Chapter Text
May 3rd, 2000.
May 3rd, 2000.
It had been barely two years since the day the wizarding war ended. Hermione remembered the hollow victory that followed, the cheer, the relief, the exhaustion that felt almost sacred. Her lungs drew in the air in trembling gasps, only for it to feel suddenly thin, bitter, and unearned. Around her, the echoes of celebration bounced off the walls of the Leaky Cauldron, clinking glasses, laughter, the occasional tearful cry. All she could hear was the silence of the battlefield in her mind, the ghostly whispers of those who would not join them at any table.
Her eyes settled on the corner of the pub where Harry sat, a quiet smile tugging at his lips while Ron noisily shoved another forkful of stew into his mouth. They had survived. They had won. Victory felt fragile and brittle, beautiful only because it would not last.
Across the table, Ron leaned back, smearing gravy across his chin. “If it were up to me,” he said, his voice muffled by food, “anyone who helped Voldemort should get the Dementor’s Kiss or face something akin to the Salem witch trials. Quite ironic for them, obsessed with blood purity, yes?” He grinned, pleased with his observation, oblivious to the wave of nausea that washed over Hermione at the thought.
She set her fork down. “Ron, really,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
“We cannot descend to their level,” she continued. “Justice, not revenge, is what we fought for.”
Ron shrugged. “They deserve worse.”
Harry spoke, cutting through the tension. “I get it, Ron. We need to show that there is a better way. Letting anger dictate our actions is exactly what Voldemort wanted.”
Hermione pushed her plate away. “The legal system may be flawed, slow, and frustrating, but it is all we have. Compromising our principles now would make everything we fought for meaningless.”
Ginny, who had remained unusually quiet, finally spoke, her voice soft but firm. “Hermione is right. Revenge will not bring anyone back. We have to trust that the system, however imperfect, can rebuild a just society.”
Ron’s face darkened. “Fine. But if they get off easy, there will be consequences.”
In the aftermath of the war, both Harry and Ron had been granted honorary Auror positions for their heroism. Harry rose quickly through the ranks, becoming Head Auror and working with Kingsley Shacklebolt to root out lingering dark magic. Ron developed a reputation for unorthodox methods in interrogating former Death Eaters. Ministry whispers spoke of psychological manipulation, intimidation, and occasional use of dark magic. Those rumors hinted at a troubling fascination with dismantling people mentally, leaving them hollowed and terrified.
The Ministry turned a blind eye. Success seemed to excuse almost anything. Even Hermione, usually protective of Ron, felt uneasy whenever she heard these tales.
“You are assuming that everyone who wore the Dark Mark did so willingly,” Harry said, trying to pull Ron back from the edge. “Some were coerced, some were terrified. We cannot paint them all with the same brush.”
“They chose him,” Ron said. “All of them. They embraced it.”
Hermione leaned forward. “Ron, you are letting anger blind you. There is a difference between accountability and vengeance. Some deserve punishment, yes, but some deserve a chance at redemption. That is not weakness. That is morality.”
Ron laughed hollowly. “Redemption, for them? After what they did?”
Harry sighed, meeting their gazes. “I have seen people change, Ron. You, me, and Draco. Change is messy, imperfect, and sometimes infuriating. Denying it exists is how wars start again.”
Ron’s face twisted. “You are vouching for him? After everything?”
Hermione flinched. “Ron, enough. You do not get to speak for me. You have no right to frame my experiences as a political argument or a morality lesson.”
The words hit harder than she expected. Ron’s eyes, normally mischievous or frustrated, hardened. “As your boyfriend,” he said deliberately, “I deserve to know. What he did to you, the manor, the woods, and everything...do you not think it matters? Do you not think the world deserves to hear it before you make this statement?”
Hermione’s chest heaved. “Stop. Stop calling yourself that. You cheated. You left. You tried to move on. That ended. I speak for myself, for my own truth. Not for your morality, not for your anger, not for your need to feel heroic.”
She slammed her hands down, standing abruptly. Chairs scraped, and the warm hum of the pub now felt suffocating. The door opened with a harsh clang, and Hermione stormed into the evening air. The rain had begun, soft and steady, soaking her coat. She did not care. She walked fast, letting the cold wash over her, letting her thoughts untangle in solitude.
Inside, Ron sat frozen, his hand halfway to his mouth. Harry leaned back, lips pressed in a thin line, the weight of unspoken regrets filling the space. For a moment, the celebration outside the pub felt distant and meaningless. They had survived a war, but survival did not mean understanding and certainly did not mean peace.