A Ministry Visit
That morning, as Hermione walked through the stone archways of Hogwarts, she felt the pull of memory like a tide rising in her chest. The castle was unchanged in so many ways—the scent of parchment and damp stone, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows along the corridors, the distant hum of students’ chatter echoing through the halls. It was strange how easily it all came back to her, like muscle memory, as if the years between then and now had compressed into something fleeting and insubstantial.
She had always thought of Hogwarts as a place of learning, a place that had shaped her into the person she had become. But today, walking its halls again, she was reminded that it had also been a home—a place where she had forged friendships, where she had laughed and fought and grieved, where she had fallen in love. And, for the briefest moment, she let herself imagine another timeline—one where Ron was beside her, nudging her arm, making some joke under his breath about being back in school.
But that wasn’t her reality.
Taking a steadying breath, Hermione pushed the thought aside and focused on the present. Neville had invited her to speak to his second-year Herbology class, a request she had accepted without hesitation. She had always admired his work as a professor, the way he had stepped so seamlessly into a role that had once seemed so improbable for him. And besides, it wasn’t every day that Rose wanted her mother anywhere near her school. When she had begrudgingly mentioned the invitation, Hermione had taken it as an opportunity—perhaps even a fragile bridge.
She found Neville waiting for her outside Greenhouse Three, leaning casually against the stone wall with his hands tucked into the deep pockets of his robes. He looked every bit the seasoned professor, but there was still a warmth to him, a familiar ease that reminded her of the boy he had once been.
As soon as he caught sight of her, a slow grin spread across his face. "Still can’t stay away from this place, can you?" he teased, his voice carrying that familiar blend of humour and affection.
Hermione rolled her eyes, but the corners of her lips twitched. "You say that as if you don’t live here year-round."
Neville laughed, a rich, genuine sound. "Touché." He pushed off the wall and gestured toward the greenhouse door. "Come on, then. Show them what the great Hermione Granger does when she’s not terrorizing her own children with lectures about their study habits."
Hermione let out a soft, breathy chuckle, shaking her head as she followed him inside. "I don’t terrorize them," she said, though she wasn’t entirely sure that was true.
Neville shot her a knowing look as he held the door open for her. "Rose might disagree."
The words were light, teasing, but there was something else beneath them—an understanding, perhaps even an unspoken sympathy. Neville knew what it was like to be the child of a hero, to grow up with expectations that felt too big for a young heart to carry. He knew what it was like to live in the shadow of stories that belonged to other people.
The students were already gathered around a long wooden table, their attention shifting from the array of potted plants in front of them to the guest who had just entered. Rose sat near the end, straight-backed, expression unreadable. Hugo would have grinned at her arrival, maybe even waved, but Rose… Rose met Hermione’s gaze for only a second before looking away.
"All right, settle down," Neville called, clapping his hands together. "Today, we have a special guest. Some of you might recognize her from the papers, but to me, she’s just an old friend who still thinks she’s better at exams than I am."
A few students chuckled, but Hermione only raised a brow. "That’s because I was."
More laughter. Even Rose cracked a tiny, reluctant smile.
Neville gestured toward her with an easy familiarity. “Hermione Granger, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”
The words still felt strange, even after years of holding the position. She had never taken the title lightly—how could she, when every decision she made had the potential to reshape wizarding society? It was weighty, steeped in responsibility, in compromise, in battles fought behind closed doors where justice was rarely as clear-cut as she wished it to be.
But right now, in front of a group of wide-eyed second-years, she set aside the complexities and kept it simple.
“My department oversees the laws that keep our world functioning,” Hermione explained, her voice steady and measured. She clasped her hands in front of her, the way she always did when speaking to an audience—whether it was a courtroom, a conference hall, or, in this case, a greenhouse full of curious students. “That means everything from criminal investigations to international cooperation. We regulate laws concerning magical creatures, wand rights, and, of course, magical ethics.”
The class listened attentively, though some students exchanged glances, their youthful curiosity sparked by the unfamiliar weight of the subject. A boy near the front, his brow furrowed in thought, raised his hand. “Magical ethics?” he asked, his tone hesitant, as if testing the phrase on his tongue.
Hermione nodded. “The use of magic has consequences,” she said, scanning the room with a careful gaze. “Some spells—like the Unforgivable Curses—are banned because of the harm they inflict. Others, like Memory Charms, require strict regulation to ensure they aren’t misused. Every time we use magic, we make a choice. And those choices should always be made with responsibility.”
She saw Neville out of the corner of her eye, standing off to the side, arms crossed loosely as he listened. There was a quiet kind of pride in his expression, though he remained respectfully silent, allowing her to command the space. It was surreal, standing here in front of students, in the very place where she had once been a student herself—where she had spent countless hours debating right and wrong, pushing herself toward a future where she could do something that mattered. And now, here she was, explaining to a new generation why laws existed at all.
Another student, a girl with long dark braids, hesitated before lifting her hand. “What about spells that affect souls?”
The question settled over the room like a thin layer of frost. The shift was subtle, but Hermione felt it immediately, a quiet ripple in the air. She noticed Neville shift beside her, just barely.
He cleared his throat, filling the silence. “That’s a fascinating subject,” he said, his voice light but careful. “And one not often discussed outside of advanced studies.”
Hermione took a slow, measured breath. “There are spells that can touch the soul,” she admitted. “The Dementor’s Kiss is one of the most infamous, though it’s not a spell, strictly speaking. There are also ancient magics—some lost, some forbidden—that are said to bind or even divide the soul. But magic that interacts with the soul is dangerous. Often irreversible.”
She let her words settle, knowing that the weight of them would take time to sink in. Most of these students had likely never considered magic in such a way before. Magic, to them, was still something thrilling, something boundless—a tool, an ability, a gift. It wasn’t often that young witches and wizards were asked to think about its limitations. Or its price.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then, a quiet voice cut through the stillness.
“But if a soul is gone… is it really gone?”
Hermione turned toward the speaker before she even realized who it was.
Rose.
She was sitting near the middle of the room, her posture poised but slightly tense, her fingers pressed flat against the desk as if bracing herself for the answer. Her voice had been soft, barely more than a breath, but Hermione had heard it clearer than anything else that had been spoken. Because the question wasn’t really for the class. Not really.
The other students didn’t seem to notice the weight behind her words, but Hermione felt it settle like lead in her chest. The air around them felt suddenly too thick, too heavy. Her throat tightened as she tried to summon a response, but—for once—words did not come easily.
Neville, however, had noticed.
His gaze flickered to Hermione for only a second before he shifted his attention back to Rose. He tilted his head slightly, considering, before answering in a tone that was far softer than before.
“That depends on what you believe,” he said, his voice even, gentle but firm. “Some say that nothing truly disappears. That magic leaves traces, even after someone is gone. That pieces of them remain in the world, in the people they loved.”
Hermione’s heart clenched.
Rose’s fingers curled slightly against the table, her knuckles white. She didn’t respond, didn’t move.
Hermione swallowed. “And some say the soul moves on but is never truly lost,” she added, her voice quieter now, though she wasn’t sure if she was speaking to her daughter or to herself.
Neville’s gaze lingered on her then. There was something knowing in his expression, something deeper beneath the words he spoke next.
“But gone is still gone,” he said simply.
Hermione inhaled sharply.
It wasn’t a challenge. Just a truth. One that he had lived with his entire life.
The words sat between them, unspoken but understood.
Neville knew loss. He had grown up with it, had carried it with him in ways few could truly understand. And yet, Hermione wanted—needed—to believe something different. She needed to believe that Ron wasn’t just gone. That there was something left of him, even now, even after.
She looked back at Rose, who was staring at her, waiting.
Hermione could see the conflict in her daughter’s eyes, the way desperate hope warred against the quiet, aching knowledge of reality. She knew that look. She had worn it herself once, long ago, when she was younger, when she was still trying to understand what it meant to lose someone forever.
She reached out, just slightly, her fingers grazing the edge of the table.
“Just because something is gone,” she said carefully, her voice almost unbearably soft, “doesn’t mean it stops existing. It doesn’t mean it stops mattering.”
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Neville held her gaze before finally nodding. But he didn’t take back his words.
Hermione let out a slow breath, steadying herself, before turning back to the class. She answered more of their questions, spoke of laws and ethics and the responsibilities that came with power. She let the discussion return to lighter things, allowed them to see magic for what it was—beautiful, vast, full of possibility.
But the weight of the conversation lingered, pressing against her ribs like an ache that refused to fade.