Black
It had been two weeks since the final battle at Hogwarts, and the wizarding world was painstakingly trying to rebuild itself. Kingsley Shacklebolt, now serving as interim Minister for Magic, was working day and night to restore order and structure to the Ministry. Meanwhile, teams of Aurors scoured the country for Voldemort’s remaining followers, with trials already underway for many of those captured.
Hermione Granger had been staying at the Burrow with the Weasleys, who had opened their home to her without hesitation. With her parents still living unknowingly in Australia—oblivious to the war, the wizarding world, or even the fact that they had a daughter—Hermione felt unmoored, uncertain of where she truly belonged.
Tonight, the Burrow was quiet, its inhabitants long since gone to bed. Hermione sat alone in the warm kitchen, wrapped in a soft blanket with her messy bun perched atop her head, sipping tea from a chipped cup. She wore an oversized jumper and a pair of thick socks, comforted by their softness as Crookshanks prowled around the kitchen, brushing against her legs before hopping onto a nearby chair.
Her thoughts wandered to her parents. She needed to start planning their recovery, but the prospect filled her with dread. Would they forgive her for erasing their memories? Would they feel betrayed by her decision to prioritize their safety over their agency? Hermione sighed, deciding she would worry about their reaction once she succeeded in restoring their memories. One problem at a time.
Her mind shifted to the recent memorial at Hogwarts, a solemn tribute to those who had fallen in the war. Names like Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Alastor Moody, Dobby, Severus Snape, and Fred Weasley had been spoken with reverence, each name evoking fresh waves of grief. Teddy Lupin, the infant son of Remus and Tonks, was now in the care of his grandmother, Andromeda Tonks. Harry, Teddy’s godfather, had decided it was best for the child to stay with her for now, given his own youth and the burdens he still carried.
The inclusion of Severus Snape's name on the memorial had been a subject of quiet debate. Many still harbored mixed feelings about the former Potions Master, his reputation as a Death Eater overshadowing the truth of his sacrifices. But Harry had insisted. Standing before the Wizengamot and later the Hogwarts staff, he had recounted the memories Snape had given him, revealing the depth of the man’s loyalty to Dumbledore and his unyielding love for Lily Potter.
“He wasn’t perfect,” Harry had admitted to the gathered crowd, his voice steady but heavy with emotion. “But without him, none of us would have survived. He gave everything—even his life—to protect this school, to protect us.”
It was Harry’s quiet determination that ensured Snape’s place on the memorial, a final acknowledgment of his courage and redemption. As his name was spoken at the ceremony, Harry had felt a bittersweet pang of gratitude and regret, wishing Snape could have lived to see his bravery recognized.
The memories of the memorial lingered in Hermione’s mind, a poignant reminder of the cost of their victory. For all the names spoken with reverence, there were countless others who had been lost in the shadows of history. The war had ended, but its scars would take far longer to heal.
Fred’s funeral had been held at the Burrow, a deeply emotional affair that had left the Weasley family shattered. Percy, who had been dueling alongside Fred during his final moments, seemed especially wracked with guilt, while George had all but locked himself away in his and Fred’s shared room. Arthur and Molly mourned in their own ways—Arthur by throwing himself into work, and Molly by focusing her energy on caring for her family, though her grief occasionally broke through in quiet, tearful moments.
Despite their own pain, the surviving siblings rallied around each other and their parents. Ron had taken to helping around the Burrow whenever he wasn’t needed at the Ministry, while Harry stayed close, offering his support to both his best friend and Ginny. Hermione, too, did her best to provide comfort, though she sometimes felt like an outsider in their close-knit grief.
Lost in her thoughts, Hermione didn’t notice the quiet creak of the floorboards until a familiar voice broke the silence.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Ron asked, his voice gentle as he poured himself a cup of tea.
Hermione looked up, startled, and then smiled softly. “No. Too much on my mind.”
Ron took a seat across from her, his tall frame seeming to take up the entire space. He was wearing a Weasley jumper, and Hermione noticed the faint stubble on his jaw.
“You?” she asked, taking a sip of her tea.
“Same,” Ron admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “Thought I’d keep you company. Tea always tastes better when someone else is around.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the warmth of the kitchen easing some of the tension in the air.
“How are you holding up?” Ron finally asked.
Hermione sighed, setting her cup down.
“I’m... managing. There’s just so much to think about. My parents, for one. I know I have to find them, but what if they—” She hesitated, her voice cracking slightly. “What if they hate me for what I did?”
Ron reached out, covering her hand with his.
“They won’t. You did what you had to do to protect them. They’ll understand.”
Hermione nodded, though doubt lingered in her eyes. “How about you?”
Ron’s expression darkened slightly.
“Mum’s not doing great. None of us are, really. Percy’s throwing himself into Ministry work, Dad’s doing the same, and George...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “He hasn’t come out of their room since the funeral.”
Hermione squeezed his hand gently, her heart aching for him.
“You’re all doing your best, Ron. That’s all anyone can ask.”
The conversation shifted to lighter topics as they talked about their plans for the future. Hermione expressed her intention to return to Hogwarts to complete her education, while Ron revealed that he and Harry had been offered positions as junior Aurors.
“I don’t think I can go back to Hogwarts,” Ron admitted. “Too many memories. But I get why you’d want to finish. You’ve always been the cleverest witch I know.”
Hermione blushed, a soft laugh escaping her lips. “And I’ll support you, whatever you decide.”
Crookshanks jumped onto Ron’s lap, purring loudly as Ron scratched behind his ears.
“Looks like I’ve won him over,” Ron joked.
Hermione chuckled, her gaze lingering on Ron’s face. “You didn’t shave,” she remarked, her tone teasing.
Ron rubbed his jaw sheepishly.
“Yeah, well, been a bit busy. Don’t get used to it, though—I’m not planning to grow a beard or anything.”
Hermione grinned. “You know, it’s not terrible. Kind of suits you.”
Ron smirked, leaning back in his chair.
“Well, as long as you’re not expecting me to turn into some rugged bloke with a full beard, we’re good. Although...” He paused, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “If you think the stubble’s charming, maybe I’ll keep it around.”
Hermione laughed softly, shaking her head.
“You’re impossible.”
Ron’s smile softened, and his tone grew more sincere.
“I love you, you know.”
Hermione froze for a moment, her cheeks flushing. “You—what?”
Ron rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy.
“Took me years to figure it out, but yeah. I love you, Hermione.”
Hermione’s eyes glistened, a smile spreading across her face. “I love you too, Ron.”
Their hands found each other across the table, and they leaned in for a soft, lingering kiss. When they pulled apart, both were smiling shyly, the warmth of their connection chasing away the chill of the night.
For a moment, the world outside didn’t matter. In that quiet kitchen, they had each other, and that was enough.
They settled back into their chairs, the flickering firelight casting soft, golden hues on their faces. Hermione adjusted the thick, knit blanket draped over her shoulders, its warmth mingling with the tea in her hands. A few loose strands framing her face from her hair was that was tied up in a messy bun.
Ron, still scratching at his stubble, caught her gaze and smirked.
“What?” Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Nothing,” he replied, his tone light. “Just realized how mental this all is. Sitting here, having tea with you, and not running for our lives for a change.”
Hermione chuckled softly. “Mental, but nice.”
The moment stretched into a companionable silence, broken only by the soft creak of the old house settling. They exchanged shy smiles over the rims of their cups, their connection unspoken but deeply felt.
Then, a sharp crack shattered the stillness, the unmistakable sound of someone Apparating outside.
Hermione froze, her fingers tightening around her teacup. Ron was on his feet in an instant, his wand drawn. The war had left them both on edge, their instincts honed to react without hesitation.
They moved as one, standing in the center of the kitchen. Hermione’s heart pounded as her gaze darted to the door, her wand steady in her hand.
The enchanted grandfather clock in the corner ticked loudly, its hands shifting. Hermione’s eyes flicked to it, noting Arthur Weasley’s hand move from “Ministry of Magic” to “Home.”
Ron let out a low breath, lowering his wand slightly.
“Dad’s back,” he muttered, though his grip on his wand remained firm.
The door creaked open, and Arthur stepped inside, his coat dusted with frost from the crisp night air.
He froze at the sight of his son and Hermione, their wands pointed at him. A weary but understanding smile tugged at his lips.
“Well, this is a fine welcome,” he said lightly. "are you going to make me prove I'm me?"
Ron hesitated, his ears turning pink.
“Better safe than sorry,” he mumbled. Then, clearing his throat, he asked, “What happened the first time I tried to fly a broom?”
Arthur chuckled softly. “You ended up in the orchard with three broken branches, and your mother chased you back inside with a broomstick of her own.”
Relief washed over Ron’s face as he lowered his wand. Hermione followed suit, her cheeks flushing with guilt.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, her voice barely above a whisper. “We shouldn’t—”
Arthur cut her off with a gentle wave of his hand.
“It’s not your fault,” he said kindly. “After everything you’ve been through, it’s only natural. I wish... I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”
His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken sorrow.
He patted Ron’s shoulder as he moved past them, his steps slow and weary. Hanging his coat on the back of a chair, he poured himself a cup of tea and joined them at the table.
“How was work?” Ron asked after a moment, his tone tentative.
Arthur sighed, cradling the warm mug in his hands.
“The same,” he replied, though his voice lacked conviction. “There’s always something to sort out. The Ministry’s still in chaos, even with Kingsley trying to bring some order to it all. Most departments are understaffed, overworked, and buried in reports. There’s an endless stream of paperwork for damaged property, missing persons, and magical interference in Muggle areas. And don’t get me started on the debates over funding for rebuilding Hogwarts.”
He shook his head, his tired eyes distant.
“And then there are the families—those who lost loved ones, those trying to rebuild their lives. It’s heartbreaking. People coming in with letters from children they’ll never see again or trying to retrieve keepsakes from homes that were destroyed...”
Hermione’s throat tightened as she listened.
“I wish we could do more,” she murmured.
Arthur looked at her, his expression softening.
“Hermione, you’ve done more than anyone could have asked. All of you have. If anyone deserves a rest, it’s you three. You’ve given up so much already. You’ve carried more burdens than anyone your age should ever have to. Take these moments of peace—however small they may be—and cherish them.”
Ron shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers tapping against the table.
“What else could we do? It’s not like we could’ve just sat around and done nothing.”
Arthur smiled faintly.
“I know. And I’m proud of you, son. Of all of you. But I do wish... I wish we’d done a better job the first time around, so you wouldn’t have had to fight this battle.”
Guilt flickering across Ron’s face.
“It’s not your fault, Dad,” he said firmly. “It’s that noseless git and his merry band of lunatics.”
Arthur smiled faintly, though the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. Hermione reached across the table and placed a comforting hand on Ron’s arm.
They shared a look, unspoken understanding passing between them: it was too soon for jokes.
After a few beats of silence, Ron asked, “Why were you out so late?”
Arthur’s shoulders sagged as he set his mug down.
“The Malfoys,” he said simply.
The name hung heavily in the room, and Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance.
Hermione’s thoughts drifted back to the Great Hall, where Draco Malfoy had collapsed, his behavior strange and unnerving.
“They’re being tried tomorrow,” Arthur continued. “Lucius, Narcissa, Draco—all of them. The Wizengamot has been deliberating over how to handle their cases. And I suspect you’ve remembered your part in it?”
“We remember,” Ron said, though the sheepish look on his face suggested otherwise.
Arthur gave him a knowing look but said nothing.
Ron and Hermione then exchanged quick glances, guilt flickering in their eyes as they realized the trial had slipped their minds amidst everything else.
“We’re supposed to speak on their behalf,” Hermione said quietly. “Well, for Narcissa and Draco, at least. Lucius is... complicated.”
Arthur nodded, his expression grave.
“Understandable. But it’s not just the trial—it’s their son, Draco Malfoy. He’s been... difficult.”
“What’s he done now?” Ron asked, his tone laced with exasperation.
His father said nothing but took another sip of tea before elaborating.
“At first, he was demanding to be released.” Arthur replied, his expression troubled. “Acting like the arrogant boy we all know as if he still held power. Claiming his father’s title: ‘Lord Malfoy’ as if it’s enough reason for him to be granted immunity. But then, he changed” Arthur’s brows knitted together. “He started asking questions—endless questions—about what happened during the war. about the trials, about...” He paused, his gaze shifting to Hermione. “About you.”
Hermione blinked. “Me?”
Arthur nodded grimly.
“He’s been asking for you, Hermione. Says you’d know what to do.”
Ron stiffened, his jaw tightening.
“He’s mad,” he muttered. “Completely mad.”
“And then there’s the way he’s been talking.” Arthur continued “Like he’s not himself. He keeps saying he’s not... well, not ‘that Draco Malfoy.’”
Ron snorted, taking a sip from his teacup. “He’s finally cracked.”
Hermione frowned. “Not... that Draco Malfoy? What does that even mean?”
The oldest shrugged, not a clue himself.
“I don’t know.” He replied. “He kept yelling that he’s not that Draco Malfoy repeatedly, that he’s innocent and he has nothing to do with being a... how did he put it? Oh, yes—a slave to that ‘mad megalomaniac worse than a Muggle terror named Hitler.’”
Ron raised an eyebrow. “Hit–who?”
“Don’t know,” Arthur admitted and Hermione bit her lip, unwilling to explain for a moment as she finds it confusing too. “But it’s caused more headaches than you’d believe. And his parents are at a loss. Lucius seems to infuriate him—Draco can’t stand being in the same room as him—and Narcissa doesn’t know how to help.”
Hermione’s mind raced, trying to make sense of it. “Could it be some kind of trauma? Maybe something from the war?”
“We thought of that,” Arthur said. “But he’s been examined at St. Mungo’s. No signs of curses, potions, or mental instability, no lingering effects from the war. It’s an enigma. The Healers can't find anything wrong with him.”
Ron scoffed. “So, he’s gone barmy, then.”
After a moment, he then added, “By the way, Hermione, who’s this Hit-whatsits?”
Hermione blinked, momentarily taken aback. She hesitated before responding, her voice quiet as she sifted through the fragments of Draco’s ramblings in her mind.
"Hitler... well, he was a dictator from Muggle history, Ron," she began, her tone careful, as if weighing the words before speaking. "A man who led a regime in the Muggle world during the 20th century. He’s responsible for the deaths of millions—mostly during something called the Holocaust. He and his followers believed in the superiority of certain people and sought to eliminate those they considered inferior."
Ron furrowed his brow, looking more confused than ever. “Wait, wait. You mean... like some kind of Muggle dark wizard?”
Hermione paused, not sure how to explain the concept in terms that Ron could fully grasp, especially given the stark differences between Muggle and magical history.
“In a way, yes,” she replied. “But it was much worse. Unlike dark wizards who use magic to control and harm, Hitler’s regime was built on cruelty, violence, and oppression in ways that even magic couldn’t... could never make sense of. He caused the deaths of millions of innocent people.” She added softly, almost to herself, “He believed that some people were better than others just because of their blood... much like—”
She cut herself off before she could finish, but Ron had already pieced it together, his face now reflecting the heavy realization of just how horrible it was.
He shook his head slowly, as if he couldn’t quite believe the words.
“Blimey. That’s... that’s mad. Malfoy, of all people, knowing about something like that? No offense, but you think he’s really gone off the deep end if he’s quoting Muggle history like that.”
Hermione’s lips pressed into a tight line as she looked down at her cup.
“I don’t know, Ron. It’s strange. It’s like he’s... someone else. A part of him’s still locked in the past, but then he’s spouting things like that, and I don’t understand why. And why me?” she added, shaking her head in frustration. “Why would he say I know what to do?”
Ron looked just as perplexed. “Yeah, it’s not like he’s ever been all that fond of you, Hermione. If anything, he’d be the last person to ask for help.”
Hermione gave a small shrug, still trying to make sense of the situation. “Exactly. That’s what makes it all the more... unsettling.”
Ron shook his head again, this time in disbelief.
“Malfoy knowing about Muggle history, begging for Hermione of all people... it’s madder than him begging the Ministry, that’s for sure.”
Arthur just sighed tiredly, still shaking his head.
“It’s not just that.” He continued, rubbing his face with a deep sigh. “Not a week later after that, he was shouting at the Aurors, begging for an audience with the Department of Mystery, and almost even went down to his knees at one point. Keeps on claiming he’s innocent and doesn’t belong here.”
Ron drained his tea and set the cup down with a decisive thud. “Whatever it is, he’s not getting near Hermione.”
Arthur gave him a weary smile and stood, stretching. “You both should get some rest. Tomorrow will be another long day.”
Ron nodded and stood, offering Hermione his hand. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your room.”
She accepted, clutching her blanket tightly as they walked through the quiet halls of the Burrow. At the door of her and Ginny's shared room, Ron hesitated, then leaned down to place a soft kiss on her forehead.
“Goodnight, Hermione.”
“Goodnight, Ron.”
As he walked away, Hermione lingered at the door, her thoughts returning to Draco Malfoy. His strange behavior, his cryptic words—they gnawed at her mind. With a sigh, she slipped into bed, determined to face whatever the next day would bring.