Chapter Text
Hermione realizes much quicker than everyone else around her.
When she first sees Harry, it's a relief. Pure glee that he made it back in one piece.
But then he looks up and she sees the agony in his eyes. He’s screaming and no one is listening. Her eyes drop to the body below him.
It’s Cedric, with his eyes staring. Unblinking.
Dead.
Hermione grabs Ron by the hand and shoves past everyone else, desperate to get to Harry, to protect him.
By the time they make it down onto the field, screams fill the air. People run back and forth, eyes wide with panic. Ron throws an arm around her shoulders so they won’t get separated.
“Where is he?”
She can hardly hear Ron’s voice over all the noise and his hold on her tightens.
When they’ve broken through the crowd, she spins, searching desperately, but—
“He’s gone!”
Ron spares her a single panicked glance before lacing his fingers through hers and yanking her up to the castle.
---
Less than a day later, they’re all crammed together in the Grimmauld Place living room. Mrs. Weasley and Sirius are screaming at each other. Hermione’s never seen anything like it.
“They are children. My son is fifteen. My daughter is even younger . Just what do you propose we do with them?”
“They fight, if that’s what they want!” There’s a chorus of agreement from the other kids in Hermione’s year. Mrs. Weasley brings her nose within inches of Sirius’.
“They’re not even of age! The ministry won’t allow it.”
“The ministry!” Sirius runs his hands through his hair before throwing them in the air. “Of course, how could I forget about the ministry? But tell me, Molly, where are they right now? Why aren’t they here, offering their assistance, taking over like they always do? Oh, I know!” Sirius raises a finger in the air. “Maybe it's because they’ve already fallen!”
“You don’t know that!” Mrs. Weasley’s face is red and her eyes shine. “You’re drafting children into something they aren’t meant to fight.”
“I’m giving fully capable people the right to choose.” Sirius crosses his arms over his chest. “What they choose to do is up to them.”
Mrs. Weasley stares at him for a moment more before rushing out of the room. As the door swings, Hermione hears her sobs echo off the walls.
Sirius stares for a touch too long before turning to everyone else in the room and clapping his hands together.
“Right. Now that that’s over with.” He brandishes a piece of parchment and a quill and lays it on the table. “As I said, what you choose to do with this newly found freedom is entirely up to you. If you’d like to join the Order, we’re happy to have you. We have plenty of space here. If not—“ he chucks his thumb at the door. “You’re free to go. Be with your families. Enjoy the peace while you still can.”
Nobody gets up. At her side, Harry’s hand tightens into a fist on the table.
Sirius beams. “Just as I thought.” He slaps the parchment down. “Sign your names here. Once we can get a rotation schedule set up, training will begin. In the meantime, get some rest. Dismissed.”
Hermione looks towards Ron. “Someone should go and comfort your mum.”
“Right.” He brandishes a quill. “Should I do that before or after signing up for the war she’s crying over?”
Hermione pulls her lip between her teeth. “Perhaps one of your brothers, then.”
Ron nods. “Percy should be here soon. He’s always been the best with her.”
Harry sits beside them unmoving as Ron and Hermione sign their names.
She puts a hand on his arm. “Harry?”
His eyes snap up to hers. “I would have died for him.”
Her breath catches in her throat and she fights to hide the look of surprise. “Of course. He knew that. I know he did.”
Harry shakes his head and stares down at the parchment of signatures. There’s at least thirty names. All of them classmates from Hogwarts. All of them underage. Hermione’s heart aches.
“None of this would have happened if it weren’t for me.”
Her hand tightens on his arm and Ron’s already shaking his head.
“That’s not true, mate. If it weren’t you, it would have been someone else.”
“Of course,” Hermione agrees. “Voldemort would never be satisfied. This isn’t your fault, Harry.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter,” he says, tone laced with anger. “Because there is no alternate universe. It’s my responsibility. I have to deal with it.”
And then he pushes away from the table and storms out. Hermione hears his feet stomping up the stairs and a door slams behind him.
Ron shifts uneasily on his feet beside her. “Should I follow him?”
Hermione shakes her head. “Maybe some alone time wouldn’t be so bad. He has every right to be upset.”
“But I don’t want him to think he’s alone.”
Hermione reaches down for his hand and squeezes it. “He’s not. Not while we’re here. Just— he needs time and space to grieve. We can’t pretend to know what he’s going through.”
She looks back down at the list of names. “I can’t believe how many people are signing up for this.” She runs her finger over a ridiculously curly signature. “Lavender Brown?”
Ron snorts and Hermione shakes her head.
“What has she got to give for the war? Advice on the latest fashion trends?”
“Maybe she’ll offer palm readings,” Ron says. Hermione rolls her eyes.
“What’s a girl like her and—“ she looks down the list again. “Cho? Parvati and Padma?” She shakes her head. “Ridiculous. They’re going to get themselves killed.”
“Maybe this was their only option. Dad says there’s no way Hogwarts is going to be open.”
Hermione’s jaw pops open. “No Hogwarts?”
Ron shakes his head. “I heard them talking last night— you know, after they sent all the children to bed.” He rolls his eyes. “Honestly, they let us sign up for a war today, but yesterday we were too young to listen in on the meeting? Anyway—“ he leans back against the wall, looking around to make sure they’re alone. “Snape was there, and apparently they’re looking to use Hogwarts as a headquarters of sorts.”
The words feel hollow— like they have no real meaning. No Hogwarts. Has that ever happened?
“I guess that makes sense.” She drops her eyes back to the paper. It’s a different world now, and she feels like she doesn’t know any of these people anymore. “What about the Slytherins?”
“What about them?”
“Well, I don’t see any of them knocking at the Order’s door. If they can’t go to school, what will they do?”
“Same as us, I suppose. Just on the opposite side.”
That strikes something within her. Because as awful as most of her experiences with the Slytherins had been— she never saw any of them as Death Eaters.
“Is it weird if I say I feel bad for them?”
Ron shrugs, lifting his gaze to hers. Normally a statement like this would cause a fight between them. But right now, Ron just looks tired.
“Maybe you should. Rumor has it Malfoy’s already taken the mark.”
Hermione sucks in a breath. “Draco?”
“Yeah.” Ron closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Fucking git. Always hated him, but—“
“He’s a coward,” Hermione cuts in. “That’s not any different. Now he just hides behind his cult.”
“He probably cried when they put the Dark Mark on him, fucking prick. I bet his daddy had to hold him down.”
“Right.” Hermione forces out a laugh, but unease settles deep in her stomach.
She steps closer to Ron, and whispers only loud enough that he can hear.
“Do you think what they’re doing to us is really all that different?”
But Ron won’t meet her eyes, and she already feels the cracks in the trust of the adults around her forming, even if she can’t explain it.
Things are about to change. And Hermione has no idea where they’re going.
---
That night, Hermione’s sitting in a chair by a dim lamp with a book on defensive magic open in her lap when Remus approaches her.
She sets her feet on the ground and shuts the text.
He sits in the chair in front of her, eyes glued on the floor. He fiddles with his fingers nervously.
“Is everything all right, Remus?”
“As good as things can be.” He meets her concerned stare and sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I’m just not quite sure how to say this without sounding insensitive.”
“Just spit it out then.” Even as the anxiety rises up in her throat, she offers him a tentative smile. “I should probably get used to insensitivities if I’m going into war.”
He rubs his eyes. “Right. It’s about your parents.”
“My parents?” She tilts her head, heart hammering. “Are they—“
“They’re fine,” he reassures. “But Hermione— if you’re going to be a part of this war as one of Harry Potter’s best friends, something must be done about them.”
Her hands tighten on the book spine. “What are you suggesting?”
“They cannot stay where they are. I suspect they’ll be targeted within weeks of us making our first move.”
Hermione wishes she felt something. Heartbreak or sadness. Anger or bitterness.
But as Remus meets her eyes with pity, she doesn’t feel any of it. She feels nothing. Maybe this is what going into shock is like.
“What do I do with them, then?”
“The Order is working on safe houses as we speak. We could offer them refuge at one of those locations.”
Hermione’s throat feels twice it’s size as she swallows. “For how long?”
“As long as they need. Presumably until the war is over.”
“Who else would be at the safe house?”
He shrugs. “Anyone that needs it. Muggleborns. Elderly. Those who do not want to fight.”
Hermione shakes her head. “My parents are muggles. They can’t just intermix with magic like that. It— I don’t think it will end well.”
Remus looks over his shoulder to check for anyone eavesdropping, but they’re all alone. He leans in closer and drops his voice to a whisper.
“The other options are much more extreme, Hermione. Don’t make me talk about them.”
“I want to hear.” Her voice is thick with emotion, but still she feels nothing, even as tears cloud her eyes.
“Choose this one,” he begs. “Keep your relationship with them.”
“I want to hear the other options,” she says through clenched teeth.
Remus nods, and tells her.
She does not cry. Not until hours later, as the sun is rising and she’s locked safely in the bathroom, hot water running down her back, the sounds echoing off the floor and covering up her sobs.
When she pulls herself off the floor and looks at herself in the foggy mirror, her eyes are red and puffy. Hermione rattles her brain for a cosmetic spell that would fix it, but she can’t think of any. They aren’t a branch of magic she’s ever been interested in.
So she dresses and meets Remus downstairs.
His eyes widen at her appearance, but he says nothing as he stretches an arm out so they can apparate away.
They land in the backyard of her house, right inside the white picket fence, close enough to the garden that Hermione can smell the azaleas. It twists her stomach with nausea.
All the lights in the house are still off, and she takes a moment to stare. One last time.
Remus lets her, hands in his pockets and looking up at the sky.
The squeaky porch swing that she normally does all her summer reading in sits unoccupied, blowing softly in the wind.
Her mom’s gardening gloves are hung up just by the door, already dirt stained. A brand new, smaller pair hangs next to them.
Hermione’s. For when she gets home. It feels like her heart cracks in two.
“I’m ready,” she tells Remus, pulling herself away and reaching for the spare key under the plant pot.
He steps forward, but Hermione holds out her hand to stop him. “I can do this. I know the spell.”
Remus swallows heavily, but nods and hands her the plane tickets. “I can come with you, if you want.”
She shakes her head. “I want to do this alone.”
Her first sacrifice for war.
She wishes naively for it to be her last. For things to end quickly.
When she enters, everything is as she always remembered it. The clock that sits above the stove reads six. Her parents will be up in half an hour.
She has the time. So she looks around. Just to commit it all to memory. As painful as it feels in that moment, she knows she won’t want to forget.
The couch in the living room is the same old faded green, and she sees her dad, one arm thrown around her mother’s shoulder and the other in the popcorn bowl, throwing pieces at Hermione as she criticizes the movie they’re watching. Her mother has her hand over her lips, covering her giggles and Hermione pretends to be indignant, voice growing louder until she’s laughing too, throwing popcorn back at her father and then running to the kitchen to hide for cover.
She sees warm, little Christmas mornings and lazy summer afternoons. Her mum baking cookies in the kitchen while her father reads the paper out loud. Quiet dinner’s at the table and midnight ice cream sundaes.
And it all hurts so much but she can’t stop looking. She cannot stop remembering as she heads up the stairs, coming to a stop right in front of her bedroom.
Her very first book is handed to her in this very room. A million bedtime stories are read to her in that very bed.
Her palm itches to push the door open further, but she can’t find the strength to. It might be her undoing.
So she pries her hand away from the wood and walks with numb feet to her parent’s room.
Their door is cracked open, a habit from when Hermione was young and nightmares haunted her sleep. She opens it just another inch or so and peers in.
It’s dark inside with the curtains still drawn, and Hermione is thankful that she can’t see her parents' faces. They're anonymous like this. Could be anyone. Just two shapes on a mattress.
She takes a deep breath, and lifts her wand.
---
Remus apparates them back to Grimmauld Place, promising to let her know when her parents have safely boarded the plane. Hermione nods, arms wrapped around her stomach and lips pressed together. She can’t meet his eyes.
When he’s gone, she walks slowly up to her room and closes the door, locking and silencing it.
She doesn’t come out for the rest of the day.
The next morning, she comes out and pretends as if her entire life hadn’t just fallen to pieces.
Her parents would be in Australia by now. Probably unpacking their boxes. With no family photos. No proof of their daughter.
Ron sits down next to her at breakfast and gives her hand a squeeze before pouring himself a cup of orange juice. Hermione smiles softly at him before turning back to her cereal.
She’s not sure he knows. And if he doesn’t, she realizes she doesn’t want to be the one to tell him. For some reason, voicing it out loud seems more permanent than anything else.
“Are you ready for the tests today?” he asks, ripping into a slice of toast.
“Written test first, right?”
Ron bumps her with his shoulder. “Lucky you. You’ll ace that one no problem.”
“Yes, and then I’ll suffer through all my worse applications.”
“You’ll be fine, Mione,” Harry says, plopping down on the other side of her and pouring a cup of coffee.
Hermione raises her brows. “Coffee, really?”
“All the aurors drink it. Maybe that’s the secret to success.”
Harry takes a sip and grimaces, tongue poking out between his teeth.
Ron snorts and Hermione shakes her head. Their reaction only seems to spur Harry on, and he downs the entire cup in one go, letting out a small gag at the end.
A smile tries to pull at the edge of Hermione’s lips and Harry casts her a mischievous look before turning to Ron.
“Mate, I bet you can’t chug one faster than I did.”
Ron opens his mouth, undignified and Hermione thinks he’ll say no, but then his eyes cut towards Hermione for a split second.
It’s as quick as a flash— but she sees Harry’s eyes widen and a small jerk of his head in her direction.
Ron’s demeanor instantly changes. His chest puffs out and he reaches for a mug.
“That’s child’s play, Harry. I grew up with five older brothers and Ginny. If you didn’t eat and drink quickly, then you didn’t get any.”
Harry swings his arm out wide. “By all means, prove me wrong then.”
Ron pours himself a cup, watching the steam raise from the coffee with wide eyes. Harry leans in further.
“Scared, are you?” he teases.
Ron’s spine straightens. “Absolutely not.” He eyes the cup wearily, takes a deep breath and brings it to his lips.
He pulls away immediately, letting out a choked sound and scrunching up his nose before diving back in.
Harry’s snickering beside her and as Ron slams the cup down on the table, wiping his lip with his sleeve, Hermione feels the heaviness in her chest lift away. Just a bit. Enough that the smile breaks through, and a bubble of laughter falls past her lips.
After a moment, they’re all three laughing, heads bent together and shoulders hunched.
In the end, Hermione isn’t sure who wins the competition. But for a moment she’s transported back to Hogwarts. There is no war. Just her best friends, making jibes and stupid bets and never following through with any consequences.
She lets herself bask in it, knowing it might be the last good moment for a very long time.