Execution
There's no end
There is no goodbye
Disappear
With the night
Wait - M83
June 25th, 1998
Somewhere by the sea
There were too many vacancies in the house that should have been bustling with life. Every seat at the dining table should have been filled—crowded to the point of meeting elbows with every subtle movement. It hit deep in the gut, but no one dared speak of removing the extra chairs, the extra everything. Instead, they forced themselves to stare at the emptiness, to confront it each day and keep moving forward despite the harshness. A crucial reminder.
Minerva sat at the head of the table as their calm leader. The three Weasleys occupied the left side, sitting closely, while Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hermione, and Mrs Figg took the right. Tentatively, the small group sipped at their tea and bit into their scones until eventually the tea was drained and only crumbs remained on their plates, the purpose of their gathering no longer able to be delayed.
Minerva cleared her throat softly, effortlessly drawing everyone’s attention.
“I won’t waste time rehashing the facts. However unfortunate, I’m sure each of us are aware of the circumstance we find ourselves in,” she said. “It is not ideal to have so few of us here and confirmed safe, but we cannot succumb to cynicism. We may have lost the battle, but do not be mistaken, the war is far from over. We have licked our physical wounds, quietened our grief, and now it’s time to return to our efforts of reconnaissance and, if opportunities arise, rescue.”
Mr and Mrs Weasley looked stricken, torn between wanting to hide away for the rest of their days and savour the tiniest sliver of peace life had left to offer and throwing themselves back into a seemingly inextinguishable fire. Ron, sitting between his parents, had his jaw set determinedly, hands folded tightly in his lap.
A lick of doubt made Hermione press her lips together. It had only been eight days since she and Ron arrived. Eight days since they were briefed on the ongoing efforts to locate those who were MIA as well as plans of attack.
She couldn’t help but think the proposal was foolish, at best. Even with two witches labelled as the brightest of their generation, a now former high-ranking Auror, the combined power of a grieving family, and a sharp-eyed kneazle breeder, their seven would be no match for the one hundred fifty holding their people captive. She bit back her instinctual protest, however, unable to provide a better course of action.
Minerva continued. “With Miss Granger’s additional insight, as the originator of the communication coins, we were able to successfully tap into the defunct network and follow the connection to now thirteen locations of interest—”
“When do we start?” Ron interrupted, always too impatient.
Mrs Weasley grasped onto his forearm with urgency, eyes prematurely mournful. “No,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “I won’t allow it. I forbid it.”
“Mum—” His voice was gentle, but the objection matched hers in firmness.
“Listen to your mother. We can’t—we can’t lose another,” Mr Weasley rasped, voice a near whisper as though saying it outloud was a jinx.
Hermione swallowed hard, desperately trying to keep the newest box tucked in the back corner of her mind from bursting open and flooding her with memories, because the Weasley children had been a vibrant bunch, all loud laughter and affectionate ribbing and everything she had wished for as a lonely girl. In nearly no time at all, they’d accepted her and Harry, their youngest brother’s friends, extending friendship effortlessly and with incredible warmth. The space in her heart for them had gone cold, dimmed in their absence.
She cleared her throat softly and met Ron’s gaze briefly, looking away when she saw that he wanted her to back him up on this. She felt selfish as she said, “Ron, maybe you should hold off on the missions. Your leg needs at least another week and—”
He cut her off with a jerky nod, temporarily relenting as he felt the weight of his mother’s shaking hand on his arm and looked at his father’s defeated figure. He’d never seen them look quite so old.
***
July 9th, 1998
Two of the coins were traced to the South Downs National Park, which deemed it low risk enough for Mr and Mrs Weasley to reluctantly allow Ron to accompany Kingsley on what was meant to be a simple recon mission. Their assumptions proved correct, and beyond, when they returned with Hestia Jones and Emmeline Vance, all four of them looking disgruntled more than anything.
Upon hearing the front door shut and an increase in the number of voices, Hermione’s concentration on the board in front of her broke. It seemed that sorting out the events of 1975 would have to wait.
Emmeline collapsed into a cushy armchair with a groan and said to no one in particular, “Fetch me a glass of firewhisky, yeah?”
“Seconded,” Hestia said, raising a finger. Her nose fluctuated dramatically in temperature before mending with Mrs Weasley’s expert execution of episkey.
While Kingsley moved to fulfil the women’s request for a stiff drink, Hermione came down the stairs. She spared quick smiles for the newly returned before beelining toward the kitchen, where Ron was forearm deep into the cookie jar.
“Ron,” she said, eyes scanning him for injuries before continuing. “How many were there?”
“Three. It was exactly as we predicted. Minimal security all around, though it got a bit hairy at the end.” He paused, mouth downturned for a moment before his expression cleared. “Anyway, it was clear that they were just lackeys. All looked young, too. No one important.”
She nodded slowly, slightly taken aback by his concise recap. “All right.”
A brief silence fell over them as she began to brew a large pot of tea. “‘Mione,” he said, giving her a reassuring smile once she met his eye. “It was good. It feels like the start something. Like being useful again.”
The smile she returned to him did not reach her eyes. “I know.”
His face was suddenly energised, perked in a way it hadn’t been in some time. “Hey, with Jones and Vance, I think we can plan to storm Tarnbrook soon.”
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” she began tentatively, flicking her wand to send a tea tray into the living room. “Tarnbrook’s a fortress, and Kingsley barely escaped on the last recon. Even with Jones and Vance, most if not all of us will have to go.” She shook her head. “There isn’t a guarantee we’ll all make it out, and the Order’s nowhere near stable enough to take that risk. It’s just not a realistic expectation.”
“I disagree,” he replied promptly, “we have to move faster or we’ll lose ground. It’s a risk we have to be willing to take—”
“There’s risk and then there’s suicide!” she hissed, suddenly agitated. She angrily cast a silencing and mild repelling charm over the kitchen. “We cannot risk dying.Do you understand what’s at stake if we do?”
“It’s not going to come to that,” he snapped.
“How can you possibly say that? You know perfectly well what we’re up against, how horrible our odds are. It’s why we started actively preparing Plan Z!” She gestured emphatically, confounded by his reckless suggestion. Finally, she demanded, “What changed? Why do you suddenly believe we can win?”
“How can you not?” he demanded in return. “Do you think the last seven years—“
“Because we failed!” she shouted. “We had every duck lined in a row, and we still failed!”
He was silenced by this truth, not having heard it said aloud in such plain terms before. She deflated. “I just don’t think you should be putting all of your eggs into one basket.”
“I’m not,” he said quietly. He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I don’t—we’ve already come this far.”
She heard the unsaid, we’ve already sacrificed too much. “Yeah,” she whispered.
He looked at her, his gaze heavy with resignation. “Nothing left to lose, right? What’s another seven years?”
She found herself unable to respond. There wasn’t anything left for her to say.
***
July 31st, 1998
It had rained the entire day, the atmosphere in the house subdued as though subconsciously mourning. Mulling over mission logistics had been suspended for the day through an unspoken agreement, but for Hermione and Ron, who had been entrenched in the business of survival since the age of eleven, turning off the urge to consider and reconsider possible plans didn’t come naturally. It seemed, simply, the switch didn't exist.
They had locked themselves in their shared room (it became apparent after the first night that being alone in the quiet would be too unnerving) under the pretence of grief, not an outright lie, and threw themselves fully into working out the kinks in a timeline of the past. It was frustrating work that ended in too many question marks that could only be removed by bearing witness to the events. Eventually, they had to concede.
Hermione let out a deep sigh. “This is going to be as good as it gets.”
Ron nodded unhappily, collapsing into a chair to rub at his tired eyes. She stepped back from the large boards, eight in total, and tried to will away the dread sliding down her spine. It’s a last resort, she reminded herself.
“Should we talk about it?” Ron ventured.
“The plan or Harry?” she asked, moving to sit in the chair next to his. Fatigue left no room for speaking in halves.
“I’m sick of talking about the plan,” he said. Silence hung in the air, as though preparing itself for the harder, more painful topic.
“I miss him.” His voice came quiet and choked, and with a heavy exhale of grief.
“Me too,” she whispered.
“It’s just—he always seemed to know. Even when—how did he do it? How did he do this?” Ron looked at her, searching for answers she did not have.
Softly, knowing it was no substitute for what he sought, she said, “He was an extraordinary wizard, and we were privileged to know him.”
“Yeah,” Ron rasped.
Hermione loosely linked her arm around his and leant into his side, letting silence fall once more, so they could just sit and breathe and let the empty space left by their friend consume them for the moment. Her mind wandered to simpler times, in between the terror and bouts of stupid bravery, when the three of them were together, just talking (laughing, complaining, lamenting) about normal teenage things. The little moments always mattered more.
A smile began to spread across Ron’s face. “Hey.” He nudged her. “Do you remember Defense in sixth year? The nonverbal lesson?”
She nodded immediately, her own smile beginning to grow.
“‘There’s no need to call me ‘sir’, Professor!’” the pair said simultaneously before bursting into laughter. It felt like relief, knowing that there could still be little moments.
They grinned at each other with glossy eyes, half-giddy, half-sad before Hermione cleared her throat and reached for her beaded bag. “I propose a toast.” She pulled out a bottle of Ogden’s Old and transfigured two discarded snack wrappers into glasses, pouring them each two fingers.
“To Harry,” she said.
“To Harry,” Ron echoed.
Their glasses clinked together delicately before the firewhisky was burning a line down their throats.
***
October 14th, 1998
Rescues had been slow, resulting in only a single success where Kingsley and Hestia returned, uncharacteristically tight-lipped about the whole ordeal, with Luna Lovegood. She had been nearly catatonic, only to be recovered after an induced coma and some tricky spellwork.
“They thought she was a Seer,” Hestia had informed them, looking troubled.
Luna wasn’t the same, though. Her dreaminess was replaced with sombre contemplation. She was more prone to drifting off, staring at nothing, or perhaps just something they couldn’t see. She said less, and what she did say were often warnings. Those who heeded the warnings returned alive, reverent of her.
For the first time, Hermione felt her disbelief in Divination waver as Luna increasingly gravitated toward her, always around, always staring as though she were a particularly difficult puzzle. It unnerved her deeply, scraping at the bone, but however disarming it was, she found herself willing to grasp at straws, to accept that something was shifting.
The day before, it had only been the two of them in the planning room, studying the 3D blueprint of some ancient Irish castle for the purpose of developing possible escape routes. Luna had been lucid for only half the time, but Hermione had gotten used to her staring by then.
Sitting on the edge of the table, she swung her legs, watching Hermione launch an escape simulation. They both tsked in disapproval when the four tiny figures, representing two of their own and two rescues, evaporated in a flash of red, signalling their death.
“Perhaps cutting through here would be better,” Luna said, pointing at a narrow stairwell that led to a storage closet.
Hermione nodded and made the adjustment, running the simulation once more. Success. The tiny figures turned green and vibrated in a sort of victory dance. She waved her wand in a complicated pattern, making a copy of the simulation to transfer into the castle’s assigned thumbtack on the large map for later consideration.
She felt the heat of Luna’s stare as she moved to tap on the next location’s thumbtack, a new blueprint appearing. It seemed that her lucidity had gone away for the moment.
Hermione sighed and turned around, meeting her unwavering gaze.
“Luna?”
“Yes, Hermione?”
She swallowed, trying not to look away. “We won’t win this, will we?”
Luna’s expression did not change. Her eyes remained clear. “No.”
A stone had dropped into Hermione’s stomach. It was no longer a matter of if but when. At what point, though, would hope be considered lost? At what point would fighting in this time be meaningless?
***
It happened fast. Perhaps that would become a comfort, to have nothing too concrete to dwell on.
Hermione had been sitting at her desk, tapping a Muggle pen against a notebook, brows furrowed as she stared at a list of flaws in Plan Z and tried to brainstorm alternative paths. It did little to distract from the anxiety crawling up her throat.
It had been Ron’s idea to go back to the horrible arena he escaped, insisting that there must’ve been survivors after the riot, arguing that the Order’s numbers needed to grow and it would be a worthwhile venture. To his credit, he had presented the argument well, but Hermione still felt uneasy. There had to be more to it. For Merlin’s sake, his siblings had all died there.
She had confronted him straight after, unable to stop herself from being brash and accused him of wanting revenge. Sensitivity be damned. He didn’t deny it. She tried to understand but couldn’t. It was foolish to attempt vengeance and gain closure on something that could never be fully healed. She had been furious, more so when he barred her from going on the mission even as it became the only thing she understood.
But she had wished him luck and hugged him before he left. Then it became a waiting game.
Night had passed quickly and neared into dawn. She yawned for the umpteenth time and rubbed at her dry, fatigued eyes before resting her face heavily in her palms, gaze cast downward at her own blurring handwriting.
She closed her eyes for a moment, just wanting to rest. When she opened them again, there was a Patronus on top of her notebook. A Jack Russell terrier. Ron.
It opened its mouth. Her hands clenched into fists. Her heart thumped loudly.
Ron exhaled shortly before he began. “I think I’m about to die,” he whispered, so quietly that she strained to hear even with the Patronus’ enhancement.
“I hear them coming. I’m sorry, but this is it. You have to go back.” His voice came choked, coated with regret. Hermione was paralyzed in her seat, silent tears slipping down her face.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know if the others—” He was crying too. “You can do it. I know you can.”
Her face crumpled as a gasping sob left her throat.
“Hermione.” She tried to silence her tears. “I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m—” His voice cut off. The terrier looked sad for a moment before it vanished in a puff of black smoke.
She felt numb, her mind suddenly gone static. She didn’t know how long she sat there before closing the notebook and roughly wiping away her tears.
The door suddenly opened and revealed Luna in her pyjamas. She walked over to Hermione and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You have to go now.”
Hermione couldn’t speak. Luna reached into her pocket and retrieved a vial of Vitamix. She uncorked it and held it to Hermione’s lips. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”
Swallowing, she allowed the energy to course through her veins, sweeping away the static and jump-starting her mind. The first thing she felt again was the heavy ache of her heart, but she pressed that down. Luna was right. She had to go now.
The second thing she felt was anger. Angry that this had to fall on her shoulders. Angry that being brave often meant sacrifice, and that it was a factor that no longer mattered. Angry that she saw Harry fall and the world turn frozen as Voldemort laughed with the visage of confirmed madness. With that image still sharp as glass, she finally let her long-simmering rage boil over.
It directed her, animating her like a puppet as she summoned her beaded bag. With a wave of her wand, she methodically shrunk down the eight boards, three full bookcases, and her notebook, sending them into the depths of her bag. Another wave and her simple trainers, jeans, and t-shirt morphed into a period appropriate style. A third summoned The Tales of Beedle the Bard.
She tapped her wand on its cover several times in a unique pattern, unearthing a Time-Turner she had managed to nick during her short time as Mafalda Hopkirk. She placed the chain around her neck.
And paused, the sudden energy tapering off.
“It’s okay, Hermione,” Luna said softly.
She wanted to cry again but settled for a shaky exhale and a small, watery smile. “Thank you, Luna.”
Her hands were steady touching the cold metal of the Time-Turner. Two and a half turns. Two and a half decades.
She closed her eyes and disappeared without the taste of a prayer.