Chapter Text
“Desperately close to a coffin of hope,
I’d cheat destiny just to be near you.”
-Anna Nalick
Before Hermione Granger was a witch, she'd wanted to be a scientist. Even as a child, she'd had a voracious appetite for knowledge, eager to understand how things worked. Her brain seemed to compute numbers as naturally as some people knew how to sing—intuitively. She kept facts and extraneous details that most adults would have gawked at. She was never one to put stock in impossible things, and magic was impossible.
Until it wasn’t.
An older Hermione Granger sits at the small kitchen table in her flat, her eyes staring into nothing. In her hands is a fresh cup of tea. She mechanically brings it to her lips, sipping occasionally and wondering how in the absolute fuck it has come to this.
The day is bright and sunny, and she registers birdsong from the feeders outside. It's mocking, to be frank, and Hermione feels something coiling deep inside her that she must stamp out. Because to let it free means she may fall under its spell and never resurface.
Ron enters the kitchen, looking more like an Inferius than she’s ever seen him. Something cracks further in her chest to see her friend so sad. He moves with mechanical intention while fixing his tea and then sits across from her silently. His eyes are hollow and aged, as if the little light he had has finally gone out.
The Ron of today is markedly different from the Ron of her youth. This Ron has experienced the growth that hurts because it took too much loss to get. Ron is pensive, reflective, considerate. He’s still quick to anger, but less likely to act impulsively because of it. This Ron has her trust in a way that the Ron of her youth never had. This Ron, she knows will never leave her.
He eyes the paper sitting carelessly on the table between them, and a flicker of something flashes behind his eyes at the headline.
“Boy Who Lived: Dead at 21.”
The article is tasteful as far as Daily Prophet articles go, but Hermione still eyes it with disdain. The article highlights Harry's accolades, victories, and cause of death (i.e., a raid gone wrong), and provides information for his vigil that is to take place at Hogwarts this very evening.
“I don’t want to go,” she whispers, her voice scratchy and raw from her screams. “I don’t want to listen to some Ministry official speak of him as if they actually knew anything about him. Like he didn’t give his whole life to this ungrateful fucking world, and then give more when they asked.”
The Ministry has only changed as much as necessary to keep the public from revolting. Harry, Ron, and Hermione are trotted out when they want to preach about acceptance, inclusivity, and all the ways they’ve overcome Voldemort's reign. Never mind that most of the Wizengamot is still made up of Purebloods. Never mind that yes, there are laws to protect house-elves from abuse, but they are still slaves. Never mind that all the people who fought and died during the war did so for people she is beginning to think hardly deserved it.
Hermione thinks her rage started when she spent the first year of the Restoration burying her friends, trying to implement laws for the betterment of society and absolutely failing. Hermione, more than a little disenchanted, gave up her career in Magical Law and became an Unspeakable instead. She’s allowed Harry and Ron to continue the crusade capturing rogue Death Eaters, and Hermione fucked right off to the Department of Mysteries, relishing in returning to the person she was before the war, before the torture, before the death—a student, keen to learn and research every obscure branch of magic she desired. The anonymity had been a buoy in the middle of a storm.
Regret is also bitter, and she feels it acutely. Maybe if she had stayed, Harry would still be here.
“I’ve heard from Mum.” Ron leans forward, taking her hand in his. “She’ll host later for just family and friends.”
A little spark lights his eyes. “But we still have to go to Hogwarts. For Harry. For the younger generation who looks up to him. For everyone who will look at us.”
Hermione is not convinced.
“Aren’t you tired, Ron?” Hermione asks. “Can’t we just grieve in peace? Haven’t we lost enough? Why do we need to be the people the public looks to? I barely have enough room for our pain, let alone theirs.”
Ron holds her stare, and there is something so warm in his gaze that she can’t stop the onslaught of tears that begin falling down her cheeks. He wraps her up in his arms, securing her to his chest as though if he lets go she’ll disappear. Hermione inhales his scent; spearmint and fresh grass. Even if there is nowhere else… She is safe here.
“We just need to get through tonight, ‘Mione.” His voice is so wrecked that she doesn’t chide him for the horrible nickname. “Tomorrow we can fall apart.”
She clings to the lifeline he tosses her and nods. “Tomorrow we can fall apart.”
Hogwarts is just as majestic as Hermione remembers it.
Just as terrible.
The lawns are sprawling and green; the air is light and crisp in the spring evening. Flowers sprout from the ground, and the trees are lit up with sprites that seem to wave as the group of people pass. They are being led to the Quidditch pitch; it seems.
It makes her sick. She remembers when the grass was stained red. And that tree over there… That's where she’d found Arthur, his face pale and still against the dark earth. A sob catches in her throat, a phantom pain echoing the gut-wrenching fear she’d felt that day. She looks towards the front lawn and remembers Lavender, her vacant eyes staring up at the stormy sky, a final, silent testament to the brutality they’d faced. And over there near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, that’s where Percy died, moments after finally standing with his family and avenging Fred with a ferocity Hermione hadn’t known he possessed.
Each step closer to the castle grounds is a fresh stab of grief. The ancient stones whisper with echoes of laughter, of whispered secrets in the library, of the comforting crackle of the Gryffindor fire. She can almost see the younger versions of themselves, racing down the corridors, their faces bright with mischief and the boundless optimism of youth. Hermione, with her nose always in a book. Harry with that familiar, slightly bewildered grin and Ron, gangly, loyal, and always ready with a sarcastic remark or a comforting shoulder.
The Great Hall looms ahead, its stained-glass windows casting colorful shadows on the path. She remembers the feasts, the sheer joy of Christmas at Hogwarts, the nervous excitement of the Sorting Ceremony. But these memories are now tainted, overlaid with the images of the wounded huddled on makeshift beds, the hushed whispers of loss, the emptiness where so many familiar faces used to be. The long tables, once laden with food and camaraderie, now feel like silent witnesses to the devastation they had endured.
As they approach the Quidditch stands, a wave of nausea washes over her. This is where they had soared, free and full of life. Harry, a natural on his broom, the wind whipping through his hair. Ron, a surprisingly capable Keeper when he wasn’t second-guessing himself. And she, grounded, but always their biggest cheerleader from the stands. Now, the stands are somber. Faces are etched with sorrow. The hoops stand stark against the twilight sky, a silent reminder of the games that would never be played with the same carefree spirit again.
Hermione clutches Ron’s arm, knuckles white. The air feels heavy with unspoken grief, a collective weight of loss that threatens to suffocate her. She sees other familiar faces in the crowd—Neville, his eyes red-rimmed but his posture strong; Luna, her gaze distant, perhaps seeing a reality Hermione can no longer perceive. Each of them carries their own scars, their own ghosts of Hogwarts past.
She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to conjure the feeling of the crisp autumn air on her face as she sits by the Black Lake, studying with Harry and Ron. She remembers the thrill of solving a difficult riddle, the warmth of their friendship and constant comfort. But even these precious memories are now laced with profound sadness, a knowledge of all that was lost; all the potential that has been extinguished too soon. Hogwarts, once a sanctuary, now feels like a vast, echoing monument to their shared pain.
Of course, the Ministry makes a spectacle. The new Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot talks as though he and Harry were best mates, which sets Hermiones' teeth on edge. Kingsley gives a politician's speech, though Hermione knows he will grieve privately with the rest of them later. The only ones worth listening to are Flitwick and McGonagall's speeches, and even then she knows that with the thousands of people and press from all over the world present, their words are censored.
It’s infuriating that they’ve sensationalized his death, but Hermione breathes as McGonagall's Scottish lilt soothes her worn soul.
“Rest now, Harry. You’ve earned it.” McGonagall's eyes lock on Hermione and Ron, shiny even from a distance. “Your memory will forever stay with me, with us. From you, we have learned that even in the darkest of times, there is always hope if one remembers to turn on the light.”
The Headmistress lifts her wand, a silent Lumos lighting the tip. Reminiscent of Dumbledore's funeral years before, every wand is raised.
Hermione chokes back on a sob as she follows suit.
The Burrow is packed to the brim with Weasleys and old Order members. Molly has cooked a feast to rival those of Hogwarts, but no one is eating yet. Hermione and Ron sit somewhere in the middle of the table, and Hermione passes Fleur a piece of bread as the Witch winces and presses a hand to her swollen belly.
“I dunno if zis kid is a weezard or if ee’ iz a bludger,” she grouses miserably. “I ‘av ‘alf a mind to never let Bill touch me again.”
Hermione hides a small smile as Bill rubs his wife's hand soothingly. “Just being in your presence is enough, love.”
Fleur's responding glare would’ve made a lesser man whither. Hermione is grateful to have a sense of normalcy for a moment. She’s in her head a lot tonight, trying to bite back bitter devastation and seething rage. All it takes for her to nearly lose her grip is to see Ginny's nearly despondent face.
She and Harry had married only a year after the war, but it was a true love match. Their marital vows had lit up the ceremony in a brilliant golden display that had brought Hermione to tears at the thought of Harry finally, finally, getting a family of his own. Hermione knows that Ginny's pain must be even more unbearable than hers.
Especially considering how barren the Weasley table is compared to how it used to be. There are too many empty seats, and Hermione can almost feel the presence of those who should be here to mourn with them. Arthur, Percy, Fred, Sirius, Remus, Tonks… Harry.
Hermione looks down as Teddy Lupin, now a vivacious three -almost four- year old, tugs on her pants and makes the universal “up” gesture. Her smile is a bit more genuine than it has been in several days as she acquiesces and props him on her knee. His hair changes from it’s normal turquoise to a brilliant curly brown. His eyes -amber like his fathers- are bright and luminous. His gummy smile falls a little as he takes in Hermione’s face.
“Why sad, Mimi?” he asked, his nose scrunched up.
Andromeda, sitting across from Hermione, presses her lips together. Hermione sees Ginny close her eyes and exhale a trembling breath.
She’s good with Teddy, and has been since he was born. She’s changed him, fed him, sung him to sleep, read to him, done everything she could to be the best godmum he could want. How the fuck does she explain this?
Teddy wipes a tear from her cheek, “your eyes are raining.”
A wet chuckle leaves her, his innocence is both healing and torturous. “My eyes are rainy because I miss your Uncle Harry a lot today, darling.”
Teddy’s smile reappears, “where is Uncle Harry? I no seen him in forever!”
Four days did feel like forever in this particular moment.
“Well,” Hermione struggles for words, “he’s… lost, little love.”
The little boy whips his head around and begins to wiggle in Hermione’s lap. “Lost? Okay, then let’s go find him.”
The table is deathly silent. Molly has tears streaming down her face, her grip tight in George's hand. Kingsley looks a bit sick, and Ron has gone as still as a statue. Hermione looks at them helplessly as she struggles to keep the Lupin child from running away from the table to search for his godfather.
And Hermione can see Harry’s visage in Teddy's face. She’d seen the same determined expression on his face the night they’d left to save Sirius from the Department of Mysteries. Ron must feel the same way, because he’s gone white as a sheet.
Hermione grabs Teddy by his waist and lifts him to sit fully facing her. Her hands grip his shoulders firmly, and she lowers her voice, trying to be as gentle as possible. Waves of grief rise up in her and threaten to burn the Burrow down, but Hermione reminds herself that it’s not her grief that matters right now.
“Teddy, love,” she begins slowly. “Uncle Harry is not lost in that way. He’s… well, he’s died. He’s gone.” Hermione doesn’t know, what does she know about the afterlife that hasn’t come from a ghost-- and it’s not like they’ve been, have they? She wants to kick herself. What use is her exceptionally expansive vocabulary if it fails her when she needs it most?
“He’s gone forever?” Teddy's plump lip starts to tremble as tears begin freely falling down his face. “I can’t see him anymore?”
Ginny abruptly excuses herself from the table.
“No, baby.” Hermione’s own voice catches. “You can’t see him anymore, only feel him in your heart.” She places a hand on his chest. “He’s in Heaven.”
“Like my mummy and daddy?” Andromeda lets out a choked sob.
Hermione smiles weakly, “yes my love. He’s with your parents, and his mum and dad.”
Teddy lets out several sniffles, and Hermione rubs his back soothingly for several long moments. The food is levitated to the table, but Ogdens and Sirens Scotch (a gift from the Malfoys) makes up the main course.
Finally, his trembling subsides and he lifts his now head of black hair to look Hermione in the eye. He looks so much like Remus that Hermione just wants to fall apart all over again.
“Aunt Mimi?”
“Yes, Teddy love?”
“I’m sad, but I’m also happy too.”
“And why is that, Teddy bear?”
“I miss Uncle Harry. But it’s okay because he’s with his mummy and daddy. Everyone needs a mummy and daddy.”
It’s three days later when Hermione, Ron, and Ginny are walking into Gringotts. The summons, while not entirely unexpected, has rattled Hermione. She can almost smell the smoke filling the air, hear the jets of spell light sizzling past her ear, feel the spikes from the back of a Ukrainian Ironbelly digging into her thighs.
Gringotts Goblins stare at her and Ron with barely concealed disdain. Despite Kingsley paying for the damage with the Ministry's reparation fund, the Goblins still distrust her. Hermione doesn’t particularly care at this point, but it’s never a good idea to have an entire horde as your enemy. They are led by a teller to a room warded so heavily that Hermione automatically feels a pressure sink over her skin. She feels more than hears Ron's sharp intake of breath, and it makes her finger her wand nervously.
Ragnok, the new head of Gringotts since Gornuk died, greets them from behind an ornate walnut desk. The rest of the room is cramped with books and ledgers, but three chairs have been provided across from him.
“Mrs. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Ms. Granger,” he greets them. “Please have a seat.”
They do so, and Hermione fights not to fidget as he eyes them all imperiously. Ragnok has a reputation for being ruthless, and his eyes reflect that as he assesses them for a long moment.
“Normally, I have my staff charged with the readings and bequests of Last Wills and Testaments. But, being the head of a Noble and Ancient family, along with Mr. Potters contributions to the magical world, I took it upon myself to oversee this one. Let me begin by saying I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Potter.”
Ginny only nods.
“As an Auror, Mr. Potter updated his will frequently over the last few years. Most things have not changed since he seized his family title, mainly incorporating yourselves as well as Edward Lupin into the standard distributions, but there are a few decisions that need to be made. I will not infringe upon your time more than is strictly necessary, so let’s begin.” Hermione knows this is a sign of respect, and she feels her eyebrows raise in surprise.
He unrolls a piece of parchment, and Hermiones eyes water as she recognizes Harrys messy scrawl.
“To my wife, Ginevra Molly Potter, the love of my life and keeper of my soul, I leave the Primary Potter vault, Potter Manor and Grimmauld Place. While she may do as she wishes with Grimmauld Place, I would ask that she and any family she chooses to reside in Potter Manor, along with any children we may have, so that they have all the protection the family wards provide. I have left a vial of my blood, to be used to add anyone she so chooses to the wards. I would also ask that she set up funds for our remaining family, and distribute them as she sees fit.”
Ginny has silent tears streaming down her cheeks, and she brings her hand to cover a sob attempting to escape her mouth. Ginny, as a soul bonded Potter, is already a part of the protective wards. Hermione and Ron won’t necessarily need his blood to access any Potter Wards either, but the rest of the Weasleys would. Harry, Hermione, and Ron had performed a blood bonding ceremony shortly after the war. It might’ve been a little reckless, and at the very least gray magic, but they’d wanted to make sure they would always be there for each other. To never be parted again. Magic already recognizes Hermione and Ron as members of the Potter Family.
“To Mr. Ronald Bilius Weasley, my first friend and brother of my heart, and most fearsome chess companion, I leave a sum of 100,000 galleons and The Keeper’s Lodge. I ask that he take the coastal lodging so that he can fly his broom, raise any wonderful nieces and nephews I may have, and always have a home that he can call his very own.”
Ron’s mouth falls open in shock, and Hermione hasn’t seen this particular look on his face since at least fourth year. The Keepers Lodge is a beautiful cottage off the coast that Harry and Ron visited and renovated only this past summer. Hermione knows the home is everything Ron had ever dreamed of for himself. It’s perfect for him. Ron exhales a deep breath and closes his eyes.
“To Ms. Hermione Jean Granger, my fiercest friend, my sister, who kept us alive and taught me that books and cleverness are fine but that friendship and bravery are better… I leave a sum of 100,000 galleons and the cottage in Godrics Hollow. May it be a place of peace for you.”
Hermione is reeling.
“I also wish for Hermione Jean Granger, my blood bonded sister, to take up my Hereditary seat in the Wizengamot should the magic accept her, so that she may leave the world a better place.”
Ragnok stares at her. “This is a highly unusual thing for Gringotts to bequeath Ms. Granger. Normally, the Wizengamot itself handles these matters. But when I spoke to Mister Potter, he feared that you’d be denied simply because of your parentage. And while Gringotts does not involve itself in the matters of Wizards, we do have the power to ensure that you have, at the very least, a fair chance at the seat due to our magical contracts dealing with inheritance. They will not be able to deny you the chance to claim the magic.”
This was… well this was fucking unbelievable.
Harry hadn’t just armed her with more money than she could hope to earn in the next twenty years. He’d armed her with power. Being muggleborn, the only way she would have ever been able to gain a seat on the Wizengamot would’ve been to eventually become Minister of Magic, a dream that had died with most of her friends on the battlefield.
An old spark of… something… flares in her chest right beside her grief.
“There is also the matter of the Black Family estate. While the late Sirius Black passed all money and titles to Mr. Potter upon his death, Mr. Potter held but never took up the Black Family seat, even though he had the right to claim through his maternal grandmother's blood. The seat normally would have passed to the next Male Heir, one Draco Malfoy, who abstained in favor of retaining his family seat. We have here, a signed approval from Lord Malfoy, abdicating the Black Family seat to the next in line, Mr. Edward Remus Lupin.”
“I say this to you, Mrs. Potter, because while as his spouse, the black family assets normally would go to you, Mr. Potter has requested you leave the remaining Black inheritance to young Mister Lupin, and sign over proxyship to one Andromeda Tonks ‘nee Black, so that she may be its executor until Mister Edward becomes of age. It will require your magical signature, should you choose, and Mrs. Tonks will be notified upon it’s completion.”
It was so very Harry, to ensure that everyone he holds dear be taken care of. To not only provide money for them, but the security of homes and power. Something of which he himself never had. Hermione’s chest cracks wide open as she watches Ginny sign the required signatures with a shaky hand.
Ragnok takes a moment to seal the documents, and they vanish with a small pop. He then waves his hand, and three envelopes float toward them gently. Hermione’s name is scrawled on the front of the one that lands in her lap, and she wipes her face quickly to keep her tears from smudging Harrys handwriting. Maybe the last time he’d ever written her name.
“Those are personal letters from Mr. Potter, to be distributed to you upon the completion of the reading. This completes the reading of the will. I will not take up any more of your time.”
The goblin abruptly stands, and the three of them follow suit. Ragnok places his arm diagonally across his chest. “You all have my condolences, and Gringotts will endeavor to see that every request Mr. Potter has is filled with the utmost care. May your vaults be ever overflowing.” He bows to them slightly, and Hermione is once again struck by how much respect he is showing them.
“May your vaults be ever overflowing,” Hermione repeats mechanically as she gives a small bow back, Ron and Ginny following her lead a bit stiffly.
Later that night, Hermione strips her robes off and sinks into the near scalding tub of hot water. The day's events had been exhausting, and she’s already been through one bottle of wine, and another sits on the side table next to her. She’s never been a heavy drinker, but she craves the warm buzz the wine is giving her.
She groans and tilts her head back as the water works its magic on her sore body.
After they’d left Gringotts Hermione, Ron and Ginny made stops at both the Burrow and the Tonks' house in Oxfordshire. Andromeda had just finished reading her official letter from Gringotts, and pulled each of them into fierce hugs that were out of character for her typically more restrained demeanor. While Andromeda is not poor by anyone's imagination, having her half-blood grandson become the next Lord Black with all vaults and titles attached seems to heal something in her Hermione never realized was still wounded.
“He will make House Black noble again one day,” the older witch sniffled as she rubbed Teddy's head affectionately.
The trio then makes a stop at the Burrow for an early dinner, allowing Molly to coddle them. Hermione knows the witch hates having idle hands, and so she allows her to stem her grief by fixing her supper. Molly sobs when they tell her about Harrys will, and her inclusion in it. To be taken care of financially, something the Weasleys have always struggled with.
“Ginny, we do not need Harrys money,” she begins with a whisper. “We’re doing fine.”
“Mum, he wanted his family to be taken care of. You wouldn’t deny him this, would you?” Ginny's voice was quiet, but firm. “He knew that you struggled even more after Dad died, and he would never want you to be bereft. You were his mother in all the ways that mattered, and I would not see his wishes ignored out of misplaced pride. Plus, the Burrow will always be our home, but maybe Potter Manor will help us get a fresh start. I don’t want to be in a place so grand all alone. Now that Harrys gone… it would be unbearable. I need you with me, at least for a while.”
Molly Weasley is a prideful witch, but ultimately a mother first. The sight of her daughter's devastated face is enough for the last vestiges of her pride to be wiped away and she swept Ginny up into a bone breaking hug.
“My girl…” she whispered as she soothed Ginnys hair. “My boy.”
Hermione watched Molly cry as she attempted to console her daughter. Harry had been her seventh son, one she hadn’t asked for but loved nonetheless. Harry is hers, no matter who his parents were, and it occurs to Hermione that Molly Weasley has lost too many children. Nearly half of her children. The thought shattered her, and a bone-deep sympathy rose in her for the elder witch.
So Hermione now allows the water to wash the day away, relieved and a little guilty to be feeling so. She’s been keeping her own grief at bay to take care of her family, and it’s only in solitude that she finally allows herself to feel the weight of her heart.
Taking a generous sip of her wine, Hermione eyes the letter. It’s not as though it will bite her, but Hermione dreads it. She doesn’t want to know what it says, what Harrys last words to her are. But her curiosity is still one of her more powerful impulses.
A wandless, murmured wingardium leviosa makes her feel a small sense of nostalgia as the letter lifts and unfolds in the air in front of her.
Hermione,
If you are reading this, then it seems my life has reached it’s end. While I hope that this letter is discarded and another finds you many years into the future when you’re old and gray, our lives have never really allowed for such fancies, have they?
I knew that I would never find peace until Voldemort's stain was gone, so it’s likely that I died fighting with a wand in my hand. If it is my time, this early, then that’s how I would’ve wished it. I know that sounds selfish because I have so many people to live for now, but I know that I have left the world better for them. To me, that’s enough.
I do not wish for you to blame yourself, Hermione, though I know somehow you will. To figure out where you went wrong, to believe that if you had been there you could’ve stopped it. Maybe you’re right, but that is not on you. You did more than enough to keep me alive for many years, and you needed to rest. I might’ve been the saviour of the Wizarding World, but you were mine.
I don’t think I’ve ever told you how much you mean to me, that you are my favorite persone in the entire world (Don’t tell Ron and Ginny I said that.) My dearest sister, whom I never asked for, but found nonetheless. Who never left my side, shared my hurts, and kept me going even when I wanted to give up.
I never thanked you for that. But I should have.
I have never feared death, Hermione, not even when it embraced me the first time. Death and I have walked beside each other for my entire life, and we’ve become friends. The next adventure that awaits me is not something to be feared just because it’s unknown.
I know I will be with my parents. With Sirius and Remus. The way I should have always been.
I love you Hermione, and my one wish for you is to find joy and happiness wherever you go.
Until we meet again, my sister.
Love,
Harry Potter
The letter folds itself back up and flies to the side table as Hermione finally releases a gut wrenching cry.
She throws her head back and sobs, begging whatever gods there are to somehow bring Harry back to her. She cries for Ginny, for Ron, for Teddy Lupin. But really, she cries for herself. For knowing that she will never have another friend like Harry. Someone who raised her, and she raised in turn. Who’s been there with her through all her phases of growth, of change, and of hurt. No one, not even Ron, would ever understand her the way Harry had. No one ever even tried.
Hermione exits the tub in a frenzy, not bothering to vanish the water that slops over the sides.
Her wet feet leave imprints as she throws a towel around her body and storms through the flat, her wine sloshing around as she haphazardly sets it on the counter of the small kitchen set. Her eyes are blurry from both tears and swelling, and her nose is stuffed. But she breathes through her mouth and tries to quell the current storming through her veins.
For a long time, Hermione’s grief has been a quiet, clinical thing- a list of tasks to complete. Following the battle of Hogwarts: attend services, help restore the ministry, help with the wounded. When she failed to restore her parents memories: ensure that Monica and Wendell Wilkins had protective wards, obtain ownership of the house in Hampstead, forge legal documents for the muggle world. With Harrys death: a funeral to organize, and a will to execute with the same grim efficiency she once applied to her NEWTs.
But now she stands alone in the silence of her flat. The will and Harrys letter echo in her mind as the Potter legacy sits on her shoulders like a leaden shroud, the silence finally snaps.
The sorrow doesn’t vanish; it curdles, thickens into a hot, vicious rage that settles in her stomach like acid.
I know I will be with my parents. With Sirius and Remus. The way I should have always been.
Yes, Harry should’ve grown old, surrounded by his family and friends. But rogue Death Eaters stole that chance long ago. Voldemort took that chance.
I know I will be with my parents. With Sirius and Remus. The way I should have always been.
Maybe if older, wiser wizards, like Dumbledore, had done their jobs. Maybe if they’d acted, Hermione and her friends wouldn’t have had to bleed for this ungrateful fucking world.
I know I will be with my parents. With Sirius and Remus. The way I should have always been.
Maybe if Hermione herself had all of the information, they would’ve been able to stop it. Stop all of it before Hogwarts became a ruin of blood and bone. Maybe Harry would be alive today.
I know I will be with my parents. With Sirius and Remus. The way I should have always been.
It’s no longer about the Boy-Who-Lived who later died, but that the world had done it to him. The archaic laws, the stains upon the seats of power, the endless cycle of sacrifice that leaves her holding a key to a vault instead of her best friend’s hand. But she would never hold Harry’s hand again.
Her fingers are white knuckled as she walks into her bedroom closet, and pulls out a box that sits forgotten in the back corner.
I know I will be with my parents. With Sirius and Remus. The way I should have always been.
A small slice and drop of blood later, the wards on the box fall and she opens the lid.
She doesn’t want the gold, the titles, the legacy. She doesn’t want to sit on the Wizengamot and watch them smile at her condescendingly as if she should be grateful to grace their presence.
She wants her brother. She wants the life that was stolen from them.
She withdraws the circular inset and runs her hands across the tiny, sparkling hourglass. The nested rings of burnished gold are still, each engraved with delicate, scrolling runes that seem to shimmer as they catch the light. Inside the glass, the sand was a crystalline silver that moved with unnatural fluidity, as if aware of the gravity it’s meant to defy. The metal is dense in her hands, humming with a low vibration that resonates through her fingertips.
Grief cools into soft, simmering rage.
I know I will be with my parents. With Sirius and Remus. The way I should have always been.
Yes, seeing Harry Potter again is impossible.
Unless, it isn’t.