Chapter Text
Hermione couldn’t quite get past the feeling of dread that was sitting in her gut as she pretended to sip her long-cold tea.
“Youngest recipient of the Kiss in the last 100 years.”
She shuffled the papers on her desk for a fifth time, hoping the organisational act would somehow extend to the jumble of thoughts that were racing in her mind.
“End of two ancient Sacred Twenty-Eight bloodlines.”
Hermione tapped the end of her quill, willing herself to forget the words from the front page of the Daily Prophet and focus on the centaur proposal that needed to be redrafted by the end of week. The centaurs needed her. Not the ancient Sacred Twenty-Eight bloodlines that probably could do with being ended.
“Set for the 15th of June.”
A last birthday. A recollection of an imperious-looking owl carrying sleek parcels wrapped in silver kept looping in Hermione’s thoughts as she waited for the Ministry lifts on the way to the canteen. She had always prided herself on her memory, but in that moment, she wished she could forget a birthday that fell in June. And forget the boy whose birthday it was.
Not a boy anymore, really.
Five years had passed since the war. A war that had nearly broken the British Wizarding World and nearly taken her life. Hermione still checked her wards at least twice a night before she turned out the lights of her small cottage. She kept a small unassuming beaded bag full of dry goods, extra clothes and basic potions by her Floo. She lied to herself that it was in case of a fire, as if magic couldn’t extinguish flames. She still had that word carved in her forearm. Hermione often found herself lightly touching the raised letters at night. When the world felt extra quiet and she swore she could feel the bitter cold of the Forest of Dean in winter, Hermione traced each letter slowly, reminding herself that she was safe. She had won.
Not a boy anymore. A man of twenty-three.
She shook her head, hoping to banish the thoughts that had been following her all day. Finishing the egg and cress sandwich she had barely touched in neat bites, she smiled at something Anthony Goldstein said. Hermione hoped he hadn’t noticed she wasn’t really listening to the story about his great Aunt’s run in with MACUSA.
As they took the lift back to The Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures on the fourth floor of the Ministry, she resolved herself to not spend another moment thinking of sad grey eyes, cold sneers or anything that resembled blonde. Hermione had done her part and written on his behalf for his trial alongside Harry and Ron (the latter rather more begrudgingly than herself). She had forgiven him for his cowardly actions as a bully in school and accepted that he had been a child led astray by the adults in his life. He had been a soldier like herself, forced to make life altering decisions too young. They were two sides of the same coin. Hermione had done her part for the war, for her community and for a former enemy. She had done enough. The weight did not need to rest on her shoulders anymore. The choice to condemn his actions had been the Wizengamot’s alone.
She had done enough.
She repeated these words as she tested her wards once more.
She repeated these words as she checked for her beaded bag by the Floo.
She repeated these words as the pads of her fingers traced a jagged M down the otherwise smooth skin of her forearm as she curled beneath her weathered quilt.
She had done enough.
~~
She stared at her ceiling.
Swirling clouds, stars and a round moon shone down on her. The luminescent glow reflected a slight shine off her nails as she picked at her cuticles. A tricky little piece of magic. Hermione had spent another sleepless night trying to recreate the night sky above her bed, reminding her of a castle far off in the rolling hills of Scotland. A place that held so many memories, great and terrible.
Now the twinkly stars and moonlight seemed to heighten her restless thoughts.
She had promised herself to stop thinking about him.
With shockingly little self-control, she tilted her head to the constellation whose namesake was keeping her from sleep. A cluster of seventeen stars. Over the years she had found herself lingering a moment too long on that particular constellation. Just as she sometimes lingered a moment too long on a particular boy.
Hermione felt the liquid heat colour her cheeks as she pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, hoping to physically wipe away her thoughts. She was alone but that did little from stopping the shame. A childhood crush. Not even that. A curiosity.
Hermione had always been a curious child. A lover of puzzles. She lived for the moment when everything just clicked into place. She couldn’t resist the call of a new mystery, piecing out the inner workings and finding out the explanation. And compared to her Muggle upbringing, a Pureblood boy felt like such a mystery. She also couldn’t explain (or care to explain) why Ron never had the same innate pull. No, it was not a crush. Hermione simply had a curiosity. It wasn’t as if she entertained these thoughts for longer than a fleeting moment. Many times, that cluster of stars deserved her ire over the years. He had been cruel, and Hermione had often been disgusted by that cruelty.
She needed sleep. Nothing explained her unwanted trip down memory lane better than a lack of sleep. She was no longer an eleven-year-old girl opening the door to a carriage and seeing a quizzical blonde boy with grey eyes and a pointed chin staring back at her. She was no longer a fourteen-year-old girl slapping that same pointed face, now taller than her and slightly broader than he had been before. Nor was she that seventeen-year-old girl, worrying over a boy who looked so lonely and scared.
No.
She was no longer that girl. And he had stopped being that boy on top of an astronomy tower one night in June five years ago. The same month as his birthday. The same month in which he would die.
~~
Hermione tried to stifle a yawn rather inelegantly. She didn’t remember falling asleep but somehow sunlight woke her up alongside a rather petulant meow. Crookshanks’ demands for breakfast were sometimes the only thing that convinced her to get out of bed on the weekends.
“Hermione, you look exhausted. Did you sleep alright?”
Hermione looked up quickly, feeling slightly dreamlike and caught in her exhaustion
“Oh I’m fine, Mrs. Weasley. That Centaur redraft just took a little out of me.”
The lie rolled off her tongue with practiced ease.
Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips slightly but accepted the answer while pouring a strong cup of tea and firmly handing it to Hermione. She appreciated the warmth the chipped mug brought her. It also gave her something to occupy her hands and time with as she took a long sip and looked away from the maternal and pushy brown eyes.
Hermione was so thankful that Mrs. Weasley had remained close even when she and Ron hadn’t worked out as planned. They hadn’t broken up. You typically had to start a relationship to end it. After the war they had tried to make things work. To make the pieces fit together in a new world that didn’t involve sneaking out after hours or hiding in worn tents. They went on a few dates, shagged consistently for a few months and then on and off for some months after that. Nothing ever seemed to settle. Hermione began her rewarding but often rigorous job in The Department of Regulations and Control of Magical Creatures. Ron started his career as an Auror.
In the end they did not break, more just petered out. No explosion, just a quiet acknowledgement that the time was not quite right. Hermione often wondered if it would ever be right. But sometimes Ron would stare at her and smile in that way that made her feel loved and appreciated and she once more could picture a life with holidays at the Burrow and a wedding in a family garden in the spring. The type of family she hadn’t felt a part of since she Obliviated her parents.
Hermione gripped the rapidly cooling mug harder, wondering if she could break the ceramic with her bare hands.
“Hermione! How long have you been here?”
Ginny came inside, broom in hand, her long red hair sticking slightly to the perspiration on her forehead.
“Oh, maybe an hour ago.”
“We would have stopped playing had we known you arrived! I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”
Hermione smiled as her best friend’s ruddy face came into view alongside his voice. It didn’t matter those years had gone by, when she looked at the dark hair that never seemed to lay quite flat and those striking green eyes, she saw just Harry. Not Harry, Leading Auror or Harry the Husband. Just Harry, a boy with glasses that often-needed cleaning or fixing.
“I’ve been enjoying some tea with Mrs. Weasley. You know I don’t particularly enjoy Quidditch but the weather is so nice I wouldn’t make you all stop. And I’m sorry I’ve been busy with the-“
“Centaur redraft,” the chorus of voices came out together followed by a light chuckle. Hermione smiled abashedly.
“You may have mentioned it a few times,” Ginny grinned.
“Or all the time,” a voice boomed as Ron walked in, broom in tow. He smiled jovially, signalling he meant no harm. Hermione beamed back affectionately. Ron was rather attractive. His hair had darkened slightly into more of an auburn, and he had grown into his once lanky frame. As he grew older and became a damn good Auror, he gained a confidence he had lacked in their youth. There were moments where she was so sure she could love and be loved by Ron that it made her wonder why they hadn’t worked. Another puzzle that Hermione found herself obsessing over some nights.
“Hey, Hermione, I’m glad you came,” Ron gave her a hug. He smelled of grass and sweat but she allowed herself to sink into the embrace for a moment. Ron gave some of the best.
“Of course, Ronald, I wouldn’t miss it.”
And it was true. Though Hermione was not sure she would ever be a part of the family the way Harry was even before he married Ginny, she was happy to even be near it.
“Hermione!”
Fatherhood had treated Bill Weasley well. His scarred face was bright with affection as he swooped Hermione in for an embrace. Standing a step behind, Fleur looked as exquisite as ever, carrying a cherubic looking toddler with strawberry blonde curls.
Fleur smiled at Hermione and gave two small kisses on her cheeks in quick succession. She then unceremoniously planted the toddler in Hermione’s arm while taking the now-cold tea out of her hands.
“Happy Birthday, Victoire,” Hermione said slightly awkwardly to the two-year-old wearing a paper crown. The toddler smiled and proceeded to tell Hermione an elaborate and confusing tale made of mostly babbles as she walked her around. After a few minutes she wrapped her small fingers in Hermione’s curls.
“Oh no you don’t, mon chou,” Bill deftly pulled the hair out of the chubby grips of his daughter and took her from Hermione’s arms, “Sorry, Hermione, bit of a hair pulling phase.” And with that the two were off.
Hermione heard a chuckle next to her.
“Busy, aren’t they? I’m not sure how Mrs. Weasley handled seven of them.”
Hermione agreed with Harry. “I can see why my parents had just one.”
He nodded, “Yeah, but I also think it’s kind of nice. Always have someone to play with. Have someone to have adventures with.”
“I think we had plenty of adventures growing up.”
Harry rolled his eyes, “Yes, but I mean normal adventures like learning to fly a broom or daring each other to try different Bertie Botts Beans. Not fighting an evil Dark Lord yearly right before summer holidays.”
The cavalier nature Harry spoke about their unconventional upbringing always managed to surprise Hermione. When she had asked how he could talk about it so easily he just responded, “We won Hermione. We made it. We’re allowed to be okay.”
He then proceeded to explain that beating one of the strongest wizards at seventeen also brought great bragging rights and sometimes free food, and she elbowed him in the ribs.
“You know Ginny and I are considering kids sometime in the future.”
Hermione had known that of course. Harry wanted the big family, the one that had been taken from him. The mention of it somehow startled her still. She had moments where she felt like she was in that tent in the Forest of Dean and Harry was contemplating having children. She felt an ugly burst of envy. Not that she didn’t want Harry and Ginny, two of her best friends, to have happiness. They just felt closer to it than she was.
“Not right away of course, Ginny loves the Holyheads, and I want her to play as long as she wants to. Maybe soon, maybe not. But someday.”
Hermione swallowed down the lump in her throat.
“You’re going to be an amazing father, Harry.” Hermione knew this like she knew that Amortentia had to be made in a gold cauldron and that a unicorn represented “1,” in arithmancy.
“Thanks, Hermione,” he grinned, his cheeks pinking slightly. Then they walked outside to festivities fit for a toddler in a paper crown.
~~
The sun was hanging low in the sky and the birthday girl was being carried sleepily up the stairs by her doting father.
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were chastising George who had tested a new Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes toffee on Ron that made him involuntarily quack like a duck for thirty minutes, (“Different flavours have different sounds! I need to see how long it lasts though! I’m sure it’ll wear off soon!”) Harry and Ginny were sitting next to each other on a loveseat, Ginny’s head resting on Harry’s shoulder. Ron sat in a chair, letting out rogue quacks while working on a remaining slice of cake. A slight breeze came in through an opened window. The room held the glow that only came from an unseasonably warm May evening and a day filled with friends and food. Hermione was content.
“Did you see that article about Malfoy in the Prophet?” Harry suddenly asked.
And with that Hermione’s contentment slipped out of the room with the last rays of spring sunlight.
“I can’t believe they actually sentenced him to the Kiss.” He continued.
Ginny looked uncomfortable as she shifted in her seat, “I knew that it was a possibility, but I honestly thought that your testimonies would have made a bigger impact.”
Hermione did not want to talk about this. She didn’t even want to think about it but hadn’t been able to stop the nearly unending loops of thought since she had read the article. Seen the picture.
Hermione had always held such wonder for magic. When she had read her first wizarding book and realized that the pictures could move, she had felt such glee.
Glee was the last thing she felt staring into the empty eyes that should have been a bright grey. His face had always looked pointed and sharp, but now that gave way to gauntness. His hair, which he had been so particular about in school, hung long and limp. It reminded her of how his father had looked in his mugshot. How he had wanted to be just like his father growing up. And now he was, maybe more than ever.
A ghost.
That had been Hermione’s first thought. He looked like a ghost. Staring straight into the camera, unflinching. No longer proud, angry, or scared. Just gone.
Hermione did not want to talk about this.
Harry nodded his head, “I tried to talk to Robards, but he was pretty tight lipped. Maybe because I gave the testimonial. Apparently, it was a closed Wizengamot session. That’s why they had us write our testimonies instead of sharing them at the trial. They didn’t even deliberate for more than thirty minutes. They went in knowing how it was going to end up.”
“Is that even legal?”
Hermione hadn’t felt the words come out of her mouth until she heard her own voice. She tried to look nonchalant while she took a bite of slightly hardened cake that she had been pushing around on her plate.
“I think it’s in a grey area. They have been going through Death Eater trials for years at this point. Tom had a lot of followers, many who committed more heinous acts and they wanted to process them quickly. Bring up the morale of the country in the aftermath of the war. Malfoy was on house arrest for a few years and then was taken in a year ago.”
“That doesn’t seem ethical in the slightest. That’s not how the system should work. He deserves a fair trial.”
Hermione could feel that familiar heavy beat of her heart as she became more frustrated with what she was hearing. She had never been one to stand by when she felt an injustice was taking place. A low level hum filled her ears and she could feel the angry adrenaline build.
“I don’t think a lot of people are out there demanding fair treatment for Death Eaters. Again, the laws are a little shaky. A lot of wizarding laws are pretty old and haven’t been updated in ages. I mean I’ve read some batty laws that you wouldn’t think are still relevant but still technically are the law. Like if you own Thestrals, you need to own at least eight of them. No reason other than the creator of the law had eight and thought why not. That’s just another reason why it’s so hard to get licensed to own them-“
Hermione cut Harry off, “So a man is being sentenced to death for actions he took as a child, and it was decided in thirty minutes? That’s ridiculous!”
Now she was sitting up, having set her plate down with a loud clatter. She was properly in disbelief at this point. Hermione had thought there had been a full trial. When she was asked for a written testimony she thought it was more to do with court procedure. She didn’t feel the need to go to the trial personally because she had assumed it would be handled with the care a person’s, any person, life deserved. And she had been wrong.
Hermione hated being wrong.
“I mean, he is guilty though.”
Everyone turned their head towards the redhead who had finally stopped making bird calls.
“It’s not like Malfoy is innocent. We all know he was a Death Eater. We all know he let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. And yeah, he didn’t cast the Killing Curse himself at Dumbledore, but he didn’t try to figure a way out of it either. And he continued to be a Death Eater after Dumbledore’s death.”
“He was a child! Tom was living in his home! He didn’t have many options!” Hermione clenched her fists.
“Yeah, well he had some. And don’t forget those interviews in the Prophet. He used Unforgivables during the war on people. On Muggleborns.”
Hermione swallowed hard. She had read those articles. About how a teenaged Malfoy had built his way up to using the Cruciatus Curse on captives brought to Malfoy Manor. Stories of a stone-faced Malfoy casting while Bellatrix Lestrange instructed from behind her young pupil. Hermione unconsciously scratched at her left forearm over her jumper sleeve.
“Malfoy isn’t a good person. He made his choices. And now he is facing the consequences of those choices. People died. He chose the wrong side.”
“He didn’t have a side to choose, Ron. Would you go against your family? Your entire life?”
“Well, my family was on the right side. His entire family is bad Hermione. You just said it yourself. I know you like to defend creatures and those you think can’t defend themselves. But Malfoy is a bad creature, and you can’t fix this problem, no matter how much you want to. Not even the Brightest Witch of Her Age can save a man from the Kiss a second time.”
Ron didn’t say it in a cruel way. Instead, he spoke softly, like he was talking to a child who had just asked if the Tooth Fairy was real. Like she needed the concept to be broken down into bite sized pieces for her to fully grasp it.
Hermione being Hermione. Everyone would chuckle at Hermione off to save the elves. Hermione, pushing paper at the Ministry in hopes of making change, Hermione, talking about the Centaur proposal that provided safe lands for Centaurs after so much had been taken from them. Something that maybe was only important to her. And the centaurs of course, if they would ever communicate back.
“Not everyone deserves to be saved, Hermione. And Malfoy probably wouldn’t even want someone like you doing the saving.”
Ouch.
Hermione had always been proud of her heritage, even when it had been thrown in her face. People often brought up her blood status when they felt intimidated by her, and she liked that. But the way Ron threw it out, casually, like it was common sense. Somehow that stung more.
She knew her curiosity was not reciprocated. Even during school when she had sworn, she would catch him staring at her from the corner of her eye or when she saw a slight smirk at a witty comment she made, any acknowledgment turned those hidden moments sour. He would glare, sneer or spit vitriol. No, her curiosity was her own. Draco Malfoy was Pureblood. Hermione Granger was not.
“Ron, stop being an arse.” Ginny glared at her older brother the way only a sister could.
“No, Hermione, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Ron, seriously, you’re still being an arse.”
“She knows I didn’t mean it like that!”
Hermione did not know that. But that easy feeling she had felt earlier when first seeing Ron was quickly replaced by a commonly occurring thought. Maybe Ron didn’t understand her as well as she hoped he would after all these years. They often felt like they were out of step with each other.
Hermione sighed and gave a slightly tight smile, “Yeah, Ronald, of course I know you didn’t mean it like that.”
Sometimes lying was just less exhausting.
They finished their tea in the most comfortable silence they could manage. Afterwards Ginny walked her to the Floo while Ron and Harry went to help George clean-up as penance for the toffee.
“Don’t pay attention to Ron. He is getting a lot better but Fred’s death… well it hit him hard. And he isn’t quite back from it yet. Not sure if he will ever be. Also, Malfoy has always been a point of contention with Ron. Harry had a rivalry with him, but Malfoy treated him almost like an equal. He always treated Ron like the dirt beneath his feet. That’s no excuse though for him being an arse. And I am sorry about it. I can slip him a few more of those toffees if you want.”
Hermione laughed and gave her friend a hug.
“Thank you for always being willing to protect my honour. I know Ron didn’t mean anything cruel by what he said. I know I can run away with my ideas sometimes.”
“You have amazing ideas, Hermione. You’re a good person and you fight for what you believe in. Don’t be ashamed of that.”
Hermione felt a slight prickle behind her eyes at the sweet words from a loved friend. Words she sometimes needed more than she was willing to admit to herself, let alone anyone else.
“And I know Malfoy is a sore spot for you.”
Hermione felt taken aback.
“Wha-what do you mean?”
Ginny gave her a wry smile.
“Hermione, you aren’t the only smart one. I saw the way you looked at him when nobody else was looking. He was fit, even if his personality was rather lacking. I’m woman enough to admit that. And I know there was nothing to act on. Sometimes school crushes don’t make sense.”
“Ginny, you married your school crush.”
“Yes, but he almost died every year and then did die that one year. If I had been smarter at the time I would have gone for a Hufflepuff. All I’m saying is you had a crush-“
“Curiosity, not a crush.”
“Fine, a curiosity, whatever. And now with the sentencing it… well it’s real. And it’s scary. And I just want to say I’m sorry. I know you. I know you’ll feel guilty for not saving him, but you did everything you could. You did enough.”
Those words repeated in her mind that night after she got home and completed her nightly ritual. Tested her wards, checked her bag, and touched her scars.
She had done enough.
Only now Hermione wasn’t sure she could pretend to believe it.