Chapter Text
Present
Hermione Granger took a sip of her tea as Ron and Charlie worked through the new formation drills and adjustments to their training routine.
Dust hung in the air, kicked up from the morning’s combat drills. The training grounds behind the Shackleboldt estate, a sprawling property in Wales which had become the Order’s largest safe house and its unofficial command centre for more than a year now, still bore the churned-up mud from days of rain, but for once, the skies had cleared. A weak, golden sun filtered through the clouds, warming her face.
She closed her eyes for a second. A rare moment of stillness.
Then Ron’s voice cut through the air, steady and commanding: “Remember, urban combat relies on four pillars—proper mindset, situational awareness, skill proficiency, and physical fitness.”
Hermione blinked, the warmth already fading. Her eyes found Ron. He stood tall beside Charlie, now broader in shoulder and steadier in voice than he’d ever been at Hogwarts. Training every day for the past year had transformed him, and not just physically. He had stepped up without hesitation, when everything had fallen apart.
He had taken such gentle care of her when they’d found Harry’s still body in the Forbidden Forest, had held her for days, even after Harry woke again.
In the days following Voldemort’s victory, the resistance had been in disarray. They were scrambling, scattered, relying on gut instinct and desperation, rather than planning. Ron had taken control, believing the war could still be won if they just acted fast. But they’d leaned too hard into guerrilla tactics. There was no structure. No training. Still, while the rest of them clung to pieces of the broken Order, Ron had tried to rebuild it.
When Charlie joined, things started to stabilize. Together, the brothers had divided the recruits into squads, established command hierarchies, implemented drills, and begun building something that resembled an army.
Hermione and Harry took part in the drills when they could, but in those early months, their focus had been elsewhere. The search for the remaining horcruxes had stalled. Two were still unaccounted for, and the questions kept piling up. How had Harry survived? And why hadn’t Voldemort been affected? Was Nagini truly a horcrux? Had Voldemort managed to split his soul again after they destroyed the first ones?
The research was consuming, layered on top of their responsibilities within the Upper Council of the Order. Harry, Ron and Hermione, weren’t just symbols of the resistance—they were its backbone. With their experience, their knowledge of dark magic, and the insight Dumbledore had entrusted to them, everyone knew that if this war was to end, it would be through the three of them.
Her gaze drifted back to Ron. He was everything he should be — brave, loyal, kind. And still, she couldn’t love him the way he deserved. Since the battle of Hogwarts she hadn’t felt anything but numb. Even when she was surrounded by the people she loved, she hadn’t felt anything. Wasn’t feeling anything. Ron and her had tried being intimate once, she had initiated it even, but in the moment, when Ron’s lips pressed on hers, she had had a flashback of Greyback snarling in her face, and she had flinched. That had properly ruined the mood.
She supposed it was PTSD. It would be weird if she hadn’t been affected by all they saw. And even now, watching her friends training up recruits for battle, how could anyone have lovey dovey feelings?
Harry appeared at her side and bumped her shoulder with his, a quiet grin playing on his lips.
“The new formation’s solid,” he said. “That manual you found was a game-changer, Hermione.”
“Yeah,” she replied, managing a small smile. “It was a good find.”
She’d salvaged the book during the aftermath of an early attack in a small Muggle village, razed to the ground before the Order could intervene. She’d stumbled into a half-burned bookshop and taken every intact volume she could carry. Among them: a military manual on close-quarters urban warfare.
It had changed everything.
The manual helped add the theory to their drills. It outlined structured squad formations, stress management under fire, command hierarchy, everything they’d been missing. Together with Ron and Charlie, she’d used it to restructure their forces. Within weeks, Order squads were moving as units, surviving ambushes, even taking ground back.
They were still outnumbered. But at least now, they had a fighting chance.
“How are you doing?” she asked Harry. He gave a humourless chuckle. “Haven’t you heard? HARRY POTTER IS DEAD.” He was doing a ridiculous impression of Voldemort, the voice very high-pitched and serpentine.
Hermione burst out laughing despite herself. “Well,” she said, “good thing I’ve always liked ghosts.” But her eyes searched his. “Seriously. How are you?”
She didn’t need to elaborate, they both knew she meant Ginny.
It had been a hard day for the Order, when during an attack on a Death Eater outpost, Ginny had suddenly and publicly ended things with Harry. Not just ended things, but she had humiliated him. Told him not to touch her. Told him she didn’t love him. The words had stunned everyone, especially because the two had already parted ways weeks earlier, and it had been quiet, private, kind affair.
Then the news had reached the command centre that night: Ginny had defected. Joined Voldemort. Rumour now placed her at his side as his most trusted advisor.
Harry had been silent when he found out. Not angry. Not loud. Just… silent. Like someone had pulled something essential out of him. He hadn’t spoken about her since, hadn’t so much as said her name. But the hollowness in his eyes lingered.
The Weasleys, too, were still in shock. No one quite believed it. Losing Ginny had shaken the Order.
Harry exhaled slowly. “I am fine, but…I don’t know. I just feel like… no matter what we do, it’s not enough. And I know that’s unfair to say,” he added quickly, spotting the argument forming. “I know what you’re working on is important. Whatever it is, it’s big. And I am still angry you won’t tell me what it is,” he added, bumping her shoulder again.
Hermione looked away for a moment, watching a group of recruits jog through a drill in the distance. She wanted to tell him. She wanted someone to help carry the weight of it, someone to debate the theory with, to double-check the runes and calculations, to be there when she hit another dead end. She wanted to stop feeling like she wasthe only person who could fix this. But it was too dangerous. The weapon she was working on wasn’t ready yet, not even close. And if she told anyone — even Harry — it would only give them hope. Hope they couldn’t afford.
So, she rolled her eyes. “We’ve been over this.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “But it’s not that. I just… I feel useless sometimes. Like I should do more.”
Her voice was softer when she replied, “You are doing enough. You always have. You died for us, Harry, and then you came back. If anyone’s done enough for one lifetime, it’s you.” She pulled him into a quick hug. “And anyway, it’s not just the three of us anymore. It’s a bigger fight. Everyone’s doing their part –”
Her words halted by a sudden heat pressing from her pocket. A heartbeat later, she realized it was the galleon. The same enchanted coin they had used in school, back when everything was simpler, when a bunch of children dressed as Dumbledore’s Army was their hope to defeat Voldemort. How naive they had been.
She hadn’t felt it warm in days. Not since the last message.
Her fingers fumbled, too fast and too slow all at once, as she pulled the coin free. The worn edges dug into her skin like a brand.
The galleon only showed a scribble. It meant Meet now, written in shorthand she had taught the Order when communication through the coins had become the main communication tool during their attacks.
Hermione stared down at it, pulse racing. This didn’t sound good. It sounded urgent. “Sorry, I have to go,” she said, already turning.
Harry stepped in front of her. “I want to come with you.”
Hermione stopped short. “You know I can’t allow that.”
“I want to know who your inside source is.”
“Harry…” She sighed, trying to edge around him. “It’s too dangerous.”
“They could hurt you; it is too dangerous for you to go alone.”
“I’ve been going for five months,” she snapped. “And we can’t risk their identity. That was the agreement. I had to leave active combat, so that I minimised the risk of being captured, train my Occlumency, and pass five layers of security checks before the Upper Council even agreed to trust me with the source. You know this.”
He clenched his jaw. “Fine, I’ll let the others know where you went off to. You know the rules, you have to come back within the hour.”
“Yes, I know” she said, already heading for the apparition point. “Practice your Occlumency!” she called back.
Then she was gone, spinning through the air to the secret location to meet her source.
When Hermione Apparated to the derelict barn outside Chollerford, the first thing she noticed was the silence. The old farm was half-swallowed by overgrowth, the barn leaning precariously to one side like it was tired of standing.
She swept the perimeter quickly, casting detection spells across the long-abandoned field, reinforcing the wards with a practiced flick. Her source was already here and had left no protection in place. Such negligence was not atypical, but it also meant that this really was an emergency.
Her stomach was in knots as she stepped inside the barn. She saw her, sitting hunched on a low hay bale, arms wrapped around her knees, face buried. Her shoulders trembled with each broken sob.
Hermione froze. “Oh, Ginny…” she whispered, voice cracking.
She rushed forward, dropping to her knees and pulling her friend into her arms. Ginny clung to her like she was drowning.
“Please,” Ginny gasped into her shoulder, “please, I can’t—”
Hermione just held her tighter, rocking her gently back and forth, murmuring soothing words.
Ginny had been unravelling for months and it hurt Hermione so much, to watch it happening.. It had been Ginny’s idea, the spying. That they needed someone on the inside. That they couldn’t trust any of the Death Eaters to defect and give them insights they desperately needed. It had to be one of their own. She’d spoken with such steel in her voice, when she had suggested herself for the job, the fire in her eyes. And maybe some part of her thought she could bear it. That she could stomach the horrors, the orders, the sickening charade.
But she hadn’t known what it would cost. Not just playing the loyal Death Eater.
But being good at it.
Every meeting with Voldemort chipped away at her, the way he praised her cunning, the way he let her closer. The things she had to say, the people she had to watch die. The mask had become a second skin, and it was suffocating her.
Hermione had seen the signs. The bone-deep exhaustion. The sudden flinches. The days between messages stretching longer and longer.
They stayed like that for a while, curled together on a square of hay in a forgotten barn reeking of rot and old straw. Hermione rocked her gently, shushing her like a child, though she knew Ginny hadn’t felt like one in a long time.
In front of Voldemort, Ginny was flawless—sharp, cruel, strategic. But the second she was alone, she fell apart. In the beginning, Hermione used to wait here every evening, not knowing what version of Ginny would arrive. Sometimes she came in half-mad with rage, hurling hexes at Hermione just to feel something. Sometimes she tried to hex herself.
And then there was that night. The night Ginny had to prove her loyalty. The night she killed for the first time.
They’d always known it would happen. Voldemort wasn’t exactly welcoming to her in the beginning, though he had been intrigued. Loyalty wasn’t earned with words, it was earned with blood. Ginny had prepared for it. They had talked about it. But knowing it would happen didn’t make it hurt any less.
She’d arrived late that night. Looked at Hermione once—just once—before vomiting on the floor. And then she’d collapsed, curling into her own sick, unmoving, eyes wide and empty for nearly an hour.
Even now, Hermione wasn’t sure Ginny had come back from that. Not fully.
She stroked Ginny’s hair back from her tear-streaked face.
“You’re doing so good,” Hermione whispered. “What you do is so important.”
Ginny just shook her head. They had saved hundreds with her intel. Diverted raids. Exposed names. Learned things they would never have known without her. And still, Ginny cried like someone who hadn’t saved a single soul. Like she wasn’t a hero.
“We’re so close,” Hermione murmured into Ginny’s hair as she held her, one hand rubbing soothing circles into her back, the other clutching her tightly. “I just need a little more time. The attack in Manchester… it’ll be the first test. If it works, this war could end soon.”
Ginny sniffled, her voice breaking. “How soon?”
Hermione hesitated. She needed to choose her words carefully. As she had said before, they couldn't afford hope. Hope was dangerous. It was bright and loud and impossible to hide. And Ginny couldn’t risk to carry that kind of vulnerability, not with Voldemort clawing through her thoughts so often.
Ginny had the best Occlumency shields of any of them. She could even craft memories from scratch, that had been how she had fooled Voldemort. But hope? Hope was too visible. It gave you away.
“Soon,” Hermione said quietly.
Ginny cried again.
“How’s Percy?” she asked softly, when Ginny’s sobs had finally calmed.
Ginny sat up and wiped her nose with her sleeve. “He’s so thin. I feed him when I can, but it’s not enough.” Her voice cracked. “Maybe it would’ve been kinder—”
“No,” Hermione said sharply. “Don’t do that to yourself. You saved him. Voldemort would’ve tortured him for weeks, maybe killed him in front of you just to make a point. You did what you had to. It was smart. It was merciful. And it was the only way to keep him alive.”
Ginny nodded, but her eyes filled again. “I’m just… I’m so sad, Hermione.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I know. But you’re doing everything right. I promise.”
Hermione paused, then asked, “Do you think you can get closer to Malfoy and his friends? They might have more information. If there’s anything, anything, on the horcruxes, it could be with them. Malfoy is his new favourite after all. Plus, we need to make sure that they show up during the test tomorrow. They need to see it.”
Ginny let out a watery laugh, drying her cheeks on her sleeve. “Funny you should ask. It’s Poker Night tonight. Always after their Friday dinners. Malfoy Senior’s been insisting I join. Even made his son invite me in front of everyone. You should’ve seen his face. He looked at me like I was dragon dung.”
“Well,” Hermione said with a small smirk, “you did Crucio him that one time.”
That got a real laugh out of Ginny. “Is it bad that that’s the only moment I’ve actually enjoyed in the past five months?”
“Ginny!” Hermione scolded, but couldn’t help joining her. They both laughed too hard, too suddenly, and then let the silence stretch again, quieter now, less strained.
“All right,” Ginny said, exhaling. “I’ll go. I’ll charm them. Slytherin party, here I come.”
Hermione helped her up. Ginny staggered slightly, unsteady on her feet.
“They hate me,” Ginny said softly, avoiding her eyes. “Don’t they?”
Hermione’s throat tightened. Only she knew the truth. Not Harry. Not Ron. Not Molly. No one else. Ginny’s cover had to be airtight, so airtight that even her own family believed she’d really defected. That she was a traitor.
A murderer. A monster.
“They’ll understand when the war ends,” Hermione said instead, pressing her forehead to Ginny’s. “You’re the reason we’re going to win this. You’re the reason we were able to pass the Squib Law. You’re the reason our strategy is even possible.”
Ginny just nodded, tears still shining in her lashes.
And Hermione hugged her again, harder this time, trying to anchor her, trying to promise that there was an end to all of this.
Even if neither of them could see it yet.