Chapter Text
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Five years.
One thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five days.
Two million, six hundred and twenty-eight thousand minutes.
All of that time had passed since Voldemort was defeated. Hogwarts and the wizarding world had rebuilt themselves. It was as if nothing had happened, as if the universe hadn’t been flipped on its head.
Hermione hadn’t spoken to anyone since.
The others had moved on, married, restarted their lives.
Hermione couldn’t.
Part of her lived in the terrifying memories of her past—the Chamber of Secrets, the bottom of the Black Lake, the Department of Mysteries, her parents’ forgotten home with her own name and image obliterated from every keepsake and photograph. It had taken her a long time to heal. Too long. She couldn’t leave any of it behind, no matter how hard she tried.
Something had stuck with her after her first encounter with Voldemort’s soul, as if she knew she wouldn’t be able to recover like the others. At the end of each year, after every trial and tribulation she had been through with Harry and Ron, she lost part of herself. With each experience, her light dimmed ever so slightly.
She knew once the Battle of Hogwarts had commenced that it would be her last hurrah with them. It was goodbye, whether they lived or died. She couldn’t drag them down any longer. They had things to live for—love, family, and hope.
Hermione had nothing.
The world didn’t need her; the trauma and baggage and constant fear made it impossible to live a normal life. So, she stopped trying.
She kissed Ron and sent Harry into the Forbidden Forest, silently saying goodbye as she prepared to retreat from the castle. Of course, things were a bit blurry after she had abandoned the other parts of the Golden Trio, but she blamed it on the emotions spinning violently in her head. She was saying goodbye to everything she knew, after all.
But years had passed since then. According to the rest of the wizarding world, a celebration was in order. A memorial had been built in the courtyard of the castle she’d once called home, paying homage to all of those who had laid down their lives to fight for the light.
She really didn’t want to go.
She should go.
Maybe it was time. Hermione had already missed five long years. In that time, she had missed weddings, birthdays, and her friends having children of their own. Maybe this is what it would take to finally heal.
The small cottage she had taken up residence in was starting to feel empty. She had found the structure abandoned and mostly in ruins. But it was quaint—just off the coast and isolated enough to give her space from the rest of the world. It had taken her over a year to fix it up. Now, it was home. The thought of leaving it and venturing back into society caused her hands to tremble.
But it was time. She knew it was.
The morning of the celebration, Hermione dressed in layers, prepared to face the spring winds of the highlands that surrounded Hogwarts. Though it was nearly summer, she knew better than to assume the warmth of the sun would reach the castle just yet. She looked at herself in the mirror, content with her appearance even through the blur of her reflection. It had been that way ever since she could remember—the hazy lines of her silhouette smudging in the glass. She had blamed it on the trauma. She hadn’t wanted to truly see herself after the war.
Nevertheless, she would still be recognizable. How could anyone forget the infamous Hermione Granger? She had been well-known throughout wizarding Britain long before the war. Being best friends with the Chosen One came with its side effects.
With a shaky inhale, she stepped from the safety of her cottage, raised her wand, and Apparated just outside the grounds of Hogwarts.
Apparition hadn’t quite felt the same since she’d vanished from Hogwarts all those years ago. Since she had left the battle, her wand felt different in her hand. Unsteady. Heavy. Unfamiliar.
She landed in the grass just beyond the Black Lake. Her legs were shaky and unbalanced, but she regained her footing, just barely preventing herself from plummeting into the frigid waters behind her.
The ascent up the hill towards the castle was long, but it was a journey she had made countless times as a student. She would pass the ruins from the Triwizard Tournament, the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Hagrid’s cottage, and the tunnel just beneath the Whomping Willow. Each location held memories for her, both fond and painful. Yet, she pushed on.
It was time. It had been time for far too long.
The structure of the courtyard came into view. Echoes of conversation met her ears as she neared the crowd, but Hermione wasn’t quite ready to make herself known yet. Just before the entrance to the courtyard, she turned and made her way into the castle through one of the small archways, heading toward the right wing.
Hogwarts was empty—the students either having already left for summer holiday or outside celebrating the anniversary of victory. Hermione weaved through the silent corridors, reminiscing about her time within those walls.
It had felt like so long ago now. So much had changed since she’d been there last. She found that she was far from the version of herself that had wandered down those halls. In a way, she felt like a ghost, like an echo of the Hermione that everyone knew and loved.
She climbed the stairs that led to Gryffindor Tower, grateful that the password had seemingly remained unchanged as she walked through the portrait hole. The common room was warm as it welcomed her into its red and gold arms. Everything was the same—the couches, the roaring fireplace, even the tiny corner of wallpaper Ron had torn from the wall during their fourth year.
The stones of the common room’s walls held memories and secrets. She had cried there, laughed there, lived there.
Hermione journeyed up to the girls’ dormitory. The door opened as she touched the knob, as if it remembered that she belonged. Entering, she made her way to her old bed, fighting back tears and a sad smile as she saw her initials carved into the bedpost. A chill went through her like a ghost of a memory.
She heard the grand clock in the main tower strike three times in the distance, signaling the start of the memorial’s unveiling ceremony. With a deep breath that she hoped would fill her lungs with the Gryffindor spirit that she so desperately missed, Hermione left the tower and made her way back to the main part of Hogwarts.
When she had returned to the courtyard, she kept her distance, opting to watch from one of the shadowy pillars instead of with the crowd. She saw Harry and Ron towards the front with Professor McGonagall, making speeches to honor those who had fallen. Even from far away, Hermione saw the glistening of Harry’s eyes as he held back tears.
They had been so young. So much had been taken from them. And yet, Harry and Ron were here, giving even more of themselves.
The memorial was unveiled in a dramatic show. The crowd was a mixture of applause and overwhelming grief as they took in the large stone. It was a piece of the fallen castle, a ruin that had been torn from Hogwarts’s walls and carved with the names of those who had lost their lives. She watched as Harry and Ron were met with countless hugs and words of gratitude. Familiar faces blurred past her eyes as she lost focus from her own unshed tears.
Before long, the celebration moved to the Great Hall. Only when the courtyard was empty did she dare to move from her spot behind the pillar. She walked towards the large stone memorial slowly, as if time had helped her heal at all before and would assist her now.
Shuffling footsteps sounded from her left, and she gasped when Draco Malfoy walked towards her. A pang of fear soared through her chest.
Malfoy had hated her then; she was sure he felt the same now.
He seemed to look through her, as if he was aware someone was there, but was choosing to ignore her.
Hermione wondered why he was even at the celebration. Draco hadn’t been on the light side of the war. He had become a Death Eater, had followed in his family’s beloved footsteps to carry on their twisted legacy. Why did he care? Why would he celebrate Voldemort’s defeat? He had no one to mourn, except maybe his callous master and the life he could have enjoyed.
Draco continued to stare at the memorial with shimmering eyes. She wanted to see what he was looking at, wanted to understand why he was so pained by something he should have relished in. However, she was too captivated by his mere presence that she kept her eyes locked on him.
That was, until Harry made his way back to the courtyard. Hermione’s gaze darted towards him, feelings of trepidation and love washing over her simultaneously.
But Harry didn’t look at her. Instead, he went to Draco.
“I just wish I had said something. I wish that I…” Draco began, but he trailed off, too overcome by emotion to finish his sentence.
She watched as Harry threw an arm around Malfoy and comforted him. His fingers squeezed Draco’s shoulders in reassurance. His voice was soft. He was being a friend.
Hermione couldn’t understand why. Why now? Why was Draco feeling this way now, after all of the hurt, pain, and destruction he’d had a hand in? What difference would it have made if he had said something then?
It was too late. He should’ve known that—Harry should have known that.
After a few minutes of hushed whispers and deep breaths, Draco went back into the castle. Harry stayed behind and slowly made his way to the memorial.
“Harry?” Hermione called. Her voice was weak, and Harry showed no signs that he had heard her.
She tried again, her voice breaking slightly, but his eyes didn’t even flicker towards her. He approached the large stone, studying the names carved into it.
“Hermione,” he sighed, his voice laced with sadness.
But he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were glued to the stone. Hermione stepped towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m here, Harry. I’m here.”
He reached out, his fingers grazing the carvings delicately. She finally broke her stare from the side of his face, no longer able to face the pain etched into his features. But when she looked to where his hand had landed, she froze.
There, carved intricately into the memorial stone, was her name.
Hermione Jean Granger
The world around her seemed to stop. The dull ache in her head increased as panic washed over her.
“Harry!” she cried. “Harry, I'm right here!”
Maybe they had simply presumed her to be missing. She had all but disappeared from the world. It was logical to think she was gone, but she wasn’t; she was standing right there.
“Out of everyone, I never thought you would be the one to end up dead,” Harry said in a whisper.
Dead? DEAD?
It couldn’t be true. It simply wasn’t possible. Hermione distinctly remembered walking away from the chaos and the ruins, leaving it all behind. She had made a conscious choice, albeit maybe not the right one, but she had chosen to leave.
Her shock morphed into a burning desperation. Someone had to see her, had to hear her. She begged Harry to listen to her. She pulled on his robes and shoved his shoulders while she wailed.
“Harry! Look at me! I’m right! Fucking! Here!”
Yet, no matter how hard she pushed or how loudly she screamed, Harry didn’t notice her. Her fists pummeled into the stone memorial, wishing she could topple it over and obliterate it into dust with her bare hands. While her knuckles felt raw and sore, there wasn’t a single scuff on her skin. She wasn’t bleeding or bruising. Her body showed no signs of physical distress, as if she were unable to be hurt.
As if she were a ghost.
Hermione felt lost. How was it she had gone so many years without knowing? How had she carried on for this long without realizing what had truly happened? And that was the biggest question of them all, what had happened to her?
Her whole world had been flipped on its head. This whole time, all of these years, she had been dead .
Pieces began to slowly fall into place regardless of the mystery that began to plague her mind—the way her reflection was also blurred around the edges, how different the weight of her wand felt in her hand, why it was so easy for her to simply disappear.
“Dead,” she said aloud to herself. The word tasted foreign and bitter on her tongue, as if her very being rejected it entirely.
She’d assumed no one missed her, that they’d presumed her gone and had simply wanted to leave her alone, but seeing the heartache in Harry’s eyes was like a tidal wave of emotion she found herself unable to process.
She slumped against the now-cursed stone with her head in her hands and tears streaming down her cheeks. A feeling began to consume her, a feeling so much worse than loss or heartbreak or pain.
Hermione felt utterly and abysmally alone.
That was, until she looked up to see a familiar swirl of black robes standing at her feet before the stone.