Chapter Text
The war ended with smoke and rubble. Years of chaos, then it was over. In the Great Hall Voldemort fell quietly. There is no last roar of magic. No grand spectacle. Just a body on the floor and the realization that the nightmare was over.
No one celebrated. No fireworks over Diagon Alley or shouting in the streets. Only heavy stillness. It almost felt like all of wizarding world let out one long shaky breath and then there was grief instead of joy.
The dead were buried quickly. Fred. Tonks. Lupin. Colin. The names kept coming, and every name landed harder than the last. Hogwarts grounds were rows of new earth and bowing heads. Mothers wept until their voices broke. Fathers stood still as if survival itself was a burden. Friends hugged and promised things that didn’t quite fill the void.
People spoke of rebuilding as if it was that easy. As if loss could be patched like a wall. Stones can be repaired. Towers might be raised again. But people were not stone. Too many had cracked in ways that were not apparent from the surface.
Still, mornings came. They woke up and rose because they had nothing better to do. Routine became a thread. Cups of tea left to steep too long. Silence around kitchen tables. Small stubborn attempts at normal.
Harry & Ginny married two months after Hogwarts. Nobody questioned the timing. It was needed by the Weasleys - something steady to look forward to, something alive. Watching their youngest daughter next to the boy who carried the world on his shoulders was proof that darkness had not swallowed everything.
The ceremony was in the garden at the Burrow under a dusky sky. No reporters, no fancy robes. Just friends and family huddled together in slightly wrinkled fabric and thin smiles.
Ginny wore wildflowers. Her hands shook in Harry's as she spoke her vows, and her voice wavered on the word forever. Harry swallowed what came up his throat and blinked hard again before answering. Molly cried without trying to cover it. Arthur put an arm round her and his free hand against his chest as if holding something inside. They were standing next to George, who held his posture straight with one palm on the back of an empty chair.
It wasn't flawless. It wasn't grand. It was theirs though. A defiance to all that had tried to tear them apart.
So they lifted their glasses. They smiled for one another. They clutched as though the ground would fall out from under them again without warning. Because after all there was only one choice. Keep going.
Six months after Harry and Ginny, Hermione married Ron.
It wasn’t with sweeping certainty. It was not a slow-moving love with lofty goals and long talks. It was timing. Proximity. When the world seemed to be ending, it was a promise that was whispered in a cold tent. He needed her then. She had to matter to somebody. It was safer after the war to hold on to the one who knew everything.
On paper it was sensible. They had survived. They had picked each other in the worst circumstances. She had pictured a future with Ron more than once, but the image was always cloudy. Everything was hazy then.
Trauma does not dissolve because fighting stops. It gets back to normal life. It waits in silence between sentences - a second too long - or not long enough. When that rush of survival passed they were sitting across from each other at breakfast with nothing to fix. At that point distance started showing.
Ron was kind. He carried warmth with him - that easy loyalty that made her remember why she loved him in the first place. He wanted simple things. Laughter. A crowded table. Early and peaceful evenings. But Hermione rarely slowed enough for that. She needed questions that were not neatly answered. Work that demanded everything. Conversations that went well past midnight and left her restless in the best way. Simplicity felt like a coat that didn’t quite fit.
The arguments were quiet at first. A joke offered when she needed understanding. A sharp correction when he only wanted comfort. Nothing dramatic. Just small fractures that never quite sealed. What used to feel endearing began to grate. She buried herself in work when he asked for time. He retreated into humor when she asked for depth. Their flat became full of unspoken things.
Most nights, she would read old books, writing notes in margins from years ago, trying to recall that part of herself that once felt certain. By then Ron would be asleep, back from a pub or dinner with his brothers.
They moved through the same rooms but rarely arrived in the same moment. They did love each other. Just not in a way that stretched them forward. It was softer than that. Smaller. A love that asked each of them to trim edges of who they were so the shape would still match the memory.
They tried. They truly did.
There were slow Sundays at the market, fingers laced together. Evenings on the sofa with the wireless murmuring low. They had painted the walls of the cramped flat themselves. Hermione measured and taped very carefully. Paint ended up all over his sleeves and in his hair as Ron laugh. They debated and argued over chairs and shelves, then apologized and called it normal. They told themselves this was healing. Routine. Shared space. A life taking shape.
Neither of them was careless with it. Neither unkind. They were simply worn thin.
Ron leaned into what felt familiar. A job at the Department of Magical Games and Sports suited him well enough. The work was steady. Predictable. Afternoons of Quidditch league paperwork, evenings at the pub replaying matches and retelling stories from the war as if repetition might dull them. It anchored him. It gave him somewhere to place the past.
Hermione couldn’t place it anywhere. She didn't want to. That war had awakened something in her - a thirst to know what is beneath magic itself. So when a position became open in the Department of Mysteries she accepted immediately. Being an Unspeakable seemed like the place that would welcome her curiosity. The work was consuming and silent. That suited her. It filled the hours that might otherwise have forced her to look too closely at home.
They spoke often about the future. About how their separate paths were temporary. About how youth allowed for detours. Weeks slipped into months. Their schedules stretched in opposite directions. Ron stayed out later. Hermione returned later. Conversations thinned to logistics and tired smiles.
Nothing catastrophic happened. No single moment caused the relationship to break. They simply drifted apart that no longer required the other person to be fully present. Not out of cruelty. Not even out of choice.
Just a slow, quiet surrender.
The flat felt colder as the months passed. Even in summer, the air seemed thin and unwelcoming.
Hermione kept working.
The Department of Mysteries gave her something solid to lean against. Grief could be folded into research. Loss could be examined, categorized, questioned. Time, death, space, thought—once abstract ideas—became problems laid out neatly on parchment. She read theory and listened to silence till the hours passed. The ache in her chest as settling into a low hum.
Then her supervisor informed her that she was assigned to a classified project in the newly reorganized Magical Anomalies Division.
With a partner.
Draco Malfoy.
It was surreal to wake up in the Confidential Artifacts Wing. That chamber was hidden beneath the Ministry beneath layers of wards and spells that faintly thrummed in stone. Access required signatures & blood verification & clearance codes that changed daily. She had expected dusty relics and dark manuscripts and maybe some shadowy scholars.
She had not expected him.
“Granger.”
She stopped mid-step. The file in her hands bent slightly under her grip. “Malfoy.”
There was no familiar curl of contempt in his voice. No sneer. Just a small incline of his head. Careful. Measured.
He had changed.
That boy who walked the Hogwarts corridors was gone. The man before her looked like the war carved something in him and never returned it. Leaner. Paler. Edges more defined. He had short hair less carefully arranged and plain robes pressed. Like someone who was used to scrutiny, he held himself in check.
He did not look at her in hatred. Only awareness. A quiet understanding that she owed him nothing and could dismantle him if she chose.
Their pairing, she later discovered, wasn’t political maneuvering. It wasn’t punishment. The Ministry had run the numbers. Magical compatibility. Field assessments. Psychological endurance. On paper, they were an ideal match for the assignment: analyzing cursed artifacts recovered from a collapsed Death Eater stronghold in northern Albania.
The first week was stiff and careful.
She didn’t trust him. He didn’t ask her to. There were no dramatic reckonings about the past, no reopening of old wounds in dramatic speeches. Instead, there was distance. Professional courtesy. Long stretches of silence broken only by notes on containment protocols.
She had braced herself for sarcasm. For subtle barbs wrapped in politeness. What she found instead was a partner who reinforced shielding charms without being prompted and adjusted runic arrays with precise efficiency. He passed her tools before she realized she needed them. He documented everything thoroughly. He kept his voice even.
That rattled her more than open hostility might have.
Because this version of Draco Malfoy did not fit the story she had told herself for years. And that, she was starting to understand, was more complicated than anger.
About a month in, the air between them changed.
It was subtle at first. A dry comment slipped into the quiet. A muttered observation over a misbehaving charm. Draco's humor was sharp, but quieter, without the showmanship he'd once wore. The first time he caught her off guard and she laughed, the sound almost startled her. She waited for guilt to follow, for him to make some comment, but it never came.
They fell into an easy cadence.
Light sparring in the mornings. Focused silence when handling unstable artifacts. The occasional shared cup of Ministry tea, lukewarm and forgettable, while cursed mirrors flickered under stasis fields. It should have felt unnatural. Instead, it settled into something almost comfortable.
They never spoke about the war.
Still, it lingered. In the way they exchanged a look before dismantling a volatile relic. In the shared flinch when a hex sparked too close. In how neither of them reached for their wand unless there was no alternative. They understood the shape of certain wounds without naming them. Loss. Regret. The strange heaviness of having survived.
From that quiet understanding, something began to form.
Not trust. Not entirely.
Something gentler. A measured respect.
Possibly even friendship.
It was during a long shift in the Time Chamber that he caught her off guard.
The room hummed with suspended seconds and fractured timelines sealed inside crystal orbs. They had been working for hours, quills scratching against parchment, cataloging chronologically unstable artifacts that twitched against containment.
“You ever think,” Draco said suddenly, eyes still on the ledger in front of him, “that we rushed into normalcy after the war? Made decisions because we were afraid of what happened if we didn’t?”
Her hand paused over a pocket watch ticking backward in uneven bursts. “Are you referring to marriage?” she asked carefully.
A faint exhale escaped him. “Not exclusively. But that’s certainly one example.”
She let the silence answer for her.
He didn’t press.
Draco, after all, was married. To Astoria Greengrass.
And unlike Hermione’s careful, strained attempt at building something stable, his marriage appeared…whole.
Astoria was nothing like Hermione might have pictured. She carried herself quietly with straight lines and watchful eyes. Soft spoken until she did not want to be. She read obscure magical journals over breakfast and debated policy over dinner without hesitation. When she laughed, it was unguarded. Bright. The sort of laugh that changed the atmosphere of a room.
Their partnership seemed deliberate. Built over time rather than assembled from urgency. When they looked at each other, there was ease there. A shared language.
Hermione had been invited to the Manor more than once. Dinners were informal - almost warm. Reflecting light off crystal glasses. Astoria in the corner of the sofa, Draco behind her in a relaxed pose Hermione rarely saw at work.
They would make fun of Ministry incompetence and lightly argue which department was more hopelessly bureaucratic. Sometimes they pulled her into it.
“Blaise is still unattached,” Draco would remark with a faint smirk. “Auror. Surprisingly intact.”
Astoria would add, eyes glinting, “Theo reads. That alone puts him ahead of most.”
But Hermione would shake her head and smile anyway. “I’m married. You both seem to forget that.”
And then it would come. That short pause. A flash of something unspoken between them before the conversation got back on track.
Just long enough to notice.
Astoria always moved first, reaching for the wine and topping Hermione's glass.
No one directly addressed it but the truth lingered in the room. Hermione's marriage looked like something, but it was hollow. A structure still standing without anything warm inside it.
At home, conversations with Ron narrowed to logistics. Rent. Groceries. Explanations were thin on the nights he came back late. The boy who had once blushed and whined through apologies was now sharper around the edges. Frustrated. Contained. She barely knew him.
She wasn’t blameless. She had grown distant in her own way. Work first. Words chosen carefully, then not at all. Attempts at honest conversation fell apart in defensiveness. Eventually, silence came thick and unmovable.
The smaller things disappeared without announcement. A hand brushing hers in passing. Notes left on the counter. Books shared across the bed. They didn’t vanish in a single fight. They faded like chalk in the rain until they were both worn out looking for something, anything that was still there.
Still, she tried.
She tried because effort was in her blood. So she tried until the effort itself became routine. Somewhere along the way she forgot what it was like to be chosen freely. Not out of history. Not out of obligation. But because someone looked at her and saw her fully.
And then there was Draco.
Working beside him required nothing from her except competence. He didn’t pry. He didn’t flinch from her intensity. He met it. Matched it. There was something steady about him in a room, something unspoken about him anticipating her thoughts before she said them. The help he gave was practical. When he challenged her it was precise. At times, he was unexpectedly gentle.
It was simple - it unsettled her.
She could breathe easier in a windowless room of suspended time than in her kitchen. It was easier just to sit in silence with the man she hated than in the hushed silence of her marriage.
She pushed aside a stack of volatile relics and leaned back one night as the ancient clock in the Archives struck midnight with low chimes.
"Do you ever kind of feel like we're just pretending?" she asked, barely audible above stasis magic.
Draco raised his head. The pale light from the containment orb reflected in his eyes - almost silver.
For once he did not frown. Didn’t deflect.
He just looked at her and held the silence steady between them.
When Hermione got home, the flat was dark. Only a blue glow from the wireless lit the corner of the room. Ron must have left it on. The smell of curry was there, gone cold hours ago. She set her bag by the door and rolled off her cloak.
She saw Ron then, one leg was hooked over the back of the couch and the other was hanging off the edge. An empty bottle was against his chest. He fell asleep in wait. The wireless sounded low and static soft beside him.
She stood there longer than she intended to.
He looked older. Not in obvious ways. No deep lines, no streaks of grey yet. Just a weight around his eyes. It was a heavy feeling that never came before. When they were younger he slept face down. Now even in rest he had tension in his jaw.
She clicked off the wireless and touched his shoulder. "Ron."
Blinking up at her he was startled. "What, Oh Hermione?"
"You slept out here."
He washed a hand over his face. “I was waiting.”
“I know.” She was on the couch with her hands too tightly clasped. "We need to talk."
A breath that was almost a laugh came out of him. "That's ominous."
"I'm not joking."
His expression shifted. “All right. What’s going on?”
“I don’t want this to be how our marriage is, how we live. The fighting. The avoiding each other. Acting like everything’s good when it isn’t.”
He didn’t interrupt. That alone felt unusual.
“We went through something impossible,” she said. “And I think we assumed being together would make it easier. But somehow we never figured out who we are without all that chaos. "
His jaw tightened. “We were good once.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. "We were. But we are still here."
Between them there was silence.
"I don't want to give up," she said. "But I can't keep pretending this works."
Ron looked down at his hands. "So what are you saying?"
"I think we need help. Proper help. Post-war trauma healers exist. Couples counseling. We could speak with somebody "
He snapped his head up. "You're serious?"
“Completely.”
He scoffed. "That's a bit much, Hermione?"
"Why is it so much?" she shot back. "Because it means we have to admit we are struggling?”
“It means dragging our private business to a stranger,” he said, voice rising. “We’re not broken.”
"Nobody said we were," she said sharply. "But we aren't fine either."
He shook his head. "You always do this. Turn everything into a problem to solve. Like if you research it long enough, it will fix itself"
"Because doing nothing hasn't worked," she said standing now. "I come home and feel like I live with someone I can not reach. That’s not dramatic. That’s real.”
The room was still.
He leaned back with arms crossed. "So I am the bad guy because I do not want therapy? "
"You are my husband," she said, holding her voice steady. "And I am trying to tell you what I need."
He watched her, something flickered there. Frustration. Maybe fear. "You know what I think? I think you've checked out already. "
Her eyes widened. "Excuse me?"
"You spend all your time with Malfoy," he said, pushing to his feet. "At work. At those dinners. You talk about him and Astoria like they are an example of how it should be "
"Oh you're being ridiculous."
“Am I?” His face reddened. “You light up when you mention him. You don’t even hear yourself.”
She let out a short, incredulous laugh. "You think I am having an affair with Draco Malfoy?"
He paused and doubled down. "I think it's convenient."
"That is insulting," she said in a cold voice. “To me. To him. And to Astoria.”
He rolled his eyes. “Right. The sainted Astoria.”
"At least she communicates," Hermione snapped. "At least she and Draco talk to each other instead of pretending nothing's wrong"
"So now I'm competing with him?"
"No," she shot back. "But you are battling with yourself-the version of yourself who at least tried before."
That landed.
He looked away, jaw tight. "I just don't like how close you've got to them."
She steadied herself. "Then come."
He frowned. “Come where?”
“To dinner next week. The Manor. Astoria’s hosting.” Her chin lifted slightly. “See it for yourself. Talk to him. Or do you plan to hang on to those schoolyard grudges forever? "
"I don't have to prove nothing," he said.
"Then don't come," she said, reaching for her wand on the table. "But if you are accusing me of something, then at least show up."
He exhaled sharply. “Fine. I’ll come.”
“Good.”
They just stood there, the space between them wider than the room allowed.
A moment later she turned toward the hallway.
It was no victory. No satisfaction. Just a dull empty space in her chest.
But as that argument wound down, she knew that wasn't the conversation that really mattered.
It was just the one they could survive tonight.
Light barely hit the windowsill edge when Hermione uncapped ink at her desk. She hadn't slept. But the argument with Ron was still clinging to her and her temples were aching from hours of replaying every word.
She dipped her quill before writing.
Dear Astoria,
You know this is short notice, but if you're free today I need a conversation. Nothing dire. Just… personal.
Warmly,
Hermione
She read it for longer than necessary, then sealed it and sent her owl away quietly.
The reply came so quickly she was startled.
Hermione,
Come for brunch. Draco is tied up at the Ministry for a while and I made way too much food. I would love company.
A
By ten Hermione was in a cardigan and at the Manor gates.
Astoria opened the door before she could knock twice. Wrapped in a pale lavender dress that moved lightly, she looked effortless. There was a faint bergamot scent when she kissed Hermione's cheek.
"You're on time," Astoria said as she studied her face gently. "Come in. I overcatered, as usual.”
The manor was warm, tall windows let light through them, heating the space. Fresh flowers in combination with fabrics softened the edges of the room. Nothing ostentatious. Just deliberate.
They settled in a sitting room with garden view. Between them was a little table covered with gold trimmed porcelain, a silver teapot, tiers of pastries and fruit arranged almost comically well.
Astoria poured tea. "You look exhausted," she said softly.
She exhaled and fell into the cushions. "I am. Ron and I talked.”
“Productive?” Astoria asked.
“Debatable.”
She stared into her cup as milk feathered into the amber tea. “I suggested counseling. Proper magical therapy. He dismissed it immediately. Said it was dramatic. We argued. He promised to try harder. Come home earlier. Be more present.” She swallowed. "But I feel I'm stitching something that will not hold."
Astoria listened without a break. Then, simply, “You sound unhappy.”
The words landed without accusation.
Hermione's throat tightened. "I am", she said softly. "And I don't know how we got here."
Astoria crossed the space and put her hand over Hermione's. "You can acknowledge it."
She sighed, "He also thinks something is going on between me and Draco. "
Astoria blinked once and laughed lightly. “Oh dear. Besides your aggressively professional work marriage?”
Hermione huffed a tired laugh. “Exactly.”
"For what it's worth", Astoria said as she held her cup, "if Draco thought there was any romantic tension he would explode in awkwardness and ask for a transfer."
Hermione smiled despite herself. “That tracks.”
“He talks about your research constantly,” Astoria added, almost casually. “Usually while pretending he doesn’t care. It’s terribly transparent.”
Hermione stared at her. “He does not.”
“He does,” Astoria assured her. "with the enthusiasm of someone trying very hard not to be enthusiastic."
That ease of it loosens something in Hermione's chest.
Astoria squeezed her hand. "You do not have to defend yourself here. And you do not have to carry it all alone."
She nodded, "Thank you."
Sitting room door creaked open.
Draco's voice came in. "Why do I feel like I went into a tribunal?"
Astoria didn't turn. "We were talking about Hermione's deepest and undying love for you."
He paused mid-step. “Ah. That explains Weasley’s recent glare. I assumed it was my general superiority.”
He went to the table and looked at Hermione.
"Granger, I'm flattered. Truly. But your taste is questionable. "
She let out a short laugh and then it split. The sound thinned, got stuck in her throat and then tears came streaming out of her eyes.
That changed the room immediately.
Astoria moved first by kneeling beside her and wrapping her arms around her shoulders. "Shh, it's all right."
Draco watched helplessly then tentatively took Hermione's hand. "I was joking," he said quietly. "I didn't know things were this bad."
Hermione shook her head, unable to speak.
"No need to be composed here," Astoria said, brushing damp curls away from her face. "Not with us.”
"Emotional vulnerability is something we can take in small doses," Draco said now, voice steady. "Within reason."
Through tears she managed a broken laugh. When she did regain composure she wiped her face. "I'm sorry."
"Don't," Astoria said clearly. "I am slightly offended that you waited this long."
A watery smile came from Hermione as she sniffed.
Astoria hesitated, then said lightly "But to be fair, I mean, I am the only one who is supposed to be crying irrationally right now."
Hermione blinked. "What?"
Draco sighed. "Subtlety was never your strong suit, dear."
Astoria grinned. "I'm pregnant."
For a moment Hermione only stared. Then she charged ahead and held Astoria close. "That's great! I am so happy for you!"
Draco cleared his throat. "Yes. Well. I was involved in some way too, you know "
Hermione laughed and pulled him in too. He moaned about appearances but didn't pull away.
When she did pull back her breathing evened out. "Thank you," she said looking at both of them.
Draco took a pastry.
"If Weasley is unreasonable we will come up with a very refined intervention plan."
"You mean sabotage," Hermione said.
"Refined sabotage." He smirked back.