A/N: Welcome to my new post-war story! This starts in the weeks after the end of the second wizarding war and the defeat of Voldemort and will eventually stretch a couple years into the future. It will be published weekly in 4 parts with 8 chapters per part. At the end of each part, there will likely be a delay while I catch up on my writing before starting to post the next part. I'll do my best to keep the wait minimal.

As always, thanks to adenei for serving as beta for this story!

This is my first time writing a post-war story, so please let me know what you think in the comments! Thanks for reading!

Part 1: Imposter - Chapter 1

Light, fluffy clouds floated in the air, suspended by nothing, casting a dappled pattern of shadow and light on the Western European landscape below. Large offices, shopping centers, and factories appeared smaller than children's toys as Hermione stared out the window of the 747, taking in the scenery at the grandest scale imaginable. For reasons she couldn't quite wrap her head around, it made everything feel utterly dreary and insignificant.

The nihilistic emotion had been frequently tugging at her consciousness, offering a constant reminder of the finite, bounded state of existence. It was hard to think of things any other way in light of everything that had happened. Evil in its purest conceivable form had been eradicated, yes, but for how long? Next time trouble arose, those she cared about may not be so lucky, and peace and harmony seemed as temporary as human lives.

"Hermione?"

And yet, despite all that had happened, all the senseless loss and unnecessary grief, all the uncertainty about the future, Hermione was still alive. Her friends were still alive. Harry and Ginny and Mr and Mrs Weasley…and Ron. It almost didn't make sense to her. What right did they have to have made it through unscathed? After so many close calls, how was it possible that she made it through when so many in her magical community paid the ultimate price?

Perhaps any shred of optimism she retained had something to do with being reunited with her parents and successfully breaking the memory spell she'd placed on them a year prior. She was also finally on her way back to London to return to the life she knew best. For brief moments, her excitement about moving on with her life in a post-Voldemort world peeked through, centered on the people she loved most, her best friends in the world. While it was difficult to imagine returning to any semblance of a normal life after the year they'd endured, having each other made it seem possible. And even though it would provide a reminder of the pain, she was eager to return to her magical life.

"Hermione?"

The emotional whiplash between fear, hope, anger, and enthusiasm was a constant source of stress, leading to many sleepless nights. Not only was she managing her own fragile mental state, she was still finding herself justifying all of her decisions to her parents. They meant well, of course, and they tried to present things as kindly as possible, but they were understandably upset at having their entire lives uprooted without their consent. While careful to ensure they didn't outright blame their daughter, their disappointment shined through the fissures in their relationship, adding guilt to Hermione's ever-growing list of concerns.

All of these considerations were on Hermione's mind as the plane carried them back to the familiar unknown, the childhood home the Grangers had unwillingly abandoned at the forced behest of the youngest member of the family. She knew the house was still there and still standing; she and Harry had gone to check on it in the days after the battle to ensure Voldemort and his followers hadn't destroyed it. But she was fearful about her first step over the threshold of 8 Heathgate, fully expecting a fresh wave of regret as soon as the family re-entered their longtime residence.

If only Ron had come with her to Australia. She couldn't pinpoint the exact reason, but she knew that things would've been easier if he was around. It made perfect sense why he hadn't come; in fact, she'd told him not to. But he had a way of soothing her worries without even trying, and with her head in such a messy state, his calming presence would go a long way.

"Hermione? Earth to Hermione?" Mr Granger's voice finally registered in Hermione's head as he leaned forward in his seat.

"Hmm?" she finally responded, her gaze drifting to her left to meet the concerned eyes of her father.

"Are you okay, honey?" he asked, brow furrowed as he tucked the most recent issue of The Economist into his seatback pocket. "You look like your mind's gone to another planet."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Just thinking, I suppose."

The smile he gave her provided the same level of comfort she remembered from when she was a small child. "I understand. Looks like we'll be landing in about an hour, maybe we'll get some takeaway once we're home?"

"That sounds great, Dad."

He adjusted his trousers, trying to get comfortable in the narrow padded seat. "I wonder if Paradise is still in business. Best Indian food in town, I say. Does that sound acceptable?"

"Anything you like, Dad."

As she turned her attention back to her book, her father leaned closer to her, dropping his voice to a hushed whisper. "Now, I know we've discussed this before, but I just want to be quite clear. You're sure there's no more threat to you or our family now that we're returning to London?"

An unintentional sigh escaped her mouth. She knew he was simply looking out for the safety of his family, but all Hermione could hear was another admonition of her decisions.

"Yes, Dad," she said, doing her best to keep her tone serene and level. "Harry and I checked the house. Everything is in order."

"And no more of…those foul lot…You Know Him or his followers around, are there?"

"No, they're gone."

It was mostly the truth. Ever since the Battle of Hogwarts, as it came to be known, the Ministry had been conducting regular sweeps of the country to track down any remaining Death Eaters. All of the highest profile offenders were either dead or in Azkaban already, but surely some fringe members were still out there. Perhaps the pureblood movement would fizzle out without its leader. Or perhaps it would continue to fester, cropping up in the future and renewing the fight. It was a harrowing thought to Hermione, and one that she tried as best she could to put from her mind.

"Excellent. That's very good news, isn't it?"

"It is."

"Indeed. Now, Mum and I have talked, and once we've taken a day or two to settle back in, we'll go check on the office. Some of our patients may have moved on, but I'm sure we'll be able to recapture a few."

Another jolt of remorse hit her square in the chest.

"I'm happy to help if I can."

"That's just fine, sweetheart," Mr Granger reassured her, patting her knee. "We understand you'll want to spend time with your friends as well. And even though you've spent plenty of time at the office over the years, we're both fairly particular when it comes to the setup of our tools and equipment."

"I can do both. I'll have plenty of time, school won't be starting for another few months."

"True, but summer is a time for taking a break. And if your year was anywhere near as disquieting as you say, it sounds like you could use a break."

More guilt, more misgivings, more anxiety.

Hermione nodded, turning to look out the window again. When she'd told her parents about her experiences during her seventh year, she'd left out several key details. As far as they knew, she was safely ensconced at Hogwarts while adults and other qualified wizards led the hunt for the most dangerous wizard alive. They knew that one of her best friends, Harry Potter, was involved in Voldemort's downfall and that Hermione was present when it happened. She'd told them nothing of their year on the run, sleeping in a magical tent for months on end, and their numerous brushes with death. And she'd certainly failed to mention her torture at the hands of one of the most sadistic people, magic or Muggle, in the entire world. Some things were better left unsaid.

The weight of the secret-keeping, half-truths, and outright lies rested heavily on her petite frame, to the point where she often felt on the verge of crumbling. Breakdowns had been inevitable, although she usually managed to find a secluded place to let out her emotions, often screaming them into a soft pillow while keeping those closest to her at a safe distance. Hermione was never one to make excuses, but it seemed too much for one person to take, especially in light of all of her recent trauma. She did her best to be kind to herself, to give herself grace when the occasion demanded, but the past few months had been immeasurably hard, and cracks were starting to show.

As she watched the world pass by, her memory drifted to those uneasy days after the battle. They were still blurry in her memory, a jumbled mess of fatigue, heartache, and, fortunately, a bit of healing. Almost everyone who had participated remained behind in the castle for a few days, pitching in to whip the castle back into respectable shape. It was a tall task, and some damage proved permanent. But with plenty of helpers, they had been able to return Hogwarts to a reasonable enough condition to resume school the following September.

Any time she hadn't been helping, Hermione had spent most of her time wandering the halls with Ron, Harry, and Ginny, each of them deep in thought as their footsteps echoed through the silent corridors. What should've been an uplifting time of victory had instead transformed into collective grieving, the four of them doing their best to support each other, often without words. At one point, they'd meandered over to the part of the castle where Fred had died, and Ron's legs gave out as he collapsed against the wall. Hermione sat down next to him, cradling him in her arms like a child for over an hour while he sobbed into her shoulder. To their credit, Harry and Ginny didn't shy away from the emotional moment either, remaining at the side of their best friend and brother until he felt ready to proceed.

Later that night, Hermione finally sat down with Ron in an empty classroom, doing her best to listen empathetically as he poured his heart out to her. The more he said, the deeper his anguish was revealed, layers of mourning, survivor's guilt, and despair for the future laying themselves bare at her feet. She could still remember the way his hands shook as she clasped them between her own. Never in her life had she seen him in such a state; it was as though seven years of cumulative worry and frustration had come pouring out of him at once.

In fact, his sorrow had seemed so overwhelming that, at the time, she'd felt it inappropriate to share any of her own, forcing it deep down and doing what she could to deal with it on her own. When they'd all returned to the Burrow together, she remained by his side, steadfastly supporting him through what were surely some of the most difficult days of his life. The magically enhanced house, usually boisterous and bustling with activity, was eerily quiet despite being filled with people, everyone going through their own form of bereavement at their own pace. As always, the family leaned on each other, although noiselessly and through simple acts of physical presence more than anything else.

A few days later, they'd held a funeral for Fred, burying him in the apple orchard near the makeshift Quidditch pitch. Throughout the proceedings, Ron had stared blankly ahead, his vacant expression leaving Hermione unclear whether he was even truly aware of his surroundings. She'd held his hand, but he'd barely held hers. After the service, he retreated to his room like he had most days, refusing to let anyone in.

It had taken several days, but eventually he'd started to turn the corner. Faint hints of smiles had played across his face when the four of them spent time together, he'd started eating again, and he'd stopped spending all of his waking hours shut up in his room. Elements of normal life at the Burrow began to seep back into their lives, and Hermione started to remember how much fun they'd had relaxing the summer away together. Once or twice, she'd even seen hints of Ron's affection peek through, a reminder that love can prosper even in the darkest of times.

Not that they'd gotten anywhere near where they'd left off before Voldemort's defeat. Their kiss, shared frantically in the heat of the battle, felt as though it had happened years ago, almost in another lifetime. The Ron who had returned her kiss that day was nowhere to be found in the days and weeks afterward, only showing pieces of himself on rare occasions. It wasn't a surprise to Hermione, per se, but she couldn't pretend she wasn't a little disappointed that the subject of their status hadn't been broached again.

With that indefinable yet no less tragic loss of possibility tucked away in the back of her mind, she found him in the garden one day. The sun shone down on them as she told him she'd be leaving for Australia to find her parents. Ron being Ron, he immediately protested, assuring her that he'd come with her and help her carry her burden. But she insisted, and when he barely put up a fight, there wasn't much else left to say. It was for the best. Hermione knew she couldn't take Mrs. Weasley's son away from her again so soon. The following morning, she packed her bag, headed to the airport, and purchased a ticket on the first flight to Australia.

It had been two weeks since she'd arrived. She hadn't even known where to start, finding a seedy hotel that she could afford in Sydney and scouring phone books, advertisements, and opinions from anyone who would talk to her in hopes of tracking down her parents. The Australian Ministry of Magic was very eager to help given her status as a war hero in Europe, but as her parents were Muggles, their assistance wasn't that useful. She'd finally found them in a small beach village of Shoalhaven, and she managed to follow them to their house and reverse their memories.

What followed were several days of inadequate explanations, forced smiles, and what she could only assume was extreme restraint on her parents' part. The fury that they had to be feeling in their private moments was logical, but part of Hermione wished they'd stop keeping it to themselves and just unleash it on her or scream to their heart's content. She knew she deserved it. Instead, as always, they opted for the calm and measured approach, seeking her rationalizations that had to have left them wanting more. No matter how sure Hermione had been at the time that the decision was the right one, never in her life had she second-guessed herself more than the past week and a half.

But finally, there was time. Her family was back together, she was on her way home, and there were still several weeks left in the summer to figure out…everything. There were sure to be more discussions, more commentary, perhaps even more confessions in the near future. But for the moment, Hermione could take some solace in the fact that they were all in one place and everyone was safe.

The plane lurched, and Hermione felt her stomach rise into her throat as they began their descent into the greater London area. The thin, non-threatening clouds had given way to a darker, more ominous layer of grey somewhere over Germany, so the ride down to the ground was bumpier than usual. It didn't bother her that much, though; what were a few bumps and rattles compared to the last few months?

Once the plane set down and taxied to the gate, the three of them stood and collected their bags, waiting their turn to exit. Most of their possessions had been boxed up and shipped home already, hopefully to arrive within the next day or two. The most essential items, though, were carried with them, and Mrs Granger smiled at her daughter as she picked up the small suitcase containing their treasured family photos and heirlooms. Hermione did her best to return the smile, but she knew she wasn't able to muster it with any sincerity.

"Hopefully the line for taxis won't be too long," Mr Granger said matter-of-factly as they exited the jet bridge and strolled through the airport.

Hermione gave a small shrug. "Hopefully."

"Jean," Mr Granger continued, "Hermione and I discussed getting Paradise for dinner tonight. Does Indian sound good to you?"

"Yes, that sounds fine," Mrs Granger agreed. "As long as they're still open. We've been gone a long time, who knows if things may have closed in the meantime."

Another twinge of guilt.

Mr Granger turned to his daughter. "Hermione, I remember you always liked the tikka masala. Would that still be your preference? For all I know, your tastes have changed since we last saw you."

And another.

"Sure, that would be great."

"Jean?"

"Lovely," Mrs Granger agreed.

"Alright, then, it's settled. I'll call as soon as we get back home."

The conversation should've been a refreshing return to commonplace topics. 'What's for dinner tonight?' was a frequent refrain in any household. But it was too compulsory, too strained to be real. It was an attempt by her father to assure normalcy when things were anything but normal. She felt a wave of appreciation toward him for trying, but she was quite sure he wasn't fooling anyone, even himself.

Just as Mr Granger had wished, they were able to get a taxi within minutes, zipping back through the familiar streets of northwest London. Seemingly mirroring Hermione's mood, it was a damp and bleak afternoon, a series of umbrellas dotting the landscape as they passed sidewalk after sidewalk filled with people excitedly moving about their day. Someday, she knew she'd be one of them again, but it felt like there was so much mental work to be done before it could be possible. And while daunting challenges had rarely deterred her before, she'd never had issues this wide-ranging and fundamental before, either.

Next to her, Mr and Mrs Granger were sharing a chat about whether the gas company would have turned off their heat and whether there might be any damage to the exterior of the house. It all seemed so mundane and pointless to Hermione that she once again ignored the discussion and stared out the window, the rain-streaked pane providing a fittingly hazy view of the surroundings.

Their neighborhood finally came into view, but Hermione felt none of the nostalgia she was used to upon returning home after an extended absence. Instead, all she could consider was the critical yet seemingly impossible task ahead of her; she needed to regain her parents' trust. She needed her house to become a fortress of comfort and love again because that was what was missing from her life. Her friends would provide some when they were able, and she still had hopes that Ron would be her rock in the long run. But despite being away from them for large chunks of the year, her parents were always going to be her top supporters. That was an indisputable fact of life; quintessential biology, really, which made it even more bizarre for her to think about the doubts they likely harbored.

As Mr Granger inserted the key into the door, it turned on the first try, creaking open as the hallway toward the kitchen appeared in front of them. Everything was as they'd left it one year prior, albeit with a thick layer of dust over every surface and each piece of furniture. The furnace roared to life as Hermione's father set the thermostat a bit higher, and a puff of soot escaped the vents along the floorboards as the air began to warm.

"Home sweet home," he said, taking a deep breath and surely breathing in the familiar scent of lavender her mother had filled the house with for ages. The aroma was tainted with mold and the stench of stagnation, though, and it left Hermione feeling agitated. Carrying her bag with her, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom as her parents finished unloading the car.

Her hand barely had the strength to close around the crystal doorknob, and when she turned it and stepped into the small, familiar space, she felt a stinging behind her eyes. Old school books and framed photos of her friends rested on top of her dresser, clothing hung neatly in the closet, and her stuffed rabbit was leaning comfortably against her pillow. Her Hogwarts trunk lay open at the foot of the bed as she and Harry had brought it with them when they'd stopped by before she left for Australia. It felt like a relic of ancient times, and even though she expected to return to school in the fall, she could barely look at it without feeling emotional all over again.

She sat down on her bed, her fingers deftly twisting the edges of her well-loved comforter, the same one she'd had since age nine. The fabric felt scratchy as she lifted it and rubbed it against her face. Before she could even understand what was happening, tears started leaking out of her eyes and her throat constricted. She buried her face in the floral-patterned duvet, hoping to drown out the sound of her own cries to avoid any further sympathy from her family. Sympathy was the last thing she wanted after what she'd done to them.

Fortunately, that particular round of crying only lasted a few minutes, and she recomposed herself, staring into the small vanity mirror as she wiped away any sign of her anguish. With one last glance around the room, she flipped off the light switch, plunging herself into darkness.

It's home, but not really.

"Hermione, is everything alright?" her mother called from downstairs.

She shuffled down the staircase, avoiding eye contact with her parents and hoping they weren't perceptive enough to know what had been happening upstairs. "Everything's fine."