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Chapter Text

The battle had ended. Voldemort was no more, and with his fall, so too did the grip of darkness that had plagued the wizarding world. Yet the scars remained in the hearts of the survivors.

Harry had felt it in every breath, the weight of loss, the burden of victory that had cost so much. However, a promise was made—a promise that the future would no longer be defined by power, but by love, peace, and the ties that bind.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luna and Neville decided to stay for a while at the Noble Black Family's house hoping it would provide them with a place to regroup, reflect, and heal. The place was rich with history and old magic. Once a house of secrets, dark alliances, and whispered betrayals, it was now a sanctuary for those who had fought to preserve everything it had once stood against.

Chapter Text

12 Grimmauld Place was the ancestral home of the Black family, located in the Borough of Islington, London, in a Muggle neighborhood. Yet, beneath the surface, Grimmauld Place was no ordinary home—it was steeped in centuries of dark magic, the ancestral seat of the Black family, whose members had been known for their obsession with blood purity and their connection to dark forces.

The house, protected by an ancient and powerful Fidelius Charm, was invisible to the outside world. To Muggles, the area seemed ordinary enough, with houses lined up like the rest. Most were none the wiser to the fact that Number 12 appeared to be a mere oversight in the numbering system. The oddity of the numbering—that Number 13 stood next to Number 11—had long been chalked up to an administrative error, a mistake no one had questioned, and the residents simply accepted it. They had no idea that behind this seemingly trivial mistake lay a place of great importance in the wizarding world.

The house had once belonged to the Black family, who had passed it down through generations, and with each new heir, the house seemed to absorb more of their dark legacy. However, its legacy became more complicated when it came into the hands of Sirius Black, the rebellious scion who had severed ties with his family and fought against the oppressive ideals they had espoused. When Sirius was murdered by his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange, during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, Grimmauld Place was left behind to Harry Potter—his godson, who was the last living heir to the Black family line. Though it had been the home of a family entrenched in darkness, Harry chose to carry on Sirius's legacy, offering Grimmauld Place as a sanctuary to the Order of the Phoenix, the resistance group formed to fight against the dark forces of Voldemort and his followers. Despite its dark history, the house became a beacon of hope, a safe haven where the Order could plan, regroup, and shelter from the storm.

For Harry, the house had taken on a new meaning. It was no longer a place tied to the cruelty of the Black family—it was a home, a place of solidarity, a refuge for those he loved. The house, like the people within it, was in need of healing.

Despite the passage of time and the changes that had come with the fall of the Dark Lord, Grimmauld Place remained largely unchanged. The house, with its heavy, dark stone façade and ancient woodwork, seemed frozen in another era, a stark reminder of the Black family's aristocratic past.

The kitchen, in particular, held an air of faded grandeur that whispered of generations gone by. Silver and brass tableware gleamed under the dim light, their polished surfaces reflecting the soft glow of the candlelit sconces on the walls. The intricate designs on the plates and cups, each one subtly bearing the Black family crest, spoke of wealth and old traditions— traditions that had long since been discarded by its current inhabitants. The kitchen smelled faintly of old spices, wood smoke, and something more elusive, like a faint trace of ancient magic that had seeped into the very walls of the house.

But it wasn’t just the kitchen that felt like a relic of another time. The entire house was filled with corners of history, and one such place was a room tucked at the far end of Grimmauld Place—a room that seemed to have been untouched by the years. It was a large, airy space, with a grand fireplace at each end, and large windows that looked out onto the quiet, empty street below. The room, once intended for the more refined tastes of the Black family, had now become a place of warmth and refuge for Harry and his friends. It served both as a music room and a sitting room, with ample space for comfortable armchairs and couches positioned in front of the roaring hearths. The center of the room was dominated by an enormous bookshelf, its shelves sagging under the weight of countless books. The towering structure stretched almost to the ceiling, its spines worn and curling with age. Some of the books, their pages yellowed with time, were likely first editions or rare volumes from long-forgotten magical eras. Others were filled with personal notes, annotations, and markings from previous owners—perhaps even from the Black family itself. The room was quiet save for the crackling of the two fires, the rustle of pages turning, and the soft sound of music drifting through the air.

It was here that Hermione and Luna often found their refuge. Hermione, her mind constantly searching for knowledge, would find herself lost in the pages of ancient texts or new magical discoveries, her brow furrowed in concentration. Luna, on the other hand, brought a sense of calm to the room, her gaze often distant, as if she were communing with the room itself or simply lost in her own world of thoughts. But it was in this space—surrounded by books, music, and the quiet warmth of the fires—that they found a peace they had not known in months.

On most afternoons, the two of them could be found there together, Hermione at the piano, her fingers gently pressing the keys as the haunting melody of a long-forgotten tune filled the air. The music, though somber, held a kind of beauty that seemed to calm the house’s more oppressive atmosphere. Luna, with her dreamy gaze, would settle into one of the armchairs by the fire, her legs tucked beneath her, a book open in her hands but her attention sometimes divided between the words and the music surrounding her.

However, Ron, though exhausted, couldn't sit still for long. He kept to the edges of the room, restlessly pacing, perhaps trying to find some sense of normalcy in a world that had been irrevocably changed. Ginny, ever the strong and steadfast one, quietly helped where she could, making tea and keeping the others company. Neville, with his quiet strength, spent hours tending to the house’s plants, finding peace in the act of nurturing life.

It wasn’t just the war they had to overcome—the horrors, the betrayals, the loss of innocence. They had all been shaped by the events that had brought them together. They had lived through too much, seen too many falls. And yet, as they sat in the Black family’s house, they knew they had to rise above it all.

The weight of the past didn’t disappear overnight, but in the house that had once been a symbol of division, they began to rebuild—together. They talked late into the night, sharing their grief, their dreams, their fears. And as Harry stood at the window, looking out over the moonlit streets of London, he found a fleeting moment of peace. The war was over, but their journey had only just begun. There would be work to do, reforms to make, and a world to rebuild. But they had each other. That was the promise they had made—they would love each other, care for each other, and stay together, no matter what the future held.

------

Harry lay on the old, worn couch in the sitting room, his body sinking into the familiar comfort of its cushions. He stared at the Golden Snitch resting in his palm, its wings delicately fluttering in the dim light, as if it were alive. It was Dumbledore’s gift to him, a token of encouragement, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, there was always hope. But now, it felt heavy in his hand—like a cricket sitting on his heart, a reminder of the weight of everything he had lost and everything he had yet to face. He hoped, desperately, that it would bring some kind of peace, but even after the victory, the scars of the war remained, visible and invisible alike.

The quiet in the room was only broken by the faint crackle of the fire burning at the other end, the flickering flames casting shadows against the walls. Harry’s thoughts were far away, lost in the memories of the battle, the faces of those he had lost, and the endless ache that lingered in his heart. He was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice Ginny entering the room until she spoke.

“How are you?” Ginny’s voice was soft, almost hesitant, as she stepped into the room, her eyes searching for him, taking in the tension in his posture.

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat making it harder to speak. He didn’t want to lie to her, but it was easier to keep things simple. “Fine,” he said, his voice strained, and he looked away, his eyes drifting down to the Snitch again as if it could provide him with some sort of answer.

Ginny didn’t push. She sighed, a gentle sound that carried a weight of its own, before moving toward the couch. Without thinking, he shifted so there was room for her beside him. He didn’t want her to feel like he was pushing her away, even though his emotions were tangled in knots he wasn’t sure how to untangle.

Ginny settled beside him, her warmth seeping into his side. She leaned her head onto his shoulder, her hair soft against his neck. The simple gesture made him feel both comforted and more broken, as if he were finally allowing himself to lean on someone after carrying the weight of the world for so long.

“What now?” Ginny asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, but it carried the depth of her own uncertainty. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze flicking up to meet his bright green eyes, which still held the exhaustion of everything they’d endured.

Harry let out a slow breath, his fingers still absentmindedly brushing the Snitch’s wings, the motion calming but also reminding him of the storm of emotions swirling within him. “We are going to recover this,” he murmured, the words almost like a mantra. “Slowly, but steadily.”

Ginny’s gaze softened, but her lips pressed together as if holding back something. She sat up slightly, lifting her head from his shoulder to meet his eyes more directly. “I know it’s all over, but…” Her voice trailed off, the sadness in her eyes making her words hang in the air. She paused, searching for the right way to express what had been sitting heavy in her chest since the final battle. “Harry, the feeling in my chest is still there.”

Harry’s heart clenched at the vulnerability in her voice. He could see it in her eyes—the same ache that had been gnawing at him since the end of the war. It was a kind of quiet grief, one that didn’t fade with the end of the fighting. It was the kind of sorrow that couldn’t be fixed by victory alone.

“I know,” Harry whispered, his thumb gently caressing her cheek as he kept his eyes locked with hers. The touch was tender, as if he could somehow convey all the understanding and empathy he felt through the simplest of gestures. “It won’t be easy.” His voice was low, a rasp of raw emotion. “But we’re together now.”

The words seemed to hang between them for a moment, lingering like a promise they both needed to hear, a promise of something more than just surviving. Together, they would find their way through the silence that had followed the chaos. Together, they would learn how to heal.

Harry leaned in, his breath mingling with hers as he closed the distance between them. His lips found hers in a kiss that was soft at first, tentative as if testing the waters of their emotions. But then, the kiss deepened, an unspoken connection between them, a silent affirmation that, despite the pain, despite the loss, they had each other now. The weight of the world seemed to melt away at that moment.

------

Hermione and Ron were peacefully curled up in the cozy bedroom that had been assigned to them at Grimmauld Place. The room was dim, the faint light of the dawn slipping through the cracks of the thick curtains. The air was cool, but the warmth between them provided all the comfort they needed. Ron lay on his side, his arm draped around Hermione, pulling her gently toward him as she slept.

Her soft, steady breathing was a comfort to him, and he rested his cheek against the top of her head, inhaling deeply. The scent of her hair filled his senses—something faintly floral, mixed with the freshness of the morning, and a comforting trace of lavender from the pillow. He kissed her hair lightly, brushing his lips against the soft strands. The quiet intimacy of the moment made him feel both grounded and at peace. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this safe, this content.

Hermione had yet to open her eyes, her face still peaceful with sleep, but she could feel Ron’s presence beside her, his warmth, his steady rhythm of breathing. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, and she felt the gentle pressure of his kisses on her hair. She didn’t want to break the calm silence, but she couldn’t help herself.

Ron’s voice was low and drowsy as he mumbled against her hair, his words slightly muffled. “It smells...”

Hermione, still half-asleep, smiled softly, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she turned slightly to rest her cheek against his arm. “It’s Luna again,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep but full of affection.

Ron’s grumble was the closest thing to a laugh, though it was muffled by the soft pillow and the sleepiness still clinging to him. “Well, it’s... nice.” He tightened his arms around her for a moment, pulling her a little closer as if reluctant to let go of the warmth and peace of the morning.

Hermione chuckled softly, her smile growing. She could tell from the gentle pressure of his arms around her that he wasn’t quite ready to face the day. “Come on,” she said, nudging him lightly. “We should get up. We can’t just stay here forever.”

Ron groaned in response, still half-asleep. With a playful grumble, he tightened his grip around her waist, pulling her gently against him so that she couldn’t move away. “Not yet,” he whispered into her ear, his voice soft but teasing, a small smirk evident even in his tone. “Just a little longer.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, though the affection in her gaze was unmistakable. She sighed, but there was a warmth in her voice when she responded. “You’re impossible,” she said fondly, though she didn’t make any effort to get up right away. She felt no rush, not at this moment.

Ron’s fingers lightly brushed against her back, the gesture tender and comforting. They both knew that after everything they’d endured, these small moments of peace—moments like this one—were the ones that truly mattered. For now, there was no war, no danger, just the quiet of the morning and the soothing presence of each other.

So, for a little while longer, they stayed wrapped up in each other’s arms, content to let the world outside wait.

------

“Mornin’ Luna!” Neville’s cheerful voice echoed through the kitchen as he walked in, grinning widely. The smell of pancakes and bacon wafted through the air, and he inhaled deeply, his face lighting up with genuine joy. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had this!”

Luna’s soft giggle filled the room, the sound light and airy, as if it carried with it the carefree nature she always seemed to have. She was standing at the stove, her hands busy flipping pancakes with practiced ease, a peaceful look on her face as she worked. “I know,” she replied, her voice warm and slightly dreamy. “I thought it was time for a proper breakfast.”

Neville, unable to contain his excitement, leaned over and kissed Luna’s cheek, a spontaneous gesture that made her smile even wider. He then ripped off a piece of pancake, popping it into his mouth. His eyes sparkled as he chewed. “That’s wicked!” he exclaimed, his voice full of delight. “Luna, you’re a genius!”

“Hey, Harry! Don’t you smell it?!” Neville called out suddenly, his words directed toward the hallway.

Ginny entered the kitchen just as Harry followed, and she gave Neville a small grin. “Of course we do. The whole house smells amazing!” she said, her voice filled with warmth. She took a seat at the table beside Harry, her eyes meeting him with a glance full of shared contentment. Harry nodded in agreement, and they both settled into their seats, a sense of ease between them now that they were all together, enjoying a quiet morning at last.

Neville looked around the table, his brows furrowing slightly as he suddenly noticed something. “Hey, where’s Ron and Hermione?” he asked, his voice a bit puzzled. “They usually don’t sleep this late, do they?”

Ginny muttered under her breath, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “They’re probably busy,” she said, her voice soft but tinged with something that none of them could quite place.

“Busy?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow as he added sugar into his tea, his tone casual but curious.

Ginny’s cheeks flushed slightly, her eyes falling to her lap as she fiddled with the edge of her napkin. “Never mind,” she murmured, as if she had already answered the question in her mind. She didn’t dare look up, feeling the warmth in her cheeks growing as the silence stretched on.

The others exchanged glances, the air thick with the awkwardness that had suddenly settled over the room. Finally, Ginny cleared her throat, her voice sounding much more assured as she broke the silence. “Everything is great, Luna!” she said, smiling brightly, eager to shift the focus away from her flustered state. “But why don’t you use magic when you cook?”

Luna, who had been carefully flipping another pancake, turned her head slightly to look at Ginny, her expression thoughtful. “It’s not only about food, Ginny,” she said, her voice serene and unhurried. “I love trying things by myself. I guess I understand why Muggles enjoy cooking now. It’s... it’s something I can feel connected to.”

Ginny blinked in surprise, clearly taken aback by Luna’s response. She smiled, the blush still lingering on her cheeks, but now a little less noticeable. “Good for you, Luna,” she said, her voice warmer, appreciating the simplicity and truth in Luna’s words. “And—well, we all enjoy the food a lot, so we appreciate it!”

Harry nodded in agreement, a soft, sincere smile stretching across his face as he looked at Luna. “It really is amazing,” he said, his voice full of gratitude.

Luna beamed at him, her eyes sparkling with happiness as she quietly muttered, “Thanks, everyone,” her voice soft but filled with the genuine warmth she always carried.

The door creaked open just as Ron and Hermione walked in, looking sleepy but content. “Did we miss breakfast?” Ron asked, his voice groggy but still laced with affection as he made his way to the table.

“No, not at all,” Harry replied, moving aside to make room for them. His eyes danced with a quiet amusement, and the easygoing atmosphere returned as the group settled into the comfortable rhythm they’d shared for so long.

Ron and Hermione sat down at the table, their smiles small but warm. Hermione caught sight of Ginny’s pinkish cheeks but didn’t comment, too absorbed in the delicious food in front of her. She poured herself a cup of coffee, the rich, dark liquid filling her cup with a soft hiss as the steam curled upward. She inhaled the scent, savoring it, before taking a sip and letting it settle in her chest.

The morning felt normal in a way that had almost become foreign to them all. For so long, they had lived in a world where every day was filled with uncertainty and fear. But now, here they were, sitting together—eating, talking, laughing. Hermione took a moment to simply appreciate the calm that had finally settled over them. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed just sitting around a table like this, having breakfast and talking about the future, about things that weren’t overshadowed by war or danger.

She looked around the table at her friends—Harry, Ginny, Neville, and Luna—and felt a deep, overwhelming sense of love and gratitude for the simple joy of being here with them. This, she realized, was everything they had fought for.

We all deserved this, she thought to herself, her heart swelling with emotion as she joined in the laughter and chatter, feeling the warmth of their connection more than ever before.

Chapter Text

Harry had never known silence like this.

It wasn't the peaceful kind. It was the kind that pressed against his chest and filled his throat, thick and choking.

It was time.

White tents stood side by side, veiled in silencing charms to give each family a sliver of privacy. But even so, the mourning spilled between them. Hundreds had come—friends, family, former classmates, shopkeepers from Diagon Alley. 

Harry stood between Ron and Hermione, just behind the front rows of chairs, his black robes hanging heavily from his shoulders. His wand felt useless in his pocket. He wished he could vanish, or maybe freeze time. He wasn’t ready for this. Not again.

Every Weasley was dressed in subdued black, though their vibrant hair made it impossible to pretend the day wasn’t soaked in color Fred would have loved. George stood at the front, jaw clenched, eyes hollow. Molly Weasley looked half-hollow as she took her seat, her face pale and streaked with tears. Percy had an arm around her, and even Charlie, usually the quiet one, had tears in his beard. His grave was simple. Too simple for someone like Fred. No glitter, no wild colors, no fireworks.

Ron stepped forward to speak. Harry saw his hands trembling. “He was… Fred. He made everything seem easier, even when it wasn’t. He made us laugh when laughing felt impossible. And now... he’s not here. And it’s not fair.”

George didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He simply laid one of their prototype joke boxes—bright purple and flashing softly—on the grave. It blinked once, then fizzled out. That was all.

Harry's throat burned. Fred had made the world lighter. Now everything felt heavier.

Another one.

Harry hadn’t realized how much he’d needed Remus until he was gone. The last link to his parents. The man who had taught him to fight off dementors. Who told him that he was enough, even with everything broken inside him.

He hadn’t planned to speak. He hadn’t prepared anything. But somehow, his feet moved forward.

He cleared his throat. His voice came out rough, but it carried.

“Remus Lupin was the best of us. A man who carried more burdens than anyone should, and still chose kindness, knowledge, and peace. And Tonks was bold and loved with her whole soul. Together, they gave everything to this world. And in their final act, left behind a son who will grow up knowing they died to make it better.”

Harry glanced down. His hands were clenched into fists. Ginny gently took one and held it.

Tonks’s mother, Andromeda walked forward with Teddy in her arms, swaddled and still. She laid a single white rose on each grave. “You will not be forgotten,” she whispered.

Victory didn’t feel like triumph. It felt hollow. Like something had been taken from them all, even in winning. Attending funeral after funeral, there was no returning to “normal.” The war had rewritten what that word meant.

Above them, the clouds broke slightly, and a shaft of golden sunlight fell across the graves—one last farewell from a world they had helped save.

------

Grieving never truly ended. It changed shape, became quieter, less visible—but it never stopped. It lived in the corners of their laughter, in the pauses between conversations, in the empty chairs at dinner tables. Still, life demanded movement, and eventually, they began to answer.

When Kingsley Shacklebolt summoned them to the newly stabilized Ministry of Magic, he offered them something they hadn’t expected: a choice. They could rest. They could return to their studies. Or—they could lead. The offer was generous, almost daunting. None of them felt ready. But they said yes—not because they were healed, but because they couldn’t bear the stillness. Stillness reminded them too much of silence after battle.

Harry and Ron joined the newly restructured Auror Office. Though they entered as trainees, their names alone carried weight. They could’ve bypassed the program entirely—but they refused. Both insisted on starting from the ground up, shoulder to shoulder with others who had also survived the war. They didn’t want exceptions.

Harry, still haunted by the faces of the fallen, devoted himself wholly to the idea of prevention. He wanted to stop dark magic before it ever reached another home, another child. Ron joined not just out of duty, but loyalty—to Harry, and to the cause they had shared. He never imagined himself in that role, but he surprised even the most seasoned Aurors.

Hermione, always pulled by justice, walked a different path. After weeks spent quietly restoring her parents’ memories and reintroducing herself to the life she had temporarily erased, she returned to England changed—more thoughtful, more grounded, but no less fierce. She accepted a position at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, driven by a mission that had long burned within her.

In the Ministry's vast, echoing chambers, she was unyielding—her voice clear, her gaze sharper than most of the men decades her senior. She fought to reform outdated laws, beginning with the rights of house-elves and centaurs, advocating for a magical world that didn’t define worth by blood or classification.

But even as they stepped into these new roles—of protectors, reformers, warriors—the war lingered.

The nights were the hardest.

Harry would jolt awake drenched in sweat, the screams from the forest still fresh in his ears, sometimes mistaking Ginny’s warm hand for a wand. Ron, in quieter moments, would glance at the door expecting Fred to walk through it, only to remember. Hermione could not stop checking things. The locks on the doors. The spells on the windows. The wards around the flat. She whispered protective enchantments in her sleep and flinched at the crack of Apparition.

They stayed close. With long, quiet evenings curled on worn couches, cups of tea between them, books forgotten in their laps. They learned how to comfort each other without pretending to be okay. Sometimes, it was just sitting in silence, letting grief breathe in the space between them. Sometimes it was a squeeze of a hand. A shared memory. A sad smile.

The world had moved on. And so had they. But inside, each of them carried something fractured. They were healing—but they weren’t whole. Not yet.

Chapter Text

The Burrow had never looked more beautiful.

Golden streamers floated mid-air, twisting softly in the warm breeze. Chairs arranged in wide semicircles surrounded a raised dais where the ceremony would take place, the aisle lined with floating lanterns that glowed like bottled starlight. A subtle enchantment carried the scent of honeysuckle and fresh-cut grass, and in the distance, enchanted butterflies shimmered among the rose bushes planted by Molly herself.

It was, unmistakably, a Weasley affair—organized chaos made beautiful by love.

Harry stood beneath a white trellis laced with ivy and silver threads, his palms slightly sweaty despite the cooling charms Hermione had insisted on applying to his dress robes. His midnight blue robes were elegant and simple, stitched with tiny constellations only visible under direct sunlight—a gift from Luna.

Ron stood at his side, straightening Harry’s collar for the fifth time.

“You look fine,” Ron muttered, even as he smoothed the edge again. “Stop fidgeting.”

“I’m not fidgeting.”

“Sure mate.”

Harry gave a small, nervous laugh.

The music started—soft strings and lilting flutes. Everyone stood. Heads turned.

And then Ginny appeared.

Harry’s breath left him.

She walked down the aisle slowly, her arm looped through Arthur’s. Her dress was simple and flowing, ivory with embroidered golden phoenix feathers along the hem. Her hair was pinned up with delicate wildflowers, and a sunbeam caught the edge of her smile.

Harry felt dizzy in the best way.

She reached him, cheeks flushed, eyes shining.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hey,” she whispered back.

Arthur gave her hand a soft squeeze before stepping back to join Molly in the front row. Molly dabbed her eyes with a lacy handkerchief—already crying, even though the ceremony had just begun.

The officiant cleared his throat, voice ringing magically across the field.

“We are gathered here to celebrate the union of two souls who have endured much, and found love not in ease, but in fire—and still chose each other.”

Harry barely heard the words.

All he could see was Ginny.

As the officiant spoke of courage, loyalty, laughter, and partnership, Harry thought of every moment they’d shared. She’d always been a force. He had simply been lucky enough to be caught in her gravity.

“Do you, Harry James Potter, take Ginevra Molly Weasley to be your wife, to stand beside her in peace and hardship, to share in joy and sorrow, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Harry said, his voice steady, sure.

“And do you, Ginevra Molly Weasley, take Harry James Potter to be your husband, to walk beside him in light and shadow, to love him fiercely, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Ginny said, her eyes never leaving him.

“Then by magic and witness, I pronounce you bound in love.”

The rings—a pair of golden bands inscribed with runes of protection and connection—slid onto their fingers with a soft glow. Magic shimmered in the air as the final enchantment sealed their vows.

“You may kiss your bride.”

Harry leaned in. The kiss was warm, certain, and full of promise.

------

Long tables were set up beneath floating lanterns. Plates piled high with roast chicken, roast potatoes, shepherd’s pie, and towering Weasley-style desserts filled the air with comfort and celebration.

Luna gave a speech first. “I always thought love was like a Nargle—you can’t see it, but it makes your ears buzz. But Ginny and Harry… you can feel it. Even if you don’t believe in Nargles.”

Ron gave a speech that was surprisingly heartfelt. “I used to think no one was good enough for my sister,” he said, standing, eyes a little glassy. “And I still mostly think that. But if anyone had to be part of this family, it’s Harry. He’s brave, he’s loyal, and I know he’ll never let her go into a fight alone.”

Then came the dancing. Their friends joined in soon after—Hermione dancing with Ron, Neville with Luna, even Andromeda dancing once with Kingsley while little Teddy ran circles around the tables.

As the night deepened, the music slowed.

Harry held Ginny close, resting his forehead against hers.

“Was it everything you wanted?” she asked softly.

He looked around—the golden glow, the happy faces, the peace that still felt new. He looked at her.

“It’s more.”

They kissed again. And again. The world went quiet.

------

Something had shifted between Ron and Hermione.

At first, it was hard to name it—just a faint awkwardness, a pause in their usual rhythm, like a piece of music they used to know by heart now playing out of tune. It became more apparent after Harry and Ginny’s wedding. The joy of the celebration only seemed to amplify what was absent between them. Watching Harry and Ginny—effortless, steady, deeply in sync—had stirred something uneasy in Hermione. She began to wonder whether love, real lasting love, was supposed to feel like this—strained, uncertain, quietly fading.

The emotional bond they had forged during the war—the shared pain, the desperation, the fierce protection of one another—had been born in fire. But now, in the quiet aftermath, that bond no longer holds.

They didn’t know how to comfort each other through the long, uneven grief. Ron buried his feelings behind jokes, Quidditch scores, and long shifts at the Auror Office. He was always moving, always somewhere else. Hermione tried to reach him with gentle questions, invitations to talk, but he slipped away from vulnerability like it burned. When things became too heavy, he shut down, and when she pressed, he would pick a fight—small, meaningless spats that masked the larger ache between them.

Hermione had been thinking about it for a while. The idea came slowly, then all at once—she loved Ron, but it wasn't the kind of love that could carry them forward. She needed space. They both did. Time to heal individually. To understand who they were now, outside the war, outside the survival.

But saying it aloud would be a frightening option. Like breaking something they had fought hard to preserve. It was hard and Ron didn’t want to admit what he already knew deep down. He wasn’t ready to let go. Letting go felt like losing her all over again—like losing one more thing the war had already taken pieces of. And yet, a part of him—the honest, quiet part—knew. They were holding on because they were afraid of falling apart.

Chapter Text

After the wedding, Ginny and Harry wanted to stay at Grimmauld Place with others a little longer, and the house had settled into a quiet routine of healing and rest.

But one crisp morning, as the sun barely began to climb above the horizon, an unexpected sound shattered the calm. A sharp, insistent tapping came from the bedroom window. The noise was piercing—like tiny, urgent knocks.

Ron groaned as he rolled over, squinting through the dim light to see what was causing the racket. “Who is it?” he muttered, furrowing his brows as the sharp beak of an owl continued to tap against the glass, demanding attention.

Hermione, still half-asleep beside him, blinked and sat up. She rubbed her eyes, her tiredness momentarily forgotten as she noticed the owl’s strange persistence. “I don’t know. Just take it,” she said, her voice hoarse from sleep but with an edge of curiosity.

Ron, though still groggy, climbed out of bed and opened the window. The owl immediately hopped inside, its sharp beak clinking against the glass before it held out a small envelope, its feathers ruffled from the journey. Ron reached for it, his fingers brushing the owl’s soft feathers before he took the letter and closed the window again.

As the owl flew off into the morning sky, Ron ripped open the envelope impatiently, eager to see who had sent it. But the moment his eyes scanned the first few lines, his face dropped. His expression faltered—something between disbelief and frustration.

Hermione, watching him closely now, could sense that something was wrong. “What is it?” she asked, her voice tinged with concern.

Ron didn’t answer right away. Instead, he handed the letter to her, his eyes narrowed in anger. His gaze was sharp, his jaw clenched tight as he glared at her, but he didn’t say anything. The silence between them stretched out, thick with unspoken tension.

Hermione’s heart started to race. She glanced down at the letter in her hands, confused by the intensity of Ron’s reaction. The handwriting on the envelope was unmistakable. Viktor Krum. Her breath caught in her throat.

Ron suddenly left and she scanned the words with increasing unease.

Dear Hermione,

It's been a while. Heard the news. Hope you and your friends are safe. Thank Potter for me. 

Please give me details about what happened and what is your condition. I would love to see you in person.

See you soon,

— Viktor Krum

Hermione’s hand shook slightly as she read the final lines. The letter felt cold in her grasp, and she could feel the weight of its contents press down on her chest. Her mind reeled, and for a moment, she couldn’t quite comprehend what had just happened. Viktor—Viktor Krum—had written to her. She hadn’t heard from him in so long, and now this unexpected letter, with its formal tone, seemed to pull her right back into a part of her past that she hadn’t fully processed.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, biting her lower lip. She could feel a mix of frustration, confusion, and guilt swirling inside her. The letter seemed innocent enough, but the timing was off, and Ron’s reaction… that was something else entirely. It was clear that something was bothering him, something beyond the letter itself.

She looked down at the book she had been reading earlier, a small stack of notes wedged between its pages. She tucked the letter carefully between the pages, trying to ignore the knot in her stomach as she quickly got out of bed and rushed out of the room, determined to find Ron and figure out what was really going on.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she navigated the dark hallways of the house, the flickering light from the fireplace in the sitting room casting long shadows along the walls. She could feel the tension in the air, her footsteps quickening as she approached the living room. She had to talk to him. They needed to figure this out—whatever this was.

The door to the sitting room was ajar, and she pushed it open without hesitation, finding Ron standing by the window, his back to her. He hadn’t heard her approach. His hands were clenched into fists, his shoulders rigid with frustration, but he didn’t turn around when she entered.

“Ron,” Hermione said softly, her voice calm but firm. She felt a knot tighten in her stomach, but she wasn’t going to let this silence stretch any longer. “We need to talk.”

Ron didn’t move at first, the air between them thick with unspoken tension. Finally, he turned to face her, his expression still sharp, though the anger had started to dull a little. “Hermione…” His voice was quiet, almost resigned. “I—” He broke off, clearly struggling to find the right words.

She stepped closer, her eyes searching his face. “Yes, talk to me. Tell me.”

Ron took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Viktor,” he muttered, his voice rough. “Are you still in touch?”

Hermione’s heart sank, she hadn’t expected this, hadn’t anticipated how Ron would react, but now that she was standing here, with the truth hanging in the air between them, she knew they needed to have this conversation. It was time to clear the air—not just about Viktor, but about everything.

“No. But we were writing. The last time we spoke was right before we went looking for the Horcruxes.”

Taking another deep breath, she opened her mouth to speak again, but Ron cut her off before she could get the words out.

“I’m not angry with you,” he said, his voice almost pleading. “I just don’t understand why it all affects me?”

Hermione met his gaze, her heart heavy. “We’re hurting.” Her voice trembled as she spoke, her words coming out in a rushed, desperate whisper. “I can help…”

“I don’t need help, Hermione.” He said it too quickly.

“You haven’t slept through a night in weeks.”

“And you have?” His voice was sharp now, bitter. “You think burying yourself in work and marching off to every bloody creature rights meeting is healing?”

She flinched. “I never said I was fine.”

“You act like it.” Ron’s voice was low, almost a growl. He stepped closer to her, and for a brief moment, the flicker of hope she saw in his eyes made her heart ache. But there was something more—something darker beneath it. The flame in his eyes, once warm, now burned with an intensity that made her stomach twist.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as she struggled to keep her composure. Her chest tightened with a mix of love and pain. She took a step closer to him, closing the distance between them. “This isn’t working,” she said.

Ron froze.

Her voice faltered as she paused, her eyes closing in frustration, her face flushed with the weight of what she said. She didn't know how to make him understand how much his anger was hurting her, how it felt like the very foundation of their love was slipping through her fingers.

Ron stood frozen, his face set in frustration. His brow furrowed deeper. He had expected a different conversation. Something lighter. But now, Hermione was laying bare everything she had been holding inside.

She looked up at him, the single tear that had fallen down her cheek like a silent testament to her pain. “I can’t,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. The tear was slow, almost reluctant, as it traveled down her cheek.

The weight of her words hit him like a brick. Ron took a deep breath, running a hand through his messy hair in frustration. He seemed lost, as if he couldn’t find the right words. “Hermione,” he murmured, looking at the floor before meeting her gaze again. “Everything’s changed.”

He took a step closer to her, and for a moment, his gaze softened. But it was a fleeting softness, like the shadows before a storm. “I’ve lost so much already. I’m scared I’ll wake up one day and find that—” He paused, swallowing hard, as though the words were burning his throat. “I feel hollow. And with you…” His voice faltered, as if he couldn’t even finish the sentence. His hands trembled slightly.

Hermione’s breath hitched as she stepped back, her mind racing. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice growing more forceful.

Ron’s eyes widened, his mouth slightly agape. “Hermione—” His words died in his throat as he struggled to understand. He took a step back, his jaw clenched tight. He seemed to gather his thoughts, but it was clear that he was struggling just as much. 

Then, out of nowhere, Ron’s voice dropped to a quiet, almost hoarse tone. “Pause,” he said, his words slow, deliberate, like a command to stop the madness that was swirling around them.

“What?” Hermione’s eyes darted to him in confusion.

“Let’s pause,” Ron repeated softly, though there was a weariness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “I don’t want it. Not today. Not like this.”

Hermione stared at him, unsure of what to make of it. She felt the tension in her own body, the anger and hurt slowly giving way to something more exhausting. “You’re making things even more complicated,” she said softly, her voice quieter now, the anger fading just a little.

Ron didn’t answer immediately. He stood still for a moment, and then, as if uncertain of what to do next, he took a slow step toward her. There was something in his eyes, something almost apologetic, but it wasn’t enough to bridge the gap between them. Yet, somehow, he closed the distance between them. His hands moved cautiously, almost as if he were afraid she would run away. Finally, with a deep breath, he wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace.

“Let’s go to our room,” he whispered, his voice muffled against her hair. “ I just need to think. We both do.”

Hermione stood still for a moment, her hands pressed against his chest, but instead of feeling comforted, she only felt more hollow. She clung to him longer than she expected to, her tears slipping freely now. She could feel his heartbeat against her own, but the truth was, it wasn’t enough. She could feel the distance between them, a yawning chasm that she couldn’t close. This hug, this moment of connection, was a false solace. It didn’t heal the ache in her heart. The truth settled heavily in her chest. And no matter how tightly Ron held her, no matter how much she wanted to believe it would get better, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were both drowning in their own pain.

Chapter Text

Hermione stood in front of the bathroom mirror, her hands absentmindedly twisting the strands of her unruly, fluffy hair into something resembling order. The damp curls clung to her fingers as she pulled them through, trying to make sense of the mess, but it only reminded her of how out of sorts she felt. She took a slow, steadying breath, hoping it would give her the strength to face the day. Her reflection stared back at her, eyes swollen and puffy from lack of sleep, the dark circles beneath them a constant reminder of the night spent tossing and turning, trying to escape her thoughts. She lifted her shoulders, trying to straighten herself up, but the weight of exhaustion pressed down heavily on her.

Another breath. She blinked, trying to push back the tears that were always just below the surface. It felt as though she’d been holding on for too long, and her heart ached under the pressure. She wiped away the sting of the tears threatening to spill and left the bathroom, taking one last glance at her reflection. There was no time to wallow, not now. She had to move forward, even if it felt like everything inside her was breaking apart.

------

“Good morning, Hermione,” Luna's gentle voice greeted her as soon as she stepped into the kitchen. Luna was sitting at the table, a soft smile on her face, her eyes bright despite the early hour. The sight of her always seemed to have a calming effect on Hermione. Harry and Neville were seated beside her, each holding a cup of steaming coffee.

Hermione smiled faintly as she made her way closer, grateful for Luna’s warmth. “Morning,” she replied quietly. She pulled out a chair and sat down beside them, feeling a little more grounded as she settled into the comfortable silence.

Luna, as always, was quick to offer. “Want some?” She slid the plate of warm, buttered toast toward Hermione, the golden crusts tempting her to take a bite.

“Thank you,” Hermione said, her voice soft but grateful. She took the toast and sipped the coffee that Luna had poured for her. The warmth of the drink seeped into her, offering a brief respite from the cold gnawing at her insides.

The silence lingered for a moment, before Hermione broke it with a quiet question. “Where is Ginny?” she asked, her eyes glancing up from her coffee.

Harry looked down at his hands, his fingers fiddling with the edge of his cup. He hesitated, “She doesn’t feel well this morning.”

Luna, who had been staring off into the distance, seemed to snap back to reality at Harry’s words. She put her hands thoughtfully under her chin, as if pondering something. “She feels nauseous,” she said, her voice soft and almost dreamy. Her eyes remained fixed on the table, but Hermione could see the concern hidden beneath her usually calm demeanor.

“Where’s Ron?” Harry asked, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were expecting an answer of his own.

Hermione’s chest tightened, the mention of Ron’s name stirring a new wave of frustration within her. “He just wanted to stay in bed a little longer.”

There was a brief pause before Harry spoke again, his tone casual as he tried to shift the mood. “So, what about you? Are you going somewhere?” He pointed at her crossbody bag. The strap rested heavily on her shoulder, reminding her that she had places to be, things to do—things she wasn’t sure she was ready to face.

Hermione’s smile faltered as she looked down at her bag. “Umm, yeah,” she said, taking a slow sip of her coffee to steady her nerves. “I’m going to visit my parents. I can’t get them off my mind these days.” The words sounded hollow even as she spoke them. The guilt weighed heavily on her chest, but it felt like the only thing she could do—returning to the comfort of her parents felt like the only place where things made sense.

“Oh,” Harry said, his expression softening with understanding. “How long?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione replied, shrugging lightly as she placed the coffee cup down. She wasn’t sure when she’d feel like returning. Part of her wanted to escape, to retreat into the normalcy of her childhood home.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, a slight frown creasing his forehead.

Hermione avoided his gaze, staring at the steam rising from her coffee. “I don’t have a plan,” she muttered, the weight of the words pressing on her tongue. She never went anywhere without a plan. But now… now, everything felt uncertain, and that unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Harry’s brow furrowed. “You always make plans,” he said, his voice trailing off in confusion.

Hermione bit her lip, glancing up at him. “Things are different now, Harry. I don’t know what’s going to happen, and I can’t pretend that I do.”

Before Harry could respond, Neville interjected, his voice casual but with an edge of curiosity. “Is it about the argument with Ron the other day?” His words were blunt, cutting through the air like a sharp knife. The room seemed to freeze for a moment as Hermione’s heart skipped a beat.

Hermione’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. “What do you—” Her words faltered as she turned toward Neville, her confusion evident.

“Heard you,” Neville said simply. It was clear he didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the walls in Grimmauld Place were thin, and it wasn’t hard to hear the muffled voices.

“I didn’t,” Harry shrugged, as though to deflect any blame for Neville’s comment.

Hermione felt her face flush with embarrassment. She hadn’t expected their conversation to reach the others. She opened her mouth to protest, but instead, she just rolled her eyes in resignation. “I’m going to say goodbye to Ginny,” she muttered, standing up abruptly from the table.

Without waiting for a response, Hermione walked out of the room, her movements quick and purposeful. The last thing she wanted was to continue the conversation that was starting to spiral out of control.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Harry turned to Neville, a curious look in his eyes. “Tell me everything,” he asked softly, his voice serious. His words hung in the air, a silent invitation for Neville to share whatever he knew.

------

“Ginny.” Hermione knocked softly on the door, her voice almost hesitant as it echoed in the quiet of the room. She waited for a moment before she slowly pushed the door open.

The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn tight against the morning light. Ginny was lying on the bed, the blanket pulled up to her chin, her face pale and drawn. She looked fragile, her body curled inward as if trying to shield herself from the world.

“Hey,” Ginny’s voice was faint, weak—just a whisper of its usual warmth.

Hermione’s heart clenched at the sight of her friend, but she pushed the worry aside for the moment. She sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb her. She reached over and gently touched Ginny's cheek, her fingers brushing against the cool skin. Ginny flinched slightly, and Hermione’s brow furrowed with concern.

“What happened to you?” Hermione asked, her voice soft, laced with concern. She could feel the coldness of Ginny’s skin under her fingertips, and it sent a chill through her.

“I’ve been vomiting since I woke up,” Ginny mumbled, her voice barely audible. She looked at Hermione with weary eyes. “It’s nothing, though. I’ll be fine after some rest.”

Hermione’s gaze softened, but the concern didn't leave her face. “How can I help you? Did you take any potion to help ease the nausea?”

“I already did,” Ginny replied, her words slow and unsteady. She seemed too tired to explain further. She shifted her position a little, pulling the blanket tighter around her, and then her gaze turned curious, studying Hermione with a faint furrow to her brow. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Just need to sleep it off.”

Hermione sighed, unable to shake the unease that gnawed at her. “Okay, but promise me that if you feel worse, you’ll let me know right away.”

Ginny didn’t respond at first. Instead, her gaze moved slowly from Hermione's face to her clothes, noting the bag she had and the way Hermione seemed so ready to leave. “I can’t.” Ginny’s expression softened, and her voice grew quiet as she spoke, tinged with a deep, knowing sadness. “Cause you’re leaving,” she said, her words more of a statement than a question.

Hermione’s heart sank, and she bit her lower lip, trying to steady her emotions. She couldn’t bear to say the words she knew were coming. The truth felt like a weight in her chest. But she couldn’t lie to Ginny, not now.

“Ginny…” Hermione began, her voice shaking slightly as she struggled to find the right words. “I’m sorry. Umm… we decided to take a break. It’s been hard, and we both need some time… to figure things out. To see where we are, and what we need.”

Ginny’s eyes widened slightly, and she sat up a little straighter, her hands clasping together tightly in her lap. Her fingers curled inward, and Hermione could see the way her friend tried to process the words, trying to hold back the disappointment that threatened to overtake her.

“Oh,” Ginny murmured, her voice low. She stared at her hands for a moment, her thoughts clearly distant, lost in the sudden weight of the news. After a long pause, her gaze lifted, and she met Hermione’s eyes, searching them for the truth. “Was that what you wanted?” she asked softly, a hint of vulnerability in her voice that she didn’t often show.

Hermione’s chest tightened at the question, and she swallowed hard as the tears she had been holding back finally slipped free. She bit her lip, but it didn’t help. The tears came anyway, flowing down her cheeks as she looked away, unable to meet Ginny’s eyes. Her voice broke as she spoke.

“Ginny I—,” she whispered, her throat tight with emotion. “I don’t know what I wanted, but I never thought it would be like this.” The words tumbled out in a rush, tangled with the heartbreak she was trying to hide. The lump in her throat felt like it would never go away. “I never wanted to hurt him. But I need to figure things out. I can’t pretend I have all the answers.”

Ginny’s hands gently reached out, wrapping around Hermione’s trembling ones with surprising strength. Her touch was steady, offering a quiet comfort despite the confusion that hung between them. She squeezed Hermione’s hands, silently offering support in the only way she knew how.

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione whispered again, her voice thick with emotion. She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her jumper, her heart aching with the rawness of the moment. “I didn’t mean any of this.”

Ginny’s expression softened, and she leaned forward, her forehead resting gently against Hermione’s. “Just come back whenever you’re ready, okay?” she said, her voice barely a whisper but full of understanding and unspoken affection. It was a simple request, but one that Hermione knew carried the weight of their shared history, their friendship.

“I will,” Hermione whispered, hugging her tightly, letting the warmth of Ginny’s embrace soak into her. She pulled back slightly to look at Ginny, her voice trembling as she said. “I promise.”

With one last lingering hug, Hermione let go, her heart heavy as she stood up from the bed.

She wiped the last of her tears away and gave Ginny a small, shaky smile before turning to leave. As the door closed softly behind her, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of the journey ahead, the road that was filled with questions and heartache. But for now, she just needed to take one step forward, and hope she could find a way back to herself.