Hermione probably should've expected it, but the days have all been so repetitive and blurred together she hasn't noticed them passing. Hadn't noticed they'd been on the run for a full month, now.
(She didn't realize it was already September 1st.)
So she's woefully unprepared when writing begins appearing along her arm—panics, immediately ceases breathing, fearing that something's gone wrong, until she reads, Made it onto the train—are you okay? What's been happening? Tell me everything.
Her heartrate slows as she registers his message. The date. Time passing.
(Nearly four months since she's seen him last.)
We're all fine, she reassures; grateful, just this once, that they'll have no way but this to communicate till the war ends.
(If he heard her voice, or saw her face—he'd know she's keeping something from him in thirty seconds flat.)
(There is nothing so important as keeping him in the dark, now; nothing in the world matters beyond keeping their child safe.)
You know you have to give me more than that, I've been worried sick! Are you eating, and sleeping, and taking care of yourself?
A moment later, he adds, I don't know why I ask when I already know the answer is no.
Laughter slips through Hermione's lips unintentionally, warmth blooming in her chest at her soul mate's fond exasperation; the familiarity and comfort of it, even when things are the godforsaken mess they feel at the moment.
Of course you haven't spoken to me in months and you start with the roasting—hoow very typical of you, Romeo. She smiles, knowing he's rolling his eyes at her, before continuing. I've been doing better, I promise. Ron's mother hen side is full force with nowhere else to direct his energies. And we're all doing alright, just—not having much luck with our mission. Getting a bit frustrated, of course, because sometimes it feels hopeless, but nobody's pointed a wand at us in a month so at least there's that.
Sounds like a win to me, Draco writes back. Should've gotten Weasley and Pansy linked chess sets so they could play each other while you were away—merlin knows they could both use the distraction. She's doing okay, by the way, since I know that's your next question; it was a rough summer but she's alive and alright, now.
Her heart hurts at the mention of her friend; the missing her, having no clue when they'll be able to speak next…
(It's nothing new, of course, but it sucks nonetheless.)
Have you seen Ginny yet? She asks, seeking the confirmation both for herself and to ease the worries that nearly consume Ron whenever he thinks the others don't notice.
(Whenever they're not looking and his expression grows desolate, the guilt clearly eating away at him for not being there for his family during this of all times.)
They all miss the Weasleys, of course, but for Ron who's always had so much security—the sudden split is especially brutal.
Naturally—she and Blaise disappeared the moment they'd dropped their things in here, so god knows what compartment they're desecrating at the moment. She looked well, briefly as I saw her.
Good for them, honestly—someone should be getting laid right now.
They're talking incessantly for over an hour, just catching up on everything they havent' been able to tell each other over the summer.
(Everything except the biggest of them all, of course, which he can't know; even in just this conversation, it's killing her.)
Harry and Ron ask her to pass along their hellos, when they come back inside; and once Ginny returns to Draco's compartment on the train she commandeers the back of Draco's dominant hand to begin sending messages back and forth with Ron, who does the same on Hermione's end, earning a bemused look.
It doesn't bother her, though—she's happy to be the medium for their conversation, glad to do anything she possibly can to bring the family around her closer to each other when everyone is worlds apart. Glad to see relief—and a smile—on Ron's face for the first time in what feels like forever, as his sister fills him in, as they razz each other like insults aren't their way of saying thank merlin you're alright.
Eventually, once she has her hand back and is again having a rapid fair exchange of updates with her boyfriend, they get around to current events and the state of Britain—and Draco's deluge of information brings her to a halt.
(How? How could things have possibly gotten so bad so fast?)
(She knew the darkness was descending, as it has been for most of their lives, but to have so rapidly veered towards genocide—)
Harry notices her go white with horror first; is instinctively pushing water at her, hands braced like he'll catch her if that's what she needs. "What's wrong, Mia?"
"She did it," she says faintly, trembling with the rage and terror consuming her. "She actually did it—it's like 1940s Germany. My god. How is it possible—and if things are already this bad, what…but then of course, we—"
" 'Mione," Ron says, voice kind but firm. "Focus. Tell us what you're talking about so we know how to help. She who?"
She forces herself to take a deep breath, growing steady enough to explain. "Umbridge. And You-know-who, I suppose, we all know he's behind it as well, but—" she blows out a breath of fury, shaking her head. "They've established a muggle born registry; it's already in place. No muggle born students even felt safe going to Hogwarts, naturally, but beyond that it's—they've started putting us on trial for stealing magic."
Her eyes start spilling over, because when she gets this angry it needs a way out—has to exit her or else she'll explode. "They're locking us up just for existing," she whispers, livid. "This is how it starts. They dehumanize us so that when they kill us no one sees it as an atrocity, because we're not even people, in their eyes. They separate us so that everyone sees us as other and there's no one left to bother fighting on our behalf once we're locked up."
And Harry and Ron are horrified, of course; disgusted at the way people are treated as less than human for something so simple and out of their control as their identity.
They have chills at the thought—at the implications, the potential the situation has for devolving into an even greater atrocity. It's already the stuff of nightmares.
(But there's something especially awful about watching this person they love and respect more than anyone else use the word us—the knowing, that she would be among them if they weren't here. That it's people just like her currently being demonized and treated as subhuman.)
(Accused of not being truly magical, as though she's not the most brilliant and proficient and clearly deserving of magic of everyone they've ever met.)
"They're keeping the registry in the ministry, and they're holding the trials down where you had your misuse of magic trial, Harry. It's—Draco heard rumors it's worse now, though. They're keeping them in horrible conditions and surrounded by dementors to keep them downtrodden, hopeless and desolate that they'll just confess to make it end, and the punishments when they do... It's—god, it's fucking barbaric."
Ron intuitively moves to rub her back as she leans into Harry's shoulder, both of them cocooning her in warmth and love.
(It's not enough, though.)
And she still hasn't told them about the baby, which she has no excuse for, no rationale except her own fear and desire for control.
(Her own need to have the whole plan figured out before she even begins to share the circumstances with the people around her, despite knowing she'll feel better once she's told them—once she's told Harry, her best friend in the world.)
(Keeping it from them is hard—god, she wishes they knew; every moment of working so hard to hide it feels like a lie.)
And she wants to tell them, she does, but they're already incredibly protective.
(When they find out they have a niece or nephew on board, too, they won't let her out of their sight.)
It's—there's something wonderful and horrible about being alone in this; it's just her and the little nugget she carries against the world.
(Beautiful and isolating.)
She's lost in thought when Harry says something; jerks her attention back to him with a questioning expression. "Sorry, come again?"
"We'll sneak into the ministry and stop it, then," Harry repeats, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
Ron makes a face but doesn't look at all surprised, or opposed. "Just when I thought we'd have a relaxing year, for once. Should've known."
"We have to," Harry insists, eyes narrowed in concentration now. "We can't just—stand by and let this happen. We have to—to do something about it, let people know they're not alone. Let them know the resistance is out there—that we're still fighting, and he hasn't won yet."
Hermione chews on the inside of her cheek, for a moment, pondering. "Let's do it. I want to, and more than that, it's a good idea," she decides at last.
"Then we will," Ron assures her, expression determined. "There's nothing more important, right now. We can start planning, be done with it before the holidays so we can get back to the horcrux hunting I know we're all so fond of."
She and Harry both make faces at his sarcasm, but she crosses her arms at the both of them. "But you know what this means."
Harry scrunches his nose, like he knew this was coming, and Ron lets out a groan, mock-falling onto the couch.
"Research," they both bemoan in tandem.
/
Slowly, a majority of their time is consumed by their newfound attempts to find out everything they can about the Ministry, including but not limited to taking shifts spying on employees on every level—just hours and hours of largely useless and repetitive surveillance.
Hermione also spends hours upon hours paying attention as Draco rattles off every snippet of information he's ever learned about the building, its security, its personnel—it's almost scary, how much he's picked up over the years.
They floo to and from their campsite every day; more than once they debate the risk of Grimmauld Place, but they're still not sure if Snape has compromised it—and beyond that, even if he hasn't, Harry's fathers most certainly have security enchantments in place that would notify them of any entry.
(And they're not willing to risk that, not yet.)
The whole endeavor is a large deviation from their actual task, of course, but a welcome one after the month and a half of fruitless efforts where horcrux hunting were concerned.
(Such a relief, to finally be doing something that feels useful—something that makes them feel like they're making progress.)
All of their moods improve with the renewed sense of purpose; not to mention the vigor they all feel at actually leaving the tent, every day, and again being among society, even if beneath the invisibility cloak.
(They see Arthur head into work, once, when it's just Hermione and Ron; the elder Weasley taking the outdoor entrance for reasons unknown to them.)
It's painful, not being able to call out to him, but necessary—
(Everything they do now is necessary, Hermione reminds herself; can see Ron mentally reiterating, as he digs his heels in to keep from throwing himself at his father.)
In between shifts at the ministry and otherwise occupied by research to prepare for their jailbreak, they all find it much easier to relax back at the campsite.
Hermione finds herself again and again turning to Beedle the Bard, both in an attempt to understand Dumbledore's purpose and for the sense of comfort and reminder of Draco it brings with it.
Harry finds her curled up in an armchair like that—tugs another next to her, close enough to read over her shoulder even though he knows it drives her crazy and he reads at about half her pace, but she loves him enough not to hex him the way she'd like to.
He makes a noise when she turns to the tale of the three brothers, and she swivels her hair to raise an eyebrow at him.
"It's nothing," he murmurs, waving it away.
Having known him for seven years it takes, a tenth of a second for Hermione to know this is a lie, so she just maintains eye contact, knowing from experience that an expectant gaze will make him crack eventually.
Sure enough, within moments he scowls at her pointing to the chapter heading. "Just—that symbol, the triangle thing. I've seen it before, but I can't quite remember where. It just—stuck out to me, is all."
"Hmm." Hermione focuses her own attention on the odd shape. "It could be a rune, but—not one I've ever seen. I can look into it, if you'd like? See if it's in any of the books I have on hand?"
"You have multiple books on runes specifically on hand for out—you know, I'm not even going to ask. That would be great, thanks."
"Smart boy," his sister praises with a grin, before turning back to the story.
Even as she pretends to return to reading, she watches him; uses the moment of his distraction to observe him without his knowing, for once.
They're worried about the ministry, and the break in, and of course the baby is constantly at the forefront of her mind, so she has more than enough to be stressed already—
But she can't seem to stop thinking about her brother's life—about whether there's a way for him to survive Voldemort's defeat.
(If there truly is a piece of the dark lord's soul attached to his own, if he truly is a horcrux—)
(Well, she saw what was left of the diadem and diary after the bits of soul were destroyed.)
And part of her wants to insist this will be different—that there's a difference between intentionally infusing an object with yourself, rather than a spare bit latching on to keep from being obliterated.
(But no matter where she looks, how much thinking or theorizing or research she does, there's no evidence—there are no answers.)
She can't deal with the uncertainty; can't bear contemplating a future in which Harry isn't at her side.
(She'll burn down heaven itself to save him, if that's what it takes.)
/
Hermione wakes up feeling just as tired as she had when she fell asleep; but she's not nauseous, which brings her to three full days keeping meals down, so she's still counting it as a win.
Ron's out, likely out for a run, or something, as he's taken to doing once a day or so under the invisibility cloak, needing the space and sunshine to keep him from spiraling downward.
Meanwhile, she can hear Harry's voice chattering away—using the mirrors, she's sure, to communicate with his dad or Luna.
He looks up as she walks out, smiling at her the way he always does when she walks into the room—like she deserves that kind of love, like her presence makes things better.
(It's a kind of love and adoration she can never live up to—but god, does it make her want to try.)
(Her brother's smile makes the whole world brighter.)
"Morning, Mia. Breakfast?"
She nods tiredly, murmuring her thanks as she pads across the room, fluffy socks quietly sliding along the floor as she moves to sit down beside him.
It's pretty chilly inside the tent, even despite the warming charms they've been casting regularly, so her oversized sweater serves both to keep her warm and to hide where she's started to show.
(It's getting harder to keep it from them, physically; and unobservant as they are, they're going to notice, eventually. She has to find a way to tell them, but—)
(Not yet.)
Leaning up against her brother's shoulder, she moves to wave hi to Andy on the other end of the mirror before turning her attention to the toast in front of her.
"You still feeling better?" Harry asks worriedly, and she can feel him cataloguing the bags beneath her eyes, the sharpening of her cheek bones.
(They've all lost weight, hurting as they have been for adequate food, but it's hitting her especially hard.)
(And Harry might be the worst at romantic entanglements and understanding certain things that happen around him, but he's unquestionably good at noticing when someone's not alright—when someone's forcing a smile.)
Hermione nods and reassures him, catching a pensive look from his aunt.
She sits in on their conversation quietly, humming her amusement when Andy relays something Tonks had done the week before, as she slowly works her way through the breakfast and cup of tea.
They talk about Teddy, who's doing well, and Sofia, who's put out with them for leaving, and Sirius, who has thus far kept from getting himself into trouble in their absence, not that any of them believe it's a streak that will last much longer.
After ten minutes or so, Andy clears her throat. "Harry, could you give me a moment alone with Hermione? I need to speak with her about something."
Harry's unbothered by the request, says goodbye and hands it over easily before heading outside to practice his wandwork and give them some space.
In contrast, Hermione is filled with trepidation, automatically tensing at being singled out.
(Immediately assumes the worst, of course, because life has shown her it's the most likely to be true.)
She's close to Andy, of course, but what could Harry's aunt possibly not want him to overhear?
The older woman lets out a world weary sigh as she meets Hermione's gaze. "How are you, dear?"
"I—" Hermione laughs, briefly, at the absurdity of it all. "I mean, I've been better. But we're all safe, and okay, and I can finally speak to Draco again, which makes everything better, really." She cocks her head questioningly, too antsy to continue with pleasantries and avoiding the subject, whatever it is. "What did you need to speak to me about?"
Andy purses her lips. "Pansy floo'd me a package for you, through the Room of Requirement fireplace. Narcissa stuck it in her school trunk, disguised, with strict orders that Draco was not to know, and for her to get it to me with the utmost secrecy."
The hairs all across Hermione's body stand on end with a sense of foreboding—a knowing even she doesn't understand. "What—why would she—what is it?"
"In a code the two of us have used for years, she wrote a note," Andy continues softly. "With a spell she created almost two decades ago. She wants you to have it. And the package itself…"
She holds up a book so it's visible through the mirror, and Hermione's heart stops.
(Astronomy Atlas, the title reads, A complete undertaking of all known constellations.)
"Oh," Hermione gasps, a hand going to her bump instinctively.
(All children in the Black family have constellation names, of course.)
(She's been thinking of the stars nonstop, lately.)
The gift means that some way, somehow, Narcissa knows—and made the effort to get information to her through Pansy; so she knows, too, that Draco can't be told.
(Wants Hermione to know she's not alone, maybe.)
"Hermione?" Andy says softly, and the question is there in her eyes, one woman to another.
(The significance of the moment hangs in the air between them, tinder ready to spark.)
Hermione gives a nod of confirmation, the corner of her lip turning upward in a nervous, terrified smile. "Yes," she whispers softly—so, so softly.
"You're—"
"I'll be needing the book soon," she interrupts, gently explaining, "I haven't told the boys, yet. Haven't quite worked out how, with the timing and everything. It's all so—complicated." Her voice breaks on the last word, the cacophony overwhelming her.
"Oh, sweet girl," Andy soothes. "I can't imagine what you must be feeling. I'm thrilled for you of course, but it's okay if your feelings about the whole thing are nuanced."
Hermione opens and closes her mouth. "I—yes. It's been—a wonderful and horribly stressful time."
They only speak for a minute more, but it's—everything, having someone know, someone who loves her, someone she can turn to.
(And knowing that Narcissa, too, is somehow aware—that her first actions were a protective spell and a baby name book feels like an outpouring of love.)
She's only ever had the one conversation with the older woman—doesn't know her well enough to read her.
(And yet somehow she knows it's her future mother in law's blessing, a reminder that she's not alone. They're not alone.)
It helps.
"It's not going to be easy, this," she whispers, thumb tracing up and down over the hardness where her little one has only just begun. "But you are already so, so loved,"
(She doesn't know it, but they're the same words another muggleborn witching fighting in a war for her very being spoke to her baby, timing the worst possible but precious nonetheless.)
Later that night, she stares up at the stars while the boys sleep, murmuring stories of the different myths each constellation is named after to the baby in lieu of reading.
(As always, her eyes catch on Draco.)
/
Harry's aimless, their efforts lately feeling entirely useless.
That's not true, strictly speaking, but he feels especially lacking in contribution as they continue their preparations for the ministry escapade; as Ron provides a lifetime of knowledge about both magical Britain and the ministry itself and Hermione makes backup plan after backup plan and potion after potion to prepare.
He's on watch late one night, absent mindedly doodling on his arm and thinking nothing of it; he and Luna have more than once left a sleeve of notes and sketches for the other to wake up to.
But a moment later her familiar writing asks, Harry why are you drawing the deathly hallows symbol on yourself at three o'clock in the morning?
Immediately on the defensive, he replies, why are you awake at three o'clock in the morning?
And a moment later, what do you mean, the deathly hallows symbol?
His girlfriend pauses for a beat before responding—something she almost never does.
(It's this tell that makes the back of his neck prickle; this means something, if it's taking Luna of all people aback to put into words.)
The story of the three brothers from Beedle the Bard—it explains the three deathly hallows. Any man who possesses all three becomes the master of death.
She draws a triangle higher on their arm. The cloak of invisibility. A line next to it. The unbeatable wand—they call it the Elder Wand. And beside that, a small circle. The resurrection stone; allows you to see those you love that have died.
But that's just a kid's story, isn't it?
Everything's just a story till you see it with your own eyes. He hears the sentence in her voice—not trying to wax poetic, but always saying the most profound things offhandedly. Most people assume it's just a legend. But my father always thought there were too many seeds of truth in it to be made up—there have been rumors of an unbeatable wand, the "death stick" if you will, for centuries. And the cloak…well, not to be dramatic, but Harry your cloak is unlike any other.
What do you mean?
There are plenty of other invisibility cloaks out there, but the charms fade with time—I know Hermione's tried to explain that to you before, that the spellwork can wear off. But yours—your father had it before you, obviously from childhood or he never would've been able to make the Marauders' Map, and still it's impeccable. The quality and condition are untarnished even now; that's…impossible to explain within the realm of the normal laws of magic.
Harry frowns, because—the more she explains, the less sense it all makes.
A memory surfaces—the ghost of Helena Ravenclaw, just a few months prior.
(Intended to hide the wearer from Death, she'd said—enough so to conceal from those already dead as well.
(His cloak—truly one of the deathly hallows.)
So we're pretty sure both the wand and the cloak are real. Which means odds are the stone is too—but how would something like that stay hidden, all this time?
And why is the symbol so familiar—why can he not get the shape out of his head? Why is he so certain he's seen it before?
I mean in theory it could've been destroyed, but I find that highly unlikely; given that all three objects are intended to evade death they must be nearly indestructible. It's more likely that it was lost in rubble or discarded as a trinket, or a particular wizarding family got ahold of it and has kept it themselves and passed it down, like the Potters have with your cloak.
Makes sense.
It stays on his mind throughout the day, this triangular emblem he can't stop wondering about.
And the stone; he has confirmation from Helena that the cloak is indeed real, and there are enough rumors about the wand to believe it, but where could the stone possibly be?
(How could something so precious be lost?)
Perhaps passed down through another family, Luna had postulated; but even then why wouldn't there be rumors, or records?
Unless…unless even they didn't realize what they possessed. Thought it just an heirloom.
He dozes off, lost in thought, and his dreams are a kaleidoscope of chaotic memory.
First hes at an ASA meeting, and everything seems normal until the members all scream and disappear from the chamber of secrets, and he's riding the basilisk, and then he's at the zoo with his aunt and uncle, talking to the boa in the exhibit, until the glass melts and he's Nagini, slithering towards Arthur at the ministry.
And then the scene shifts again, following his serpentine memories to a snake nailed to a door in the shape of an S, and Morfin Gaunt hissing in parsletongue at the ministry official; Merope is there, looking entirely innocent and beaten down, not at all as though she'll give birth to the greatest darkness wizarding Britain has ever seen.
Marvolo is there too, screaming and spitting in his face, yanking the locket around Merope's neck and shoving his fist in Harry's face to force his gaze onto the ring snug on his finger—
And at last Harry jerks awake, gasping.
"Oh, god."
He's out of his seat instantly, delving into his trunk for the bundle of socks, the image of the ring in his dream burned into his brain.
He fumbles with the socks when he finally gets them out, having to bend over to scoop them back up when they fall to the floor.
It's there, though, exactly as he'd recalled during the dream; split down the middle, due to whatever Dumbledore had used to destroy the horcrux within.
(But right on the surface of the stone inlaid on the ring, it's there—the deathly hallows symbol.
"There's no way," he whispers to himself with wide eyes. "What are the odds?"
He's tempted—fuck, is he tempted to test it out right now.
(The chance to speak to his parents, for the first time; to tell the thank you. Beg their advice.)
But he doesn't know the story well enough to know how it works, regardless; and beyond that, wouldn't want to use it for the first time without asking Hermione and Ron's thoughts first.
(They always seem to know more than him about these things.)
So he waits—anxious and impatient, sits on the couch staring at the ring.
They enter the tent not too long after, mid laughter and shivering from the fall chill they still haven't adjusted to.
They both immediately notice Harry's position, Hermione's eyes narrowing shrewdly. "What's wrong?"
"You're going to think I'm crazy."
Ron snorts. "We already do, mate. Just tell us."
"So…Luna and I are pretty sure the Deathly Hallows are real, and I have two of them." He blurts it out impulsively, feeling his entire face flush as they both stare at him in disbelief. "I know how it sounds, but we've thought about this, seriously."
The words spill out of him as he attempts to explain—the familiar symbol, Luna's own theories and thoughts on the matter, the evidence before them.
Slowly, they begin adding their own thoughts to the conversation, trying to find holes in the theory, but—
(It makes too much sense not to be true.)
"Merlin," Ron mutters, staring wide eyed at the ring in Harry's hand. "You really have two of the three Deathly Hallows. Bloody hell."
"Er…yeah, I'm still trying to comprehend that part, myself." He turns to Hermione with an earnest smile. "But this is a solution, see? I know you've been worrying about the whole me-being-a-horcrux thing since we figured it out last year, even though you're trying not to let on in front of me, but I'll just find the Elder Wand and become the master of death, problem solved."
His sister's glare is enough to make him cower. "Harry James, we are not relying on that plan. Are you kidding? I'll fucking kill you if you try."
"Okay, okay, fine, but it's a good backup plan."
"Honestly, it's off the wall enough it just might work," Ron comments, earning a smile from Harry and Hermione's wand pointed at him. "Easy, woman, I'm just saying! He has a point, is all."
Sighing, Hermione tucks her wand away again, hands rubbing at her temples with exhaustion. "So, an unbeatable wand to find, a ministry to break into, two more horcruxes to destroy, and a dark lord to defeat. What could possibly go wrong?"
Notes:
chapter title from eyes open by taylor swift
I am full of such elated relief right now I don't even have words. thank god. I feel like I can breathe for the first time in four years.
Stay safe and take care of yourselves. next chapter coming soon.
all my love
Chapter 42: wake up a different person
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
His soulmate is hundreds of miles away, and yet—Draco knows something is off.
It's a relief, being at Hogwarts and finally able to communicate again; finally able to speak, rather than taking turns bruising themselves to communicate that they're still alive.
And as horrific as Hogwarts is, at the moment, anything is a step up from what he experienced over the summer.
Even as the Carrows crack down—as they're asked to perform illegal curses on younger students.
Even as the light and fight are beaten out of them by every method in the book.
It never truly works, of course, not with ASA still going strong. They're more careful than ever, and meet much less frequently, just in case—but it's there, a reprieve from the hell an openly Death Eater headmaster has allowed the school to become.
Only Aaliyah can open the chamber, with Harry gone, but she's currently teaching Neville to say open in parsletongue—he insists, in case there ever comes a time she doesn't want to take the risk.
And it's wonderful, all of them having a safe haven together, but—it's hard, too, the days when someone in the room's lost a family member.
(When it's another person in the room's own family that's done the killing.)
But they don't take it out on each other, even on the bad days. They just try to find some semblance of peace, maintain the unity and love that have made everything thus far bearable.
The true saving grace of it all is that Draco and Pansy have been made Head Boy and Girl—which, definitely biased, Snape not even attempting to hide the favoritism, not even trying to pretend Voldemort doesn't rule Hogwarts, now—
But in any case, it's their reality—and right now, that means they get private quarters of their own, where they, Blaise, Neville, and Ginny have taken to hiding out. A place where they can unequivocally be themselves, and never worry about being found.
A place where they can be honest about what they're feeling, plan for how to handle the madness Hogwarts has become, where eleven year olds are forced to perform illegal torture curses and students are permanently damaged by the degree of severity they're experiencing.
(It figures, that this solace would come to them when three of their number aren't with them to share it with.)
Draco is doing rounds with Neville, one night; he'd had to pretend it was an insult in their prefects' meeting, but is of course delighted, having the best night of patrols he's had in weeks as they chat about anything and everything in the world around them.
"I'm a little worried," Neville says quietly, as the round a corner in the fifth floor corridor. "About Gin."
(Understanding instantly floods through Draco.)
Ginny's been quiet—not just less talkative, or oddly pensive, but an entirely uncharacteristic silence.
He wouldn't blame her, or anyone, for trying to keep their head down with everything currently occurring in the castle, but her shift was overnight; brazen and defiant, even in the face of detentions and crucios, and then suddenly anything but.
She's still fighting for their cause, still working to undermine the Carrows and Snape with every waking breath, but without a word escaping her.
"Me too," Draco admits. "There's something she's keeping from us—even Blaise doesn't know what it is."
Neville rubs at his jaw, concern etched in his stance. "I just—I feel like she's not telling because it's something that's going to get her into serious trouble; whatever she's planning, it's a bad idea, and she doesn't want anyone to know until it's too late to stop her."
(Which it would be entirely like her to do—she's as brash as any Gryffindor has been, but a lifetime of being close knit with the twins has made her crafty—has taught her how to get away with plotting the punches she'll throw.)
Nodding, Draco lets out a deep sigh. "Whatever it is, we'll keep an eye out. Make sure she doesn't get herself into too much trouble."
"If such a thing is even possible," Neville grumbles, forcing open tired eyes.
He's been taking too much onto his plate, this year—taking risks, getting no sleep and watching his grades tank as he makes resistance and watching out for younger students his priority.
(It's admirable, but Draco and Pansy are both terrified for him, as well.)
It's all weighing heavily, on Draco, even though it feels so fucking out of his control.
His entire life, it's just--everything, out of his fucking control.
(Everything, he's always helpless to stop, helpless to fix, to do anything but watch and hurt and deal with the fallout when the damage is done.)
And on top of everything else, he can tell something has changed with Hermione.
He doesn't know what it is, exactly, even now that they're able to speak every day again. Isn't quite sure why things suddenly feel so much more dire, when they've both been at the center of it all for ages, now.
But it's clear his soul mate's devotion to the cause has reached unprecedented heights—that as much as she loves him, as much as she wants their personal quest to be over, there is nothing in the world so important to her as Voldemort's defeat.
(it's—terrifying, the degree of urgency she's begun to demonstrate.)
The desperation he can sense, even just through the messages across their skin, makes him wonder just how chaotic her mind is; how much there is to this breakdown he can't see.
/
By the time they're ready to invade the ministry, Hermione's made them repeat back every step of the plan so many times they could recite it in their sleep.
Both boys roll their eyes, but it's clear they're secretly glad for her tendency towards over preparedness; both so nervous they'd otherwise be the reason something goes wrong.
"I still don't see why you get to take the cloak and we have to Polyjuice," Harry grumbles, though he's clearly not truly irritated.
Sighing, Hermione stares him down as she has every time they've had this argument thus far. "Because, Harry, whoever is under the cloak is are secret weapon and our last ditch effort at escape. We can't risk that person deciding to do something impulsive and risky that jeopardizes our chances at getting out safely; and besides that, while your defense is best and Ron's an expert at strategy, I'm the best at coming up with ways out and wandwork in the moment because I'm always postulating several backup plans."
Guilt bubbles up in her chest at the deception; because while it's their best chance at success, it's also true that she hadn't even considered a version of events that would require her to take Polyjuice.
(Polyjuice can't be ingested while pregnant, of course.)
Just one more lie in the web she's begun to weave out of necessity.
She'll tell them soon, she will—they just have to get through this, and then she'll tell them everything.
And it's such a small thing, but god does she miss Crookshanks—his familiar warmth ever curled up against her, head tucked over her arm or leg or waist.
He's always been especially clingy whenever she's unwell, too—more cuddly when she has a cold or cramps or a depressive episode. She can only imagine how attached he'd be now, when her state is more altered and delicate than ever before.
(He's been her constant for years—the only one with her at her parents' house, at her side in the mornings when being inside her own skin made her nauseous, when she was tired beyond words but couldn't bear to close her eyes and face the nightmares she knew would come.)
Just a kneazle, a warm presence but so much more—such a hole in her heart, where she's turned when life is hard for so, so long.
Harry and Ron share a look, while her back is turned; they've been worried for weeks, now.
She's exhausted all the time, and forgetful, and altogether not herself; even her magic, ever steady has been just a bit more powerful than usual—not a bad, thing, but an unpredictability entirely out of character.
Even her balance has been off—everything about her is different. Wrong.
She's putting on a good show, as always; doing the research and planning and keeping the three of them alive, doing everything possible to find an end to this war.
But she can't hide that she's an altered version of herself, one they've never seen before.
(It's all they can do to watch her closely and hope she confides whatever it is before she falls apart.)
/
He and Blaise head into the Room of Requirement after rounds, one night, Pansy and Neville right behind them
Out of nowhere, an owl flutters out from behind a cupboard to land on the arm of the couch.
"How the hell did you get in here?" Draco demands, though his voice is soft. He reaches to stroke its feathers; it leans into the touch, moving in a rather odd fashion.
It gives a short hoot before starting to stretch—
And then it's shimmering and elongating, talons turning to delicate legs and wings to familiar freckled arms, shiny feathers flowing into slightly messy ginger waves.
Ginny cracks her neck, before meeting all of their stares—it's only then, they realize she and the owl had the same eyes.
"What the fuck?"
Ginny bursts out laughing, full blown cackles as she sprawls across one of the desks. "Surprise?"
"Are you—are you fucking kidding me?" Blaise gapes at her, eyes narrowed in annoyance. "Ginevra, what?"
Neville rubs at his temples. "I hate to agree with him when he's like this, but…"
"You just…decided to become an animagus?" Draco clarifies.
The redhead in question keeps snickering light heartedly, looking amused at their frustration. "Yeah, I was quiet all September because there was a mandrake leaf in my mouth."
"Should've known that's the only thing that would shut you up," Pansy mutters under her breath, earning a jab in her side. "What, it's not like I'm wrong. Can I ask why you decided to do this?"
A shrug from Ginny. "I mean, I figured it would be a useful skill for a year like this, when we can't trust almost anyone, when messages might need to be passed without the Carrows or Snape being the wiser. Honestly, I'm just excited for Christmas—my brothers will die when they find out."
Draco turns to Blaise with a condescending expression. "How did you not notice your witch had a leaf in her mouth for an entire month? Are you that unobservant?"
Blaise shrugs. "I assumed she was using a new breath spray, or something—it's not as though mandrake tastes bad, exactly."
"I am—seriously reconsidering your sanity."
"Fucking Gryffindors," Pansy mutters, reaching to restyle her updo.
/
Harry makes a face as he downs the Polyjuice potion; unlike his twelve year old self, he knows what to expect, but it doesn't make the uniquely awful taste of this man's identity any more palatable.
They're well hidden, but he tries to stay quiet when the change hits nonetheless—when his joints begin to morph and he gasps as his lungs contort, hair shooting upward as the final touches of Polyjuice do their work.
He groans as he changes into the clothes of the man whose identity he's assuming, tucking the different WWW products Hermione had demanded each of them carry into the unfamiliar pockets.
Beside him, Ron does the same, while Hermione casts sleeping charms on both men and hides away their unconscious bodies.
Once they're ready, she pulls on Harry's Invisibility Cloak; Ron exits their hideaway and heads toward the Ministry entrance, and she and Harry do the same five minutes later.
She sticks close to his side, their observation having shown that few would ever question Albert Runcorn—and even fewer would ever get close enough to him physically to stand a chance at recognizing her presence.
When they get to the transport stall in the pseudo-bathroom, Harry grimaces, waving for her to go first as planned; he sticks his shoe in the fake water before she climbs in and tugs the cord to be whisked away.
At the sound of the flush, someone begins to push open the stall door, and Harry marches toward them with the full rage of Runcorn's entitlement. "Stay out!" he orders, in the unfamiliar baritone. "The piece of shit fucked up—only took my shoe."
When the wizard on the other side recognizes him and apologizes profusely, he turns back to the toilet, and moments later he's spiraling down, being sucked into a ministry fireplace.
His shoe is there, where Ron is discreetly waiting and acting as Hermione's shield; as he tugs the shoe back on, he feels her fingers gently brush against his arm, indicating they're good to go.
She's careful, beneath the cloak—so, so careful, not to bump into anyone, not to move too quickly, not to step too loudly.
Careful to hide all hints of her existence.
She follows behind Harry, as closely as she dares, but focuses most of her energy on taking in everything around them—everything that points to the state of the world, everything no one thought to mention had changed.
(The altered fountain at the forefront of the lobby, the wanted posters adorning every wall with Harry's face plastered larger than life, the open Death Eater sentiments being shared in broad daylight.)
All three of them climb into the elevator, Hermione pressing herself up against its wall where Ron stands between her and the open air, a barrier to keep anyone else who might climb on from accidentally bump into the form where they see only empty air.
"We might have to rethink our exit strategy," Harry risks whispering out of the corner of his mouth, though his expression remains stoic.
"That's why we have backups. We'll figure something out," Hermione promises.
Before Harry can reply, the floor squeaks as another person enters the elevator.
The air seems to almost go tight as an unsuspecting Arthur Weasley sidles to the back; his jaw goes tight at the sight of Harry, but he smiles at Ron. "Hello there, Reg. You holding up okay?"
Ron stutters, too taken aback to attempt an appropriate response. "I—that is—you—"
More footsteps, and then Hermione has to choke down a gasp.
Lucius is there, robes spotless and sneer intact, Cedric right behind him.
Lucius's mouth turns upward when he spots Harry. "Ah, Albert. Good to see you." His lip curls at the sight of Ron's father. "Weasley," he drawls.
"Lucius," Arthur acknowledges him with a carefully controlled nod. "I'd heard the new minister pardoned you."
The new minister under the imperius curse, at Voldemort's behest.
"Yes, well, he's certainly a much wiser leader than his predecessor. He's seen fit to afford me certain…privileges, shall we say, that I have long awaited. You should follow suit."
He turns to Cedric. "It's good to see that at least some young people from pureblood families have turned out right, unlike Weasley here's ilk."
"Of course. My parents have always stressed the importance of making the right connections, and…wise choices, shall we say, in times such as these."
And they'd known the role Cedric was playing, known he was attempting to do so on behalf of the Order, but—seeing it in action is otherworldly.
(So wrong, seeing his smile not reach his eyes, seeing him rubbing elbows with Lucius, ignore Arthur's presence as though the two aren't close family friends.)
(Even knowing he's acting, it's a jolting reminder of the world they've re-entered; that as hellish as the last months have been, in a way they've been lucky to escape all this, even briefly.)
Lucius and Arthur both step out of the elevator, and Hermione finds herself holding her breath at the precarious nature of their mission.
Cedric watches Harry and Ron, for a moment; then, quietly, looking at the lift doors, says, "A good friend of mine has the same habit of tugging at his sleeve like that. Has since we met—back when he was fourteen, at the Quidditch cup."
Harry, god-awful actor that he is, chokes on his own spit; Cedric snorts and raps him on the back until he's standing again.
"And given that Reg Cattermole's wife is on trial today, and he has severe anxiety and panic attacks, I doubt he could remain so calm in a small box with Lucius," Cedric continues with a wry smile. "I don't know why you're here, but it's very good to see you okay. Let me know if there's anything I can do."
He turns back towards the front of the elevator just in time for the doors to open, and steps out without looking back.
The doors close again, and Ron whispers, "what the fuck," before they arrive at their destination.
And then they all straighten; rattled and emotional as they are, none of that matters, right now.
They get hyperfocused, as they've had to do every time the stakes are this high for the last seven years, all on high alert as they charge through the hallway.
Harry leads the way down to the courtroom, unfortunately familiar from his trial; frowns at the memory, the security of Sirius at his side he hasn't had in months, now.
They hurry in just before a trial starts, shivering as they enter the chamber—passerby make way for Harry, all deferring to Runcorn and not noticing Ron right behind him.
The number of dementors is unprecedented—more than were stationed at Hogwarts, more than attacked Harry on Privet Drive—an entire barrage of them, separated from the audience by a prowling feline patronus.
And at the front of it all, looking smug and making the back of Harry's scarred hand tingle, is Umbridge.
She's cozy, entirely pleased with herself as she ruins lives—as the woman currently being interrogated sobs and pleads.
They split up as planned, Ron heading toward the holding cells as Harry and Hermione both approach the raised seats of the audience.
"From which witch or wizard did you steal your wand?" Umbridge inquires, voice simpering, and Hermione has to resist the urge to deviate from her mission to strangle the woman with her bare hands.
"I didn't—it chose me at Ollivander's when I was eleven, like any other witch."
Hermione edges carefully towards the front of the dais, eyes on the parchment directly next to Umbridge.
It's a bright white binding, gold writing on its cover and pages—unassuming, beautiful, even.
(Nothing to make it clear it's a vessel of brutality—nothing to indicate the horrors of its use.)
She creeps closer, trying to make sure there's no security spells on the volume; but of course not—Umbridge would never imagine anyone going to such lengths to stop her.
Not when their world is supporting her monstrosity—so glad to have someone to blame, when things are hard, so desperate for any measure of hope, they'll rally behind anyone who promises change and a target for their anger.
Umbridge spots Harry, just then—smiles, because Albert Runcorn is a bastard and one of her closest allies, waves him over.
It's he who holds her attention, distracting her while Hermione finishes making sure she's all set to get rid of the registry.
Umbridge casually checks in with Harry, ignoring the poor muggleborn witch on trial—the woman's life is at stake, and the old toad doesn't respect her enough to wait to catch up with a colleague till after her fate has been decided.
The thought makes Hermione burn with rage; she fights back the urge to set the registry on fire—as satisfying as the sight would be, it would draw too much attention; would allow time for the fire to be put out before the monstrosity is destroyed.
(And she won't risk that—will not leave, until this first step on the path to genocide is gone.)
(She's seen registry of a marginalized people before, has seen their rights be restricted, their citizenship questioned and then stripped.)
(She knows how this story ends if they don't put a stop to it now.)
Umbridge carries on with her verbal assault of Mary Cattermole, and it's then that Hermione nonverbally casts evanesce—a single wave of her wand, and the registry ceases to exist.
It's the most satisfying use of her magic in her entire life.
She braces for their escape—Ron should be done any minute now, and they'll have to fight like hell to have any chance of making it out with security as intense as it is currently.
Mary continues to beg, and Umbridge continues to giggle, getting off on the woman's suffering—because she sees her as so much less than human.
It's then that even more dementors flood into the room, chased by a terrier patronus, who barks as he pushes them further into the courtroom.
Umbridge is on her feet instantly, expression disgruntled. "What in the—"
"The prisoners have escaped!" Someone yells from the hallway.
And then it's madness, the entire audience a cacophony of chaos as everyone tries to make out what's happening.
Harry vaults himself over the divider between the audience and the woman on trial as several dementors near her and begin to converge; when he casts the patronus charm, light radiates throughout the entire chamber.
Umbridge's eyes blaze with rage as she recognizes the stag, its image burned into her memory from when she'd been so infuriated by its appearance during OWLs not two years prior.
"Harry Potter!" she shrieks, face going red, fists clenched as she raises her wand. "You—"
"I don't think so," Hermione calls, tearing off the cloak. "Hello, Dolores. How horrible to see you again."
The older woman's lip curls with disgust, pointing her weapon at Hermione instead. "You—you filthy mudblood, how dare you speak to your betters—"
Hermione nonverbally disarms her and casts a leg-lock curse in quick succession.
Umbridge finally realizes the danger before her, then—finally realizes the woman wielding a wand against her is a powerful witch.
(Powerful, and pissed off.)
"You know, I am close to many people in power—it's in your best interests to let me up, before the Dark Lord himself—"
"Silencio."
Hermione takes a deep breath as she decides what to do, narrowing her eyes at her former teacher. "You were our teacher—supposed to protect us, and you tortured my brother. I let you live, then."
The other woman's eyes widen, and her own lips curl upward.
(This vindictive rage, the satisfaction of someone whose caused so much harm being at her mercy—she's felt it so rarely before.)
(Not this strongly since it was Roger at the other end of her wand.)
"I let you live," she repeats, in a whisper only the two of them can hear, "and you continued to strip away the rights of the afflicted and marginalized. To use your position of power to demonize and dehumanize a group of people just because they're different than you, to begin the kind of persecution that leads to annihilation and genocide—"
She lets out a bitter laugh, holding her wand steady. "I don't believe anyone has the right to decide whether another human being deserves to live or die. But this is war, and you've already taken more lives than I can count. I won't allow you to hurt anyone else."
(Won't bring my half-blood child into a world where you still breathe, where Sofia and every other child that's not pureblood has to worry for their safety, people like you persecuting and murdering them for the crime of existing.)
"Avada kedavra," she says, for the first time.
She doesn't hesitate—the spell strikes true.
There was a time she would've flinched at the sound of the corpse hitting the floor with a thud—a time when the guilt would've eaten her alive, even if Umbridge deserved it.
Not anymore.
(Her non-dominant hand cradles her baby—it's for them she will throw aside notions of maintaining her soul.)
(That doesn't matter anymore—there's nothing but defeating the darkness, winning the war. Creating a world where her baby will be safe.)
There's screaming, as others realize what's happened, and shoves the cloak into her bag before sprinting toward the exit.
She races out the hall, into the Ministry lobby with guards and workers and god knows who else hot on her heels.
Harry and Ron are already hurriedly ushering the freed muggleborns into fireplaces, burning away copious quantities of floo powder.
They're all disillusioned, so they're hard to hit with the hexes others keep firing in their general direction.
Suddenly the onslaught of spells stops—and Hermione looks up just as Harry does to see Cedric having thrown himself between them and everyone else, holding his wand out and maintaining a shield charm from floor to ceiling.
(His cover—blown, for them, and everyone they'd broken free.)
"Go! I'll hold them off, but you have to go! Now!"
Hermione hurries towards the boys, gets close enough to hear Ron reminding everyone they have to run, to cast muffliato before saying they're desired location so no one can follow them.
The last of them get through, and it's just as the trio is about to lurch into the fireplace themselves that Cedric's shield is broken.
Harry begins toward him, worried, but Ron grabs the back of his shirt. "Harry, we can't—he'll be safer if we're gone before the Polyjuice wears off, you know he will!"
Metal grates slam down in front of the fireplaces in a deafening clank, the crowd rapidly approaching.
"Fuck," Hermione mutters through her teeth.
"What do we do?" Harry panics. "God, okay, we can figure this out, we can—"
Ron clamps a hand over his mouth. "Harry, I love you, you have to shut up so Hermione can think—she's our best bet at getting out of here."
"Just please, stay quiet, both of you, so I can think!" Hermione holds her wand to the mouth of her beaded bag, whispering "accio jeans!"
Harry tugs at his hair. "Is now really the time?!"
"Shut up!" Hermione demands, whipping off the invisibility cloak. "Both of you grab on!"
There's chaos around them, as Hermione's recognized—as others start to notice the fading of Harry and Ron's Polyjuice.
Several officials race toward them, and the minister's shrill screeching is audible from nearby.
Harry and Ron both reach for the fabric without waiting for an explanation, despite being seconds away from arrest.
She feels hands grasp onto her shoulders—as she waves her wand, manages to see Yaxley tightly gripping at her cloak—
And then there's the awful churning, his hands fading away as they're taken away, gripping onto the old pair of jeans for dear life.
All three of them are disoriented, when they land; dizzy and out of it.
It's safe to portkey while pregnant, but even still, Hermione mentally sends apologies to her little one; catches herself passing a hand back and forth over the bump where her little nugget grows.
(Narcissa's protection spell is flawless, so she knows the bean is okay, but can't help the irrational worry nonetheless.)
"What—" Harry halts mid-sentence, lurching to the side to vomit.
Rob pats him on the back, looking a bit squeamish himself. His expression is incredulous as he turns to Hermione. "Where the hell did you get a portkey?"
"I—" she takes a deep breath, shakily sitting down as lightheadedness overtakes her. "I made it."
Harry sends a thumbs up, but it's Ron whose eyes go even wider, shocked beyond belief. "You've got to be kidding me—Mione, that is—some of the most advanced magic there is! You made a fucking portkey?" He opens and closes his mouth.
It's then Harry registers that they're at Grimmauld Place, and his eyebrows draw together. "I thought you didn't want to come here and risk the security—and when we were leaving I could've sworn Yaxley had hold of you, how did he not—"
Hermione sighs, reaching to fix the mess of her hair. "He did, but you have to be physically touching the portkey itself for it to transport you—that's why I made it in the first place, as a failsafe. As for the security…well, I didn't have much of a choice, did I?"
Before the boys can say anything else in reply, the whooshing of the fireplace roars in the other room, and she shakily grips her wand as they do the same, all three of them bracing to fight off whoever it is—
And then Sirius and Remus are there, wands at the ready in defensive positions till they spot the three of them.
It's Harry who remains vigilant—remembers himself enough to keep all of them safe.
"What show did we binge watch the first summer I lived with you?"
Remus lowers his own wand, expression going soft. "Full House."
"I made fun because it was American and boring," Sirius adds.
Harry relaxes, turning his torso towards Ron and Hermione. "It's them."
"Oh, good," Hermione says, even as she feels a rush in her head, limbs growing weak. "Harry?"
His eyes are on her in an instant. "What's wrong?"
"I—" Black spots blink in and out of her vision. "My sugar, and the adrenaline, and—I think I might pass out."
As soon as the words pass her lips she goes limp, Harry and Ron both lurching forward to catch her before she hits the ground.