Chapter Text
If you asked Hermione how her day was going, she would tell you it was as good as it could be, given the circumstances. Voldemort was gone; finally. Harry was safe. Sirius and Remus had made it out alive. They were together. Not that it surprised anyone anyways. The Weasleys were all alive. No one was happy. But breathing, these days, itself was a prized commodity.
After the war, Hermione dived headfirst into everything—rebuilding Hogwarts, reviewing wizarding policies, trying to figure out a future. She kept herself busy. Because if she let herself pause, her thoughts would catch up and she couldn’t let them, or she would have to face the truth.
The truth that the boy she once loved, the one with warm blue eyes and a lopsided grin that would make her heart flutter, was about to stand trial for being a Purist; a Death Eater.
No one would have expected this of Ronald Weasley-the boy who once threw himself in front of a life-sized chess piece so Harry could stop evil; the boy who vomited slugs for her in second year because Draco-sodding-Malfoy called her a Mudblood; the boy who, at thirteen, stood in front of a perceived mass murderer, ready to die if it meant Harry lived. The child who gave everyone a reason to smile, Harry a family, who gave her… everything.
Her heart ached for the boy she lost and the man he became: a Death Eater, with blood on his hands and secrets in his silence. Even now, she couldn’t decide which hurt more—the betrayal itself, or the memory of his smile echoing through the spaces he left behind.
Tomorrow, the trial would decide his fate. Today, she let herself remember the day everything shattered.
Hermione never believed in movie cliches.
The whole falling in love with your best friend nonsense? Please.
The one about how opposites attract? Not really.
The one about how bad things happen on rainy days? No.
But today, the universe seemed to have conspired against her.
It was raining. Grimmauld Place 12 sported a look of impending doom. Sirius called it the normal status of his ancestral house, but that was the worst kind of a normal status.
Harry was still at the Dursleys. And Hermione-Merlin help her- was happy about it. It gave her opportunities to spend some time with Ron, alone.
Oh, for the record, she did fancy Ronald Weasley.
And she would like to believe that he liked her too. The stolen glances, the secretive smiles, their whole dynamic really, it wouldn't make sense otherwise.
But then again, we have established that the universe has a sense of humour.
Hermione bounded up the stairs to Ron’s room. She’d just had coffee, and the next best thing to do was annoy Ron—or, well, debate him on some obscure topic. It was her idea of fun, and who was going to stop her? Ron was sitting on the floor, cross legged, fiddling with something shiny. “Typical Ron”, she thought, with a fond roll of her eyes. She stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind her.
And in that split second, when her back was turned, Ron slipped the object into his pocket.
Hermione tilted her head. “What’s that?”
“Just…something,” Ron muttered, avoiding her gaze.
She reached for his pocket before she even thought about it.
He grabbed her wrist. Hard.
And that’s when she saw it—the mark peeking out from under his sleeve. Black ink. A serpent’s tongue curling into a skull.
The Dark Mark.
Hermione froze.
For a second, she thought she was imagining it. But then Ron’s grip tightened on her wrist. His eyes were pleading to her. Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t ask .
But before she could stop herself, the words spilled out “Ron….what- what is that?”
Silence.
Her breath hitched. “Ron, tell me it’s not you! This is-this is some kind of trick. Did they force you?”
“You shouldn’t be here, Hermione.”
Hermione’s pulse roared in her ears. “You think I’m leaving? You think I’m just going to walk away after seeing the Dark Mark? On your hand?” Her chest burned. Tears blurred her vision, “Say something! Deny it! Tell me you’re undercover, that you’ve gone bloody insane, that this is a nightmare and I’ll wake up—”
“Stop.”
One word.
Hermione froze.
“Try me,” she whispered.
His jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, something like pain flickered across his face—but then it was gone, shuttered behind steel.
“Don’t trust me, Hermione.”
And before she could breathe, before she could move, he left; he moved out of his room, into the floo place, and he was out. He went God knows where, leaving her all alone, with her thoughts. And the responsibility of being the bearer of bad news.
The drawing room of Grimmauld Place was suffocating. Harry sat on the couch, fists clenched so tight his knuckles were bone-white. He hadn’t said a word since Hermione told them.
Harry didn’t believe her. Of course he did not. How could he?
It was not like his first actual friend and his brother in all but blood suddenly decided to say “Hey Harry, I’m joining the other side. The Dark Side has better cookies.”
Not literally, but the truth was that Ron was gone.
Hermione did not know if she wanted to laugh or cry at the fact that when someone stepped into his life, someone else left. As for her? She wanted to cry. She wanted to hug her person, let it all out and start anew. She wanted to bury her face into his chest and pretend everything was alright.
But “her person” was not with hers anymore.
“Hermione, you- you must have made a mistake, it must have been the light. You must be wrong. You are wrong.” Harry seemed to be spiraling. “Ron would not do this. We know him, Hermione. You know him.”
Sirius, who was pacing around in the room like a restless wolf, took a sharp breath, “That is what James said about Pettigrew.”
“Don’t.” Harry finally looked up, eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare say that about him. This is Ron. He’s—he’s my best mate. He is nowhere close to that- that traitorous rat.”
Sirius cursed, low and vicious. “Merlin’s bloody beard. That mark doesn’t get handed out with tea and biscuits. He chose this. You think I haven’t seen this before? I watched your father trust the wrong person, and it got him killed. Don’t make the same mistake. I won’t let you do it.”
“Ron isn’t Peter!” Harry roared, the room vibrating with it.
“Harry.” Remus’ voice was quiet. Steady. Deadly calm. That was worse than Sirius’ fury. “Each one of us hopes that this is not true. However,” His amber eyes were heavy with something akin to pity. “If Ron’s gone to Voldemort, we have to face that reality.”
“He hasn’t!” Harry’s voice cracked, raw and desperate. “He hasn’t.” His breath came in short, furious bursts. His scar throbbed, not with magic but with emotion.
Sirius kneeled in front of his Godson and placed his hands on Harry’s shoulders, “Do you think I don’t want to catch him by the scruff of his neck and shake answers out of him?” Sirius’ voice broke. “Merlin, I do. More than anything.” He swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep steady even as his hands trembled. “But the situation we’ve landed in… it demands this. I hate to even think you’re in danger, Harry. For now… you need to trust me. I’ll try to find out. But…” His throat worked as if the words physically hurt him. “Believe me when I say this—Ron is gone for good”
“Gone where?” Arthur’s voice rang through the room as he stepped in through the Floo along with Molly.
Hermione flinched.
Then she spoke, because someone had to.
Hermione swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. Molly’s wails still rang in her ears, even though it had been years since that night in Grimmauld Place—the night the Weasleys shattered and Harry burned with a new kind of rage. She pushed herself to her feet.Trying to stop thinking about freckles and chessboards and the way he used to grin at her like she was magic.
Hermione Granger squared her shoulders. There was a war to rebuild. There was no time to break.
Harry did not need to go to the holding room-no- but he wanted to.
After all that had happened, he believed that he deserved an explanation. An apology, maybe. He had been hurting so much, hadn’t he? For the past three years.
Yes, the war was over. Yes, Voldemort was dead. And yes, he was finally absolved from his ‘life’s duty’. The last few of Voldemort’s Death Eaters were being rounded up.
“Ronald too,” he thought bitterly.
The Saviour of the Wizarding World didn’t need to be seen entering a cell bearing a Death Eater. But he couldn't help it.
A tiny, traitorous part of him hoped- hoped that Ron would be grovelling for his mistake. He hoped that Ron was suffering just as much as he was. He hoped that he would be apologising. He would be pleading with Harry to help him be acquitted for the crimes he did.
But the rational part of Harry knew that this would not be the case. Headstrong, stubborn, prideful Ron, would not be doing any of these.
Ironically, Harry savoured the fact that maybe he did know him well enough to come to this conclusion.
As he stepped into the cold, and damp cell, he saw that Ron was sitting down on the hard stone floor. He had his head in his arms and his knees were drawn tight against his chest.
At that moment, even with all the bloodied robes and grime filled hair, he looked so young, and so vulnerable, that Harry wanted to forget everything and pull him close in a hug and never let him leave. Even after everything.
Harry’s heart pounded in his chest as he stepped closer, the anger and hurt spilling out before he could think. “Ron… why?” His voice cracked, low and desperate.
Ron’s head lifted, meeting Harry’s gaze with eyes that were colder than the stone beneath them. He said nothing. A flash of something—pain, regret, maybe even a shadow of longing—crossed his face for a heartbeat, then vanished, shuttered behind the armor he had built.
Harry felt it, that brief crack, or he was not sure if he imagined it.
“I… I trusted you!” Harry’s voice broke. “I thought I knew you!”
Ron said nothing. He merely shifted slightly, as if letting Harry’s words fall around him like dust, untouchable and unacknowledged.
With a strangled sigh, Harry turned away, his hands trembling, fists balled tight. He left the cell without another word, the cold silence following him like a shadow. Outside, the world waited for a judgment, questions and a trial that could decide everything.
The Wizengamort convened for the day and the walls seemed to echo with the trepidation that Hermione was feeling in her heart. The cold stone walls of the room seemed to be ready to dole out justice and the people gathered in the court were speaking to each other rapidly in shushed voices.
She looked beside her. Harry was there, dressed in rich black robes, with his green eyes shining in apprehension behind the glasses. He was wearing a mask of calmness that she could see through. His hand twitched near his wand. Hermione knew that something had happened the previous day. Maybe now was not the time to ask him about it.
Sirius was not here. Hermione’s brows furrowed in confusion. She wondered why the usually punctual man was late today.
The Weasleys filed in together and took their seats. Their familiar faces only made Hermione remember the stakes.
And then there was Ron. He stood in the center of the chamber; shackled. His hands were encased in cold silver manacles which clinked with his every moment. He stood tall, in a way that screamed “Finish it already.” Hermione failed to understand how he could still be so defiant and so indifferent to his trial.
Kinglsey Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, cleared his throat and raised a hand. “The court will come to order.”
A scribe stepped forward, parchment in hand. “The accused, Ronald Bilius Weasley, is charged with allegiance to Lord Vol-Voldemort, participation in Death Eater activities, and multiple acts of violence against wizarding citizens and allies of the Order of the Phoenix…”
Hermione’s stomach churned as the list went on, each accusation hitting harder than the last. She watched Ron’s expression—unflinching, calm, eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the walls.
Finally, a silence fell. The court waited.
“Say it,” he said quietly, almost dismissively. “Say everything. Sentence me if it’ll make you feel better. I don’t care. Just get it done.”
Gasps rippled through the room. Harry’s jaw tightened; Hermione’s hands flew to her mouth. But before the Judges could say anything, the door to the Wizengamort flew open.
Sirius Black walked in, wand lowered and eyes ablaze. He stopped just short of the bench, and then, with a voice that shook the rafters and silenced whispers alike, he said: “Ron Weasley has been loyal to the Light, and I can prove every second of it!”