unbreakable

Harry watched with a quizzically raised eyebrow as Hermione immediately started drawing a diagram of the Weasley family tree. He was partly amused and partly surprised that she had taken to the task so seriously and thoroughly, though he supposed that was the impression he was getting of what their friendship had been, her leading himself and Ron around. 

He meant to listen, but found himself caught instead by the clear affection in Hermione’s voice as she described them all, when she mentioned Charlie and his dragons, or Louis’s brown hair, even the sound of her grief when she mentioned Fred, the one who’d died long before he had. This was her family. It had been his as well, for all he felt apart from it now and unable to share in any of it. If he could just remember … it was agonisingly out of reach. “Very thorough, thank you,” Harry said instead, lightly. “Guess I’ve got the best excuse possible for getting names wrong, but I - I don’t like hurting people if I can help it.”   

His presence alone seemed to do that, but he could at least try. Harry thought he was doing well now with Hermione, even if he was a little bit lost by her story, with all its unfamiliar names. She looked like she was relaxing, and his own shoulders seems to lighten in response. With a huff of amusement, he said, sarcasm biting, “Doesn’t sound like we managed to help her, if all we did was turn you into a cat. We must have considered ourselves real heroes after that.” Harry’s expression had softened at the picture she painted of three kids doing their best to help and not quite succeeding - it was far less bizarre and intimidating than the other things he’d heard about a seventeen year old saviour. Though concern was foolish, considering he knew the woman was alive and well - aside from having to deal with the resurrection of her husband -  he felt compelled to ask, for his own peace of mind, “Ginny was alright in the end, though, right? In spite of our, er, heroic efforts?” 

Every good feeling that had been steadily building over the past half-hour faded away and his stomach dropped, ice cold inside again. “And now he’s dead in my place. Who’s next?” he asked bitterly, recalling everything he’d been told. Ron and Hermione had suffered for him, others had died for him, and now another man had too. One who’d left a family behind. Harry wondered if she still thought it was all worth it. “Thank you, for the gifts,” he said, his jaw tightening, his eyes turning distant, Harry closing off again.

“It was good of you to come by. Tell the others I said Happy Christmas, will you? And Ginny, my children … well, just tell them I said Happy Christmas.”   

Light as his voice was, Hermione could practically hear the self-deprecation dripping from Harry’s voice, but she couldn’t say she was surprised. Harry never liked hurting people if he could help it, and she hardly expected that to change with a bit of memory loss. If anything, it only confirmed what she’d been hoping for since he came back: her best friend was still there, memories or no memories, and she knew Harry James Potter like the back of her hand. “I know,” she murmured, giving him a small, empathetic smile. “Everyone understands, you know. If you mess up, that’s alright, but if you’d rather avoid that, come to me whenever you need. I’ll help how I can, Harry.”

Hermione chuckled and shook her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. “No, that certainly didn’t help her at all. The potion wore off eventually, but not nearly as quickly as I would’ve liked. I went to Madame Pomfrey--the matron of Hogwarts--despite knowing I’d likely be in trouble afterward to make sure nothing averse came of the mistake, and I swear she looked close to a heart attack when I told her what I’d done. I should’ve brought you and Ron along. It’s quite funny in hindsight.” All things considered, the loss of house points had been worth it. She raised an eyebrow at Harry’s question--obviously Ginny was alright, they had three children together--but she supposed receiving an ending to the tale was a natural response. Hermione briefly considered telling Harry the full truth of the tale, of how he thwarted Voldemort yet again, but she decided against it and decided to keep it light. “She was perfectly fine,” Hermione assured him, a smirk falling onto her lips a moment later. “The only casualty was Gilderoy Lockhart’s memories, if I recall correctly. The man tried to oblivate you and Ron so he could be the hero of the tale, but he was using Ron’s broken wand and the spell bounced back onto him. A pity really, he was a great author.” If not a great teacher.

Harry closed off again, and Hermione scolded herself, knowing the carefree moment they had was promptly ruined. She recognized that line of thinking all-too-well though, and Hermione would have nothing of it. She scooted closer and reached out to cover one of his hands with her own, waiting until she met his eyes before saying, “I know you don’t want to hear it, but it wasn’t your fault, Harry. You’re not the one who bargained with Death, were you? The consequences of dealing with unknown magic lay solely on the people who decided to go through with the process--what happened to Neville is their responsibility, not yours. Please try to remember that.”

She knew a dismissal, though, so Hermione stood up from where she sat on his bed and straightened her shirt back out, glancing back down with a small smile. “I’ll tell them,” she promised, walking in front of him and leaning down to press a kiss to the middle of his forehead. “Happy Christmas, Harry. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that, Hermione took a step back, watched him for a moment longer, then turned on her heel and left Harry to his thoughts, the door shutting behind her with a quiet click.

“Alright, alright, you make a good point. But come on, as if you don’t ever hurry. I mean, I can’t imagine that never occurring.”

“Alright, but only if you buy me a butterbeer. Sitting still and doing nothing without a warm beverage just doesn’t fit in my lifestyle, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I never said I don’t hurry. Quite the opposite in fact, and it’s cost me more than a few twisted ankles over the years. I’ve just learned to leave with enough time so I don’t have to rush anywhere. You might want to do the same.”

“Maybe the explains a lot about what goes on here. –No problem, that’s why I’m here you know to open jars for the leader of the allegiance who’s taken me prisoner. Pretty useless otherwise.”

“Mm, attitude. Very nice. I grew up beside the most attitude-driven person I’ve met, so feel free to drop that while you’re speaking with me. And prisoner? You’d be off far worse if we hadn’t gone to help you. Maybe try being more thankful.”

who: @granger–weasley​ when: january 6 where: little hangleton graveyard

For a moment, Zepp felt quite of his depth. He’d arrived at the graveyard only moments ago, and the chaos around him was all around him and fuck — he was good at stealth, at hiding in shadows and moving quietly, not at all this. He remembered why he was there, though, openly proclaiming his loyalty with the Order — Ron Weasley. Zepp might not show it most of the time, but the respect he felt for the leaders of the Order – and all of its members, even – ran deep. Hell, it wasn’t even respect – he figured that it was even some kind of love. 

Which was scary, to be sure, in a war like this, but it pushed him more than anything ever had, and that wasn’t a feeling he disliked, surprisingly enough. Eyes fell on Hermione, and he rushed to her side. “Two wands fight better than one, yeah?,” he quipped. “What’s going on, what d’ya need, et cetera? I brought tons of healing potions, just in case — also water bottles. Feck — I feel like a mum.”

Hermione was on a mission. 

The graveyard, with its mass of people fighting and firing off spells every which way, didn’t do in terms of clear visibility, but she’d fought through much worse before, and found much smaller things than what--who--she was looking for now. Ron was there somewhere in who knew what sort of state, and the terror she’d felt since figuring out Ron was missing only seemed to spike the longer she went without seeing him. Where was he? 

She was so zeroed in on her personal goal that she didn’t know someone had run up to her side until Zepp opened his mouth. The mindset of fire at anyone who wasn’t immediately recognized as an ally almost bit her in the ass when she whirled around on him, wand pointed at his chest, but luckily Hermione recognized him before she could cast anything. She exhaled loudly and threw up a protection spell, then looked back to Zepp. “You sound like a mum,” she said, aiming for the more lax tone he seemed to have (whether or not he felt that way was a different story) and missing by a mile. At least someone was prepared, though. 

“Keep those potions at the ready. If you find anyone from our side who needs one, let me know so I can cover you while you give one to them.” She paused, then let her selfishness take over again. “Save one for Ron, though. I can’t imagine what state he’ll be in.” Frankly, Hermione didn’t want to imagine it--not yet, at least.

His nose wrinkling in a grin at the sight of the telltale blush on Hermione’s cheeks, Ron can’t help but laugh, the gruff sound almost unfamiliar as of late. He had never been that great with his words and he knew it was remarkably terrible that it’d taken a ‘dating guide’ to smack it into his head that girls liked compliments, but Ron tried his hardest to ensure that his wife knew just how much he bloody adored her. And if he got to see her adorably blushing as a result? Well, that was just a bonus. “Shan’t hush,” he says insolently, grinning at the way she hides, “But I mean…you spent enough time there for us all, it didn’t seem fair on old Pincey.” 

Ron’s fingers continue to circle against his wife’s back, trying to ease the tension from her spine as he rests his cheek heavily against the side of her head. Despite sleeping in the same bed each night and holding one another as they did so, it felt as though it had been weeks since they had been intimate like this; simply soaking in the simplicity of being together. Dealing with Harry, as much as they both loved him, was not unlike dealing with their children as toddlers, although Harry was at least the smidgeon bit more agreeable, and Ron was exhausted. It was as if the decades between Voldemort’s death and now had just been a facade while the true horror brewed and Ron knew that he’d give anything for one single day of peace. Hermione’s hand is warm over his and Ron breathes out a shaky sigh, his jaw gritted in determination. “If we.” He knew it wasn’t the time to argue about this, about the notion of sacrifice, but Ron knew that if the time came, when it came, he would fight like anything to ensure it was he who suffered the consequences, not anyone else. 

He wouldn’t let his children lose both parents. Wouldn’t let the Potters lose their father again. His children would mourn, Ron knew that, but he also knew that they could survive without him. 

The world needed Hermione Granger-Weasley far more than it had ever needed Ron.

The sight of Hermione’s smile, her actual smile, stirs a sense of relief deep in Ron’s gut and he finds his own spreading across his lips. “I’ll head into Knockturn when I’m at work next. Surely someone down there can set me in the right direction,” he remarks, glad for the brief reprieve from the heaviness inside him. It was both a relief and not to know that Hermione felt the same about losing Harry as he did, and Ron is glad to know he does not need to explain himself: “We’ll get him back. We have to.” 

Ducking his head down so that Hermione can press her lips against his brow, Ron hums listlessly under his breath, “Love you too,” he says softly, blue eyes flashing, “But I don’t want you working anymore tonight. You need to sleep ‘Mione, and not a nap on the couch with a book as a pillow. Actual sleep.”

“Making excuses even after all these years, Ron?” She couldn’t begin to count the number of times she nearly dragged both Harry and Ron to the library during their time at Hogwarts, since as much as her boys seemed to believe otherwise, Hermione couldn’t study for both of them through osmosis. Maybe that was the only good thing about one’s life being in a near-constant state of peril; they were more willing to head there when it meant finding a way to defeat Voldemort. “Madam Pince didn’t care, so long as you were quiet and treated the books respectfully. Even the two of you couldn’t have screwed that one up too badly if you’d put in the effort.”

Hermione knew her husband. She could relax under him as much as she wanted, could pretend for a short while that the war wasn’t going on while in her own home, but when Ron echoed the word we, Hermione didn’t believe it for a second. He’d always been willing to make the sacrifice play if need be, and proved as such back when they played McGonagall’s life-sized wizard’s chess and he gave himself up so she and Harry could push forward. He might say we now, but she had no doubt her husband would pull that move again if it meant keeping her and their family safe. 

She just had to make sure he wasn’t given the chance--or, better yet, make sure that there was no need for a sacrifice in the first place. That would be ideal.

That was one of the many thoughts that plagued Hermione’s thoughts and dreams, and for just a moment, she wanted to forget the stresses in their life. She didn’t want to think about the Wraiths, or the Knights (and how much they reminded her of Dumbledore’s Army), or how to recover Harry’s memories. She wanted to be twenty years younger, finally moving past everything that happened during her teenage years (more or less, at least) and just find peace at Ron’s side. They could do that, couldn’t they? Hermione closed her eyes, exhaled slowly, and nodded, deciding there wouldn’t be any more talk of negative things unless it was truly pressing. When she opened her eyes again, there was a teasing spark behind them, and her lips quirked up into a smirk. 

“Oh, I’m sure you could even find some in Diagon Alley to point you in the right direction if you looked hard enough,” she said, humming contently under Ron’s kiss and taking a small step back. She still kept a hold on his hands, though, and squeezed them as she said, “I don’t know, the couch is rather comfortable. If you want me to actually go to bed, though...” Hermione’s smirk grew. “Make me.”

hewholivedagain‌:

As the mug shattered violently on the floor, Harry’s head spun to find the cause of the noise. Met only with Ron’s fist clocking his head sideways, his teeth knocked painfully, the resounding pain in his temple putting him off-balance. Outside of the ringing in his head, the first thing he felt was a gratified sense of self-justification. For all they claimed to want to protect him, Ron had just hit him. Harry had been right to doubt them. 

Angered further by the heated words thrown at him, Harry clenched his fists, prepared to fight back, when Ron was in his face again. He braced himself for another attack but nothing came aside from the prodding in his chest. His own hand followed, feeling over his shirt for, and finding the abrasion of a raised scar. Harry’s fingers trembled over it, disturbed by the knowledge others had, that he did not, of his own body, his own wounds. The existence of that scar more than anything drained him of anger. Ron knew him. He was forced to accept it. 

It left Harry wildly confused once again, struggling to follow the description of events, though it was clear what it boiled down to. Supporting and protecting you. You. You. You. It rang in his ears like an accusation as he looked Ron over, as if Harry was trying to see all the places the man had broken. For him. All that for him. Then Hermione began, and whatever savage pleasure Harry had taken in seeing her flinch away was now gone, changed into wordless horror. He did not look at her, could hardly bear to hear her voice breaking, staring down at the ugly scar on her arm. 

How could any of it be worth it? How could he be worth it, as she claimed?  He wasn’t. From what they described it seemed evident that Harry was a curse, a burden, on all around him, who let them save him but in return brought only pain and suffering. As he had now. He felt sick. 

He took a step back, away from Ron, away from Hermione, to show compliance once more, letting out any remaining aggression in a furious release of the breath he’d been holding. “I shouldn’t have yelled,” Harry then began, feeling less than gracious, even now he was empty of anger. He had lashed out so fiercely that to return to civility was difficult. It felt like he owed more. They had given him more than their word, as he had demanded - he didn’t think he’d ever forget Hermione’s scar, or the vivid image of Ron’s leg snapping that was now in his head. You mean everything to us. Yes, he believed them now. The thing was, he felt no more connected to them than he had before and he spoke stiffly, “You’ve obviously done a lot for me. I’m sorry.” Harry wasn’t entirely sure what he was apologising for. For the way he’d acted now - or maybe everything they had done before, all the pain they had recounted that he couldn’t remember but could hardly feel had been anything but his fault.

The choice was, in the end, simple, the revulsion he felt when Hermione spoke about the war his guiding force. He avoided delving into his feelings about them to focus on that instead. “Is it her?” he asked, harshness still intact. It was no longer directed at them, he’d found someone more deserving of hatred. “The one who tortured you. Is it her doing? This war you’re fighting - is it the same one? Because of blood?” His head shook almost instinctively as his mind struggled to grasp this concept. If they had wanted Hermione dead before, they must again.  Maybe her family too - the family that, though Harry could scarcely understand it, was also his own. 

Ron was right. This wasn’t about him. “I’ll work with you,” he finished simply, meeting their eyes tentatively, ashamed of the rage he had flung out now it had left him. Everything confused him - except the war. That was very, very clear. “Whatever’s necessary.” 

His fist still smarting from the force in which it had collided with the side of Harry’s face, Ron brings his arm back down to his side, shaking the aforementioned hand slightly. He would admit that he had acted on pure instinct. He hadn’t wanted to punch his best friend in the face (no matter how many times he had joked about doing such a thing when Harry was behaving exceptionally dumb), but there were only so many lines the other man could cross before his amnesia was no longer a valid excuse. And Ron didn’t care that Harry didn’t remember anything, he didn’t get to be a stupid prat, he didn’t get to hurt Ron’s wife, and think that was all okay.

Ron’s free hand is entangled warmly in Hermione’s and he takes a step back so that he stands firmly by her side once more. He wasn’t sure what he was more concerned about accidentally doing at that point: punching Harry again, or embracing him, neither of which Ron imagined would go down very well.

You’re nothing to me.

Harry’s words still reverberate around Ron’s skull and he swallows thickly against the lump in his throat, hating that he at once was seventeen again, walking out of a tent, walking out of their lives because he felt there was no place for him. He knows better now; has the years of retrospection, of Hermione’s love and Harry’s companionship to know just how desperately they had needed him, but the words still sting; salt in a wound Ron had thought healed. It was if Harry, in the haze of his memory-less being, had somehow known the exactly place to hurt Ron and Hermione the most. As if he had realised the true extent of their grief.

That was not the case, Ron knew, but the thought lingers. What he also knew was that this simply proved that their Harry was still in there. When cornered and upset, Harry had always lashed out with harsh words and now was no different.

Fingers tightening around Hermione’s hand at her next words, the lump in Ron’s throat only grows larger and he tears his blue eyes away from Harry, knowing that Hermione needed him more.

On his darkest nights, he can still hear the sound of her screams muffled by the walls of the prison he had been trapped in. 

It was Ron who would gently nudge her away from the nightmares, who would wait until she was ready before he wrapped his arms around her. It was Ron who would wipe the sweat and tears from her brow, mindless platitudes spilling from his tongue to remind her that he was there, she was there, and that he loved her more than anything. It was Ron who had spent hours in secret, researching ways to disguise or remove magical scars to no avail, wanting nothing more than to take that pain away from her.

It hurts to hear her speak, but Ron knows that Harry needs to hear it. Needs their harsh words to reiterate how much they were here for him, how much they had always been there for him. “You’ve done a lot for us too, mate,” Ron says, his tone gentle as the majority of his anger bleeds out of him, “That’s how we work. You’ve saved my life, my sister’s life, my dad…I owe you just as much, if not more. S’what friends…what brothers are for.”

Hand still entwined with Hermione’s, Ron shakes his head sharply, “That bitch is dead. My mum killed her, actually. And she deserved a lot fucking worse than what she got. But she’s not the only one like that, and I’d sooner die than let any of them touch my family again. And that includes you, whether you like it or not.”

Ron takes a step forward and gingerly throws an arm around Harry’s shoulder, heart bleeding for the distraught look on the man’s face. “You wouldn’t be Harry Potter if you weren’t a dumbass prat now and then. But you’ve got to trust us. We’ve got your back, alright, and you’re our priority.”

She could see the fierce anger draining from Harry’s face as Ron spoke, then even more so as she spoke, and though part of her felt triumphant for getting through to the most stubborn person she knew, Hermione merely felt drained. The length of the conversation alone was enough to take away whatever energy she had before walking into the room with Ron, leaving her with the immense desire to go to her and Ron’s room and sleep for a few hours. 

She couldn’t, though. There was work to be done.

Hermione didn’t care much for appearing strong after she got her story out to Harry, relaxing minutely when she felt Ron’s attention on her and pressing herself lightly into his side. None of them had come out of the war without their ghosts, and they were there for one another when those ghosts became too much. She stayed in her position against her husband as Harry apologized, counted to ten, then nodded, pulling away again and straightening her posture. She was one half of the head of the Order of the Phoenix; Hermione couldn’t afford weakness even in her own home, as much as Ron tried to convince her otherwise. 

“You shouldn’t have,” she said, keeping her tone even and meeting Harry’s eyes. He seemed more cooperative at least, which was a plus, and the heat that returned to his eyes seemed directed toward the war they were in now, rather than the two people in front of him, which was a relief. Her lips twitched up slightly when he tossed that anger at Bellatrix especially. The bitch is dead, Ron said, and tension she hadn’t even known was there melted away. And yet-- “More or less, yes. This war now is based around those ideologies, because bigotry never goes away. We’re doing what we can to try and change that.”

Hermione looked at Ron fondly while he stood up even now to defend his family when it didn’t presently need to be defended, the ghost of a smile on her lips when Ron wrapped an arm around Harry’s shoulder, and the overwhelming exhaustion returned in full force as the conversation began to wind down. She looked back to Harry and nodded. “I’m glad you’ll work with us,” she said, forcing herself to let go of Ron’s hand and take a step back. Right now, she needed space.

“I’ve got some work to do,” Hermione said, certain Ron would probably see right through that but not caring much. “You can stay in our guest room until we find a safehouse for you--I’m thinking Grimmauld Place, but I’ll double check. Just let one of us know if you need anything.” She took her wand out, fixed the cup that had smashed to the floor with a flick of her wrist, tucked her wand away, and stepped back forward to press up onto her toes and kiss Ron’s cheek before heading toward their bedroom, shoulders square until she was finally behind a closed door.

That... she had no idea what to make of all of that. Hopefully she’d be able to in time, but until then, Hermione decided she could let herself have a small nap after all. She suspected even less sleep than usual in her near future.

“Well, they ought to make these streets rush proof, then. But I’m fine — it’s no big deal, just a twisted ankle. There are worse things in the world.”

“If only. Cobble streets only make rolling your ankle more likely to happen, but it can happen even on flat surfaces just by stepping wrong. I don’t think anywhere is rush proof.”

hermione has always calmed the chaotic energy that seems to radiate from her at times, rather uncontrollably. she’s one of the few people who can keep her completely grounded, rooted in reality, instead of spiraling off the edge. ginny exhales slowly as she shuts the book, absorbing her words. “you’re right, you’re right.” and she always was. ginny’s aware that she’s probably not much help to hermione, but she can’t sit idly at grimmauld place either, waiting for answers. not when it felt like they were only adding to harry’s misery as each day passed. but more than anything, it was meaningful to be with someone who understood the desire necessity to restore harry’s memories as she did. 

ginny has been so careful about putting on a brave face for everyone, such that the second she is with one of the few people she deems safe, her true feelings begin to spill through the poorly sealed cracks. “i know he is… i can feel it. i know you and ron can too.” her hope never wavers, not even in her darkest moments of despair. she knows they are going to bring him back, it’s just a matter of when. and that anticipation is what’s slowly tearing away at ginny now. leaning her elbows on the table, ginny rests her cheek against her palm. “i talked to him too. he… he opened up to me. i wasn’t expecting it at all, it just happened.” her mind wanders to the conversation they shared in the middle of the night and the way it felt more like a dream now. “it’s odd… in a sense he’s practically the same person. there are some times when i look at him and i forget that he’s not really there, y’know?”  

Ginny said she knew, but Hermione knew that her words wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She wished she could tell Ginny that this would be fixed within the next day or so, that they’d have their Harry back sooner rather than later, but that wasn’t the case and they all knew that. Instead, she stayed silent as Ginny marked her spot in her own book as well, patience unending while she gathered her thoughts. Hermione wished she could do more for all of their sakes, but she knew how a listening ear could be just as helpful as a solution.

“Of course I feel it,” she said, like it would be blasphemous to suggest otherwise. Thirty years of friendship doesn’t just go away, she and Ron had told Harry back in November, and that especially applied here; she knew her best friend. “After all we’ve been through, it would be mad to say I didn’t feel it.” She listened as Ginny admitted that Harry opened up to her, surprising Hermione but also giving her hope. “He let me talk about our days at school,” she said after a moment. “He seemed to hate that up until now, but we were... we were laughing and eating candy and almost teenagers all over again. It makes it hard to remember he’s not truly there, but at the same time it gives me hope that he still could be. We just need to find him again.” Hermione sighed. “Does that make sense at all?”

If Harry was honest, the thought of making new memories was an exhausting one. That wasn’t Hermione’s burden to bear, so he said nothing, only nodded, thinking bleakly of what these new memories would comprise of - the four walls of this room only? Perhaps the rest of the house too, if he could bring himself to be better than the coward he had been so far.  

Maybe he could. It wasn’t so bad, facing her again, even if after what had happened in that first meeting, what he’d put her through, Harry had believed he would never be able to face her again without looking for her scar in every moment. Now he was even enjoying himself, heartened by Hermione’s laughter. “That’s not really much help. There seems to be an awful lot of Weasleys. Younger and older. Dunno how you keep them all straight.” After showing the Hermione the card, he placed it atop the discarded set of textbooks he’d been looking at, picking up the box of Bertie Botts instead. 

He read the back of it while Hermione spoke, avoiding meeting her gaze as he picked out a yellow one that looked safe. Then he nearly spluttered it out again, “Ugh, that was - I think - rotten egg?” The absurdity of it was enough to make Harry laugh, for the first time in … well, ever, for all he could remember, meeting Hermione’s eyes again in camaraderie. “Thanks for that,” he said sarcastically, but with humour in his expression, “I guess we made a habit of getting each other in and out of trouble, right?” It was what her story had suggested, which he’d listened to without the heavy weight that seemed to come with hearing about his past for once - at least, until one word Hermione had uttered caught up with him and his still foggy brain cells. 

“Neville’s toad?” his head twitched to the side, a sudden ice returning to his heart. “Isn’t he-” Harry broke off, not wanting to say the words. The one who died for me. No, not died. Was murdered. 

She wasn’t fully convinced by his nod, but Hermione decided to let it slide, figuring the topic was being worn down to its bare threads. Instead, she chuckled fondly at his confusion over the many, many Weasley family members Harry had to relearn and grabbed some paper and a quill from near the discarded books. Maybe later, if they were getting on alright, she could put some time aside and help Harry relearn the ropes of magic; it would be like they were in school again. 

She missed those days more and more as time went on.

“It’s not too much trouble once you look at it,” Hermione said, scribbling Molly and Arthur’s names at the top of the paper. “I really did mean it when I said look for the red hair when it comes to the older Weasleys--minus their spouses, of course. The eldest are Molly and Arthur, and their children are Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny.” She drew a line for each of them branching from their parents, then tapped each name. “Bill is married to Fleur, and they’ve got three children. Easiest way to identify them is the blonde hair, but Louis is more of a brunet, so I suppose that doesn’t help much. Charlie hasn’t got any children--he’s fine with his dragons. Percy is married to Audrey, with two children there. Fred...” Hermione closed her eyes. “We lost him at the Battle of Hogwarts. His twin, George, is married to Angelina, with two children there. Then there’s Ron and Ginny, who you’ve met, and you’ve been acquainted with all of our kids already as far as I’m aware.” 

Writing it all out really showed just how big their family was, and that didn’t even include extended family members. “Think I’ll spare you every nuance for the kids, but I’ll write all their names down for you just in case. As for telling which older Weasley is which... well, my advice is to cycle through the names. You’ll get it eventually.”

Hermione snorted when Harry sputtered, pulling her knees up to her chest and putting the paper and quill off to the side. “I never said you’d get a good one,” she responded, taking another bean from the box. “Bit of a trick is to break the bean a little and smell it. Doesn’t always work, but you can tell if it’ll be a good or bad one about half the time.” She did just that with her bean, relaxing when she was met with a fruity smell and popping it into her mouth. “Tutti frutti. Your turn.” Hermione nodded at Harry’s supposition and looked at the fire wistfully. “You could say that. We were probably half the reason for Professor McGonagall’s stress. During our second year Ginny was in trouble, so I made some Polyjuice potion to sneak us into the Slytherin common room and do some recon--only, I’d grabbed a cat hair from Millicent Bulstrode’s robe and turned myself into a partial cat. That was... unpleasant, to say in the least.”

Of course she had to go and bring Neville up, and the relaxed atmosphere she’d felt was gone in a moment. Hermione could see the guilt on Harry’s face, but she nodded her confirmation anyway. “He was,” she said quietly. “He was a good man.” What else could she say? What else would Harry want her to say? Hermione had no idea, and she hated not knowing things.

“More times than I can count,” Ron says, glad for the familiar back-and-forth between them. He had felt so strung-out as of late; worrying about his family and Harry, the store and the Order. Ron was usually good at compartmentalising his different priorities, but it felt as though they were all beginning to merge in ways he was less than comfortable with. Allowing himself to sink properly into his wife’s embrace, Ron beams at the feel of her lips against his cheek, a low laugh bursting from his lips. “I think we both know I technically married you and the books. But I happen to think you’re pretty bloody cute about it, so I’m glad for it.”

For the last month or so, it felt desperately as if he and Hermione were on their own in their grief. There was no pretending that Ginny wasn’t suffering as much as they, if not more. She, after all, had lost her husband and the father of her children. Ron couldn’t even imagine how he would react were he to lose Hermione: she had been the other half of him for decades now, and without Harry, she was the last person he had left to completely lean on. 

There was never any judgement in their house; they had always intended it as a safe, loving place for one another, for their children, and for any others who needed the comfort. Ron knew what his own childhood home had meant to someone like Harry, who had barely known love in his life, and Ron would be damned if he didn’t try to offer that to any other lost and wayward souls he came across.

Ron can feel the tension practically radiating off Hermione as she presses against him and he rubs gentle circles on the small of her back. If he knew his wife, which he certainly did, he imagined that her brain was currently going 110 miles an hour and was unlikely to stop anytime soon. Ron knew what she was like when she was on a mission - throwing herself headfirst into only the thickest and dustiest of tomes, desperate for answers. While certainly not a common occurrence, they did have that in common, though perhaps for different situations: dragons and and hippogriffs and seducing women…

Moving just enough to cup one of Hermione’s cheeks in his hand, Ron brushes a thumb gently over the dark smudges under her eyes, his own narrowing in a deep frown. “It’s become a kind of disappointing party trick of his. Amazing the first time, shocking the second, but now it’s just a little old, innit?” Ron says, attempting to joke but already hearing it fall flat, “No one deserves happiness more. We’re going to get that back for him. We have to, even if I dunno…even if I have to do the sacrificing this time. He’s done enough.”

Ron’s mouth twists in a sour smile at the memory of their first year and he can’t help but shake his head at just how much of a little twerp he had been for all six years of schooling. Perhaps it was a good thing that he never went back for his final year: Merlin only knows how much he would have cocked that one up, ‘specially given his changed relationship with Hermione by that point. “Nah, we can change the narrative a bit. I’ll be less of a prat ‘nd all. But we can keep you teaching me levitation. Always were the smartest person I know. As for the troll…well, I’m sure the Goyles’ve kept breeding.” 

Leaning into Hermione’s touch, Ron sighs audibly, already shrugging his shoulders. “We’ve gotta be. I just…he’s my best mate. The best mate that I’m not married to, obviously, but my best mate. An’ I miss him. I miss flooing and owling him stupid jokes, and our weekly lunches. S’not the same without him.”

They been together for decades now, and Ron still managed to make her blush when he slipped in compliments here and there. Hermione had always struggled with her self-image (not helped in the least by one Professor Snape), so when Ron would slip in that he thought her love for books was cute still caught her by surprise. “Oh hush,” she said, hiding her smile by looking down. “That’s not what I’d’ve said during school. If I’d not known better, I would have guessed you were allergic to the library.”

She let the silence lapse between them, comfortable and comforting, the circles he rubbed into her back helping her to relax slowly but surely. Neither of them really had the time to step back and take a breather since this all began, and with Harry in the mix it seemed like that chance was growing slimmer by the moment. At least the holidays seemed to be peaceful--for now, at least. Hermione smiled, albeit tightly, when Ron tried to make light of the situation, but both of them knew it had fallen flat. Maybe if Harry still had his memories, they could’ve had a laugh over it, but given the current situation... She frowned at his wording--even if I have to do the sacrificing this time--and shook her head, covering his hand with her own and meeting his eyes with determined stubbornness in her own. “You mean we. If we have to do the sacrificing this time. We’re a team, Ron, and I’m not about to let you go off to sacrifice whatever may be needed without me. Don’t even argue that.”

There was the argument of one of them staying behind for the kids, lest the sacrifice be a one-way trip, but they were both grown and knew the risks their parents took for the cause. Rose and Hugo would understand if it came down to it. 

His quip about the Goyle’s lured a laugh from her, and Hermione smiled a small but real smile for probably the first time that evening. “Oh, I have no doubt. Maybe with enough coaxing we can get one of them for the nostalgia of it all.” She fell quiet while Ron started talking on a more serious note, eyes searching his face as if that would give her the answer to solve missing Harry. The thing was she missed him too, and so far there was no solution for it. She hated that there wasn’t one. “I know,” she murmured. “I miss him too. Hopefully in time... well, we can figure it out. He’s still Harry, even if he doesn’t have those memories. It’s something in the very least.”

Hermione sighed quietly and pushed up onto her toes to press her lips to her husband’s forehead, eyes closing. “I love you. We’ll be alright eventually, no matter how much work it takes to get there.”

Hermione didn’t get much sleep the night before, if any. 

She tried, in her defense, following her nightly routine with Ron and trying to act like the world wasn’t falling down around her, but after a good hour or two of tossing and turning she knew it was a hopeless endeavor to try and force herself to sleep. She assured Ron that she was okay and convinced him to go back to sleep before getting out of bed, heading downstairs to make herself some tea, and dividing her attention between the many papers scattered on the kitchen table and the window, its smudged glass showing the sky turn from inky black to the light pink and purple shades of dawn. 

“Turns out all you need is a little patience–”

“A luxury few can afford most days, I’m afraid. Thank you though, that lid was jammed on ridiculously tight.”

“I bloody hate cobbled streets. They may look cute, but who the hell thought it’d be a good idea, all these stones of varying sizes? So impractical.”

“You wouldn’t have twisted your ankle on the streets if you weren’t in such a rush, you know. Slow down a bit, trust me. In any case, are you alright?”

hewholivedagain‌:

The Boy Who Lived. Harry supposed there was something humorous about that, he just didn’t feel it. “No,” he said, more coldly still, trying not to think of the look on that girl’s face when she’d seen him, raising his jaw obstinately. “It doesn’t.” But whatever he thought about those Knights who had done this to him, it was far easier to direct every last piece of fury at the two people now in front of him. 

He didn’t even want to listen to Hermione, he barely registered any of it, not in comparison to the hot flame building inside the pit of his stomach and extending over his body.  Hearing her try to placate him or then, assert control had no effect. He didn’t need that to be angry. He already was. 

If anything though, it was the reference to your wife and children that set Harry off. At once, there was panic at the memory of that girl’s face crumbling and the reminder that there were more people to whom he was supposed to be somebody. A husband. A father.  His skin itched at the thought - he wasn’t supposed to be here, much less any of that, he didn’t remember how to be any of that. 

The searing look in Hermione’s face only made him feel more vulnerable, weak, just like she said. And yet not one of Harry’s instincts told him to back down. The opposite, really, whether it was disrespectful or not, he didn’t care.  He raised his shoulders defensively as she came closer, equally in his face. “I’m supposed to listen to you? You’re forgetting one thing. I don’t know you. You’re nothing to me.” Harry lashed out as violently as he could, glaring down at her and then across at Ron.  The idea that he had to rely on them, that Harry couldn’t protect himself, rankled. He had no intention of obeying blindly, as if he was helpless. He might not know much about who he was, but every part of him cried out to resist.

They didn’t even know what they were doing. Hermione admitted as much, and he leapt at the chance to throw it in her face where she stood like she was immovable. 

“How can I know to trust you any more than any of these people who supposedly want to kill me? I only have your word. Your word’s not good enough. What’s to stop me taking my chances alone? The pair of you? Try it.” He made the threat blindly, the room feeling smaller as he operated purely on his anger, reason forgotten.

Ron’s grip on the mug and kettle wavers only slightly as he listens to the clash of voices behind him. He angles his body enough to see exactly what was going on, but not enough to interfere, not yet. Not when Hermione needed to keep the upper hand.

In a sick twist, it almost amused Ron to see Harry behaving like this. To know that even without his memories, without any recollection of who he was, Harry James Potter still remained one of the most stubborn people on the planet: and a person who more than anything, lashed out when they were trapped, isolated and upset.

If he had been in Harry’s shoes, Ron was sure he’d have felt the same. He was lucky that he got to wake up every day knowing who he was, where he was and that his wife and children were close by. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have woken up with no knowledge other than the fact you should be dead.

The hard look of battle screams from every line of Hermione’s face and Ron is reminded of the same fierce look on the same face some three years previous. In the long list of things Hermione Granger-Weasley was capable, Ron knew that holding her own was incredibly high on that list. After all, it was she who had dragged herself up the Ministry ladder, practically kicking and screaming for others to listen to her ideas, and Ron had no doubt that if anyone could pull Harry into line through sheer determination, it would be Hermione.

Despite his understanding that Hermione was perfectly capable however, there is little that can stop the wave of red that floods Ron’s brain at Harry’s words. 

You’re nothing to me.

The almost verbatim uttering of the Horcrux so many years ago. Of Ron’s own teenage angst and insecure thoughts. Of the ever-present fear that no one cared as much as he did and that he was only ever kept around out of pity.

Before he can stop himself, Ron’s grip loosens and the mug he was holding shatters to the floor, but he finds himself unable to care as he darts toward the tall figure in the centre of the room, his fist crashing into the side of Harry’s head.

“Don’t you ever speak to my wife like that,” he hisses, eyes narrowed in a glare. “I get it, you didn’t want to be risen up from your grave, but news flash, Potter, it happened. And you do not get to come back and fuck up our life, fuck up my sister’s life by behaving like the biggest fucking prat on the planet.” 

“We mean nothing to you? Well, tough fucking luck, because you sure as hell mean something to us. Thirty years of friendship doesn’t just disappear because you died and forgot us,” Ron spits, his hand still curled in a fist, as if daring Harry to say something else. “My word’s not good enough? Try this,” He shoves his sleeves up his arms, angling them in the light so that the deep silver scars are visible, “Got attacked by brains, almost killed. Oh yeah, supporting and protecting you. That-” he pokes the centre of Harry’s chest where he knows the scar from Riddle’s locket hides, “-and that?” Harry’s forearm, from where Ron knew Nagini had attacked in his absence, “Only reason you didn’t die from those, is because Hermione saved your ass, like she has countless effing times.”

Ron continues to scowl, overwhelmed by just how much anger seems to flow through his body at that moment. “Need more? This leg got snapped trying to protect you. Made it worse by standing on it. Oh yeah…protecting you. That neck of yours? Literally saved it too when your dumb arse jumped in a frozen lake with a demon locket on. Fact is, you self-entitled dickhead, you’d barely last a day without me or Hermione, so don’t you even think about disrespecting her again.”

You’re nothing to me. Oh.

Hermione prided herself on being an immovable object when it came to getting people to listen to her. Years of work in the Ministry have taught her to never show how someone’s words may affect her, especially when--even after Voldemort’s defeat--she came across some who still didn’t bother hiding their pureblood beliefs. She had a reminder of those beliefs every time she looked in the mirror, at every scar that littered her body and, specifically, her left arm. There was a reason Hermione wore long sleeves more often than not: not only did she want that on display for the world to see, but she hated looking at it herself. How much did she go through for Harry’s sake over the years, and vice versa? How much pain and torment did they all suffer before they were even adults to stay by Harry’s side?

You’re nothing to me. 

This was one thing she couldn’t simply hide behind a stone-cold face. Harry was angry, furious even, and Hermione knew how he lashed out when he felt cornered, but it still didn’t stop the small flinch that had her reeling back just in time for Ron to go to her side and punch Harry in the face. Hermione felt her heart swell as Ron came to her defense and began to put Harry in his place, and she reached out to take hold of the hand that wasn’t currently poking at Harry’s chest to steady herself. She was quiet while Ron went on, eyes becoming wet as the stress and frustration and emotional whiplash took shape and finally began to spill over, but she wouldn’t back down. She couldn’t. She gave Ron’s hand a squeeze when he was finished and slowly, carefully rolled up her left sleeve, the word Mudblood raised and still as angry red as the day she’d gotten it. Her hand shook, but she held out her arm for Harry to see it anyway, not bothering to hide the tears that accumulated before she began to speak.

“You don’t know this anymore, but the war we were part of before was because of magical blood status. Those who have two purely magical parents are pureblood, those with one magical parent and one muggle--non-magical--parent are halfblood, and those with two muggle parents are muggleborn. The war... Voldemort wanted to wipe everyone out until there were only purebloods left, and many purebloods agreed with his stance. The killing that happened because of it was extensive, and unnecessary, and outright cruel. I-I’m a muggleborn, so you could say I was the most affected by the outcome of that war.”

Hermione looked down at the word and squeezed Ron’s hand tighter, feeling thirty years younger with Bellatrix Lestrange over her and tormenting her until she screamed her throat hoarse, only to go further and carve each letter slowly with her knife. She could still feel phantom pain, still hear her voice in her nightmares. Fuck. “Mudblood is a derogatory word for muggleborn. It’s used to make us feel inferior, second class, unworthy of magic. While we were fighting in the war, we got captured, and--and I was taken by Voldemort’s top lieutenant while you and Ron were locked up. She tortured me endlessly, and I thought I was going to die while you and Ron were Merlin-knew-where in that manor. Then she carved the word into my arm so I’d never forget what I am.”

Hermione fell quiet for a long moment, finally reaching up to rub at her eyes and give herself some form of relief. When she felt composed enough, she finally looked back up and at Harry, jaw set and determined. “And it was all completely worth it. Every second was worth it, because you needed us and we needed you. I’d do it again if I had to, because we may mean nothing to you, Harry, but you mean everything to us. Ron’s right--just because you can’t remember thirty years of friendship doesn’t mean they didn’t happen, and you don’t get to be a prat because of it. 

“If we have to treat you like the child you’re behaving as, then we will, but I’d rather go about all of this respectfully, so take your pick: be a fucking adult and work with us, or keep throwing temper tantrums and we’ll place you in time out like we would have our children when they were toddlers. The choice is yours, Harry. Make one.” 

Rose sat up and blinked at their mother, a frown puckering their mouth and creating lines between their brows. They looked outside — the sun had shifted and a weak afternoon glow permeated the clouds. The iced coffee they’d made before they sat down — they’d sat down just moments ago! — was all liquid now, and the oat milk had separated from the coffee to settle at the bottom of their glass mug. It felt like they’d just woken from a nap yet needed a thousand hours’ sleep. The book in front of them wasn’t even open. 

“…um, no?” Their mum sounded so far away as they tried to shake off the heavy fog. Second by second they found themself sliding back into their body, but with that return to reality came the crushing realization that it was happening again. Losing hours of time, being disconnected from their own body — they’d spent so many hours of treatment working on grounding themselves, on reminding themselves that they were solid, that they were here. All of that was slipping away now. 

“Mum, can you hold my hand—” Rose swallowed around a lump that settled in the base of their throat. “Please?” 

It took a moment longer than Hermione would have liked to realize what was going on. 

Her eyes felt heavy from staring at book pages and computer screens for too long, so she didn’t initially register that their book was unopened, or that their coffee was separated. Hermione did notice the small frown that made its way onto Rose’s face, though, and when they spoke it sounded rough, almost a bit panicked. Oh, she thought, and immediately reached for Rose’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze and rubbing the back of their fingers with her thumb. “I’ve got you, sweetie,” she murmured. She hated feeling helpless to stop these episodes from occurring, but they did, so Hermione vowed to do whatever Rose needed from her in the meantime. “Whatever you need.”

Her aunt had always been a welcome sight. Victoire loved her family fiercely, and had always felt a sense of comfort in their presence. Now, though, she couldn’t get rid of the gnawing in her stomach as she stepped into the kitchen. She knew the information her aunt needed, but still, wasn’t sure that she’d be able to provide it.

“Tea would be lovely.” Victoire took in a deep breath as she entered, suddenly feeling very guilty as she came closer. She had made so many mistakes when it came to her family, and seeing her aunt brought all of them to the front of her mind. How could she have been so blind? She had missed so much, willingly, and she felt she could never make up for it. Shaking her head, she looked down, “Aunt Hermione… I’m so sorry…”

She nodded and turned back to the kettle, summoning two cups from the cabinets and pouring one for each of them. She wasn’t going to rush their conversation, absolutely refused to, so Hermione simply waited for Victoire to start the conversation. She knew from personal experience that what her niece had been through wasn’t easy, and pressing too hard wouldn’t do either of them any favors.

Victoire apologizing, though, wasn’t what Hermione wanted, so she turned toward her niece and led her quietly to the table in the kitchen, placing the cups at two of the seats and reaching to rub her arm gently. “Listen to me, V: you’ve got nothing to be sorry for. I’m just glad you’re here, sweetie. Now sit, and we can have a chat. Did you want cream or sugar?”

As her voice lowered, Harry felt his discomfort spike. Knowing he had been a part of their family was different from feeling like he was part of it. “Right, yeah, of course,” he said, nodding along quickly, feeling almost robotic. “I didn’t mean to say it like that.” He knew she didn’t expect anything from him, Hermione had made that clear again and again. Yet Harry could also see the sadness that was an implicit part of her small smile - he couldn’t help the distinct feeling that he was the reason for that. “I am trying,” he said, just as quietly. He knew she didn’t want apologies, but he felt them welling up inside him all the same, a pressure that forced him to speak when words never seemed to come easily. “I wish I could remember. I’m sorry that I don’t.” 

It was as if he went from one difficult encounter to another, but he felt a hint of embarrassment remembering the last one. “Yes, I - er - thought he was Charlie, but it turned out I was wrong,” Harry admitted to her sheepishly. He hadn’t been planning on telling anyone that, but something about Hermione made it easy to confide her. “Here’s hoping for one of you, then,” he said, and then turned the card over. “Celestina Warbeck,” he read off the back, feeling somewhat relieved, “No association with us, right?” 

He looked up to be overwhelmed by the force of Hermione’s smile. For once, it didn’t feel like the half-mournful smile that people directed at him, and his own rare feeling of … if not happiness … then contented ease stayed in place. “Is that where we met then? The first train to Hogwarts?” It was also rare he directly asked people for information, he preferred to read it in the articles and resources they’d provided.  Hermione was usually so serious that the playful edge to her voice had Harry determined to do nothing to spoil it, “That sounds awful, but alright. I trust you,” he joked in return, forgetting for a moment the painful first argument they’d had about the very matter of trust. Though his comfort only showed the truth - he did trust Hermione now. He reached out his hand for the box of colourful beans, feeling certain he’d regret this if it wasn’t for the fact that Hermione was smiling and he was so relieved to see it.

Hermione had the distinct impression that she probably stepped on some toes just then, Harry’s discomfort obvious to someone who had thirty years of friendship with the man, and of course he hadn’t meant it like that. She reacted before speaking, and now there was a slightly awkward air about them. “I know you didn’t,” she said, sighing quietly as Harry apologized. He didn’t need to, and she hated that he felt like he had to. “I know you’re trying, Harry. I appreciate it. Just... if you can’t remember again, ever, don’t stress. We can just make new memories.” She paused and chewed her bottom lip. “If that’s alright with you.”

The fact that Harry had mistaken Draco for Charlie startled a laugh out of Hermione, and she reached up to cover her mouth as if it would stifle the suddenness of it. “Oh, that must have shocked him,” she said, trying and failing not to smirk at the image in her head. “Some advice: if you’re looking for an older Weasley, look for the bright red hair. They’ve all got it until you get to the kids.” She leaned forward to look at the card, then shook her head. “Only if you count how much Ron’s mum loves the woman. I’ve got Celestina Warbeck’s music memorized simply by association with Molly Weasley.”

Is that where we met then? Hermione’s smile became a little smaller, but it was still real, now coated with nostalgia while she nodded. “Yeah, it was. You were sitting with Ron, and I’d stopped by your compartment to see if Neville’s toad had gotten in there somehow. We didn’t really speak much though until Halloween--you and Ron saved me from becoming troll food in the girl’s restroom. We’ve been inseparable ever since.” Hermione trailed off as she got lost in her memories, but then Harry joked about the jelly beans and she was brought back to herself. “Oh, some of them are awful. It’s a luck of the draw. Here, I’ll go with you.” She reached into the box when Harry was done with it and grabbed a light blue one, holding it up like a toast and popping it into her mouth. A sudsy taste covered her tongue, and Hermione wrinkled her nose. “Soap. Not the worst I’ve had, I’ll admit. Your turn.”