Chapter Text
Everyone knew not to talk about marriage in front of Hermione Granger. The unspoken rule had formed one day in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It was around lunchtime when one of the younger interns approached her. Hermione hadn’t remembered his name—Sullivan? Steven? Stibbens? Stibbens sounded right. They had talked briefly before, when Hermione had been more open to conversation. That wasn’t the case today. She had been drowning in headaching paperwork all week, with numerous outstanding cases that needed on-site assessments, and she had been stuck trying to figure out how to handle a particularly sensitive one for the past four hours.
If Stibbens had noticed, he didn’t seem to care because he continued, leaning against her desk while he went on about all the engagement parties he’d been to, and how he’d be going to another wedding on Sunday. Hermione had the feeling he was trying to be charming, so she feigned polite interest and continuously shifted her attention back to her work in hopes he’d catch the hint to leave her the hell alone.
But then he dropped a copy of Witch Weekly on her desk, and the pages fluttered over her work like they were the new list of sites that needed magical monitoring. It was open to an article… about her.
Hermione caught a glimpse of her picture below the title. Granger Looking Grim! What Was Hermione Doing Alone in Muggle London? The camera had caught her walking out a door, wind-swept hair a traitorous mess with a stunning frown etched on her face. She hadn’t even remembered the moment, let alone what she had been thinking about, and before she could read another word of the article, she shoved it back towards him.
Stibbens had looked surprised by her sudden outburst and asked her, rather bluntly, why she wasn’t married yet.
“Excuse me?” Hermione said slowly. She felt a snarl form at the edge of her lip, curled it into something venomous. Stibbens didn’t have the sense within him to be phased.
“I mean,” he continued stupidly. “People are getting married, having kids, settling down? Aren’t you supposed to be dating Ron Weasley? And what, you’ve been together for five years? Hard to believe he hasn’t popped the question yet,”
But he had.
Proposed, that is, but Hermione wasn’t about to tell him that. Stupid Stibbens. A stranger, Stibbens. She also wasn’t about to tell him that she had been the one to break things off with him. That she had ended their five-year relationship, renounced a proposal she had already said yes to.
Stibbens took her silence as a sign to continue.
He chuckled in the way people do before they’re about to say something stupid. “You haven’t taken, like, a celibacy oath or something, have you? Or, you’re not… still thinking about the War—?”
Poor Stibbens had felt Hermione’s surprisingly powerful right hook that afternoon, the very same one Malfoy and his nose could testify to in their Third Year. Hermione had tried her very, very best not to make a scene. But it had been a rather frustrating day, an even more dreadful week. And that stupid, stupid Witch Weekly article. Granger Looking Grim? Who’d even thought of that stupid line?
While Hermione and Ron had mostly tried to keep their breakup under wraps, there had been rumours. Always rumours. It was common knowledge to the Wizarding World that they had been a couple; Ron hadn’t been exactly discreet with his public displays of affection. Hermione told herself that she didn’t mind it; she could hold his hand, kiss his cheek, but she couldn’t bear the feeling that he was showing her off, that he wanted to be seen. Perhaps the public had realised that something had happened between them because they had seen them together for so long, so now that being apart was a sign that something had changed.
A few months later, Ron had been spotted out with a Chaser from the Holy Head Harpies. So much for trying to be discreet.
Hermione had spent her entire childhood helping her friends save the bloody Wizarding world, fighting in a war that had never been hers to fight, and for what? To be critiqued five years later because she didn’t feel like sharing the details of her love life with the public? Women like her were supposed to fight bloody wars, fight evil half to death and then instantly settle down and get married after as if something fucked up hadn’t just changed her entire life.
It wasn’t Stibbens’ fault for the way people thought, but Stibbens had been the last straw. Hermione should have filed for an HR violation, but she figured that punching him in the face seemed like the better way to go about things.
Stupid Stibbens had ended up with a broken nose. So, Harry, being the Head of the Auror office and therefore Hermione’s boss, let the situation go with a warning and three days of suspension. One could have argued that it was a light sentence, all things considered, but the Golden Girl didn’t really take days off, so three days of suspension? Hermione didn’t know what to do with herself.
“It’ll be good for you, Hermione,” Harry shrugged, getting up from his desk. He pulled on his Auror coat, pocketed his Ministry badge and started to wipe his glasses, plainly ignoring the fact that she was on the verge of losing her mind. Hermione had been pleading her case to a wall for the past ten minutes.
“But, I can’t—I don’t—I—” Hermione tried again. A wall. The back of her neck burned, clammy, and she felt that impending sensation of dread rush over her. “Please, three days is way too much, Harry! I’m the DMLE’s Senior Investigator! We’re so close to rounding everyone up, and there are still so many sites that need assessments—”
“Hermione, you did just break another staff member’s nose—”
“Because he was being an arse! A disrespectful, dung-smelling dick—!”
“Nice alliteration,” Harry snorted, and she glared at him.
She chewed on her lip, debated with herself whether or not she should say anything else, but the look in Harry’s eyes, the way his head tilted towards her, and how his gaze softened decided for her. Hermione huffed, crossing her arms over herself. She looked out the only window in his office. The Muggle world bustled, oblivious and ignorant and in perfect, chaotic bliss below them. Harry didn’t press; he waited for her to sigh one more time.
“He asked if I had taken a celibacy oath, and I,”—Hermione scoffed. Her eyes followed the cars in the creeping traffic—“I didn’t even know those were a thing! Are they—are they a thing?”
Harry took a step towards her, standing quietly by her side. She could see him looking at her from her peripheral vision, but she kept her eyes focused on the view outside. “Hermione—,”
Her voice came out quieter, almost as muffled as the world below them, as if she were just as much background noise as the beeping horns and grumbling engines. “He… he even brought up the War. Can you believe it, Harry? And it’s not like he’s right, my love life has nothing to do with it—” Except that it had everything to do with it.
“Hermione,” Harry’s voice came more sternly this time. She stopped and finally looked at him. “Three days. It’s nothing. Trust me. I’ll have a word with Stibbens. You just… just take the time off, okay? You’ll be back Friday anyway, just in time for the Christmas Party—”
She groaned. “I’d rather be suspended for a month than go to the Christmas Party,”
“That could be arranged,” Harry quirked his brow, the edge of his lip kicking up when a genuine look of alarm flashed across Hermione’s face.
He knew how much Hermione would hate it, not being at work, not busying herself by feeling useful, and that was why he also knew how much she needed it. Whether she would admit it or not.
So it had been on those three days when that feeling appeared again. The one that pierced ice cold through her bones, like wind in her arteries and veins instead of blood. As if magic hadn’t changed her life enough, it was about to do so again.
…
Her breakup with Ron hadn’t been a matter of why, but when. She didn't have to be a Seer to know that it would always happen. Things like that didn’t need Magic. Hermione knew from the night during the Battle when they first kissed in the Chamber of Secrets that she would not marry Ronald Weasley.
While she did love him, it wasn’t the kind of love that she would marry him over, all things considered. It wasn’t the one she had seen in her parents, in Mr and Mrs Weasley, Remus and Tonks. But they dated anyway. Three, four and nearly five years of togetherness that felt the same as it always did. Except that there was no evil voice in her ear whispering that he would leave her again. Or at least that was what she told herself. Hermione still heard that voice sometimes, woke up cold in the night from it. But it was quieter now, and if she closed her eyes tight enough, she could almost imagine it had just been the wind outside and that the warmth existed beside her, with ginger hair that stayed.
Hermione thought she could grow that kind of love, the one that might make her hope for a future with Ron. She knew that it was possible, that she was capable. Love wasn’t set in stone; it wasn’t something to be fossilised, ever-unchanging. It could grow like a young sapling, stretch old and sturdy and strong like great redwood trees. She thought that if she had stayed with him long enough, maybe one day she’d wake up and love him in the way he thought she already did.
So she tried. Said yes when he had proposed in the kitchen that one morning after Sunday breakfast, with a ring he said he had picked up from a thrift market a Muggleborn coworker had brought him to. He promised he’d give her a real one in a few months, when they got their Christmas bonuses. But Hermione brushed him off, took the metal to her finger and told him to save for their own place instead.
Everyone else had been outside, busying themselves with fun and little Teddy and Angelina, who was pregnant with George’s baby, as they tried to soothe the ache of empty chairs. And Hermione watched them from the kitchen window with the weight of the world on her finger, knowing that that metal would oxidise on her skin and turn green.
…
They hadn’t even been engaged for three months when Hermione had called the whole thing off.
It had nothing to do with the fact that Ron wanted a child. Hermione wanted them too, at some point, but not now. When they were barely twenty three and everyone else seemed to want children. Hermione could not understand for the life of her why no one wanted a break.
But then there was blood in the sink one night, and she was still shaking from another nightmare. Ron had walked in on her, but she had dropped the sharp thing a while ago, so it was just the single wound on her arm, blood melting over the word like it was the only thing that could erase it, but it wasn’t. Nothing would.
And maybe it was because Ron didn’t know what to do. That he had known her for nearly thirteen years, and he still did not know what to do.
He just stared. Stared like they were all back there, in Malfoy Manor, despite it being years after it had happened. Stared like she was still getting tortured because, well, she was. And there he was again, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to help.
Then again, it wasn’t his fault. Because you don’t learn how to deal with these things. And she should never have been tortured at all. So he just stared at her, unsure of how to help, unsure of how to hide the pity in his eyes that was more for himself than her. Because that was what he knew for certain: that Hermione did not hate anything more than being pitied.
…
Friday could not have arrived sooner. Alone in her apartment, time had slowed to the rate of cold, trickling honey while Hermione counted down the hours to the end of her suspension. But each second that came closer turned into another reminder of the Ministry Christmas party she had promised Harry she would attend.
She tried not to make it a big deal, tried to distract herself while she pulled on her long-sleeved cocktail dress. It was a gorgeous red satin, with a plunging neckline she wouldn’t have usually gone for, but it was one of the only dresses she had that covered her scars and looked festive enough for the holidays.
She had felt everyone’s burning haze the moment she had walked into the hall. Surely they all would have already known what she had done to poor Stibbens. Her absence itself would have been enough to raise questions. She could only hope that people hadn’t twisted the event of her violent burst too much.
“Hermione!” someone called over the thrumming music, the voice barely audible above the chatter of the crowd. But she would have recognised Harry’s voice anywhere. Spinning around, Hermione caught sight of him smiling in her direction, holding two glasses of mead.
People stepped aside for him automatically, the sea of bodies in formal wear parting for the Head of the Auror Office, and even more so for the man who had defeated Voldemort. Harry offered them only polite nods as he passed, never pausing long enough to be drawn into conversation. Nearly six years passed, and he was still as big a hero as he was that day.
Hermione smiled when he reached her and took the glass he offered, lifting it to her lips for a sip. The sweet flavour lingered, almost too strong for her liking. “Cherry?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Harry shrugged and took a sip of his own, giving her a sheepish look. “They had something else, Giggle Water, I think—but I know you don’t like it.”
Hermione chuckled; she didn’t. “Thanks.”
A festive-themed staff party was the last thing Hermione needed after a three-day suspension. She needed to get back to her cases, back to work. Even today, Harry had barely let her do anything, busying her with stupid errands while he and the rest of her coworkers were actually out on the field, doing the important work. Hermione briefly considered slipping out of the hall and spending the rest of her evening at her desk, organising what cases she’d look at once everyone was finished partying.
The ‘party’ was supposed to celebrate the upcoming holiday season. And it clearly did, with tinsel snaking up the columns, green and red drapes hanging from the walls, and snow falling from the enchanted ceiling, the room buzzed with life. For a moment, it almost felt normal, like it hadn’t been less than a decade since the war. Like this party wasn’t, at its core, an excuse to celebrate the final few Death Eaters being found and locked behind bars.
It had taken a while to round them all up—to disband the desperate neo-activists, the poor excuses for a “resistance” against the Ministry, against the Light.
Hermione’s coworkers indulged in the escape, at least for tonight. This was one of the few times she and Harry had decided to attend. They were both too familiar with the false air of formalities, the sticky way people lingered within earshot yet stayed just far enough away to avoid direct conversation.
“It’s almost like we’re at Slughorn’s Christmas Party,” she murmured, leaning closer to Harry as a sudden wash of déjà vu hit her. A snowflake drifted down and melted on the tip of her nose. She tried—unsuccessfully—to suppress the ache of longing that had been gnawing at her lately.
She wondered when she would stop wishing for the days before the war—if a time would come when she longed for the days after instead.
“You’re kind of right,” Harry chuckled. His eyes were scanning the room too, watching people lost in their own pockets of conversation. “Merlin, how long has it been? Seven—no—eight years?”
Hermione hummed in response.
Eight years. Eight years since 1996. Their Sixth Year—the last proper year she’d spent at Hogwarts with Harry and Ron.
Of course, she had returned to redo her Seventh Year, along with a shy handful of classmates, but it wasn’t the same. It never would be again. She still couldn’t believe they had made it this far. The feeling struck her as surreal. There had been moments during the war when she couldn’t even fantasise about surviving long enough to see the year 2004. And to think it would be New Year’s in just a few days…
It felt like only yesterday that she and Harry had been hiding between the curtains at Slughorn’s party, desperate to avoid Cormac McLaggen like the plague. She found herself wondering briefly how he was doing—probably well. Arrogant as he had been, it hadn’t stopped him from fighting in the Battle. Her clearest memory of him was bloodied and tense-jawed as he helped carry the bodies of the fallen into the Great Hall. They had lost so many that night—
“I know that look in your eye,” Harry’s voice caught Hermione’s attention. He hadn’t spoken to her that softly in a while.
They were in one of the quieter corners of the room, though not completely away from prying eyes. She met his gaze, ever the observant man, her brother. Harry wrapped his arm around Hermione’s shoulders, and she leaned into his side, relishing the warmth like it was all he knew how to give.
“Tell me what’s wrong?” He offered.
Hermione looked down at the mead in her glass, swirling it around.
“I’m fine, it’s nothing,” She reassured him. Hermione looked up to search for his reaction. She had never been a good liar, and the way Harry stared at her told her that he knew this, too.
She brushed him off, not wanting to get all soppy and reminiscent in a room full of people who would sell their souls for their stories. “Where’s Ginny?” Hermione asked.
Thankfully, Harry didn’t press. It wasn’t like him to. His gaze slipped away from hers, chin tipping over her shoulder. She could feel the chuckle rumbling through his chest. “Speak of the devil.”
“—Finally! I’ve been looking everywhere!” A voice sounded from beside them. Hermione turned in time to see Ginny jumping up and down with excitement, her sleek heels clicking against the marble floor. “Hermione, you came!”
Hermione smiled sheepishly, offering a shrug. “If I didn’t, you guys would have forced me here either way. Besides, someone was threatening a month-long suspension—”
“Hey,” Harry snorted beside her, lowering his voice. “If I was forced to come to this thing, then there was absolutely no way that you weren’t going to as well. I can’t be the only one suffering here, ‘Mione.”
“Oh, please,” Ginny said, giving them an exaggerated eye roll. “It’s free food, and it’s free booze—I don’t see what the problem is! Besides,”—she turned to Hermione—“all you’ve been doing is work work work. You need some time to play!”
Hermione cringed. “You’re only saying that because you’re a Harpy.”
“Oh yeah, congratulations on making the team, Gin,” Harry added, lifting his drink towards her.
Ginny waved him off. “You know I’m right. I’m right, right, Harry?”
Harry tilted his head in a half-shrug, his eyes sliding back to Hermione. “You have been working an awful lot, Hermione,”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but he wasn’t looking at her anymore. His gaze had drifted across the room, and Hermione followed it.
Kingsley was waving him over from the far side of the hall.
She wanted to tell Harry that he ought to look in the mirror, that he’d been working an awful lot, too. But she didn’t. Because it was Harry. And taking a break was something he did not have the privilege of learning how to do. What would he do if he had one?
With a sigh, she tried weakly to defend herself, not addressing anyone in particular. “Well, being Senior Investigator is a lot of work!”
Harry just shook his head. They’d had this conversation far too many times. He shot Ginny a look. “Get her drunk for me, Weasley? That’s a Ministry request,”—he turned back to Hermione, wearing a grin she tried hard not to smack off his face—“from the Head of the Auror Office,”
Ginny snapped him a playful salute. “Will do, sir!”
And before he slipped away, he pressed a quick, familiar peck on Hermione’s temple.
…
The next few hours go by in a blur. The buzz of the hall had merged into one single sound of everything in Hermione’s ears, and Ginny's laugh seemed to coat over it all. They migrated back and forth from the drinks table to the dance floor. Hermione’s voice had long gone raspy, trying to talk over the chaos of it all. Her head pounded in her skull; she couldn’t tell if it was from the conversation or all the mead and champagne she had been drinking. She didn’t even like cherries, let alone having them in fermented form.
“I’m serious, Ginny!” Hermione huffed. They had decided to take brief sanctuary in one of the darker corners. Hermione made sure that there weren't any lingering ears before continuing her rant. “I don’t know what’s worse! The paperwork for the DMLE, or people asking me, ‘When are you finally going to settle down?’ As if that’s the only thing left for me to achieve in life! You’ve seen the papers, right? Witch Weekly’s an utter joke—!”
“Oh, don’t bother with that stuff,” Ginny snorted. It was then that a sudden clarity glossed over her eyes. Hermione had known her long enough to know what it meant. She just had a stupid, stupid idea. Ginny hiccuped before leaning in, her words coming in a messy drawl. “Oh. My. God! I have an idea! You’re gonna love it—find someone, get Dennis to take a few fake candids, let the Prophet have their little Christmas special and—Boom! People would be fed for months, no one asking you stupid questions about your love life anymore—”
“Right,” Hermione snorted, downing her drink only to realise that there was nothing left of it. She frowned. “So, I’ll just grab the next unfortunate bachelor who walks by and announce our engagement. Like that’ll shut everyone up.”
“Come on, ‘Mione!” Ginny whined, nudging Hermione’s shoulder playfully. The remnants of her drink teetered on the edge of her glass, threatening to spill over. Hermione eyed it carefully. “Think about it—!”
And just then, someone brushed by, their shoulder bumping into Ginny’s own. Hermione felt the dread before the champagne had even soaked down the front of her dress. It felt like time had slowed itself on purpose to make her live through the moment.
The cool liquid felt like ice on her flushed skin, and her headache replaced itself with a rush of annoyance. There was a gasp, and Hermione’s eyes squeezed shut like it could somehow erase her from existence.
When Hermione opened her eyes again, Ginny was no longer standing in front of her.
“My apologies,” a man muttered, the low vibrato of his voice barely registering in her ears. Hermione caught sight of Ginny’s red hair peeking from over his broad shoulder. “Allow me,”
And before Hermione could ask what she would be allowing him to do, his hand fluttered over the front of her dress, not touching, just hovering. She felt the tingling sensation of the Scorify spell working its magic, felt the way her dress dried and no longer stuck to her body. Good as new.
The man cleared his throat when he finished. His face darkened by the backlight, and before she could say anything, he turned around to leave. There was something familiar about his dark hair, brown, almost black and brushed back for formality. Hermione managed to catch the air of his scent; it trailed behind him like something loyal, a devotee. It was rich, deep and as disgustingly intoxicating as the cherry mead she had been drowning in the entire night.
“Hermione, I am so sorry—!” Ginny started, but Hermione brushed past her.
Before she could stop herself and before the tall stranger could have disappeared further into the chaos, her hand flew out, closing around a thick sleeve of a suit she just knew was very expensive. Hermione winced. Before she knew it, she pulled him back into the dark corner where they would be safe from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears.
He was wordless when he turned around, eyes boring deep into her face like he had only just realised he was in a room full of people. He studied where Hermione held his wrist like the act was something foreign. She could barely even get her hand around it entirely. Hermione nearly turned away from the intensity. It felt like he was peeling off layers of her skin, that he was going straight for whatever hid beneath it all.
And it might have been because the alcohol had made nonsense of her thoughts, or that she was still trying to rid the taste of cherries from her tongue, but the words slipped out of her mouth before she could find the sense to stop them.
“Would you marry me?”
And there was only silence. Silence and party chatter and music and another one of Ginny’s gasps and the watchful eyes of Theodore fucking Nott.