Interlude I: Reflectioms on 1993-1994

I will admit, there is a certain peculiarity in witnessing another person's memories through a (portable) Pensieve. Even after all my years of research, my hands still tremble with a deep, reverent awe each time I see those silvery strands cascading up into recognizable shapes and voices. But there is no simpler or truer way to immerse oneself in a piece of personal history. The nuance is staggering: the subtle shift of emotion in a friend's eyes, the faint trembling of hands when danger lurks just off-screen. It is precisely these moments that allow me, to restore the tapestry of wizarding history—particularly the marginalized stories that so often go untold.

When I emerged from Hermione Granger's memory, the transition back to her and Ginny Weasley's cozy flat in East Central London felt slightly jarring. One moment, we three had stood in the Gryffindor common room in late spring 1994—Hermione hugging Ginny, both of them still that youthful fourteen or so—then the memory dissolved into a plume of mist, and here we are; in the midst of autumn; returned to the present; 2009, a quaint living room around Old Compton Street; the smell of saffron tea on the hob, and the warmth of two witches who have grown into themselves in every imaginable way.

I looked from Hermione to Ginny. The older memory had shown them as girls on the cusp of finally finding their footing in the wizarding world during their tenure at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Now, they are grown women: Hermione carries herself with that blend of scholarly confidence and earnestness so characteristic of her. Ginny, athletic, the famed Holyhead Harpies Chaser who has shattered more Quidditch records than I can list—exudes the same fiery determination we glimpsed in her as a student, but sharpened to a champion's edge.

They both removed their faces from the Pensieve, blinking as though reacclimatizing to the present. I gently siphoned off the last silver silky strand with my wand, placing it back into the small crystal vial. I make it a point to store such memories with the utmost care—the living pages of magical history, especially Sapphic histories, are too often lost.

"Thank you," I told them, my voice coming out softer than I intended. "Truly."

Hermione turned her head, smiling in that thoughtful way of hers. "It's our pleasure. I've always believed in preserving knowledge."

Ginny nodded, stepping away from the swirl of memory. "You said you wanted authentic recollections," she said, "and that was… about as authentic as it gets."

As we caught our breath, I took in the details of their flat for the umpteenth time. I have interviewed many witches and wizards in my career, but rarely do I see a space so pleasantly reflective of two distinct personalities woven into one harmonious home.

To the left, the entire wall sparkled with professional Quidditch memorabilia—mostly Ginny's. I recognized the bright green-and-gold Harpies' crest, polished trophies, and meticulously framed photographs capturing Ginny in mid-dive or powering forward with the Quaffle. One League trophy bore the date 2002, and next to it, gilded plates listed the subsequent victories in 2003 and 2004. A beat up Quaffle accompanying a plaque commemorated the legendary 21-hour match against the Montrose Magpies at Ilkley Moor Stadium, where Ginny famously scored 167 goals—a record that remains unbroken to this day.

Hermione's half of the room (not that they ever draw such lines, but one can see the "subtle" distinctions of their own corners of things) boasted a tidy bookshelf stacked with volumes on magical law, legislation, and the unique legal frameworks for magical creatures. A certificate, presumably from the Ministry, recognized her spearheading of the "House-Elf Rights & Welfare Act," flanked by other official-looking Ministry documents. Closer inspection revealed pamphlets about improving centaur relations with reparations and land back campaigns; better living conditions and preservation of clean water systems for merpeople; and her more recent push to outlaw the cruel treatment of werewolves in certain wizard enclaves and have free draughts of Wolfsbane Potion available at St. Mungo's for those living with lycanthropy. Each detail told a story of her unyielding drive for justice.

Together, these corners merged seamlessly around the rest of the flat: family photographs, holiday snapshots, a few moving pictures of them in wizarding locales—stepping off the Knight Bus with broad smiles, or mid cheers holding exploding lemonades at the Leaky Cauldron. A crocheted blanket (Molly Weasley's handiwork, I suspect) lay over the sofa. Crookshanks, looking decidedly elderly these days, sprawled atop a cushion, flicking a tattered ear in mild interest. Meanwhile, Arnold, Ginny's aging Pygmy Puff, dozed near a tray of tea, occasionally making a soft purring squeak.

Several photos included the extended Weasley clan, or Hermione's parents beaming with pride, or (to my surprised delight) a younger Hermione standing with me years ago at a Hogwarts symposium for marginal histories—though that snapshot was tucked half behind a clutter of letters. Notably, every image of Harry Potter showed him younger, around eighteen or nineteen at most. The more recent group photos, those full of smiling faces, lacked Harry's presence altogether.

I took in a small breath. That absence was something they had vaguely alluded to earlier, and I could sense the tension beneath the surface. But for now, I stuck to the moment at hand.

Ginny cleared her throat, crossing her arms. "So you saw that memory. The big hug in the common room, after the Hermione finally told me about the time turner… that's the one we all came out of just now." She shot a playful look at Hermione. "And could you maybe glean our —perhaps repressed— teenage crushes."

Hermione's cheeks warmed. "Yes, well—Moira's here to document all aspects of wizarding history, isn't she? Even the ones that make us blush."

I gave a soft laugh, picking up my quill. "Indeed. Though if you'd prefer I not record certain details—"

"No, it's fine," Hermione said quickly, giving me a reassuring nod. "We're comfortable, truly."

She turned to Ginny, eyebrows arched. "So you actually suspected me of liking you all the way back then?"

Ginny let out a low chuckle. "No. Not… well, yes. Or maybe. I wanted you to, you know? It was all so new to me. I had all these feelings jumbled up—admiration, curiosity, whatever it was—and I didn't have a clue it might be romantic."

Hermione's lips curved into a small smile. "Meanwhile, I was obsessed with being a good student, helping Ron and Harry not only with their course work but with saving Buckbeak—and Sirius… I barely had time to figure out my own thoughts. But that hug was—well, it felt special."

They exchanged a look that spoke volumes. It was sweet, seeing them discuss so candidly something that once caused such inner turmoil. The synergy between them now made it clear they'd long ago embraced what they'd only barely recognized back then.

"This might be forward," I ventured, "but you agreed to let me ask questions freely, yes?"

Ginny and Hermione both nodded.

I took a breath, turning to Ginny first. "That second year of yours, after… well, the events in the Chamber during your first year. Do you feel that shaped how you approached friendship—and perhaps deeper connections—when you returned to school?"

Ginny's gaze flickered with memory. "It did. I felt so ashamed that I'd let Tom R—" She cut herself off; the name evidently still stung after all these years. "—well, that diary posses me. I lost trust in myself. I craved normalcy, but at the same time, I was starved for closeness. When Hermione offered me comfort, it mattered. Maybe that's why I latched on so strongly, really wanting to find out, what seemed to be bothering you, so badly."

Hermione's voice softened. "You never told me that, not in those words."

Ginny shrugged, smiling sadly. "It's not the easiest thing to articulate, even now."

I let my quill record these lines, carefully preserving each word. "Thank you. And Hermione, your third year was famously turbulent with the Time-Turner, Sirius's innocence, and so on. Do you think these experiences drew you to Ginny in a way your friendships with Harry and Ron did not?"

Hermione considered. "Harry and Ron are still dear to me… well, or were, I suppose." She sighed, eyes flicking to one of those old photos where Harry's grin froze at age eighteen. "With them, everything was life-or-death. We faced trials and horrors, but there was a… shape to it—like a quest. With Ginny, it wasn't just about defeating a monster or unraveling a conspiracy. We… found each other in quieter ways."

"And that grew over time, obviously," Ginny added with a smile. "By my fourth year—Hermione's fifth—we were inseparable… or as inseparable as you can be, given the swirl of everything that happened at Hogwarts in those final years."

Hermione nodded, her voice warm. "Sometimes literally inseparable—like the time in 98' we got hexed together in the corridor by a random Death Eater attack. Ended up stuck to each other for hours."

A wry laugh passed between them, and I found myself smiling. Sapphic witches weaving new stories in the cracks of the old war. This is precisely why I do what I do.

I set my quill down, letting it rest on the parchment. "I'm glad to see how far you've both come," I said gently. "In your careers, your activism, your sporting legacy… your love for each other. The wizarding world should know these stories. It inspires the next generation of witches who might feel alone."

Hermione's cheeks colored slightly. "You know, Moira, you were an inspiration for me, too. All that research you did in the Hogwarts archives—sneaking off to restricted sections to find hidden letters. I remember reading your early drafts as a student."

Ginny nodded enthusiastically. "She kept bringing up your name: 'Moira Inkwood found this, Moira Inkwood wrote that…' I was thinking, Who is this Inkwood, and why is Hermione so enthralled by her work? Of course now its pretty obvious." She cocked a mischeviois smirk towards Hermione, who retorted with a playful eyeroll and a light nudge of her shoulder.

I laughed softly. "I had no idea I was so widely read among students at Hogwarts back then. I should be flattered."

A comfortable silence descended. Crookshanks, apparently deciding I was no threat, stretched languidly and leapt down from his cushion to rub against my legs. Arnold the Pygmy Puff let out a sleepy squeak. It felt oddly domestic, witnessing these subtle signs of a life well-shared.

My eyes drifted to the old pictures of Harry again, still pinned on the mantel. He was the third side of that trio for so many years, and yet no recent images. It was time, I thought, to broach what might be a sensitive subject. They had alluded to it in prior interviews but never elaborated.

Before I could speak, Ginny turned her gaze to the frames. "You're wondering why we don't have any pictures of Harry after he turned nineteen."

I swallowed, nodding gently. "Yes. I won't press for details if it's painful. But… for historical accuracy, I do need to understand."

Hermione's jaw tightened. "We can talk about him—about what happened in 1999. Eventually. You'll want those details for your documentation, right?"

"Yes," I managed. "If you're willing to share."

Ginny's voice trembled, but she set her shoulders firmly. "We are. Because it's not just about us—it's about all of wizarding history. Harry Potter's story ended up… well, let's just say it didn't go as the fairy tale ending that should have been promised to him—that he did deserved to have after everything..." Ginny's words fell out bitterly, Hermione put a hand on Ginny's knee, offering a small smile.

The hush that followed was thick. My heart pounded with anticipation. This, I realized, would be a crucial piece of the tapestry I am trying to weave: how their bond flourished while one of the most famous wizards in history (argubly the most famous wizard of the twentieth century and moderm wizard times) quietly vanished from the public sphere. Their next words could reshape everything the wizarding world has assumed about its hero's legacy.

Hermione parted her lips, as though preparing to say something monumental. But then a small ring chimed from the Floo fireplace in the corner—someone seeking to connect.

Ginny exhaled, shaking off a rush of tension. "We'll pick this up in a moment," she murmured to me. Turning to Hermione, she quirked a wry smile, "Reckon it's your boss from the Department? Or maybe Ron calling again about Pigwidgeon misdelivering his post?"

Hermione let out a low laugh, but her eyes were distant, as though haunted by what she was about to share. "We'll see."

I picked up my quill, glancing from one to the other. My notes about their youthful crushes, their academic years, their activism, were neatly aligned. But the upcoming chapter—about Harry Potter, and the year 1999—held a weight that sent a shiver down my spine. One story had ended in shining victory after the Second Wizarding War… but the truth, it seemed, was far more complex.

And so I waited, heart pounding, poised on the cusp of a revelation that could reshape the saga of the Wizarding World once again.