Epilogue
One year later
“What does it say?” Hermione asked, peering over Theo’s shoulder as he pulled the roll of parchment from the Ministry-issued owl on their windowsill.
“It’s about my father,” Theo said, his face blank. “He’s dying, apparently.”
“Oh,” Hermione said, touching his shoulder. “Are you– how do you feel?”
“Honestly? Nothing,” he said, turning to face her. “I meant it when I said I’d never go back and see him, even if he was on his deathbed.”
“Are you sure?” Hermione asked hesitantly. “Don’t stay away on my accord, Theo. If you want closure, if there’s anything more you want to say–”
“Hermione,” he said, pulling her close. “There’s absolutely nothing I want from him. He’s been dead to me for a long time. And I have everything I need, right here. With you.”
“Okay,” she said, leaning into his kiss. “Whatever you want, love. But if you change your mind, I’d understand too.”
“I won’t,” he said, smiling. “Now, shall we?”
Hermione nodded, taking his hand. They were scheduled to meet a realtor today. Although they had more than enough money now, neither of them had been in a hurry to move out of their flat. It was their first home together, the place they’d become adults. The place they’d lived when they’d gotten engaged. It had sentimental meaning to both of them, and it was cozy, warm, lovely. But they were ready for something new– the next step.
The bell above the door chimed as Hermione and Theo stepped into the cozy, elegant office of Whitmore & Rook, one of the more discreet real estate firms in Wizarding London. A plump wizard in deep blue robes, his silver hair combed neatly back, greeted them with a warm smile.
"Ah, Mr. Nott, Miss Granger—welcome! I’m Edgar Whitmore. A pleasure to meet you both," he said, extending a hand. "I understand you’re looking for something special. Not too grand, but with character. A home, not a statement."
Theo nodded, slipping his hand into Hermione’s. "Exactly. We don’t need a manor or some sprawling estate. Just something with charm, a bit of history, and a good place to grow."
"And a library," Hermione added. "A proper one."
"Of course," Whitmore chuckled. "Let’s begin, shall we? I’ve lined up three properties that might be exactly what you’re looking for."
The first house was nestled in a quiet lane in a magical pocket of Hampstead, surrounded by ivy-covered brickwork and iron lanterns that flickered with enchanted light. The townhouse had a beautiful balcony overlooking a small enchanted garden that thrived no matter the season.
Inside, the rooms were warm and inviting, with wooden beams and stone fireplaces, but the space felt a bit too compact, too claustrophobic somehow. The library was lovely, but Hermione hesitated in the doorway, biting her lip. "It’s beautiful, but…"
Theo shook his head. "Not quite right."
Whitmore nodded knowingly. "Onward, then."
The second house was an old, Tudor-style cottage in the heart of Godric’s Hollow, its front door painted a cheerful green. The garden was enchanting, full of lavender and wild roses, with a bubbling little fountain that seemed to hum a soft tune.
Inside, the ceilings were high, and the library was floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves that curved along the walls like something out of a fairy tale. But the kitchen was cramped, and the second bedroom had a distinctly eerie feel that even Hermione’s best revealing charms couldn’t explain.
"It’s stunning," Hermione admitted, running a hand along the banister. "But I don’t think it’s ours." She grimaced at Theo apologetically, knowing she was being difficult.
Theo shook his head and smiled at her reassuringly before glancing at Whitmore. "Third time’s the charm?"
The final house was tucked away in a quiet wizarding neighborhood just beyond Diagon Alley, a hidden gem with ivy climbing its stone façade and a wrought-iron balcony that wrapped around the second floor. A massive oak tree stood in the back garden, its branches wide enough for a reading nook beneath the leaves.
The moment they stepped inside, something settled in Hermione's chest. The floors were a dark, rich wood, the scent of old books and fresh parchment lingering in the air. The library spanned two floors, with a spiral staircase leading to a cozy loft. The sitting room had a massive fireplace, perfect for winter nights, and the kitchen was airy and inviting. Light poured through stained-glass windows, casting colors across the walls.
Hermione turned in slow circles, taking it all in. "Theo…"
He caught her hand, squeezing gently. "This is it, isn’t it?"
She nodded, eyes shining. "This is home."
Whitmore grinned. "Shall I draw up the paperwork?"
Theo didn’t hesitate. "Yes. We’ll take it."
Once they bid farewell to Whitmore and stepped back into their flat, Theo turned to Hermione. “Lunch?”
She bit her lip. “How about dinner instead? I’ve got a couple errands to run.”
“Need some company?” Theo asked.
Hermione cringed. She hated to lie to him, but she knew Theo would try to talk her out of what she was about to do. She’d tell him eventually– someday. “Thank you, love, but I think I’d like a bit of alone time. Is that okay?”
“Of course,” he said. She expected to see that nervous flicker in his eye, the one he got when he thought she might be pulling away, but if it was there it was very faint. It made her happy to realize how much he'd grown.
Once she knew Theo was occupied, she stepped into the Floo, still anxiously biting her lip. “Azkaban Prison,” she whispered before she disappeared into green flames.
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Hermione sat at the metal table, wondering absently if this was where Theo had sat so many years ago. Her head jerked up at the sound of the door opening, and in came an auror, pushing Nott Sr. in a wheelchair. She’d only seen the man a few times before this, and from a distance, but now he looked… unrecognizable. He looked brittle, shrunken, tinged with the sickly pallor of someone who had spent too long without sunlight, his cheeks hollow, his lips cracked. His hair, once dark and neatly combed, hung in lank, uneven strands, and his eyes—once cold and calculating—were sunken, ringed with deep bruises of exhaustion.
“Hello, Nott,” Hermione said. She wasn’t even sure what to call him, but certainly not Mr. Nott.
The man barely raised his head, his frail fingers gripping the edge of the wheelchair. He isn’t even that old, she thought, but perhaps being as evil as he was had somehow drained the life out of him. He’d probably contracted any number of ailments in Azkaban, his body finally giving in now.
Nott Sr. suddenly let out a wheezing chuckle, though it sounded more like a cough. His lips curled into something that might have once been a smirk, but now it just looked like a grimace.
“Well,” he rasped, his voice thin and brittle, “if it isn’t the little Mudblood who seduced my son. You’ve still got your claws in him then?” His tongue clicked against his teeth, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the words. “Come to gloat? Come to see what’s left of the villain in his cage?”
Hermione didn’t flinch. She simply watched him, calm and impassive, which seemed to irritate him more than any outburst ever could. His fingers twitched against the armrests, his breath rattling in his chest.
“Funny, isn’t it?” he mused, his voice dipping into something almost reflective. “I spent my life building something—power, legacy, bloodlines. And for what?” He let out another laugh, hollow and bitter. “For my son to throw it all away on you.”
Hermione let the silence hang between them, keeping her expression blank. Disinterested. “Are you finished, then? You’re exerting quite a bit of energy on insulting me, for someone so close to death.”
Nott Sr.'s smirk faltered for half a second before he let out a slow, rattling breath. He tilted his head, studying her through half-lidded eyes.
"You didn’t answer my question,” he rasped. “Why are you here? To make sure I’m really dying? To tell me that my son will never forgive me?”
Hermione folded her hands in front of her, tilting her chin up slightly. “I came because Theo won’t,” she said evenly. “Because despite everything, I know some small, buried part of him will wonder if you regret anything. If you had any bit of human left in you.” She leaned in just a fraction, lowering her voice. “And I wanted to see for myself that you didn’t.”
Nott Sr. let out a harsh, wheezing chuckle. “Regret?” he repeated, as if the word tasted foreign in his mouth. His eyes glinted with something—mockery, maybe, or just exhaustion disguised as defiance. “Regret is for men who lost something they loved.” He coughed, dragging in another unsteady breath. “I lost nothing. Nothing that was worth keeping.”
Hermione watched him, unshaken. “No,” she said quietly. “You lost everything.”
“I beg your pardon?” He asked, hacking out another labored laugh. “Please, Mudblood. Enlighten me.”
Hermione didn’t flinch at the slur, didn’t react at all except to tilt her head slightly, watching him with something almost like pity. She let the silence stretch between them, let him sit with the weight of his own breath rattling in his chest before she finally spoke.
“You spent your life obsessed with blood,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “With legacy. Ensuring your line would remain pure, untarnished.” She leaned forward just slightly, her fingers laced together on the table. “And yet, here we are. You’re dying, and the bloodline you built your whole existence around will die with you.”
Nott Sr.’s amusement flickered into something else, his gaze sharpening despite the exhaustion clouding his features.
Hermione exhaled slowly. “Theo and I are having a baby,” she said, and for the first time since she sat down, she let herself smile—not smug, not triumphant, but full of something warm and unwavering. “Your grandchild is going to be half-Muggleborn. And Theo—your son—is going to be the kind of father who unlearns every single thing you tried to teach him.”
His lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but no words came. His fingers twitched weakly against the arm of the wheelchair.
“The Nott name will live on,” Hermione continued, standing now, pressing her hand to her belly, where the beginning of a new life stirred quietly beneath her touch—a heartbeat soft as a whisper, a future already unfolding, untouched by dark magic, by hatred. “But not in the way you wanted. Not in the way you tried to control.” She met his gaze one last time, unwavering. “And that is why you lost everything. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to go give your son the good news.”
She turned toward the door without another word, leaving him in the heavy, suffocating silence of his own undoing.
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Florence Leila Granger-Nott was born on May 17, 2007. She had a full head of brown curls and her father’s eyes. Hermione’s labor was long and exhausting, stretching into the early hours of the morning, but through it all, Theo never left her side. He wasn’t the panicked mess she had half-expected—rather, he was quiet, intense, his fingers laced tightly with hers as if he could anchor her through sheer will alone. And when their daughter finally arrived—small, perfect, and blinking up at him with wide, curious eyes—he was utterly undone. From the moment he held her, Theo was captivated, studying every tiny detail of her as if she were the most important mystery he had ever encountered.
As a newborn, she was much the same—calm, alert, always watching, as though she was already trying to make sense of the world around her. She rarely cried for no reason, instead looking to him and Hermione as though she already trusted them to understand her needs. By the time she was a toddler, that same quiet intensity had blossomed into endless curiosity. She asked question after question, small hands reaching for books far too advanced for her, always eager to learn, always thinking before she spoke. Florence was an early walker and an early talker, as precocious as her mother and as quietly determined as her father. Theo and Florence were attached at the hip, one never far from the other. In her, Theo saw so much of himself—but without the uncertainty that had plagued him for years. Where he had once hesitated, she moved forward with confidence. And if fatherhood had once seemed overwhelming to him, now it was the one thing in life that felt unquestionably right. Because from the moment he held her, he knew—he would always be exactly what she needed.
Hermione had never imagined herself as a mother. It wasn’t that she disliked the idea, but growing up, she had been too focused on survival, on proving herself, on fighting for a world that didn’t always seem willing to change. Even after the war, she had assumed motherhood was something that happened to other people—until Theo. Loving him had softened the sharp edges she had carried for so long, and when their daughter was born, Hermione knew with absolute certainty that there was nothing she would ever love more. She was fiercely protective, shaped by a childhood where safety had never been guaranteed, but Florence was living proof of how different the world was now. A child of a Muggleborn and a Pureblood, growing up in a home without fear, without war, without the weight of history pressing down on her shoulders. She would attend Muggle school, learning math and literature alongside children who had no idea magic existed, while at home, she would be taught about the world she had inherited, straddling both realities as easily as breathing. And while others might whisper about legacies and House rivalries, Hermione knew she would never care where Florence was sorted—because unlike her own childhood, her daughter would always belong. And, perhaps most surprising of all, watching Theo become a father—so devoted, so steady, so entirely hers—only made her want more.
Some of Florence’s happiest moments were spent in the garden with Theo, her small hands buried in the earth beside his as they tended to rows of herbs and flowers, her father’s patience never wavering as he taught her the names of each plant. But his lessons extended far beyond the soil—he nurtured her curiosity in everything from healing and medicine to academia, answering her endless questions with the same quiet dedication he had always applied to his own studies. Just as he encouraged her to explore the world through logic and discovery, Hermione filled it with stories, reading to her every night and teaching her about history, science, and the complexities of both the magical and Muggle worlds. She had no shortage of family to dote on her—several sets of grandparents, from the Weasleys to the Grangers to Aunt Selene, each offering their own brand of love and wisdom. Her world was filled with aunts and uncles—Harry and Ginny, Draco, Ron and Padma, Blaise and Luna (a surprise to all of them), George and Angelina, Neville and Hannah, to name a few—and an endless number of cousins, most of them with wild red hair in varying shades, always ready to sweep her into some grand adventure.
Florence’s childhood was one built on love—on the steady, unwavering devotion of her parents, the warmth of her sprawling, mismatched family, and the freedom to explore both the magical and Muggle worlds as fully as she wished. She was never made to feel as though she had to choose between one part of her heritage and another; she belonged to both, seamlessly weaving them together in a way that would have been unthinkable in generations past. Magic was not something hidden or feared in her home, but something to be understood, respected, and embraced. And more than anything, she was surrounded by people who adored her—who would fight for her, guide her, and remind her, always, that she was enough just as she was.