Chapter Text
November 30, 2006
“Well Miss Granger, although I have come to expect no less than perfection from your work, I must say…this report is bang on. Top-notch, truly.”
When Hermione was hired as a Research Specialist for the Department of Mysteries, she knew Olivia Mehira Green to be a stern, proper English woman. The sort of woman who was privately known as “The Bitch” by those she scorned for leaving coffee rings on wooden desks. But fortunately for Hermione, she possessed a surplus of both coasters and audacity, which had earned her the Lead Unspeakable’s hard-won respect. And as Hermione watched her purse-lipped supervisor turn the final page of her report, she allowed herself to bask in the relief of authoritative approval.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Hermione folded her hands over her crossed legs, wiping the creases in her pencil skirt. “And thank you for your willingness to meet at this hour. I wanted to submit my report as soon as possible.”
“Oh, it’s no problem at all. You know I’m married to my work, anyhow.”
Olivia snapped her fingers, summoning a bottle of brandy and two crystal glasses from the nearby cabinet. Twinkling pale lights reflected onto the cups, shimmering from the window enchanted to mimic the starry sky over London.
“You know, when I hired you two years ago, I had high expectations. But those standards were not set because of your childhood accomplishments, Miss Granger. They were set because I expect perfection from all my employees.” Olivia uncorked the brandy with a wave of her wand, and the light pop punctured the air. “And you have come to surpass every expectation I set for you.”
Hermione smiled, her freckled cheeks warm with satisfaction.
“In fact, your career has been one of the most impressive occupational trajectories I’ve ever witnessed. Forming the Civil Liberties Society as a first-year employee was no shock, considering your background, but your efficiency in forcing an antiquated Ministry to restructure itself rivalled the accomplishments of most your superiors.”
The brandy began to pour itself, teasing the smell of decadent fruit and woodsmoke.
“And then spearheading the effort to rename and reshape not one, but two Ministry branches.” Olivia chuckled darkly. “Oh, I do hope it made Barty Crouch turn in his grave.”
The Lead Unspeakable reached out to claim her brandy, and took a deep drink as she gave Hermione’s report one final glance. By contrast, Hermione sipped with hesitance—drinking only because she hated disappointing people more than she hated dark liquor. But Hermione had always hated disappointing people—especially herself. It's why she chose to go back to Hogwarts for her "Seventh Year" after the war, pushing herself to complete the coursework in only six months. Because while the war had killed many things, it never killed Hermione’s drive.
She always wanted to learn. To research. To help. And she knew she wanted to join the Ministry to overhaul the systems that enabled Voldemort's rise to power. And to her extreme satisfaction, Hermione had accomplished just that—much of it thanks to Minister Shacklebolt, who shared the same zeal for change and who had been elected by unanimous approval eight years ago.
“Well,” Hermione coughed, her throat burning against the slick of brandy. “A name like 'The Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes' hardly inspires confidence—especially in the wake of Voldemort's coup.”
“Indeed. I much prefer the new name. ‘Department of Magical Cooperation’ suggests competence. Certainty. And petitioning for the expansion of the Muggle Liaison’s budget was long overdue.”
“To say the least. And as for the ‘Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures’…well, that name blatantly insinuates that non-humans could—and even should—be controlled by the wizarding body, which is simply unacceptable."
"Absolutely," Olivia nodded. "Just one of the many overdue changes in our government."
“Thank you, Madame Green. And thank you for all the support you’ve provided me over the past few years.”
"Well, if I'm honest, my aid hasn't been entirely altruistic. If I never hired you, then our office might have never identified the location, function, and security of Ceridwen’s Cauldron. But sure enough, you found it...and it's utterly remarkable."
The Lead Unspeakable tapped the proposal on her desk and smirked at the proud blush that crept over Hermione's cheeks.
“Now...I'm sure you're ready to head home, considering the hour. But before I dismiss you, I'd like to talk about your next assignment, assuming you're amenable.”
Hermione sat up straight.
"I'm amenable."
“Good. Because I'd like you to choose your next task."
"...Me?"
"I may be a rigid woman, Miss Granger, but I'm not so void of empathy that I haven’t considered the impacts your last assignment had upon your private life. As such, I'd like you to have a say in your next project."
Hermione exhaled slowly.
Olivia was correct—the last year had not been without challenges. The pursuit of Ceridwen's Cauldron required a vow of secrecy—which was typical for Unspeakable work—along with a strict schedule that provided almost no holidays. And while Hermione had Crookshanks—whose Kneazle-blood extended his life beyond any feline expectations—along with a team of Irish Unspeakables—who were all twenty years her senior—Hermione found herself owling her friends in England as often as she could.
But as months passed in the Irish countryside, waiting on owls proved more and more daunting. It's why Hermione designed Quill Quips—a journal system, not unlike Tom Riddle’s diary—in which written messages could be shared between approved journals instantaneously. It was one of the many instances in which her “indignation yielded genius,” as George liked to say. And he was always pleased when Hermione sold her designs to Weasley Wizard Wheezes for distribution, and Hermione was always satisfied when her experiments yielded magical progress...and padded her vault at Gringotts. But regardless, no amount of Quill Quips could change how Hermione felt.
She was lonely.
For eighteen months, she had been without genuine companionship. But eighteen months ago, Hermione believed solace was the proper prescription for her woes. She had just suffered a tumultuous break-up with Anthony Goldstein, and she was a brand new Unspeakable looking to make a professional name for herself. She longed for time alone, viewing it as a way to progress her career and relearn who she was away from the constant assumptions, comparisons, and expectations of others. And yet, despite her initial perceptions, the luxury of solitude quickly lost its appeal.
She had missed so much.
Harry had been promoted to Deputy Head Auror, now serving as one of three deputies within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Ron was in talks to expand Weasley's Wizard Wheezes into Hogsmeade in lieu of Bilton Zonko's retirement. Ginny had won the National Championship with the Harpies—while two months pregnant, no less. Lily Nymphadora Potter was born almost two years after James Sirius Potter, and she was now two months old. And since the Harpies provided a year of maternity leave, Hermione loved to imagine all the possibilities for her future. It would give her a chance to catch up with Ginny and assist her godschildren. She could hold Lily when she was fussy, clean the toys scattered around Grimmauld Place, or comb James' hair when it stood as wild as his father's. Hermione even looked forward to caring for Ron's little girl—Rose Sybill Weasley—whose middle name was no doubt inspired by Lavender’s admiration of Professor Trelawney.
Hermione had so many things she wanted to do. So much she wanted to catch up on. And though she considered herself a homebody through and through, the isolation of the past year had worn upon her psyche in a way that Hermione wasn’t fully prepared to reconcile.
At least, not yet.
“As you know, Miss Granger, while our Research Division has no shortage of cases, we are open to receiving proposals from other Ministry departments. So when I received word of your progress, I notified the other Department Heads that we were accepting petitions and they certainly delivered.”
Olivia twitched her ebony wand, summoning three large stacks of paper from the other side of her navy-blue office.
“I took the liberty to sort through them before your arrival, and I’ve settled with three that I feel are the most intriguing.”
Under the owl-like gaze of her supervisor, Hermione ran her nimble fingers over each proposal: “The Sword of Light: Cutting the Divide Between Man and Beast,” “Aphrodite’s Girdle: Dissecting the Abuse of Love Magic,” and “The Four Gems of Mind Healing: A Remedy Lost to Time.”
“Interesting,” she mumbled.
The Sword of Light, otherwise known as the Claidheamh Soluis, was a sword described in Irish folk tales. The blade's wielder was believed to receive assistance from animalkind, often in pursuit of a quest. And while the idea would seem tantalising to many, Hermione knew that such a discovery could sever the bond she’d diligently knit among wizards and beings previously deemed subservient.
She moved on to the next proposal, recalling tales from Greek mythology that described Aphrodite’s Girdle as an object that could infatuate any lover. And though the artefact could potentially cure even the most potent love spell, Hermione feared how the belt might be exploited.
And thus, she picked up the third and final proposal, thumbing through the detailed research.
“I guessed correctly,” Olivia chuckled.
“What’s that, ma’am?”
“I suspected that would be the proposal to pique your interest.” Oliva smiled as she took another sip of brandy. “But I will say, while all three cases have been well researched, that one is…different. It’s so meticulously assembled I…well, it's almost as if you wrote it.”
Curiosity burned through Hermione, a fuel that continued to sustain her even all these years after Hogwarts. She was grown now—a witch propped up by the wisdom and passions afforded by time—but the inquisitive nature of her younger years still remained. And as she flipped through the proposal, any trace of exhaustion that lingered in the late hour was replaced by fervent interest.
Olivia was right. The document was thorough.
The author believed that the Four Jewels of the Tuatha Dé Danann—objects mentioned in at least three Old Irish texts—described relics of old Celtic wizards that were carried into Great Britain long before the Common Age. The proposal suggested that the Four Jewels represented the four lobes of the brain, and, when combined, could create an elixir with the capability to reverse memory damage and even aid with mind healing. According to the petitioner, the location of the jewels and the elixir's recipe were contained in a grimoire last documented during the Middle Ages.
Hermione frowned, thinking back to a time when memory charms were rarely scrutinised. A time in which con artists like Gilderoy Lockhart could become anyone they wanted to be, so long as they executed an effective memory charm. But in the wake of Lockhart’s scandal, more and more scrutiny was placed upon mind-related magic. Questions of ethics, and the relationship between memory charms and assault. Questions about the legal classification of such spells, and comparisons drawn against the Imperius Curse. Even the Obliviation Hermione placed upon her parents all those years ago—Obliviate Minora, which was capable of being reversed by the caster—had taken weeks of assistance from Saint Mungo's to fully reverse. And while her parents had since improved, the ordeal was enough to make Hermione distrust the use of any memory charm.
The proposal went on to describe the potential benefits of such a discovery, noting the resolution of many once life-altering ailments. The document even addressed the number of beings—human or otherwise—who suffered memory loss as the result of war trauma, and who would be aided by such a discovery. And as she read through the notes about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, stress Occluding, and voluntary Obliviations, Hermione knew that her mind had been set.
“This is the one.” Hermione placed her brandy down, the contact between the glass and wood accentuating her determination. “This is the proposal I want to pursue.”
Olivia smiled, a gentle knowing in her gaze. She knew of Hermione’s past, and the struggles she suffered after the war. She knew of Hermione’s parents and their lingering episodes of forgetfulness. It was a pain shared by many, and a bond that knit together the fabric of magical society—a fabric tightly wound, and yet worn by grief.
“I understand your zeal, Miss Granger. However, you should know that this proposal comes with a caveat. A…condition, if you will.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes and pushed a stray curl of her behind her ear.
“A condition?”
“Indeed. In the last section of the proposal, the author states that they would like to be involved in the case.”
“That’s impossible," Hermione scoffed. "Unspeakable assignments aren't accessible to outside departments. The very nature of our work is to remain secret, even in the Research Division. Proposal authors rarely know if we even accept their petitions, let alone allow them to participate.”
“True,” Olivia nodded, slow and calculating. “But this proposal is different.”
“How so?”
“Because according to the proposal, the grimoire containing the location of the gemstones and the elixir's recipe was last seen in Saint Mary's Church at Oxford University, and it subsequently disappeared when the author of the grimoire—a wizard by the name of Wymond Reede—disappeared from the campus. There are no records of Wymond or the grimoire after 1330.”
Hermione clicked her jaw with frustration.
“Well...then I’ll need a time-turner. But I still fail to see how this warrants the involvement of an outside department.”
“Because...Wymond Reede wrote the grimoire in a runic font, Miss Granger—a language he designed to dissuade his competitors from learning the contents of his book. But, fortunately, Wymond also created a translation key, which was discovered about a year ago.”
As Olivia uttered the final sentence, understanding washed over Hermione.
“The author of the proposal possesses the translation key.”
Olivia’s smirk grew wider. “Precisely.”
“So, they’re holding the research hostage unless we give in to their demands?"
“In a way, yes. And I shared your sentiments when I read through the proposal until I read the application section. The author possesses the translation key, and notes that they would be willing to relinquish control of the document because they’ve spent the last year memorising the language. However, in their studies of Wymond Reede, they’ve found multiple references of him using the runic font in his other work.”
Hermione scowled.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning, that whoever seeks to find Wymond’s grimoire—and the gems—will likely need to decipher his runes while in the field. And while this could be managed in theory, you and I know that work of magnitude rarely affords leisure time. So in the event of a surprise or a disaster, time would be of the essence, and it would not allow for impromptu translations. Whoever pursues the gems will need to get past Wymond’s runes, swiftly and proficiently.”
Hermione rubbed her tired eyes, her motions in tune with the wall clock that began to chime out the late hour.
“So, the proposal author needs a Ministry-issued time-turner, and we need their proficiency with obscure runes.”
“Precisely.”
“And I assume you’re more interested in pursuing the case now, rather than allowing me the time to learn the runic language myself?”
“Correct,” Olivia noted, smiling wryly. “The potential for this research is too grand, and I am unfortunately too impatient.”
After a long moment, Hermione relented.
“Fine.”
She closed the proposal on the desk, betraying her instincts as she glanced towards the ornate clock.
It was midnight.
“I’m willing to work with the author, but only if they complete the necessary background check and an oath of secrecy. If they meet such demands, then I'd like to meet with them before I provide my final concurrence to the project.”
“Perfectly reasonable,” Olivia nodded. “I’ll contact them tomorrow and schedule the check and oath for later this week. Assuming it goes well, expect an appointment with them sometime next week. And when you return to the office, I’d like for you to get reacquainted with the Research Team. We’ve hired some new researchers since you’ve been gone, and I think some of them will be prudent assets for this assignment.”
“Excellent,” Hermione nodded. “I’ll schedule meetings with the new hires on Monday.”
“The following Monday,” Olivia drawled. She waved dismissively as she stood to her feet, with her black robes pooling against her almost clinically-tailored suit. “I’m giving you the next week off.”
Any frustrations Hermione held for the proposal’s author quickly waned in the wake of her supervisor’s words.
“...What?”
“You heard me,” Olivia smirked. “You've given this department over a year of your life, Miss Granger. The least I can do is provide you with a week off to indulge in the pleasantries of family, friendship, and sleeping-in. I’d provide you with even more time if I could...but if I’ve learned one thing about you, it’s that you don't stay away from work for very long.”
Olivia perked her brow in such a way that reminded Hermione of Professor McGonagall, so much so that she had to bite her lip to stifle a laugh.
“Thank you, ma’am. If that’s all you have for me today, then I’ll be on my way.”
Hermione extended her arm and the colleagues shook hands. And as the tired witch turned to leave, she heard a final word from her supervisor.
“And Miss Granger, when you see the Potters tomorrow—as I’m sure you have plans to do so—please send them my love. I still fondly recall when I was a Junior Unspeakable and had the pleasure of telling the security team that a fifteen-year-old managed to infiltrate their offices.”
“I will,” Hermione smiled. And with the soft click of the mahogany door, she was on her way.
She was going home.
December 6, 2006
“Hermione fucking Granger, as I live and breathe!”
Ginny’s shriek might have been heard across all of Devon, if Hermione could surmise a guess. And if the redhead's pitch did not sufficiently pierce the eardrums of Ottery St Catchpole, then surely the sobs of Molly Weasley would do the trick.
“Hermione,” the now-greying witch blubbered, pulling Hermione into a suffocating hug. Hermione swayed forward, her legs weighed down by the tugs of James and Fred—both of whom lived up to the mischievous nature of their namesakes. “Oh my dear, I have been worried sick about you. Merlin, you look like you haven’t eaten a proper meal since you left last year!”
“That’s what my mum said,” Hermione giggled.
“Oh good, I’m so glad you’ve been to see your parents! Do send them my love! Now, go ahead and let the grandchildren get their hugs, and I’m going to go finish making your pie.”
Hermione was overtaken by a fit of laughter and tears, allowing herself to be trampled by the onslaught of hugs from Weasleys and Potters alike. And as soon as Molly had ventured back to the kitchen—yelling at Arthur to stop tinkering with the car and come bid Hermione welcome—Ginny quickly filled Hermione’s empty arms with the newest addition to her growing family.
“Oh my word! Ginny, she’s gorgeous!” Hermione fawned over the two-month-old, planting a kiss upon her still-pink skin. Lily’s whisps of hair were red like her mother’s, but she had her father’s green eyes. Lily’s eyes.
Hermione could have wept.
“Hermione!” Harry roared, rushing through the chaos of the living room to clamp her into a bruising hug. “Bloody hell, I can’t believe you’re back!”
“Harry!” she choked, leaning her head against his dishevelled hair. “Your daughter is gorgeous, she has—”
“My mother's eyes.” Harry beamed as he exchanged a knowing look with his friend.
“And James, look how big you’ve grown!”
The giggling toddler tugged against Hermione’s jeans while Fred—his cousin, who was two months older—mimicked the action on her other leg.
“And you too, Fred! And where is your sister?”
“She’s with George and Angelina,” Ginny laughed. “She’s still shy as can be. They’re all out back helping dad with the car, but they’ll be in shortly.”
Just as Ginny finished her explanation, the chimney roared to life with green flame.
“‘Mione!” Ron yelled, brushing the Floo Powder off his wife and a sleeping Rose nestled in his arms. “Bloody hell, is mum making steak pie? Mum! Put on a kidney pie as well, I’m starved!”
“Ronald, we ate two hours ago,” Lavender tittered. “Hermione, it’s so nice to see you!”
Hermione returned Lily to Ginny, embracing Ron and Lavender with one arm each, her legs still weighed down by the raucous toddlers.
“What’s happened in here? Have the Cannons finally won the Cup?” George sauntered in, closely followed by Arthur and Angelina, who carried a bashful Roxanne in her arms.
“Hey there, Hermione!” Angelina beamed. “Welcome back!”
Hermione exchanged hugs and laughs with the added company, giving shy Roxanne a gentle wave. Arthur offered a quick greeting, immediately transitioning into questions about car mechanics, hoping that Hermione might possess the solution for his sputtering engine.
She, of course, did not.
“Oh Arthur, stop,” Molly swatted her husband's arm as she poked in from the kitchen. “I have three pies in the oven, but is there anything else I can make for you dear?”
“No, I’m fine, Molly. The company and pie are more than enough.”
“Right, well your own flesh and blood would like fried potatoes if you’re still offering.” Ron patted his stomach, still shockingly lean. Molly only rolled her eyes, mumbling something about Ron’s never-ending appetite and the potatoes already being in the oven.
“Bill, Fleur, and Victorie will be here shortly—their arms on the clock just moved—and Charlie and Oliver shouldn’t be too far behind. Percy, Audrey, Amy, and Lucy will stop by once the girls have finished their piano lessons.”
“Oh good, this family has been sorely lacking musicians. Plenty of half-rate Quidditch players and disappointments, but no musicians. Disgraceful,” George tutted, with James and Fred giggling as they ran past him.
The evening was marked by an abundance of noise—squeals from the children, occasional cries from the infants, sentimental sobs from Molly, and laughter shared by all. By supper, Hermione’s face was sufficiently sore from smiling. And though she and Ron’s relationship was short-lived—knowing their differences outweighed childhood affection—Hermione was still seen as a member of the Weasley family. Because if they learned anything from the war, it was that family meant more than blood—it was a chosen bond, not one of imposition. They defined family by who they loved. By who they protected. And save for her own parents, the Weasleys and the Potters would always be Hermione’s family.
As the reunion continued, Bill and Fleur arrived with Victorie, who was now seven years old but still delighted in the playful antics of her younger cousins. A year behind Victorie was Amy, Percy and Audrey’s eldest, who quite possibly possessed the best posture of any of them—Percy included. Lucy was just as clever as her older sister, but far more rambunctious. And yet, despite her proclivities for mischief, Lucy was the only Weasley to who Roxanne would speak freely. Only two months separated the cousins—just like Fred and James—and Hermione looked on fondly as she imagined their future at Hogwarts.
Dinner moved onto dessert, and when every plate was empty, Molly whisked them to the kitchen and left the gathering to descend into slow, sleepy murmurs. The children nestled into the couches, steadily overtaken by the lull of sleep as the adults spoke in hushed tones for fear of waking them. But nevertheless, the conversation continued—transitioning through all the Weasley's updates.
Hermione delighted in Charlie’s stories of the newest dragon wing that hatched in Dorset—Salisbury Silvers, an exceptionally rare breed. Oliver still played for Puddlemere United, who had a “real shot at the title,” according to Wood. Hermione did her best to smile and nod convincingly, but she still lacked a fondness for the sport. Bill interrupted the Quidditch tirade with the announcement that Saint Mungo’s had approved the distribution of a new Wolfsbane tonic, which proved ten times more effective than the classic formula. Lavender sang the potions praises as well, and was even involved in the early tests of the brew.
Like Bill, Lavender had suffered the wrath of Fenrir Greyback outside a full moon, and she wore her scars with pride just as Ron sang the praises of his wife's every curve. In fact, Ron had been devoted ever since the couple was re-introduced three years after the war, all thanks to a brief encounter at a werewolf support group led by Bill. Two years later, they were married, and Lavender became the proud founder of the Werewolf Welfare Society—a union dedicated to werewolf rights. And despite all the insufferable pining of their youth, Ron and Lavender had become a commendable example of mature commitment. They, like all Weasley children, replicated Molly and Arthur’s legacy of blending love with devotion.
By contrast, Hermione felt the echo of absence deep in her heart, buried under the layers of gratitude and warmth provided by the evening. And as she looked upon the intertwined hands of the various couples, the slow gnaw of loneliness threatened to eat away at her joy. But, as always, Hermione decided to schedule her angst for another day.
“Look at this trite nonsense,” Percy scoffed, browsing through the Prophet as he sipped the late-night coffee. “The entire front page is dedicated to drivel about the Malfoy Foundation’s latest fundraising gala. My interview about the revised Portkey regulations doesn’t appear until page four! Honestly, at this rate, you have to assume the Prophet is written by a flock of Pygmy Puffs.”
“A gaggle of Pygmy Puffs,” George tisked. “Do at least try to use the proper vernacular.”
Ginny and Ron sniggered, their coffees laced with whatever alcohol George had distributed earlier.
“Regardless,” Percy scowled. “You would think Portkeys would be of greater significance than exuberant ballgowns and champagne towers.”
“Without a doubt, old chap!” George drawled, mocking Percy’s pompous tone as he raised his coffee in a toast.
“It’s certainly a change from the Malfoy reports of years prior," Hermione added, smirking faintly. "There’s no mugshot, after all.”
In a strange turn of events, the room stilled with stifled awkwardness.
“Y’know,” Ron hiccupped. “The Malfoys aren’t so bad now.”
Hermione, certain that Ron might have just had a stroke, almost snapped her neck as she whipped it to look at him.
“I’m sorry…did you just defend the Malfoys? Ron, are you well?”
Ginny clutched her sides as she failed to control her fit of giggles.
“It’s true, ‘Mione! Draco’s the Potions Master for the DMLE—he was hired right before you left for Ireland. And not long after he started, he helped me track down a shitty distributor who sold the shop a whole crate of rotten Alihotsy leaves. Damn supplier was ready to leave me in a five-hundred Galleon hole if Malfoy hadn’t tracked down the distributor.”
George raised his cup in another toast, “Anyone who can save the shop five hundred Galleons is alright in my book, Death Eater or not.”
“I hate to say it,” Harry groaned, “But he’s actually tolerable, even at work. Still acts like a wart on a troll’s arse sometimes, but not always. Andromeda thinks it got better for him once Lucius finally chucked it in Azkaban.”
Hermione shuddered. Lucius' death had not gone unnoticed—occurring not long after his sentencing—and acted as the curtain call to a long year of war and brutality. The Death Eater had been sentenced to life in Azkaban, whereas his wife and son had only received a brief probationary period—in thanks, no doubt, to the Golden Trio’s testimony about Narcissa and Draco's hesitancy to serve Lucius' morbid master.
“Andromeda?” Hermione prodded, feeling the eyes of the room fall upon her. "Since when has she been on speaking terms with Malfoy?"
“She and Narcissa reconciled a few years ago.” Harry shrugged. “I see Narcissa sometimes when I visit Teddy. She’s nice. Awkward, perhaps, but nice.”
Hermione sipped her coffee, unsure how to process the new information. She reached across the table for the Prophet, glancing down at the photo of the Malfoy gala. Narcissa and Andromeda appeared side-by-side, their joy palpable through the photograph. Beside Narcissa stood a strange yet familiar figure, dressed in pristine black dress robes and sporting a less-than-enthused smile.
Draco Malfoy.
“How is Teddy doing?” Hermione asked, her eyes not diverting from the photo.
It appeared that Draco Malfoy, her childhood tormentor, had grown up. It wasn't surprising, necessarily, but Hermione had kept in touch with most of her other classmates and watched each of them grow and change. And as those changes naturally unfolded, she rarely conceptualised the weight of time. But as Hermione examined the stark shift in Draco’s appearance, she was given the blunt reminder of what eight years could achieve.
Perhaps it was as Ron and Harry said. Perhaps even Draco Malfoy was different.
“Oh, Teddy is doing great. He’s finally figured out how to change his tongue to look like a frog's, and Andromeda hates it. She says he keeps trying to catch flies from their veranda, which sounds helpful but it's too disgusting to be useful.”
Hermione smiled, tickled by the thought of Andromeda raising not one but two Metamorphmagi in her lifetime. But while the conversation continued about Teddy's talents, Hermione strayed back to the paper and met the eyes of Draco's photograph.
He was taller than before—perhaps even taller than Ron, if possible. And for the briefest of moments, she thought he might even be handsome—but only objectively speaking. And objectively, she assessed the way his pale cheeks were no longer gaunt and the way his shoulders had broadened with maturation. His hair was still the only thing fairer than his skin, but now it was styled to softly part in the middle and fan at the sides. It looked similar to how he had worn it in Third Year, and yet it was different…much like Draco Malfoy himself. But despite all his changes, she still recognised the hardened look in his grey eyes.
The eyes of a man who escaped death.
“Do you forgive him?” Hermione whispered, her tongue loose from the slip of George’s flask. The question was aimed at no one or everyone—Hermione wasn’t sure. Perhaps the question was even for herself.
Did she forgive Draco Malfoy? Could she forgive years of torment and ridicule? Could she make peace with a man who indulged in the devilry responsible for the scar that still marked her forearm?
She recalled the written testimony that she, Ron, and Harry had provided for Draco's trial, describing his hesitancy to turn them over to Lord Voldemort. Hermione never regretted submitting the document, but she took no delight in what she wrote. Even despite Draco's shocking act of kindness, Hermione had never brought herself to forgive him.
She wasn't sure if she ever could.
“I do,” Harry answered softly, his eyes looking beyond the Burrow, glossed over by memories. "Children shouldn't be condemned to a fate they never asked for."
Hermione nodded, blinking back hot tears that desired release.
“Perhaps the better question is if Draco forgives himself,” Molly added, smiling gently. “Harry's right—Draco was a child, just as you all were, who was forced to live through times that few adults could manage. And while youth does not absolve all sins…I expect that Draco might see the world in a new light without Lucius dictating his gaze. And hopefully, it's a brighter one.”
Quiet lulled over the room once more. And as eyelids drooped with sleep and contentment, they all seemed to quietly agree.
Perhaps time heals all wounds.