my skin, because even though they'd mean he's in pain, at least I would know he's alive. And I hate myself for it. But I can't help how desperately I hope for the confirmation."
And Neville has never been told who her soul mate is specifically, but—being on the outskirts has always made him perceptive.
(He knows, she's sure.)
His expression contorts with grief. "It's horrible, but—I understand. It's hard, knowing what they've been through before, what went on last summer—knowing it must be worse, now."
He turns to Hermione with a frown. "And for you, I can't imagine the toll the silence takes—having to pretend like it isn't killing you every day. Not being able to truly acknowledge your pain because none of them can know."
(She's never put it into words like that before, but—yes, that exactly.)
"It's excruciating," she confirms.
After a beat of silence, Ginny clears her throat. "I'm taking shots before I get emo—anyone else?"
"Please," Hermione and George both respond immediately, hands shaky as they reach to accept the glasses.
(They need it, now more than ever—the dull senses that make the pain just the slightest bit more bearable, make the anxiety just barely keep from eating them alive.)
They talk about other things, too, and play a drinking game, and just—anything and everything.
(It's nice, being with people who understand this complicated burden she bears.)
"It fucks with my head," Ginny says to Hermione and Neville, when they're several drinks deep, and they're all lounging across the living room, while she lays on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. "Because I know him. Not Blaise, but—Voldemort. I—I know him better than I've ever known anyone."
She swallows heavily, fists clenched. "He spent a year inside my head—I know what he thinks about everything, how his mind works, how he makes plans, how he sees the world. And I feel so—exposed, and used, knowing that I was nothing but an afterthought. That he's the first person outside my family that ever really knew me, that I was so willing to open up and it was all a means to an end for him. That even now the person ruining Blaise's life—all of their lives—is the same one who fucked me up and tried to kill me when I was eleven. Imagining Voldemort, the horrible villain from all the stories, as the same person as T-Tom, the boy who invaded my mind and took over my body, whose name still makes me cringe…"
A shudder runs through her at the thought. "I want him gone. I know we all do, but—on a personal level, I want him fucking gone."
(It's been five years, but the wound still feels fresh—the violation, the rawness of it all, is something Hermione understands so deeply it makes her nauseous.)
"We have a plan," Hermione promises, and all of their eyes lock on her. "I can't give details. But we have a plan, and we know how to stop him. I promise. I don't know how long it will take, but we're going to get rid of the bastard."
(Or die trying goes unspoken.)