Chapter Text
In the distance, the grandfather clock that loomed over Diagon Alley struck twelve times at the stroke of midnight.
Valentine’s Day.
Fresh snow fluttered down, making the Alley far more romantic than it already was. Flakes passed through the pink and red fairy lights crisscrossing over the streets and lining the brick buildings. In the late cold winter night, only one person was out.
On the corner of Diagon and Horizont Alley, a lonely soul stared blankly at a shop window. Magically, Atelier Émeraudes et Argent etched into existence before disappearing. She noted that they had changed the display for the occasion. Flows of pink and red silk, chiffon, and tassels exploded through the window. It was a maximalist dream, something so incongruent with the wizarding world. It almost felt strangely reminiscent of Muggle high fashion.
Under the witch’s visible breath, she sang, “…Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to…” Her throat clogged, choking on the name.
Dramatically, the lights of Atelier Émeraudes et Argent’s display dimmed into black, leaving the reflection of the woman.
Hermione Jean Granger, barely recognizable, stared back at her. The hollows of her cheeks stood in place of where her rounded pink youth once was. Her eyes lacked the spark that could only be categorized by Gryffindor courage and bravery. Most notably, her trademark wild brown curls were shorn short. Her hair was cropped close to her head, highlighting her gaunt face and long neck.
She was the embodiment of loss.
After a pause, Hermione turned and made her way down the empty streets.
“Dear, there you are.” Molly’s voice shook with barely concealed worry as soon as the younger witch stepped through the Burrow’s front door. It was clear from the untouched cold tea on the table that the witch had been waiting well into the night for her.
“I’m here,” Hermione half-heartedly promised. She pulled off the thick knit scarf, a Molly original.
“Are you hungry?” she asked tentatively, her soft hazel eyes never leaving her.
Hermione busied herself by hanging her aged wool coat on the door hook. Due to the draftiness of the rebuilt home, they all had to wear several layers in the winter. Starting a year ago, she wore long, layered clothes all the time, regardless of the weather.
“I ate.” It was a lie, but that was the only way for Hermione to get away. To be alone in her room.
“Are you sure? I made a hardy pot roast. I saved the best piece for you, dear. Had to fight Ron and George off of it.” Molly injected as much motherly affection into her voice as possible.
After a moment, Hermione turned to face her. A small put-on smile shadowed her face. “Thank you, Molly, but I’m fine.” And she was to an extent. For the past twelve months, she had subsisted on a meal a day. That’s all she needed or ever wanted.
Not believing her but also not wanting to scare the fragile witch away, Molly gave her a shaky smile before squeezing her shoulder. “Alright, dear girl. We’ll see each other in the morning.”
Hermione nodded once before heading to the stairs. The whole way up, she felt Molly’s worry weighing heavily on her shoulders. But she pressed on, holding up the delicate visage of being a whole person. Even if Molly knew it was fake.
But as soon as the door snicked shut behind her, though, the mirage faded, leaving only a broken woman. She listlessly fell onto her-- or more like Ginny’s old bed. Her dull brown eyes stared at the far wall. All she could do, as all the other nights since coming to the Burrow, was wait for sleep to come take her.
The next morning, Hermione found herself seated between Ron and George. The bench before them was vacant. For the first time in the history of the cozy, crooked home, only five people were living there. Before Hermione’s arrival, Ginny had signed with the Holyhead Harpies and moved into the facility dorms, leaving only the two brothers. George couldn’t stomach being in the apartment above the shop, feeling that the ghost of his twin lingered there. Likewise, even though he worked at the shop as well, Ron didn’t want to live in the flat alone.
It all worked out for Molly because it meant she had some of her children at home to fuss over.
“Alright, tuck in,” the witch said after placing plates in front of everyone.
Meals at the Burrow used to be loud. Fights would break out over the last slice of ham. Insults that cut down the core would be hurled. And after the very last morsel was devoured, the war would be forgotten—the picture of a happy, loving family.
But now, seven years after the war, post-Voldemort, after a mild recession, long after all the bodies were recovered and buried, a battered and bruised image of a family sat around the table. All of them were still traumatized years later.
“Thanks, mum,” Ron mumbled before scooping a healthy bite into his mouth.
George hummed as he bit into a crisp end of bacon.
Molly held up a bowl of porridge. She spooned a steaming full. After blowing on it for a time, she held it out to Arthur. Steadily, the weathered wizard opened his mouth.
“Thank you, Molly,” he said, dribbling a bit as he spoke. His shaky hand reached up only to completely miss.
During the Battle of Hogwarts, Bellatrix struck the Weasley patriarch down with a Black family curse. One that disabled and dehumanized him. But worst of all, one that was irreversible.
“Of course, darling.” Her smile was warm and grateful, her hand dabbing at the small mess on his chin.
In the years since his debilitation, Molly took on an even bigger role as the backbone for the family. Mother. Caregiver. Provider. They received support from the ministry, but not much. It seemed most of the Wizarding World needed support. The family that sacrificed the most didn’t mean they would receive the most.
“Hello, family,” Percy said as he breezed in.
“Percy, breakfast?” Molly asked as she wiped her hands in the front of her apron, readying to get a plate together.
“No, need. I ate with Audrey before dropping off Molly Ju—”
Ron hissed, dropping his fork in a clatter. George picked up a bread roll and tossed it at their older brother’s head.
“Shut it, you git,” the earless wizard gritted.
“Yeah, shut up,” the youngest chorused.
Percy stared at his brothers with bewilderment. His eyes blinked several times before landing on Hermione. She focused on dipping her bread into the yolk.
When the awkward silence stretched for too long, Percy cleared his throat and mumbled an apology before carrying on. He placed his briefcase on the table and pulled out a stack of parchments.
“I’m here on business.” Poised with a quill, Percy looked up expectantly at Hermione. “Have you found employment yet?”
She shifted uncomfortably, biting the corner of her lip nervously. She wanted to pull at the ends of her hair. But now that it was short, it would look too awkward. “No.”
“Why can’t she work at the joke shop?” Ron barged into the conversation like a bull in a China shop.
“We’ve gone over this. To strengthen her case, she needs to find a job without any help from family,” Percy sighed, rubbing his fingers over his brow. “Could you let me be the solicitor?”
“Well, you’re a shit one. There hasn’t been any movement. Do you even know where she is?” George grilled. His eyes lit with a burning passion.
“I’ve told everyone that this is going to be a long process. And I do know where she is.” Percy shifted his attention to Hermione, his gaze sympathetic. “Your daughter is safe. Rose is safe.”
The witch curled her lips to stave off the bubbling emotion. Her Rose. The light of her life was just out of reach for her. “Thank you.”
“The first step in getting her back would be to secure a job. I know it’s very limited in options because of your status, but you have to try.”
“Percy,” Molly’s voice cut in. Everyone turned to her as she replaced Arthur’s bowl. “She is trying. She’s been trying ever since she came to us.”
A thick silence blanked the room. Hermione fought to keep her rising emotions at bay. She felt a useless burden. Since arriving at the Burrow, all she did was take. Too strangled with grief and trauma to contribute to this suffering family. George and Ron went to the shop every day. Ginny was making a name for herself in Quidditch. Percy became a solicitor and started a family. Harry was shaping young minds, becoming the defense teacher last year. Molly took care of Arthur full-time. Everyone was trying but her.
“Hermione,” Percy said. He flipped a blank parchment and tilted the quill towards her. “You’re allowed to write her a short letter, since it’s her birthday today. Know that you’re not allowed to write any disparaging words against her father and his family. His mother will read it to her.”
“It should be cursed parchment then,” Ron grumbled, earning a sharp look of disapproval from the solicitor and a thwack from his mother. “Oi!”
“I don’t think you need professional advice to know that is a bad idea,” Percy sniffed. “The parchment is charmed so that the reader has to read the written words out loud.”
Tentatively, as if handling an angry kneazle, Hermione took the quill into her thin, shaking hands. She looked at the daunting blank page, exhaling a watery breath. A million thoughts and no thoughts at all weaved in and out of her mind. She wanted to express her love and devotion, but also the sorrow and pain of losing her own daughter on the page. She wanted to write thousands of words explaining why Rose wasn’t with Hermione. Why weren’t they celebrating her second year of life together? Why her mother, a former war heroine, had spent the last year in Janus Thickey Ward. And why, upon release a month ago, didn’t she go straight to her child? But also, she wanted to simply write something because the fight had died within her a long time ago.
So, she did just that. She wrote a simple Happy Birthday, my darling girl. Mummy misses you and will see you soon, ignoring the stares prickling her bare neck. She knew the Weasleys wanted her to be fierce. To be her old self.
Before Hermione flipped the missive back to Percy, the wizard quietly handed her a handkerchief. She hadn’t even realized that her eyes leaked without her consent. She murmured a thank you as she discreetly wiped the evidence of her sorrow away. No one said anything, which she was grateful for.
Percy looked at the parchment, gave her a tight smile before standing. He placed the note in his briefcase. “Find a job, and then we’ll talk next steps.” With that, the wizard was gone.
“What a prick,” Ron mumbled under his breath. George humorlessly laughed in agreement.
The rest of breakfast was uneventful. In a flash, Hermione found herself at the front door. Molly wrapped around the thick, knit scarf. The older witch lovingly ran her fingers through her shorn curls with a nostalgic smile.
“I do miss your long hair, but this is rather chic. Almost French,” she said with a laugh. She conjured a knit cap, handing it to her to fit it on herself.
Hermione smiled, enjoying the warmth of the woman.
“You’re going to do well today, alright? How many interviews do you have lined up?”
“I have three,” she said softly. “All along Horizont Alley.”
“You’re going to do great,” Ron said, coming up behind them.
“Yeah, no one more deserving than you, Curls,” George followed up, pulling on his own winter coat. “Ready, kids?”
Ron slapped his older brother’s hand away from mussing his hair with a resounding thwack. “I’m only a year younger than you, and I am a co-owner of the shop!”
“So is mum and dad.” George turned to Molly and Arthur, sitting in his chair by the window overlooking the front yard. “See you kids, later. Don’t get up to any trouble while I’m gone!”
Arthur laughed without reservations. Molly tried to fight a giggle by contorting her face into a scowl before whipping a tea towel at them to go.
Once the three of them were out in the yard, they waved their last goodbyes before Ron took Hermione on a side-along to the Apparition point on the corner of Diagon and Horizont Alley.
“Don’t forget to smile. And stay focused. Don’t let your mind wander, alright?” Ron said, his fingers tightening around her bony shoulders.
Hermione nodded, making sure to focus on him in the present. But her mind would slip back in time often. Years prior, Hermione would’ve bit the head covered in auburn hair off for even thinking of lecturing her. There was also a point in her life in which she thought that Ron was the one for her. But as it stood, those days were long gone.
Their relationship never went beyond a chaste kiss in the Chamber of Secrets. Over time, Hermione slipped into the role of sister. Before it was older sister, but now it had reversed.
“What else?” he asked thoughtfully. “Ah. Don’t forget to mention our shop as a reference, alright? You helped during the rebuild after the battle, so you were an employee at one point.”
“Okay,” she said.
Affectionately, Ron patted the top of her knit cap. His clear blue eyes crinkled at the corners, but there was a lingering sadness to them. “Go get’em,” he whispered.
Hermione turned towards Horizont, passing Atelier Émeraudes et Argent’s romantic display.
“Miss Granger,” a witch snickered upon greeting her.
If she had any sense, she’d burn from humiliation. She was named the brightest witch of her age. She was one-third of the Golden Trio. She had finished her eighth year with a record-breaking seven NEWTs. She had started a promising career in the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. That was until that fateful day. One that would live on the minds of every single British Wizarding citizen.
So, no. She didn’t feel humiliated. She felt numb.
“Yes,” she said faintly as she stood from her chair.
“Mr. Silo will see you now.” She gestured towards the back of the quill shop.
“So, why do you want to work for Magical Writing Instruments, Co?” the burly mustachioed man asked, eyeing her with the utmost interest.
Beads of sweat formed at Hermione’s hairline as her sluggish mind conjured up answers. “I-I, erm, would like to say…” She cleared her throat, hoping that her nerves would follow. “I mean to say… I use quills…” she trailed off, unsure of what else to say. She willed herself not to cry in that very moment. But if she spoke further, her will would break.
“I see.” Mr. Silo’s eyes narrowed even further. “We’ll owl you.” Not entirely sounding like he would owl her at all.
“Miss-Miss Granger, was it?” The harried Seer pushed up her magnifying glasses, reminiscent of her one-time prophecy’s teacher, to get a better look at Hermione. Did all brokers of fortunetelling share the same dress code?
“Yes, Madame Zigna,” she simply said. She hugged herself not just out of self-consciousness but because the room they were in was comically overfilled with files, books, scrolls, and other paraphernalia.
“W-why are you looking to work as my assistant?” the witch asked.
“I-I’m very organized. I helped with the rebuild of the Wizard Wheezes—”
Suddenly, the vision-impaired witch shot out of her chair. “TH-THE WIZ-WIZARD WH-WHEEZES!?” she shouted. Her eyes were laser-focused on Hermione as if she had just realized who she was. “Y-you’re the Miss Granger!”
A twitch of fear seized her face. She didn’t very much like the fact that people recognized her these days. She shrank back, hoping to disappear into the mess surrounding her.
“I’m sorry, my dear. I do not need a harbinger of doom in my shop,” the witch shrilled. Her crystal ball clouded in a noxious purple between them. Madame Zigna gestured wildly at the sudden change. “See!?”
But Hermione didn’t see. She only understood her words. The old Hermione would look up on this kooky Seer and tell her that there was no such thing as fortune-telling. This one could foresee the truth. She was the bringer of doom. She knew that firsthand.
With resignation, Hermione stood from her seat, her sad gaze pinned to her feet. “Thank you for your time.”
The last stop of her interview was at a small parchment plant at the edge of Horizont Alley. The fastest route took her through a street, passing a sweets shop. As it was Valentine’s Day and late afternoon, it would’ve been full of people and worst of all, children. So, Hermione looped around, taking back alleys, running into dead ends, and eventually making it to the plant.
“You were my four o’clock?” the irate man grumbled. The clock over his head showed it was half past.
Hermione wiped away perspiration from her forehead. She tried to stifle her heavy breathing as she pulled at her scarf. The man’s eyes zeroed in on her hands.
“Don’t bother. This is a job that demands workers to be on time,” he seethed. “You can go.”
As she shuffled through the front door, Hermione heard the man grumble something about how she must’ve cheated her way through Hogwarts. He topped it off by calling her an unfit mother.
The sentiment pricked at the corners of her eyes. She wished to fight back, but it was true. How could she be fit enough to have her child when she couldn’t even be around children without seizing up? Without losing the last of her senses?
In the late, cold afternoon, Hermione found herself where she normally did, at the corner of Horizont and Diagon Alley. The warm glow of Atelier Émeraudes et Argent spilled onto the streets. There she lingered to stare at the display as a shopgirl began closing up. Another, more severe-looking witch stepped up to the window. She conjured a sign that read Help Wanted before placing it in the window. Her sharp, black-smudged eyes flicked up to Hermione. They roved around her face and figure before giving an imperceptible nod. Then she was gone.
Hermione stood at the window until it darkened for the night. Her eyes were not on the pink and red display but on the new sign. She knew deep within her bones that she found the light at the end of a long tunnel. She just had to take the first step.