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Chapter Text

Hermione Granger stared drunkenly at the trail of smoke curling from the cigarette between her fingers. She hadn’t even taken a drag yet, couldn’t remember lighting it either. It must’ve happened sometime between the fourth and fifth crying fit of the afternoon, definitely after she’d climbed out of their (her) bedroom window and onto their rooftop spot with a bottle of firewhisky and a full pack.

She’d never risk the smoke settling into the furniture. It was impossible to get out, stained the walls, and he hated the smell—

Hermione caught herself and scoffed. She brought the cigarette to her cracked lips and closed her puffy eyes as the first drag scorched her throat and bloomed in her lungs. 

Sweet, sweet nicotine relief.

Yeah. She didn’t give a flying fuck about that philanderer’s preferences or opinions anymore. Not after what he’d done to them. To her.

So here it was: her first act as a single woman. Smoking, drinking, and crying alone on the rooftop of the home she still technically shared with a pathetic, lying arsehole.

Hermione raised her cigarette in a mock salute to the setting sun.

“Cheers, universe,” she muttered, and took another drag. 

Her unsteady gaze followed the rolling green grass that stretched for miles. The horizon behind their property was a postcard-perfect countryside. It was serene, idyllic, and utterly at odds with how she was feeling. She should have loved it here. But even before she and the rest of the wizarding world learned what her stupid fucking fiancé had done, it never felt like home.

Before they got engaged, he insisted on moving to the countryside together. He sold it as a good change for both of them. “We need more space, privacy. Somewhere we can settle down away from it all,” he’d said, as if she was suffocating in the city. 

She wasn’t, though. She loved London. The rush and the noise, the freedom of disappearing into a crowd. Selling her flat felt like heartbreak, but leaving behind her favorite restaurants, her market, the bookstores she spent hours in? It was devastating. She hadn’t expected to struggle so much with a new routine. Especially one that came with the promise of peace.

Well, it was probably someone’s idea of peace, but it certainly wasn’t hers. 

Out here, freedom was an illusion. Sure, there were no fences, but there were also no neighbours, no restaurants, no community she could join, no place she could frequent enough to say, “that’s my spot.” The closest town was two hours away by muggle vehicle (which they didn’t even own since he insisted they were dangerous). All she really did besides sit at home, was sit at work. There was just nothing to do. 

And the silence! Merlin, it was deafening. 

So no, this wasn’t space; it was confinement. She was trapped in a gilded cage with a pretty view, isolated for whatever reason. 

Well, she finally knew the reason, didn’t she?

And to think he’d wanted a magical core bonding ceremony at their wedding. Bonded for eternity. What a fucking nightmare that would have been.

Hermione tipped the last drops of firewhisky from the bottle, then launched it off the edge of the roof.

Two finger guns.

A slurred, “Pew!” 

And a beat later, her wandless bombarda shattered the bottle midair.

Hermione sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

Harry Potter was, without question, an absolute fucking wanker.

It wasn’t just that he’d been cheating on her for the better part of a year.

Or that he’d fed her lie after lie after lie to keep up the façade of a devoted fiancé.

Or that he’d been fucking her secretary.

No. It was that Harry. Fucking. James. Motherfucking Potter had humiliated her in front of the entire wizarding world, and she had lost her Wizengamot seat because of it. There was no telling when another one would become available; it would probably be years before another elder member kicked the bucket. And now, all the careful image curation, campaigning, and career planning she’d done was moot. She’d failed at the first step, didn’t even make it past the pre-committee vote before the majority.

They call that “failure to launch” for birds. 

And Hermione had failed to launch fucking spectacularly, right in front of everyone.

All thanks to Rita Skeeter, who happened to be at the right place at the right time (outside Harry’s flat at 3am with a camera). 

RITA’S RANT: THE COLD TRUTH ABOUT OUR ‘GOLDEN GIRL’ 

Harry Potter wasn’t “looking for love,” but it seems our iced-out Chosen One was caught warming himself up with an unidentified redhead’s lips outside a posh muggle London restaurant called The Purple Onion on Friday night.

And where was Hermione Granger? Nowhere to be seen. Sources very close to the couple say that she’s far too busy climbing the greasy pole of power, scheming for a vacant Wizengamot seat, to notice how unhappy Harry’s been. When asked to describe Hermione, “ruthless, calculating, and about as cuddly as a Blast-Ended Skrewt” were the adjectives used. 

So no, Hermione’s not the heartbroken victim here. The same source says she practically shoved Harry right into another woman’s arms with her “frigid behaviour”. Treating people like stepping stones? Pawn to the queen? Looks like she’s been playing wizard’s chess while the rest of us have been figuring out draughts.

If this cunning, frosty Golden Girl is what the Ministry’s selling as Wizengamot leadership, we’d all better stock up on firewhisky. It’s going to be a long, cold winter.

- Rita Skeeter

Photographs of Harry and she-who-would-not-be-named snogging were on the front page of every news outlet from here to Albania after that. The affair was treated like some tragic romance, some fate-woven fairytale, and then shoved down Hermione’s throat from every fucking angle until she felt like she was choking on her rage.

And Hermione? The press turned her into the villain: the “angry woman” who had driven poor, noble Harry Potter to real love’s arms. Of course, she was angry… he proposed to her, then cheated on her. How was she supposed to feel? Overjoyed?

What a fucking crock of shit.

If only they knew what a womaniser he’d been after the war. Ginny Weasley had once called him the Order’s bicycle, and it was for good reason. Everyone got a ride. 

At first, she’d assumed she was just another conquest. Another body for him to use so he could feel something other than constant terror and grief. Another notch on the Chosen One’s wand. She told herself not to fall, not to hope. But then he said it meant something. That she meant something. And somewhere along the way, she started to believe him.

Golden light filtered through the air at the back of Flourish & Blott’s, warm and thick with dust. Hermione drifted down the aisle, grazing her fingers across the spines of books she knew by heart.

She paused, plucking a worn volume from the shelf—A Guide to Ancient Rituals—when she heard him approach. The familiar scent of woodsmoke and grass wrapped around her just before his hand brushed her curls aside and his lips found the sensitive spot at the base of her neck.

She sighed, leaning into his chest as his arms came around her.

“Harry…” she whispered. “We have to stop doing this.”

He dropped his head to her shoulder, breathing her in like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

“I won’t give you up, ‘Mione. They’ll get over it.”

His hands traced up her ribs, lifting the hem of her dress as he pressed her into the bookshelf. Her pulse hammered at her throat.

“The press will drag us. The Golden Girl and the Chosen One, caught sleeping together? It’s too salacious, and we’re not even sure if we—”

He abruptly turned her around to cut her off with a rough and claiming kiss, wedging his knee between her thighs as he swallowed her gasp of surprise.

“Let them talk. I love you,” he growled against her mouth, before kissing her again like it meant forever.

And that was that.

Harry Potter loved Hermione Granger.

Their relationship was public the very next week. The press did, in fact, have a field day, but almost nothing could puncture their rose-coloured bubble in those early months. Not the headlines hinting at her promiscuity in one breath then her ‘frigid virginity’ the next, not the howlers calling her a slag. She floated through the whirlwind romance, half in love, half in disbelief. Because really… who wouldn’t want to be loved by Harry Potter?

He was courageous and kind. He was charismatic. They had survived a war together. They knew each other better than almost anyone else.

Or so she thought.

Now, with the sun sinking below the tree-lined lake behind their home, Hermione wiped a drunken tear from her cheek and cursed his name. Shaking hands lit another cigarette with a wandless incendio.

He said she’d turned into someone he didn’t recognise. 

“You’re playing pretend,” he said one night, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “Acting like everything’s fine. Like if you work hard enough, you can fake your way into being okay.”

For months after they moved in together, he nagged her about seeing a couple’s mind healer. She always promised she’d think about it, that she was just busy. The Wizengamot seat had just opened up, and it wasn’t a good time for her. But the time never came.

Hermione didn’t need to see a mind healer. She didn’t need to drag her trauma into the light and examine it under someone else’s microscope. She needed to forget, needed to distract herself from the aching hole in the middle of her chest where her heart used to be. Everyone she knew had a sob story. She wasn’t special and didn't need special treatment. What she needed was normalcy, and for everyone to stop asking her how she was doing or feeling.

She was fine. 

Except she wasn’t really fine, was she? What she went through as a little girl, as a teenager… it was beyond words. She survived more in her first 18 years of life than most people endure in a lifetime. But she carried it all, alone, hidden beneath her carefully constructed walls of control because nothing could hurt her when it was tucked away neatly into its box. 

Hermione sighed. Maybe he was right. Maybe they’d both been pretending.

But the thing about love, real love, is that it lingers, even after the pretending stops. Even after they hurt you so badly, you can’t help but hate them.

Love lingers, but it doesn’t ask to stay.

She didn’t want it to. 

Hermione glared at the cigarette in her hand. Four hundred fifty-two days since her last smoke. Well, before this afternoon.

She let out a bitter laugh as the tears welled and spilled down her cheeks again. What a fitting metaphor for her life. Four hundred fifty-two days, back down to zero.

All because of Harry Fucking Potter.

She would have to start completely over.

She pulled the last few cigarettes from the pack, shoved them between her lips, and lit them all at once.

If the love he left behind was going to linger,

she’d simply burn it out of her heart.

Chapter Text

The click of Hermione’s heels echoed across the marble floor of the Ministry’s empty Atrium as she jogged to the elevators for her office. She shoved an unruly curl out of her face, muttering curses under her breath because she was late, by her own unreasonable standards. The same obnoxious strand of hair kept falling out, so she quickly wrangled the entire heap into a lopsided knot with her wand. She’d fix it once she got upstairs, where no one could see her.

Three months had passed since The Breakup, and she hadn’t once mismanaged her new schedule of slipping into work as early as possible and leaving as late as she could manage. It was rough, but she’d rather completely avoid the pointed looks and not-so-subtle whispers from people who knew nothing about what happened. 

Everyone seemed to have an incredibly loud opinion about her now, no thanks to Rita Skeeter. The whispers were more like audible low blows being thrown directly at her, always just loud enough for her to hear. If she heard one more arsehole quoting Rita’s newest article or calling her a “frigid bitch” under their breath, she’d explode. 

So better to arrive by five thirty every morning and avoid most of her colleagues, who were probably still fast asleep. This method meant the chances of being seen were slim to none, just the way she liked it. The only person she might run into was Gerry, the Ministry’s ancient janitor, who mostly kept to himself. He wouldn’t notice if her blouse was in desperate need of a scourgify, nor would he judge her. Her peers, however, would. 

The elevator doors slid open, and her reflection shocked her. Purple smudges bloomed under her eyes, her wild curls were doing whatever they wanted, and Merlin—her outfit looked like it had been picked off the floor blindly in the dark (it had been). The entire look reminded her of the first time Gerry had found her in less-than-dignified circumstances, the Friday after the Prophet broke the news of Harry’s affair. He’d found her drunkenly weeping under her desk with not one, but two empty firewhisky bottles and a pile of used tissues. 

Since then, he’d stumbled upon her hiding in supply closets and crying in conference rooms more times than she cared to count. Gerry never commented, just led her to his cozy basement office, brewed tea, and put the radio on. They rarely spoke, but the quiet companionship was a comfort all the same.

She didn’t need his pity, just a moment to regroup before she put her head back down. If she could resurrect her Wizengamot campaign from the grave and wait for the press to latch onto something else, hopefully the Harry mess would blow over, and she could get back on track. It was only a matter of time, right?

It didn’t help that Harry was gallivanting all over the Amalfi coast—or was it Palermo now?—with his mistress, for the entire world to see. He wasn’t keeping a “low profile” like he’d told her to after the news broke. No, he was out there, massaging suntan lotion on her smooth, perky arse for the entire world to see. He was rubbing it in her face, pouring salt and acid in the still-open wound. 

Her heartbreak had a solution, though: it didn’t hurt as much when she was alone and buried in her work. It was easier to arrive early, focus on her projects, leave late, and avoid interaction with people altogether. 

Being alone was easier. No one could hurt her if she kept to herself, just like Gerry. He’d never complained about betrayals during tea with her, not even once. 

The elevator doors were just about to close when a pale, strong hand shot through the gap to stop them.

Hermione groaned, instantly recognising who that bloody hand belonged to.

She jabbed the “close” button repeatedly, but it was too late.

Malfoy stepped into the elevator and sneered, undoubtedly disgusted with her presence on principle. Just behind him was Theodore Nott, walking with his hands tucked into his trouser pockets. He was tall and composed, his expression completely unreadable. 

Hermione glared at the Slytherins. They were really a study of contrasts. Malfoy’s icy grey eyes burned with contempt, his tall, lithe frame moving with the calculated precision of a predator. Hermione wrinkled her nose as she took in his pristine suit and perfectly coiffed platinum hair, because of course, he’d look immaculate at five in the morning. What a prat.

Nott’s dark, wavy hair caught the light as he moved to stand beside Hermione. His undercut was growing out, the shorter sides fading into the tangle of longer waves falling into his eyes. He was just a shade shorter than Malfoy but far tanner and more muscular. Broad shoulders and a solid frame filled the narrow space between them, and the tailored cut of his jacket subtly strained against his chest as he moved. He looked like he could break someone in half, if he decided it was worth the effort. 

His celestine blue gaze swept over her once before landing on the floor, where it stayed. He was calm, detached, impossible to read. The look on his face was one she recognised from Harry. 

Theodore Nott was heavily occluding. 

Hermione shivered at the realization. It was both interesting and uncomfortable. 

“Granger,” Malfoy greeted with a curt nod. Nott stood statuesque.

She stuck her nose in the air, turned forward, sniffed, and retorted without glancing in his direction, “Malfoy.”

His sneer curved into a wolfish smile as he took in her dishevelled appearance. She knew her button-down was a wrinkled mess, though she’d hoped the sweater vest she’d pulled from the back of her closet with her eyes shut had covered the worst of it. At least her trousers were clean.

“I see we’re not the only ones being pushed into uncomfortably early mornings at the Ministry,” he said, raising an eyebrow at her ensemble.

Hermione gaped at him. During his trial, she had taken the stand in his defence. She sat before the Wizengamot and Shacklebolt, recounting in great detail how he’d helped conceal Harry’s identity and, in doing so, all but ensured their escape from Bellatrix. He’d possibly inclined his head in thanks during his mother’s trial—after Hermione had defended her as well—but even that was uncertain.

That had been years ago. In all the time since, he’d never addressed her with anything more than her surname. And he always delivered it with a faint curl of his lip, as if even the syllables tasted bitter in his mouth.

She looked to Nott for a reaction but found none. She’d always assumed he also thought she was beneath a wizard like him. He’d been a quiet, shy boy, but he snickered and sneered at her just as much as the rest of the pureblood Slytherins for six very long years at Hogwarts. 

But as the postwar years passed, and the self-nicknamed “Snake Gang” returned to the Ministry for their mandated wand check-ins, Hermione watched Nott change. Each visit, he seemed colder. Emptier. As though whatever had been left of him after the war was slowly hollowing him out, piece by piece.

Most days, Hermione figured Shacklebolt was making a point with these inspections. He was, after all, the new Minister for Magic. He’d been left the brutal task of having to repair a government in the wake of a fascist coup. Some days, though, she wondered if he was punishing the Slytherin heirs for the crimes their parents had committed, rather than the ones they’d already been acquitted of. The random inspections were meant to be little more than a signature on parchment, yet theirs always seemed to drag on. Several Aurors would guard Shacklebolt’s closed office doors whenever they were in, a special treatment that none of the other parolees received.  

Shacklebolt never acknowledged it. He didn’t need to. The message was woven into every unnecessary delay, every extra measure taken against the trio: Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, and Theodore Nott: we haven’t forgotten what you did.

Sometimes, Hermione wondered if the point wasn’t simply to monitor them, but to slowly grind them down. If they were easier to control, their estate’s bottomless funds would be, too.

She wondered if Shacklebolt made her the director of the Ministry’s most chronically underfunded department for a similar reason. She wasn’t rich by any stretch of the imagination, but she still felt that the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures (DRCMC) was her own personal brand of punishment. Her own leash. 

Shacklebolt was openly irritated with her for speaking at several notable Magical Creatures and Death Eaters’ trials after the war. But she would do it over and over again. No one should have to serve a life sentence in Azkaban for being threatened and blackmailed into Lord Voldemort’s servitude. They could reform and reintegrate, and become productive members of society. Theodore Nott was just one of many she spoke for. 

And Nott, as quiet and reclusive as he was as a child, was worse as an adult. Hermione hadn’t expected a ‘thank you’ from the man, but she did expect some form of acknowledgement after defending him. But he just ignored her. He served his three-year sentence quietly, then disappeared completely from wizarding society. 

Rumor had it that after Nott Senior was sentenced to the Dementor’s Kiss and Junior was released, he torched the family manor before disappearing. Whether there was any truth to that was up for debate (Ginny’s sources were hardly the most reliable), but it was true she’d only ever seen him at the Ministry, which was odd. 

“Cat got your tongue, Granger?” Malfoy mused, pulling Hermione back to the present and away from thoughts of Nott. She only then realised she’d been staring at him—while he met her gaze with a smirk and a single, mocking lift of his brow.

Hermione flushed from embarrassment, her anger surging at Malfoy’s condescending tone. She pressed her lips together, and Nott traced the movement with his eyes. Malfoy still seemed to have a knack for provoking her. She drew in a deep, grounding breath, then tore her gaze from Nott to Malfoy.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Ah, the Golden Girl’s finally had enough of the press.” The wicked glint in his eyes only fanned her irritation. 

Hermione turned, letting her gaze drag up and down him slowly.

“What’s the matter, Malfoy? Afraid your wand might not measure up at today’s inspection?”

The fire in his eyes flared as she popped the “p” in up to twist the knife.

Nott barked out a laugh before he could stop it, earning glares from both Malfoy and Hermione.

“Well,” she said, arching a brow at him, “he can process human words.”

He cleared his throat and stared back down at the floor, clearly not in the mood to play with fire.

“Should have expected as much from the likes of you two.” She turned dismissively and examined her nails, which were suddenly incredibly fascinating. The most intriguing thing in the world. Much more exciting than the Pompous Pureblood Prince and his silent companion riling up her already unsteady emotions.

Heat from Nott’s body washed over her as he leaned into her space. Hermione sidestepped, but he followed, step for step. She finally turned to demand what the hell he thought he was doing, only to realise just how close he was. Her breath caught in her lungs as she met his ocean-blue eyes. Well, he certainly wasn’t occluding anymore. 

The cold mirror of the elevator’s wall pressed against her back as Nott’s face dipped towards hers. He was completely unreadable, but his eyes were glued to her lips.

Her heart stuttered, then all but stopped. 

One arm lifted, reaching past her. Rich leather and spice wrapped around her, heady and overwhelming. She was dizzy, drunk on his scent, on his stupidly, perfectly ruffled hair, the sharp cut of his jaw, the annoyingly flawless curve of his cupid’s bow, his lush bottom lip… 

She held her breath as he leaned closer… and pressed the elevator button to the Minister for Magic’s floor behind her. Her eyes squeezed shut, mortification flooding through her. Almost a year without a lay (at least Harry had the decency to stop shagging Hermione when he started shagging her secretary), and she was just ogling a former Death Eater. Merlin, this had to be rock bottom. Heat raced up her neck at the realization that they’d not moved since stepping inside. She hadn’t even pressed the button to her own floor. She was such a goddamn mess.

With a sharp exhale, she jammed her fist against it and stared straight ahead, vowing to give them both the silent treatment for the rest of this infuriating ride. 

“Have the day you deserve, Granger,” Malfoy purred as she finally stepped out.

Without turning around, she flipped them off and walked away.

Fucking Slytherin prats.

Hermione’s day hadn’t improved. With she-who-would-not-be-named fired and not yet replaced, she was busier than ever. 

Stacks of unfiled paperwork and research articles lay haphazardly across her desk, with unopened mail spilling into a heap on the floor. Every time she felt like she made some headway on catching up on her work, another report appeared in her mailbox, or someone dropped by with a stack of documents for her review.

The stress of her current workload threatened to crush her. There was an entire department’s worth of projects filling her plate, and only one of her. Making a list would be helpful, but how could she even begin to prioritise when every single thing was marked ‘urgent’? She needed to finish her report on the findings Field Research Team A submitted for the Centaur tracking program, contact the head of Magical Law Enforcement for backup Aurors on the upcoming Kneazel breeding program audit, approve the final hypothesis for the study on migration patterns of the Selma Serpent, meet with her Wizengamot campaign manager, then—

A gentle rapping at her door yanked her spiraling thoughts back to the present. 

“Just a second!” she called from her seat, shoving her more sensitive paperwork into a desk drawer. The last thing she needed was a security breach involving any documents from her department. She shuddered at the thought, then forced a wide smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes and unlocked her door with a wave of her hand.

Ginny Weasley peeked around the door frame with a small smile. 

“Hey. Is now a good time?”

Relief washed over Hermione at the sight of her friend, followed almost instantly by a sharp, familiar ache in her chest.

She looked so much like him, it took her breath away. Her copper hair and cerulean eyes, her lopsided dimples, even the freckles that danced across her nose and the apples of her cheeks were an ode to her older brother.

When Ron was mauled by Greyback during the final battle at Hogwarts, Hermione momentarily thought she should lay down next to him and die, too. The Golden Trio, reduced to two. She couldn’t imagine continuing on without him, didn’t want to. 

Everyone commended Harry for his bravery during the war, but the only thing most people seemed to remember about Ronald Weasley was his humour. But Hermione knew the truth. 

Ron had been just as brave, if not braver, that awful day. He didn’t hesitate when Fenrir Greyback launched himself at Lavender Brown, the girl he’d been dating on and off for years. Ron knew he likely wouldn’t survive, but still threw every ounce of hatred, and anger, and fear into his attack, fighting the massive werewolf off Lavender’s body with bombarda after bombarda. Ron did everything in his power to try to protect her, but it wasn’t enough. With one swipe of Greyback’s claws against his throat and a sickening crunch, his life was snuffed out. 

Some sounds Hermione would never be able to unhear. Ron’s death. Lavender’s gurgled screams of agony piercing the halls of Hogwarts as Greyback finished her off. The sound of Ron’s blood splattering the floors, the ceiling, the walls… her. The anguished cry Professor Trelawney let out before she avada’d Greyback.

She would never erase the image of Ron’s cold, lifeless body next to George, Tonks, and Remus, his bloodied hand outstretched towards Lavender’s, even in death. She didn’t want to. Every time she remembered how still he was, how unsettling his chest looked when it stopped rising and falling, she felt a new surge of motivation. His sacrifice was part of why she worked so hard. If Ron couldn’t be here to put his mark on the world himself, she’d accomplish enough for the both of them. 

Hermione cleared her throat and gestured for Ginny to come in. 

“You usually owl before you stop by for lunch, Gin.” She used her wand to sweep the rest of her paperwork into a neat stack and pushed it aside, making space for her dearest friend. She looked at Ginny expectantly, already wondering where the Thai food they normally shared for their lunch dates was.

“I’m not here for lunch. I mean I am, but I’m not,” Ginny blurted. She exhaled sharply. “Listen, I’m just going to get straight to it. Pansy and I have been talking, and we both think you need to quit your job. Maybe even leave London for a while.” 

“What?” Hermione’s jaw dropped, aghast. 

“I know how it sounds, but Hermione, listen to me. You moved back here to find freedom, right?” 

“Ginny, if this is because of those silly news articles, I can assure you—”

"It’s not! I mean it is, but it’s also not.” Ginny rolled her lips between her teeth, as if she was bracing herself for what she was about to say. “Just—please. Let me get this out, okay?”

Hermione frowned, her stomach tightening as Ginny shifted in her seat. The way she wrung her hands together and held Hermione’s eyes had her pulse picking up. Ginny usually had no problem telling Hermione exactly what was on her mind. Whatever this was, it was going to be unpleasant.

She motioned for Ginny to go on, but the movement felt stiff, forced. Hermione awkwardly folded her arms and tucked her hands into her sides, shielding herself against whatever was coming. 

“H, you know I love you like a sister. I’ve noticed that you’ve been struggling since you moved back to London—”

“Well, if the press would leave—”

“The press is part of the problem. But Hermione, it’s more than that. You’ve been working nonstop and isolating yourself from your friends. You’re turning into someone cold and guarded. Someone who snaps first, asks questions later.”

Hermione reeled backwards as if she’d been slapped. Ginny made it seem like she was a ticking time bomb, ready to explode at the weakest irritation. Like she was weak. Maybe she was wound more tightly than she’d like to admit, but snapping sure felt better than breaking.

“Of course I’m isolating myself, look at my life right now!” Hermione bit out. “The press is ripping me apart. I’m constantly judged by people who don’t even know me. I can’t go anywhere without being photographed and picked apart. Every move I make is twisted and used against me.”

“And staying here? Running yourself ragged, pushing everyone away? Hiding? That’s the freedom you came here for?” Ginny continued, “Hermione, I’m worried about you. Period. You’re burning yourself out trying to prove something, but all it’s doing is hurting you.” Her eyes welled, and Hermione felt the weight of her friend's words drop into her stomach.

Ginny was truly afraid for her. 

Hermione wanted to tell her that she wasn’t hurt, she was fine. But the truth was harder to admit, even to herself. And admitting felt like giving up, like surrendering. Like failure. 

Hermione’s wounds were raw, but she wasn’t so weak that she’d die by a thousand cuts. It would take a lot more than this to tear her down. She clenched her fists under the table, swallowing the ache that threatened to spill out.

“So, what? I just run away and then I’m magically healed? I abandon my work, my campaign, my department, and everything else I’ve fought for because a few vultures in the press decided I’m their new favourite chew toy?” Her voice was sharp, but there was a crack in it she hoped Ginny hadn’t noticed. The box inside her chest where she shoved every ounce of her pain and sadness was threatening to burst. But Hermione wouldn’t let it. Not here. Not because of this ambush.

She closed her eyes, reaching for that familiar tether of rage. Wrapping her hands around it, she fortified the walls inside her, sealing the cracks until she could breathe evenly again.

Concerned blue eyes met hers as she said, “I will not run away, Ginny. That’s not who I am.”

Ginny shook her head and reached for Hermione's hand, giving it a firm squeeze as the tears threatened to spill over. 

“This isn’t you running away. This is you finally giving yourself the grace and freedom to breathe.”

Freedom. There was that word again.

“I’m saying this because I love you. You deserve rest, not just survival. It’s time you allowed yourself to just be Hermione, not the Golden Girl, or Harry’s fiancé, or Director Granger. Just you.” 

Ginny’s tears finally spilled over, and Hermione’s throat tightened. She wanted to argue, to tell Ginny she was wrong, that she needed the fight, the work, the purpose. That without them, she wasn’t sure who she was. That she’d fall apart completely.

But the words stuck in her throat. Ginny wouldn't understand. She’d moved on, found joy again with Pansy, living fully, exactly as Ron and George would have wanted her to. How could Hermione explain that she had nothing left outside of her work? That after Harry blew their lives up, the future she’d been building had turned to ash? 

She stared down at their joined hands, Ginny’s grip warm and steady, and for one dangerous moment, she let herself imagine what it might feel like to just… stop. To put down the endless weight she’d been carrying since she was a little girl, saving her two best friends from their idiotic half-baked plans (and the entire wizarding world from a murderous fascist). To be someone unburdened by her past, to start completely over. The idea had petrified her months before. But now?

Her lips parted, but the only thing that came out was a whisper.

“I wouldn’t even know how.”

Ginny softly smiled and released her hand to reach into her purse. She pulled out a folded letter and set it on the desk between them.

“I think I know where to start.”

Chapter Text

Hermione was somehow still awake, staring at the shadows dance across the ceiling, her mind stuck on that damn letter. A week had passed since Ginny had pressed it into her hands, her voice low and certain: “This is where you start over, H.” 

It was just an address, nothing more. Yet it sat on her nightstand like a loaded wand, ready to bombarda maxima her entire life. 

Why had Ginny done this to her? She was supposed to be her best friend, the one person left in her life who understood her without explanations and loved her exactly as she was. But she’d given her those Weasley moon eyes and sprung this insane idea of “freedom” on her, and now Hermione couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

She squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed them until she saw stars. Some of what Ginny said was true: Hermione had been running herself ragged at the Ministry. But was anyone really surprised? Her work ethic hadn’t changed since Hogwarts, and even then she’d learned that giving one hundred percent, one hundred percent of the time, was still never enough. Real change took relentless hard work and sacrifice, and with her department in the sad state that it was, well… it took even more.

And that was really what Ginny was saying, wasn’t it? That she was doing too much. That she needed to reset, to unplug for a while. As if stepping away for a few weeks would magically fix everything. Ginny made it sound so easy.

If she went—IF!—maybe she could frame it as a sabbatical or long holiday. Plenty of people take those. She didn’t have to quit, she could just press pause. Maybe by the time she came back, the press would have moved on. Maybe everyone would have, and Hermione could slip back into wizarding society like this mess never happened.

She rolled her head to glare at the offending parchment. She’d folded and unfolded it so many times over the past week that the crease was worn nearly through, the thin material barely holding together. 

It probably would have been smarter to leave it locked in her desk at the Ministry, somewhere it couldn’t taunt her. Nighttime was always the worst for a dozen reasons (night terrors included), but now her already miserable sleep schedule was nonexistent. No, it was better to keep it close, even if it haunted her, than risk prying eyes. 

If anyone at the Ministry stumbled across it, she’d be finished. An address? In a Muggle town, no less? One whisper to the Prophet and she’d be splashed across the front page again, complete with a headline dripping in venom. They’d twist the story into whatever suited them best: Golden Girl’s Secret Muggle Life or Ice Queen in Retreat, Golden Girl Turns Coward. 

Shacklebolt wasn’t quiet about his feelings towards her current PR issues, or that he wouldn't tolerate another scandal from her. In the wrong hands, it wouldn’t matter why she had that letter or what it meant. He’d let her go to protect the Ministry’s image.

And the fallout of that would be catastrophic. The press would sink their teeth in and bleed her dry, tear apart every decision she’d made and every law she’d lobbied for in the last decade, calling it proof of her incompetence. One whisper, and she wouldn’t just lose her current job, she’d lose the career she’d bled for. She’d be ruined.

Hermione was certainly not someone who was fired or let go, she’d worked too hard to get where she was in her career for that.

She shuddered in repulsion at the thought and rolled onto her side, fully facing the letter. The early mornings and late evenings she’d spent trapped in her office were wearing her thin. She missed her friends. She missed coffee runs. She missed sleep. 

She couldn’t keep up this routine much longer.  

Would it really be so terrible to just walk away?

In the months since her rooftop breakdown, her rage had cooled just enough to be dangerous. But she was constantly at a low, steady boil. 

She was still livid with Harry, not just for betraying her, but for doing it so publicly. The way he’d just stood by while the press shredded her reputation was unforgivable.  Shacklebolt had been no better, his silence as good as an endorsement of the press's abuse. Can’t have the brand-new Minister for Magic tarnish his shiny reputation. 

And the Weasleys? They’d closed ranks around Harry like loyal little lapdogs. Well, every Weasley except Ginny. 

Ginny was all but disowned when she announced she’d fallen in love with Pansy Parkinson, the “Death Eater bitch” the Prophet loved to vilify. 

But Hermione knew the truth and had come to adore her for it. Pansy was a tough, intimidating woman (and yes, a self-proclaimed bitch), but she was also loyal and fearless. She made no apologies for who she was, delighted in the Prophet's "moronic mischaracterisations" of her, and Hermione respected the hell out of her for it. In a world full of people desperate to fit in, it made perfect sense that Ginny had fallen for her. They were two square pegs in a world built for round holes, but Ginny and Pansy had the audacity to carve out their own jagged space and stand in it, unashamed. Together. 

That they’d done it here, in muggle London, not far from Hermione… It was proof that starting over was possible. If you were brave enough to walk away and burn the bridge behind you. 

Was she?

Hermione groaned and flopped onto her back dramatically, throwing her arm over her eyes. Only four more hours until she had to start her morning routine. Fabulous.

Hermione’s day was already off to a horrible start. Sometime during the night, her flat’s circuit breaker had tripped—meaning her muggle alarm never went off. A charmed one would never have this problem, but she lacked both the time and motivation to enchant one. Now she was exhausted and running hours behind, meaning she was going to have to brave the morning rush for the first time in months. 

She paced in front of her apartment’s floo. Every time she worked up enough courage to grab a fistful, her nerves got the better of her. The grandfather clock in her living room wasn’t slowing down, and each reverberating tick of the second hand only made the knot in her chest tighter.

Could she call out sick? No, too suspicious. She never called out, and had far too much on her schedule today, including that debrief with the Office of Misinformation. Okay then, she was going to have to just go in. One more look in the hallway mirror to check that her outfit was pressed neatly. Maybe a little more hairspray to tame her tightly wound bun’s frizz. Would anyone recognise her if she wore a wide-brimmed hat? It wasn’t fashionable, but it could help her slip through the crowds unnoticed—

Merlin’s beard. She’d been watching way too much American Law & Order. No hats would be worn, not today, not ever. 

Hermione scooped up another shaking fistful of Floo Powder, only to throw it back in the pot with an exasperated groan. She fisted then flexed her hands, watching them tremble uncontrollably.

Why was this so difficult? She’d helped defeat the Dark Lord. She’d paraded about as Bellatrix Lestrange, broke into Gringotts, and rode on the back of a goddamn dragon, for fuck’s sake. A few arseholes at work snickering about her supposed failures should be a cakewalk. 

But it wasn’t a cakewalk, was it? And it wasn’t just about those arseholes.

Harry was meant to return to work today after spending three months shagging her ex-secretary up and down the Mediterranean coast. She’d had plenty of time to get used to the embarrassment and pain of seeing them together, but hadn't endured being around them. Not since she’d packed her things and left the countryside.

Immediately after the Break Up, Harry had told her she could stay in “his home’” as long as she needed. But Hermione couldn’t get out of there fast enough, and had already put a down payment on a flat in London by day three. She couldn’t wait to get away from him, to break out of her cage and be free again. Gulp deep breaths of city air and walk the familiar streets she missed so much.

The day she left was still sharp in her memory. She replayed it often, furious with herself for trying to be polite instead of unleashing her wrath. But she’d been too exhausted after moving herself, alone, box by box, bag by bag, through the floo.

By the time Hermione had hauled the last of it to her place and came back to hand over her key, she was draped across Harry’s lap on the couch. The one Hermione had picked out. The one where she’d sat while reading late at night, feet tucked under her, waiting for Harry to come home.

She'd blinked, once, twice, and the tears slipped free before she could stop them.

Hermione hadn’t wanted the couch. Couldn’t guarantee Harry hadn’t already debauched it with she-who-would-not-be-named. But the knife still twisted, knowing this conniving little bitch had stabbed her in the back and helped strip her of everything… right down to that very blue couch she lounged upon. 

Hermione had shoved her key into Harry’s palm hard enough that the metal bit into her fingers, then turned before he could put his stupid foot in his mouth. She floo’ed to her flat and severed the connection in one sharp motion, blocking him from following (or finding) her. 

Not like he would.

Then she’d stepped into the shower fully clothed with a bottle of red wine clutched in her shaking hands. Cold water blasted her, soaked through her hair and plastered it to her face, mascara bleeding black rivers down her cheeks. She’d screamed until her throat burned and cried until her head throbbed and her lungs ached. And then she let the wine and water dull her senses until she was numb inside and out.

After that day, she promised herself she’d never let another person see her fall apart. Never again.

Hermione’s jaw tightened as she blinked back to the present, still standing in her London flat’s living room. She closed her eyes and inhaled, wrapping her hands around the tether of rage in her chest. This time, when she reached for a fistful of the glittery powder, her grip was tight. She straightened her shoulders, stepped into the hearth, and let it rip.

The Ministry’s atrium at this hour was obscene. The vast room buzzed with energy, hundreds of witches and wizards spilling in for the start of the workday. Hermione’s heart pounded as she sidestepped to let the next wizard floo in. This was a far cry from her carefully timed, solitary mornings as of late.

She drew a steadying breath, lifted her chin, and slowly (but confidently) started towards the elevators. When no one immediately screamed, Look! There’s that bitch, Hermione Granger!, she risked a glance around. A few people met her eyes with pity or spite, but most were too absorbed in their own arrivals to notice her.

Hermione’s stride lengthened as the crowd swallowed her, gaining confidence when no catastrophes followed in her wake. She could do this, she could really do this. A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and the weight of the last few months began to melt from her shoulders.

She slowed down as she neared the reconstructed Fountain of Magical Brethren. It was a shame, really, that the new Minister hadn’t been more imaginative. This fountain didn’t represent the harmony between magical beings, it celebrated oppression of those wizardkind deemed “lesser.” Hermione’s confidence faltered as she took in the marble figures of a centaur, a goblin, and a house elf, each with their faces tilted up towards the unnamed wizard and witch. In reverence, supposedly.

All Hermione saw was a reminder that her work meant little to the Ministry. They had no interest in empowering magical creatures or freeing them. For centuries, wizards had stolen their land, driven them from sacred places, hunted them for sport, and forced them into slavery. They had rewritten history to cast themselves as benevolent rulers, painting over bloodshed with propaganda, just like this fountain.

Now, the worst of it happened quietly: behind closed doors, in laws no one bothered to read.

Hermione’s stomach churned. How foolish she’d been to think she could change the wizarding world for them. Every proposal she drafted, every law she fought for (or against), meant nothing at the end of the day. Because here, in the gleaming heart of the Atrium, stood a marble monument to the lie being sold to the masses.

Her department was literally called the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, for Merlin’s sake. Not the Department for the Liberty and Autonomy of Magical Creatures. She was part of the problem, no matter how desperately she tried to change it from the inside out.

She stared into the faces of the immortalized conquerors, her chest tight with disgust and hatred. But when her gaze fell to the conquered, locked forever in false devotion, something much colder settled in her heart. Hopelessness. One witch couldn’t undo centuries of stolen land, broken treaties, genocide and domination. She couldn’t rewrite the prejudice carved into the bones of wizarding society by herself—but Merlin, had she been trying.

Ginny’s words echoed around in her mind.

You’re burning yourself out trying to prove something, but all it’s doing is hurting you.

A group of wizards split off in front of Hermione, grinding her thoughts to a halt along with her feet. No less than six feet in front of her and directly in her path to the elevators stood Shacklebolt, Harry, and her.

They hadn’t noticed her yet. Maybe it wasn’t too late to turn around and leave. She whipped her head around and frantically searched for an exit, some way out of this horrid situation, but it was, in fact, too late.

“Hermione Granger!” Shacklebolt’s voice boomed, and she flinched as every head within a 20-foot radius turned to stare directly at her. “Just the witch we were looking for.”

Fuck. She really wished she’d learned occlumency. Neutralizing her face, she slowly closed the space between her and the trio. She could have a civil conversation, just get this over with. They didn’t have a hold over her emotions. She could give them nothing. 

Realistically, this would be just as embarrassing and uncomfortable for them as it was for her. They all knew exactly what happened. They were adults, and Harry was probably ready to put the whole thing behind him, too. One quick glance at him as she approached told her he wasn’t occluding. A positive sign…

That was immediately quashed by the revolting, doe-eyed look he gave the woman dangling off his arm. Hermione wanted to vomit, or hex them both. Her bright pink tweed skirt suit made her look like a walking bottle of muggle nausea relief. Or worse yet: a young Dolores Umbridge. It would have been a heinous ensemble on anyone else, Umbridge included. But she had been an ugly hag, and this woman was (unfortunately) not. 

Cordelia Langdon was several years younger than Hermione, and was the perfect picture of vitality and seduction. She had the type of body that once belonged to goddesses: soft and lush, with hips meant for poems and thighs men would start wars over. Venus reborn with cherry-bomb waves and emerald eyes that met Hermione’s with outrageous confidence. 

A tempest of rage and heartbreak surged in Hermione’s chest as she watched Cordelia fuss over Harry. Merlin’s beard, she was clawing every inch of him with her sharp little talons, just pawing at him. Hermione wrinkled her nose, hoping she’d never looked that desperate when they were together.

“Hermione, you remember Cordelia, don’t you?”

“How could I ever forget her?” Hermione said, her voice edged with sarcasm before she could stop it. Harry’s shoulders subtly hiked, just enough to make her scold herself. She was calm, cool, collected. Nothing for Rita Skeeter or the Prophet to chew on. A very not-angry woman.

“She was my secretary for three years,” she quickly clarified.

“Yes, Harry here was just telling me she’d recently lost her job,” Shacklebolt said icily. Cordelia shot Hermione a glare before turning back to Harry with a demure smile and flutter of her lashes. It was disgusting, really. “Which is wonderful news for me, since gifted and talented assistants are so hard to come by these days. Wouldn’t you agree, Hermione?”

“Erm, I suppose—”

“Yeah, so I’m really sorry, Hermione. I can’t take my old position back. I’ve already accepted another offer.”

Her shrill American accent dragged like nails down a chalkboard. Hermione’s chest tightened with the familiar pull of anxiety and rage, but she stuffed it into its box and slammed the lid shut.

Cordelia was obviously trying to get under skin, rankle her a bit. Never in a million years would Hermione rehire her. She had a strict ‘no liars or cheats’ policy when it came to her employees. And she didn’t fit the bill anymore after sleeping with her fiancé. Hermione wouldn’t lose this game of fake politeness, though. She couldn’t afford to, at least not in public.

“Oh?” Hermione’s voice was high and clipped, her fake smile more reminiscent of a grimace.

“Assistant to the Minister for Magic,” she giggled, clapping her hands in a way that kept her long pink nails pristine.

A low ringing filled Hermione’s ears as her mouth ran dry, her pulse hammering in her throat. There was more water in the Australian desert than her mouth, she was sure of it. Fissures began appearing along the carefully constructed walls containing her emotions.

“Sorry, what the fuck did you say?” The fake grimace-smile didn’t falter. No one even twitched an eye at her language.

“I’m an Assistant, with a capital A and everything! Hare-Bear introduced me to Minister Shacklebolt, who just happened to need my gifts and talents.” Harry—Hare-Bear—wrapped an arm around her shoulder, grinning like a prize fool.

“Hare-Bear did that, did he?” Hermione nodded too quickly and for far too long, still processing what she heard. Shacklebolt and Harry continued a conversation she was no longer a part of. The words ‘promotion’ and ‘your point of contact’ buzzed meaninglessly around in the background, but nothing sank in. Her mind swam with the information as her breath came in shorter and faster. The fissures around her anger turned into deep cracks.

Shacklebolt’s assistant controlled what meetings he took, what proposals were put at the top of the pile, which owls he returned, even who he rubbed elbows with at lunch. The Assistant to the Minister for Magic essentially controlled his entire socio-political agenda.

Harry had just handed Cordelia the keys to gatekeeping Hermione’s work, which was already towards the bottom of the pile. She'd spent years fighting for every proposal and law, justifying every aspect of every project, and it was barely ever enough to get them over the line. Now, her work would end up stored next to the crumbs and lint haunting the deepest drawer of the Minister's desk, or stuffed to the very bottom of the recycling bin. Maybe even magically shredded and used as litter for Cordelia's guinea pig enclosure. And at that realization, the walls came tumbling down and all she could see was red, burning red.

“… Hermione? Hermione?”

The present snapped back to the front of her mind. Harry was looking at her with those same bright green eyes that had held hers a thousand times… as he lied a thousand ways.

“I said I’m so glad this all worked out,” he said, grinning.

This all worked out? This was the final nail in her career’s coffin. Call the mortuary, anything she thought she’d accomplish over the course of her tenure as Director for DRCMC was dead on arrival.

Her breaths came faster, fury rising into something hot and dizzying. She’d never have a chance to make a difference, all because of this stupid fucking arsehole who couldn’t keep it in his trousers standing right in front of her.

Hermione’s hyperventilation and rage twisted into a low, mirthless giggle. Then she laughed. She laughed so hard her lungs burned and the room tilted and blurred. She wiped tears from her eyes and looked at the trio of confused faces, and the laughter ripped out of her all over again. She doubled over, gasping between hysterics.

And then it wasn’t laughter anymore. It was the sound of someone breaking. The betrayal, the humiliation, the months of swallowing her anger just to be “palatable”…

Hermione was screaming. It tore from her, wordless, primal, gutteral, burning her throat. 

And her magic answered, roaring out of her in a pulsing wave of heat and electrified air.

—CRACK—

The marble conqueror split in half behind her.

The entire Atrium fell silent as her lungs finally gave out, her voice echoing off every marble wall. Dust from the statue rained softly to the floor. Somewhere, someone gasped. No one moved.

Hermione stood there, chest heaving, shoulders shaking. Not from sorrow, but from the sheer force it took to hold herself together, to control the magic thrashing under her skin. She didn’t flinch or apologize for the outburst or statue.

She was done swallowing it all.

“You’re so fucking glad, Harry?” Tears burned and her voice shook with rage, but she didn’t lower it. She took a deep breath and unleashed.

“You’re a fucking ARSEHOLE, Harry Potter. A walking, talking regret. I’d trade every single fucking memory I have of you for one good night’s sleep where I’m not haunted by the fact that I ever loved you. I hope you get everything you deserve, truly, and I mean that in the WORST possible way.”

Harry gaped, completely at a loss for words, his face flushing bright red as anger crept up his neck. Good. She wasn’t the only one who got to be ruined today.

She turned her wrath on Cordelia next.

“Loving him has been a fucking masterclass in disappointment. But you? You undid at least a hundred years of feminist progress by spreading your legs for your boss’s fiancé. But congratulations, you got the guy and the promotion,” Hermione said, slow clapping. “Good fucking job.”

“Hermione, stop. She’s not the villain here—"

The laugh that escaped Hermione’s throat was deranged.

“Not the villain? Hare-Bear, she’s not even the fucking punchline.”

Uncomfortable silence thickened the air. Somewhere in the crowd, a camera shuttered. It was a tiny sound, but the effect cracked through her fury like a whip. Hermione’s rage recoiled, leaving nothing but the ache in her raw throat. She blinked, and shame and exhaustion crept in the cracks of her broken pieces. 

The magical outburst, the broken statue, the stunned faces… What a spectacle she’d just made of herself. How did I let it go that far?

“You don’t get to decide who she is to me, Hermione. She’s my wife, so show her some goddamn respect,” he growled.

The floor dropped out from beneath her feet as Hermione glanced down. There, on Cordelia’s delicate little raptor claw, sat a garish square-cut sapphire. Deep blue facets sparkled against her anemic complexion.

Hermione’s knees nearly gave out. Wife. It bounced around in her skull.

“You married her,” she whispered.

“We eloped in Palermo,” Cordelia said, smugly wiggling her fingers and popping her gum. Wholly pleased with herself.

All the blood in Hermione’s body drained to her feet. She forgot how to breathe. The tears she’d been holding back slowly rolled down her cheeks. This wasn’t happening.

“Enough, Hermione. You’re a professional, so act like one,” Shacklebolt hissed, voice sharp with warning. “Cordelia is part of my team now. You will compose yourself and learn to work with her, amicably.” He gestured for people to keep moving, and the Atrium’s ambient noise rushed back like a wave.

Stars danced behind Hermione’s eyelids as she squeezed them shut as tightly as she could. With every beat of her pounding heart, they shifted into constellations and supernovas, blinking in and out of existence.

This was it. The echo at the bottom of a well. She was beyond rock bottom.

Be brave, my little stardust. Her mother’s voice rang out in her memory, clear and warm. Gentle hands pushed back wild curls in a memory so sharp, she could almost smell her mother’s lavender and hyacinth shampoo. It won’t always be this way.

Hermione opened her eyes and looked at the three of them. Harry was flushed and fuming, Cordelia smug and preening like she’d won something, and Shacklebolt glared like her outburst was the real betrayal.

“It won’t always be this way,” she whispered to herself. 

This was it. No more heartbreak. Just freedom.

“Minister,” she said, lifting her chin so her voice rang loud and clear. “I fucking quit.”

Chapter Text

Hermione’s hand wavered as she stared at the worn parchment between her fingers.

11 Wisteria Place, Caehern Island, Ireland

The sea breeze whipped her hair into a frenzy, momentarily blinding her. Another strong gust, tilt and a wobble later, she finally jerked out her wand and twisted it through her wind-destroyed curls. The cobblestone streets of Caehern were already difficult to navigate, but doing it slightly drunk was an Olympic sport. 

The late afternoon sun warmed her winter-pale cheeks like a rare gift, but she could barely savor it. The strong winds and uneven streets were attempting ankle murder and demanded every ounce of her concentration. 

What a brilliant decision to pack her pepperup potion and hair ties in her suitcase, which was currently the size of a tic-tac dispenser at the bottom of her coat pocket. At least she wore sensible boots—

Hermione tripped again, the hedge lining the road catching her. She groaned and dragged a hand down her face, cursing her brilliant idea of stopping in at the local pub before the half-hour trek to the safehouse. But she felt just as unbalanced as the road even before the wine. 

If she was being honest with herself, it wasn’t just the rosé that had her buzzing. She’d calmed her nerves by drinking her way through the entire rail and sail: Bloody Marys in Liverpool, Guinness in Dublin (obviously), firewhisky in Galway, topped off with the aforementioned wine. The bars of the UK and Ireland loved to see her coming, with her splotchy cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, insatiable thirst, and deep pockets. Metaphorically and physically, seeing as she’d enchanted hers to carry all her belongings.

Muggle travel was excruciatingly slower, but there were no floos on the island and the safehouse’s wards supposedly blocked apparition. Not like she’d test her magical limits and risk splinching herself on a thousand-or-so jump anyway. She was tipsy, not stupid.

When Ginny first mentioned the place—a tiny Muggle village off the rugged western coast of Ireland—Hermione had actually felt relieved. With no Floo Network and a ferry as the only way in, the paparazzi would never bother, even if they found out she was there. It was a perfect place to recover and lie low until the press latched onto someone else for a change.

She’d conveniently forgotten that the same obstacles keeping everyone else away would make getting here hell for her, too. Now, the whole trip was jumbled together in her mind. Blurred snapshots of soot-streaked fireplaces melting into crowded station platforms, the gentle sway of a train morphing into the damp chill of the sea air knifing through her coat. 

The smaller ferry bound for Caehern she’d taken earlier was unironically called Green Horizons. Hermione paled at the blurry memory of the nausea-inducing zigzag from Galway. She’d held on for dear life the entire two and a half hour journey, hair whipping into her mouth, thanking Merlin for the anti-nausea charm she’d cast before boarding.

So yeah, a glass or two of wine was necessary after that very sobering boat ride. 

Hermione approached the very end of the road where a lone mailbox stood and squinted at the address painted on colorful house number tiles below. Number Eleven. This was it. She shoved the tall white picket fence open just a little too hard, stumbled forward, and froze, her mouth falling open in shock.

A kaleidoscope of wildflowers blanketed a lush garden, weaving through soft patches of clover. Thousands of petals rippled like waves in the wind, their bright fragrance filling the air. Soft, vibrant green moss spilled over a neat stone path leading to the cherry-red front door of the safehouse. Rowan trees stood tall around a very well cared for two-story stone and brick cottage draped in English Ivy. Variegated, by the looks of it.

It was stunning. The garden had to be enchanted, with so many of the blooms out of season yet somehow thriving. Whoever had done this was an artist, each petal a testament to a meticulous and steady wand hand. Possibly even a floricultural background. The spellwork alone was impressive, and with thousands of flowers stretching across the property, it must have taken a tremendous amount of time. Each one would have needed to be individually charmed. 

Her fingers stretched out to brush the tallest stalks of lavender as she strolled along the path, her chest tightening at the familiar scent of her mother’s shampoo filling the air. 

It used to be comforting, but now lavender only brought hollow grief. Obliviating both of her parents’ memories was the hardest thing she’d ever done, and one of her greatest shames. Right after the war, she'd tried everything to undo it, to bring her parents back to her. Harry had flown with her all the way to Australia, both of them clinging to hope, knowing the chances were slim but wanting to try anyway. 

But it failed. And tying them down, holding them still while spells struck and rebounded, while they screamed in terror at a daughter they didn’t know… it tore her apart. That was the first and last time she ever tried, she couldn’t bear to go through it again. Couldn’t endure the way her mother looked at her as if she were a monster, because in those moments, she felt like one. Harry ended up having to erase the memories of her attempts because she couldn’t steady her wand enough to do it herself. She couldn’t even give them that small mercy after putting them through what felt like torture for hours. Her hands had trembled too violently. 

In her weakest moments, she found herself wishing he'd obliviated her, too. Given her the gift of forgetting that a massive, gaping hole now sat where her parents used to live, pressed up against her heart. But he hadn't.

Grieving them, knowing they lived full lives where she didn’t exist… that was her punishment for what she’d done during the war. 

Hermione took a deep breath and shoved the memories back inside the little box in her chest, slamming the lid shut. Then she locked it, chained it, and bolted it down for good measure. 

She straightened her shoulders, wiped away her wind tears (different from real tears), and stepped toward the front door. Her past could stay in the past for now, she was focusing on moving forward. Plenty of time for wallowing later. She hadn’t wanted to put a time limit on her stay, so she simply didn’t. This was her home for however long she felt like it. She’d work through what she needed to, let the press simmer down, then figure out what was next for her when she was ready. It was the first truly anti-Hermione thing she’d done, the most go-with-the-flow choice she could imagine making.

And it only made her slightly nauseous.

As she stood swaying on the porch, the wind tugging wildly on her coat, Hermione inhaled deeply. She could taste the salt, wildflowers, and moss in the air. Maybe she could find that freedom and space to breathe she’d been looking for here. 

She turned the brass knob and stepped into the next chapter of her life. 

The girls had given her some details about 11 Wisteria Place while they helped her pack, but nothing could have prepared her for what she found when she stepped inside. 

Surprisingly, Pansy was the one who told Ginny about the cottage. It had been an Order safehouse, the kind lent out to high-profile witches and wizards who needed to disappear during the Second Wizarding War. After the conflict ended, it was decommissioned and folded into Shacklebolt’s postwar efforts to stabilize the fragile magical community. Children of Death Eaters inherited these safehouses in one of two ways: those who refused to comply or opposed the new Ministry were stripped of titles and wealth and effectively banished to them, while those willing to cooperate could retain their estates—including the safehouses—and live as they wanted under the Ministry’s watchful eye. It was a calculated system designed to control the remaining pureblood wealth and prevent another uprising. But Hermione suspected Shacklebolt's ulterior motives had more to do with improving his image than presenting the Ministry as fair, even to the heirs of their former enemies. It reeked of slimy politics. 

Pansy said this one had been sealed for almost a decade, supposedly empty and untouched, save for a few pieces of furniture. She’d never even been to see it, just accepted the deed from Shacklebolt and forgot about its existence. 

This was neither empty nor untouched. 

Hermione gawked as she shut the door behind her, blocking the cold wind. The first floor was simple, just big enough for a living room, small round dinner table, and tucked-away kitchen. A large iron kettle sat on the stove as if the cottage knew she was coming. The familiarity of it eased some of the anxiety in her chest as she thought of brewing a pot of tea. 

It was a warm and inviting space, cozy in an unexpected way. The living room’s bookshelves were completely full and overflowing into stacks on the floor. Hermione’s gaze immediately snagged on the vintage muggle record player tucked in the corner and its massive collection of records, all arranged with care in open shelves filling the walls. A large, cozy looking couch and recliner faced the hearth, creating a little sitting area. She could already see herself throwing every window open, listening to soft jazz while reading, and spending long, quiet afternoons drinking tea and daydreaming.

Pansy hadn’t mentioned how comfortable the space was. It felt nothing like the modern, sharp-edged woman she knew. Every detail felt intentional. Uncluttered, personal, and lived-in.

It felt like a home. 

The last residents must have fled as soon as they heard the war ended, leaving everything behind and forgetting to turn off the maintenance charms in their rush. Pansy hadn't said anything about a groundskeeper, so she might just not know it was in such good shape after all these years. Honestly, Hermione wasn’t about to complain (about this)—one man’s clutter, another’s treasure, and all that. 

The sun was sinking on the horizon, casting long shadows across the walls. It would be night soon, and she needed to set up the wards before it got too dark to do it safely. Wandering the perimeter of the grounds alone in the pitch black this high up on the cliffs wasn’t the best idea. Especially as a lone woman unfamiliar with the area.

Before any of that could happen, she desperately needed a pepperup potion and a hot shower. Hermione eyeballed the kettle again. Maybe a steaming cup of tea, too. 

She quickly shrugged off her coat and boots, tucked her suitcase into her pocket, and vowed to explore the bookshelves later that evening. As she moved to the kitchen, she noticed neat bundles of dried herbs hanging beside well-loved copper pots and pans from the wooden beams above the small stove. Someone had cooked here, and often by the looks of it. She opened the pantry’s wooden doors, expecting nothing but finding plenty of canned and dry goods. Organized silverware filled a drawer next to the sink, the cutlery in pristine condition. She plucked a plate from a cabinet. Not a speck of dust. The tea shelf was fully stocked as well, thank Merlin. But weirdest of all, fresh fruits and vegetables sat fully stocked in the fridge. 

There was absolutely no other explanation: the cottage must have enchanted storage to replenish goods and stay this clean. 

After filling the kettle and placing it over the already crackling fire, she made her way to the upstairs level in search of that shower. 

Hermione was at a loss for words by the time she’d mapped out the upper floor. The entire floor had been magically extended to fit two large primary bedrooms separated by a single luxurious jack-and-jill bathroom, and a third room that was locked, no matter how many alohamoras she tried against it. She’d have to figure out what wards were placed so she could work on undoing them, but that was a Future Hermione problem. 

Current Hermione was salivating over the soft and inviting bedding in the room she’d claimed. Both bedrooms were lush and cozy, beckoning her to curl up beneath white silk sheets and heavy cashmere blankets. But the first room felt different. More lived-in, with art on the walls and towels folded on a velvet bench at the foot of the bed. Soft golden light reflected off ornate lamps, casting a gentle glow over the room.  

Hermione salivated at the idea of crawling into the cloud-like bed and sleeping for a week, but kept moving. She tossed her suitcase onto the bench so she could enlarge it for her toiletries. After she scrubbed the travel day off her skin, she’d fully unpack. She grabbed a towel and made her way to the bathroom. The faster she showered and warded the grounds, the faster she could make her cup of tea and slip between silk sheets.

The en suite felt more like an elegant spa than the seaside cottage bathroom she’d expected. A deep, black marble clawfoot tub sat directly in front of a floor-to-ceiling window. It perfectly framed the sweep of verdant cliffs and the glittering, vast ocean beyond. Hermione’s jaw dropped—the sunset from here was phenomenal, its fiery fuchsia and gold hues bleeding across the horizon and reflecting off every mirrored and ornamental surface. Intricate gold and emerald accents lined the edges of dark marble counters and columns. Every shelf was stocked with enough rare and expensive bath potions, scrubs, cremes, and salts in glass jars to fill an apothecary. 

The obscenely rich wizards and witches who hid away here were probably too used to indulgence to settle for anything less than this, but Hermione was floored. The perfume of herb and floral soaps curled through the air, beckoning her to try them all… and the tub looked positively sinful in the glow of the setting sun. 

She couldn’t strip and draw a bath fast enough. 

After a not nearly long enough soak in a haze of overflowing pink bubbles, Hermione stepped from the tub and wrapped herself in a plush bath sheet, luxuriating in its softness. The fabric was impossibly thick and smelled faintly of eucalyptus. Because of course even the towels here were trying to seduce her.

She padded back to her room, where she uncorked and downed a pepperup potion, followed by a hangover brew. Within seconds both worked their magic, and she was feeling back to her normal, sober self. Yay, she thought sarcastically.

She unzipped her suitcase and reached her arm down into the extended compartment to grab her favorite thigh-skimming lavender silk dressing gown. She loosely tied it around her waist before making her way back down to the kitchen. She left her curls to drip-dry, enjoying the slight chill from her wet hair.

While she waited for her tea to steep, she explored the bookshelves and records in the living room. She recognised titles and records, both muggle and magical, mixed in with ones she’d never heard of. 

Trinkets and baubles filled the spaces between books: several rubber ducks lining a shelf, a refillable lighter covered in hot pink cowboy boots leaning against a book she’d never heard of called Damaged Goods, a mini disco ball perched next to a potted fern, and a plethora of tiny frog statues wearing hats scattered about. They were so odd and out of place when compared to the rest of the cottage. Must have been left behind. 

Hermione switched on the turntable and dropped the needle on the record already queued up. The soft crackle of vinyl broke into the opening electric guitar riffs of 38 Special’s Hold On Loosely. The notes rang out loud and clear, forcing a broad smile to split her face. 

This was one of her dad’s favorite albums. Her mom teased that it was just because the cover was a perky arse in painted-on pink shorts, but she knew the truth—her dad loved American rock and roll. They’d listened to this exact song countless times as he drove her to and from primary school in the years before she was accepted to Hogwarts. 

The box in her chest rattled beneath the chains she’d thrown around it earlier at the memory of hours spent singing to each other in the rearview mirror. 

She cranked up the volume, drowning her grief in the booming melody and snarling electric guitar pounding from the speakers. Hermione’s hips swayed as the anthemic chorus came around, and she fell prey to the hook. She belted it as loudly as she could, loving the way the bass reverberated through the wooden floor, buzzing against her bare feet as she closed her eyes, threw her hands in the air, and spun around. She let the music carry her away.

Just hold on loosely, but don’t let go. 

If you cling too tightly, you’re gonna lose control.

Hermione hadn’t felt this light in so long. She let out a dizzy laugh as she increased her speed, her robe slipping from her shoulder and then—

CRACK!

—she slammed face-first into a warm, sticky, solid mass, sending it and herself careening straight for the floor. At the last moment, two arms wrapped around her waist, her world tilted, and she landed directly on top of it with a hard thud. The force of the fall knocked the wind out of her, and as she struggled to suck in a lungful of air, the mass coughed and sputtered beneath her.

The sharp scent of rich leather and spice overwhelmed her, fueling a surge of terror—an intruder had apparated inside the cottage. Her heart hammered and adrenaline flooded her veins as her fight-or-flight instincts kicked in. She scrambled, desperately to break free from the large (decidedly male) arms, screaming, slapping, and clawing at him with every ounce of strength she had. All while Don Barnes’s voice crooned about sentimental fools in the background. 

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME, YOU—”

Your baby needs someone to believe in…

“Ouch! FUCK! Salazar, stop hitting—“

… and a whole lotta space to breathe in…

“MOTHERFUCKER—” 

With a swift, practiced motion, Hermione swung a leg around the intruder’s chest and pinned his elbows beneath her knees, drawing her wand from an extended pocket and tearing the dressing gown’s sash open in the process. The moment she sat up, the entire thing fell open and to the floor, leaving her completely exposed and vulnerable. 

“STUPE—” Hermione’s eyes locked on two deep, ocean-blue orbs and the stunning spell died on her tongue. She gaped at the man beneath her, bloody, sweaty, and shirtless. 

“Granger?!”, coughed out Theodore Nott.