Chapter Text
Hermione Granger was twenty-four years old when Lord Voldemort returned to power.
It was one of the few times in life where she would always be able to remember exactly where she was, and what she was doing the moment it happened. It was a chilly December evening, the eleventh of December at quarter past eight, to be exact. A Friday. She had just left her office on Level Two at the Ministry of Magic, and was now standing on the sidewalk, admiring the light layer of snow that had fallen during an otherwise uneventful workday.
The scene had resembled something out of a Currier and Ives lithograph, peaceful, quiet, and serene– one could say ‘magical’. Wreaths with large, red ribbons had been hung on the lamp posts. A few shops and businesses were decked out attractively in the spirit of the season. Best of all, directly across the street from where Hermione was standing, right by the coffee shop she regularly frequented, an evergreen tree had been temporarily placed and decorated, all lit up with colored lights. There were a few people still bustling about on the sidewalks, all bundled up in warm winter coats, presumably Muggles doing some last minute Christmas shopping before the stores all closed for the holiday.
She briefly glanced down at her own gift list she held in her gloved hand. Slightly crumpled, this was the first time it had moved from its place on her desk since she finished compiling it. For weeks, it had remained attached to the little notepad she specifically used for the bi-weekly meetings held with her boss. The list wasn't very long, there couldn't have been more than a dozen or so names, all neatly written out in her distinct cursive script with tiny checkboxes drawn in the margin next to them. At that point in time, only one box had been ticked, the one at the very top labeled “Crookshanks”.
There was one line on the list that had been crossed out several times, the name no longer visible.
In many ways, it was a miracle that any of the survivors of the Second Wizarding War were able to have some semblance of a normal life after what they had all been through. For a period of time, Hermione didn't even have the energy or mental capacity to do simple, mundane tasks such as holiday shopping. When the war was finally over, and things had settled down enough for her to reflect, she was hit a lot harder than she expected with the gravity of it all.
The healing process hadn't been easy. Perhaps the most difficult part was accepting the fact that there really was no cure. The war would very likely haunt her for the rest of her life. There were some things that she could never unsee, that were forever ingrained into her memory, still just as vivid as now as they were then. She had tried, as was suggested to all the ‘veterans’, seeing a Mind Healer once, however the process left her feeling far more vulnerable than she was comfortable with. The concept of someone taking a peak inside of her brain, and making little tweaks and changes was not appealing to Hermione. It felt invasive, and much too personal. And it didn't change what happened.
So she did what she always had done, she threw herself into her work. Practically drowned herself in it. Maybe it wasn't the best way to handle the psychological damage, but Hermione always prided herself in being able to compartmentalize when necessary. It worked for her most of the time, until it didn't.
Hermione let out a heavy sigh, her warm breath crystalizing in the frosty, winter air. She needed to put all of that out of her mind. The weekend was awaiting her, and there she was, only just leaving work, watching the busy lives of other people on the street pass by.
She shoved her little list into the depths of her front pocket for safekeeping, took a few steps towards the little park where she had made a habit of apparating from, and then stopped abruptly.
Because that was the moment when the snowy world before her suddenly became drenched in green, and her attention shifted upwards towards the unmistakable Dark Mark burned into the night sky.
.
There had been rumblings for years within the Ministry of Magic. Unexplained incidents, rumors that were quickly dismissed, or brushed under the rug. People went missing. A few leaks would occasionally make it through to the Daily Prophet, but were always promptly squashed by means of threats or bribes. In many ways, the Ministry of Magic continued to operate on the notion of ‘business as usual’ following the Second Wizarding War, and Lord Voldemort's ‘downfall’.
There was the physical reconstruction of course, much of the infrastructure including, but not limited to, Hogwarts required immediate repairs. The damage the castle had taken was so extensive that even with magic it took far longer than anticipated. As expected, people moaned and groaned that their taxes were going up again. In Hermione's opinion, a few extra galleons was a small price to pay for everything, and everyone, that had been lost.
Government officials were replaced, Death Eaters arrested. To some degree it was understandable that people wanted retribution for what happened. There was a big show made of it, of course, and the wizarding equivalent of the Nuremberg trials was held at the Wizengamot. Most of the remaining survivors had been low-hanging fruit, although they were practically paraded around as though they were the architects of it all. Life and death sentences were given out liberally, and the Dementors of Azkaban received their fill. But that was where it ended.
The Ministry of Magic foolishly rejected adopting any preventative reforms, and to their own detriment they also rejected the idea that it might not be over. The government continued to take a reactive approach, dealing with incidents as they popped up, treating each one as being unrelated to another. The reasoning behind it was murky, there was a lot of talk about not frightening the public, but if one read between the lines a generous portion of it had to do with political donations coming in from questionable sources.
Rather naively, Hermione thought things would finally come to head with the particularly gruesome murder of Andrew Quaxley. She was working in a different department at the time, as a fledgling employee of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had just completed their Auror training.
Quaxley was someone with real potential, who wasn't afraid to challenge the status quo. He had been in his mid-thirties, originally trained as an Unspeakable, and was rising quickly in the political sphere as a promising young voice in government. He was a fundraising juggernaut, charismatic, approachable, and a bit of an idealist. Hermione would have liked to have seen the types of reforms he could have brought to the Ministry, had he lived to do so.
Unsurprisingly, Quaxley had ruffled some feathers. There were those who loudly opposed his platform, which was deemed much ‘too radical’ by the remaining members of certain pureblood families, especially considering he had taken a particular interest in cracking down on the practice of the Dark Arts. The last time he was seen alive was immediately following a political rally where he had called for tighter restrictions on creating or possessing dangerous, cursed artifacts. Like Horcruxes.
Quaxley was found a week later, or parts of him were, in a culvert in Diagon Alley. His head was missing, which was later found propped up outside the Ministry of Magic, partially decayed, with a dead snake coiled through the left eye socket and mouth.
But still, the Ministry did not view it as enough reason to act. They dismissed it as an isolated incident, rather than an act of political violence. Or more appropriately, a warning of what was to come.
That was one of the most difficult lessons that Hermione had to learn in her adult life, that the Ministry of Magic didn't necessarily govern along the straight lines of good and evil, but rather in a gray area where galleons, sickles, and knuts were the deciding factor. It was a grave mistake that they would all eventually pay dearly for, some in blood.
And the other half of it was much more simple– Wizarding society didn't want to believe, understandably, that it could happen again.
Initially, Hermione would classify herself as one of those people, although the possibility crossed her mind more often than she was comfortable with. There were many sleepless nights where she lay awake, contemplating how it might happen. A powerful wizard who went to such unimaginable extremes would never allow death to contain him, she reasoned. Voldemort had done the impossible before, he would do it again. She was positive of it, even if no one else would listen to her growing concerns, as she alone pieced together the trail of bloody breadcrumbs.
At a certain point, Hermione found herself consumed with the idea, and had convinced herself that if– when– it did, she would not just sit idly by. It was the reason she decided to become an Auror herself.
Following the Battle for Hogwarts, the Ministry had a difficult time finding new graduates willing to join up with the Aurors. The idea of war was appealing, the reality was not. Many of those who would have normally jumped at the opportunity hesitated to take up the call.
Desperate to find replacements for those they had lost, the Ministry even considered lowering their notoriously rigorous bar for recruitment. So when Hermione expressed interest one day to her former boss at the time, he immediately recommended her for cross-training. Despite her reservations on her dueling skills, she passed with flying colors, although she strongly believed that she may have been marked on a curve. Regardless, she was assured that she would receive adequate training if she chose to accept the transfer.
Two years, four months, and two days. That was the amount of time that had passed between her receiving her badge, and the night of Voldemort's return.
At first, the Dark Mark incident was treated as a hoax. A prank. People came into the office the following Monday morning in good spirits, making light of the situation. A joint meeting was called with department officials from both the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Department of Mysteries, where leaders from both sides diplomatically took turns debriefing everyone on the so-called ‘non-existent situation at hand’, and then everyone left the room and went about their day like nothing happened. When it was time to leave, people packed up their things, put on their cloaks, and headed home for dinner.
Then the assassinations started.
Hermione herself was ambushed that Monday on her way back to her flat. On difficult days, she often took a stroll around the park located a few blocks down from the Ministry to clear her head before returning home. And that was a difficult day. She was frustrated with the attitude of her superiors and coworkers, aside from Harry Potter, not one of them seemed to be taking the reappearance of the Dark Mark seriously. They accused her of crying wolf when she argued otherwise, and Hermione had never particularly appreciated being told she was wrong.
By a stroke of luck, she decided to deviate from her regular route and head over to the fountain that had been temporarily shut off and winterized. That was when she heard the crack of a branch. The Death Eater lying in wait had panicked, presumably thinking she had noticed him, and went in for the attack. Hermione had him stunned and on the ground before he even had a chance to raise his own wand.
His face was young and unfamiliar. She would later find out that he was distantly related to the Avery family. Pureblood, but not Sacred Twenty-Eight.
She was left shaken up, but otherwise unharmed, although admittedly she was upset with herself for not taking every precaution.
Others weren't so lucky. It seemed that this time around the Death Eaters were targeting Aurors and Unspeakables first. Many of the old guard were either dead or had taken an early retirement following the end of the war, so their numbers were already low and inexperienced. The strategy had changed, and at the rate that they were going it would be only a matter of time before the Ministry could no longer defend itself.
Voldemort had learned from his mistakes, the Ministry had repeated theirs. Now they were scrambling to recover, and it was not going well.
.
Presently, Hermione had just taken a seat at the meeting that would unknowingly change her life forever.
It was the morning of the twenty-first of December, one of the last workdays before the holiday. Under normal circumstances everyone would have been mentally on vacation already, but this year was different. There were no office parties or celebrations. It had been just barely over a week since the first attacks and the atmosphere was suffocatingly bleak.
She had received an Internal Memo at her desk about an hour ago, with absolutely zero details included, which was never a good sign. Hermione flipped it over twice, front and back, just to be sure. Written on it was her name, the room number, and the time. That was it.
Now she anxiously sat in her chair, adjusting the string of the tea bag on the rim of her mug, her knee bouncing up and down under the table. Something bad had happened, she just knew it.
“Merlin, would you quit fidgeting, Granger?” Draco Malfoy asked from the chair next to her. “You're making the rest of us paranoid.”
“Do you have any idea what this is about?” Hermione asked him quietly.
“Not a clue,” Malfoy said. “Can't recall the last time we were called into a meeting like this where they delivered good news.”
He unfortunately had a point. Malfoy had joined up with the Aurors a short time after she did. Hermione was aware that he had to jump through significantly more hoops to get the position, even taking into account the shortage of able bodied wizards and witches. She and Harry had to testify on his behalf at the Wizengamot after the war, and with his father serving a life sentence in Azkaban, some questioned if his motivations for applying were genuine. But Malfoy seemed to want to rectify his past transgressions, which Hermione thought was admirable. She was on relatively good terms with him now. They were not quite yet friends, but at least friendly.
People were still slowly trickling in, some of them grabbing coffee or tea from the sideboard set up in the corner, and taking their places at the long table in the center of the room. Hermione had a feeling this was going to be a long one. The Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, had summoned the remaining Auror task force into one of the smaller conference rooms on the sixth floor. This was likely a strategic move, so as not to lower morale any further, as the larger room they normally occupied was a testament of just how many Aurors they had lost so far. Seven in total were gone, and only fifteen remained.
The door to the conference room was shut. Two officials Hermione recognized as being Unspeakables began casting an abnormal amount of warding spells, both on the door and room itself. Nowadays, it was expected that there would be at least some protection spells used just in case, but as she watched their wandwork closely it seemed to her that this was overkill. Although, it would certainly make headlines if the entire task force and Minister for Magic were taken out in one well-placed explosion.
“Alright everyone, I would like to get started,” Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt began, and a hush fell over those seated. “Unfortunately, we do have a lot to cover today.”
Hermione quickly scanned over those in attendance. To her left sat Malfoy, Harry Potter was kitty-corner to her, and on his other side, Ron Weasley, who she chose to ignore. The two had recently ended an incredibly short relationship, if one could call it that, and were not speaking to each other unless it was absolutely necessary.
The rest of the seats at the table were filled in with familiar faces to Hermione, but no one she had much of a history with. Most of them were just as green as she was.
Noticeably missing today was Head Auror, Aurelius Bergman. Standing in for him was the Head of the Department of Mysteries, Edgar Fawley. Shacklebolt was to his right.
Hermione had the unfortunate displeasure of working with Edgar Fawley on a handful of occasions since she started at her position. The man was likely in his late seventies, medium height and build, clean-shaven with a few wisps of hair still holding on to his otherwise bald head. He had a reputation for being tactless, and distrusted everyone outside of his own department. Hermione loved rules, but the amount of bureaucratic tape he had required her to jump through for information or assistance had almost lost her a case more than once. He vehemently refused to retire, and employees who regularly dealt with him expected to have to exorcise his office after his death to avoid a Professor Binns situation.
Edgar Fawley was the type of person who likely walked into his job sometime in the 1960s, decided that was how he thought it should always be done, and had adamantly resisted any sort of change ever since. He was what one might call ‘old school’.
“Early this morning, at approximately 5:04 a.m., Head Auror Aurelius Bergman was murdered on his way into work,” Fawley said, in a rather matter-of-fact tone. Hermione’s eyes went from Fawley down to her untouched tea; she had liked and respected Bergman. “There were multiple, credible witnesses to the event. I believe all of you understand what I'm alluding to.”
The chorus of murmurs around the room signalled that they all did, in fact, understand what was being alluded to. Hermione furrowed her brow, it was becoming ridiculous– insulting, really, that the upper echelon was still dancing around saying the obvious outloud every time it happened. Another Auror, this one of great significance, taken out by Death Eaters.
Fawley motioned with his arm to signal over to the two Unspeakables standing off to the side. Both of them stepped forward.
“Before we go any further, we are going to ask for your cooperation, and your silence,” Fawley said. “Oh, and yes obviously we are very saddened by the untimely demise of Aurelius Bergman. A fine man, always punctual,” he added.
He waved his wand, and a yellow piece of parchment appeared in front of each person seated at the table. He waved it a second time, and black quills with red tips appeared alongside them. Hermione lowered her eyes down at the parchment, it appeared to be some sort of contract. There was a lot of legal jargon that she would have liked to have someone more qualified look over for her before signing, but she did not expect to be allowed that opportunity.
“If we could have you all sign, our Notaries here will then perform the Vow,” Fawley continued.
A couple people picked up their quills and immediately began signing, not bothering to read a word that was written. Hermione hesitated for a moment, before picking up her own. Nothing about the situation made it feel as though it were optional. She brought the quill nib to the parchment, and reluctantly signed her name.
“Hands on the table when you're finished.”
The staggered sound of everyone putting their elbows to the table followed the order. The two Notaries waved their own wands in combination with a spoken enchantment. The words on the contract began to glow red, lifting themselves off the paper one by one, forming a thin, corporeal chain that wound itself around Hermione's wrists, forging a bond that could never be broken. It tightened, and then vanished. Whatever this was about, they were all locked in now.
“Very good. We appreciate your cooperation,” Fawley said, as if they had any other choice in the matter. The Notaries waved their wands again, and the fourteen pieces of parchment vanished off the table. Fawley looked over at Shacklebolt and gave him a curt nod. The meeting could finally begin in earnest.
“We're standing here today in front of you to present a unique opportunity for your consideration,” Shacklebolt told the group, although he did not seem at all excited to share it with them. “One of you will be selected. We are also open to any volunteers.”
‘One of you will be selected’ meant that they already had someone in mind for what they were ‘offering’. Hermione discretely looked over at Harry Potter, who had his eyes pinned to the wall opposite him, staring at nothing in particular. He had gone rather pale.
“As you all know, if I may be blunt, we have lost control of the You-Know-Who situation,” Fawley said. Kingsley Shacklebolt threw him a look, apparently that was not a part of the Ministry-approved script. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, and we have gotten quite desperate.”
Her eyes narrowed. If Edgar Fawley, the most by-the-book employee at the Ministry of Magic was suggesting an unconventional solution then things must have gotten much more dire than they were actually letting on.
“We do, however, have a solution, or more accurately a possibility,” Shacklebolt said. “Fawley here can explain in detail, but I would request that you all keep an open mind and consider what your contribution would mean for the wizarding world.”
Everyone at the table began exchanging glances.
“You all recognize one of these,” Fawley held up what appeared to be a Time Turner.
Hermione certainly did. She had used one religiously every day during her third year of Hogwarts.
“Time Turners, as you know, allow us to travel several hours back in time,” Fawley continued, placing the little hourglass down on the conference table. “However, you're likely all unfamiliar with the process that we use to create these. Since the beginning of– well, time, wizards have attempted to go back to the past. Today we use a modernized version of a handful of spells to enchant these objects so that we are able to go back only a few hours, and not disrupt the Timeline.
“There is, however, a much more archaic process that allows us to go further, much further back, without the use of a Time Turner. It is rarely ever approved for official use, and the last known instance was in 1617,” Fawley said.
Hermione raised her hand.
“Yes?”
“Could you explain a little bit more about the process? The spell involved, is it–”
“I'm not at liberty to say.”
“Okay,” Hermione said, feeling her frustration and temper starting to flare up. She was reminded why she hated working with him. It didn't help that out of the corner of her eye, she just saw Ron Weasley roll his own. “Could you tell us more about the effects on the Timeline–”
“No,” Fawley cut her off. “If you decide to volunteer then you will be briefed, we are operating on a need to know basis.”
“How are any of us expected to make an informed decision then?” Hermione glared, putting the pieces together. “Are you really suggesting that one of us is expected to go back in time, to defeat You-Know-Who before his rise to power?”
There was a pause.
“That is what we are suggesting, yes.”
The collective mood of those seated at the table suddenly changed drastically. Practically everyone started talking, and then yelling over each other, their anger directed at both of the men standing. Some people stood up, and a couple even raised their wands threateningly.
Fawley looked unperturbed, but Shacklebolt shifted uncomfortably back and forth, his hands folded behind his back. He likely remembered what it was like to be on the receiving end of orders like this during the war, considering he was once an Auror himself.
Aside from Hermione, only Harry Potter remained quiet. He had barely moved at all since the meeting started. Hermione knew that even while there appeared to be no direct correlation, Harry was shouldering a lot of the blame for Voldemort's return. Most of that was wrongfully self-inflicted, but there were those who hadn't hesitated to point fingers. The Daily Prophet had not been kind in their editorial column on more than one occasion.
When things finally quieted down, Kingsley Shacklebolt continued. “The Department of Mysteries has selected 1954 as the year one of you will be sent to,” Shacklebolt said. “You-Know-Who would have just turned twenty-seven, not much younger or older than a lot of you sitting here today.”
That was a sobering statement. But he wasn't wrong. The median age of the task force had to be about thirty, if she was being generous. There were at least two or three Aurors that had graduated after her, one of them could have still passed for a Hogwarts student.
“Why then?” From across the table, Ron Weasley's voice was heard. Hermione’s eyes flashed over at him for a split second before she pinned them back on Fawley and Shacklebolt. “Why not get him while he was at school, or at his orphanage?”
“The Ministry has considered that there might be some… moral hesitation when faced with the reality of assassinating a minor,” Shacklebolt explained.
“More witnesses too,” Fawley piped in. “And it's more physically taxing the further you go back down the Timeline.”
“There are some other reasons the Ministry has selected this particular year, politically,” Shacklebolt said. Hermione had noticed he was shirking responsibility for the decision making in a lot of this, and instead hiding behind the Ministry as a whole. She liked Shacklebolt a great deal, but he was still a politician, worried about the optics. “Which we will inform you of should you decide to go through with it.”
Hermione raised her hand again.
“Go ahead, Granger,” Shacklebolt said this time.
“How long do we have to decide?” Hermione asked.
“Are you mad? You're not seriously considering this, are you?” Draco Malfoy hissed, quietly enough that likely only she could hear him. Hermione ignored him. It wasn't like they weren't all sitting there wondering the same.
“The ritual required to send one of you back is best performed during the countdown to the new year, when the Timeline is weakest,” Fawley explained. “It is possible to perform it at an earlier or later date, but it's more strenuous on the mind and body. However, that of course means there is not a lot of time for training and preparation.”
“So as soon as possible,” Hermione said.
“As soon as possible.”
Everyone at the table exchanged glances and then started up again, this time arguing amongst themselves first before turning back to Shacklebolt and Fawley and yelling at them too. The seated Aurors did not seem pleased about this being proposed so close to the holidays.
“There is one last catch,” Shacklebolt said hesitantly after the yelling had died back down again.
“We won't be able to bring you back,” Fawley finished for him.
All hell broke loose. The room erupted into angry shouts from the table. Fawley seemed to expect it this time, he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve and kept his eye on his wristwatch for about twenty seconds, and then pulled out his wand. A noise like a gunshot went off, and then there was silence again.
“You all have until two o’clock on the twenty-sixth to make a decision,” Fawley said. “If no one volunteers, we will pick someone. That's all we have for today, you're all dismissed. Have a great holiday.”
.
Hermione leaned back in her favorite reading chair, situated next to the window of the main living area of her London flat. It was a nice little place she had, comfortable and spacious enough for her and the orange, ragamuffin cat lounging nearby in his cat tree. Rent was relatively reasonable for the area. The hot water heater worked most of the time. It was only a little drafty. The upstairs neighbors didn't always have loud parties on Saturdays, occasionally they switched to Fridays. At the very least, the majority of her issues with the place were solvable with magic. Aside from rent, which her landlord had politely informed her was going up again at the start of the new year.
But for Hermione it was home. However, it did feel a bit lonely at times.
And tonight was no exception, although she did her best not to dwell on it. So after an incredibly stressful day at work, she had planned on immersing herself in a book, accompanied by a rather generous pour of wine. The stemmed glass on the end table next to her had been drained some time ago, but she still had yet to begin reading.
The old, leatherbound book in her lap was not one that she reached for often, if ever. In fact, she could say with confidence that she hadn't cracked the spine since she had tucked it away at the very bottom of her bookshelf, years before for safekeeping. But it maintained a constant presence in the back of her mind, and not a day went by when she didn't think about it. There were brief periods when she considered destroying it, but for whatever reason couldn't bring herself to do so. The act of book burning was practically sacrilegious, she justified to herself. Even for a book as repulsive as Secrets of the Darkest Art.
Her fingertips ghosted over the embossed text on the front, tracing each letter slowly and methodically. The gilt had mostly worn off, and the book itself was quite stained and warped, presumably with the blood of former users who had either succeeded or failed attempting the horrific rituals depicted inside. It had been useful once, and now it felt like it might be useful again, yet she still couldn't bring herself to open it.
Initially, she had reached for it with the idea that she would need to give it away soon. To whoever ‘volunteered’ for the unique opportunity that was presented to the task force earlier that morning. They would need it for insight, to understand just how Tom Marvolo Riddle became Lord Voldemort, she reasoned. But then she realized that in all likelihood, Harry Potter was going to be talked into it, or forced into it rather, and Hermione couldn’t bear the thought of handing him over this vile book. Then she realized she couldn’t really picture herself handing it off to anyone.
Her stomach churned as she recalled how she had felt the first time she read through it, when they were on the run from Death Eaters and Snatchers, hunting down Horcruxes. It made her sick. The gruesome book was nothing like she had ever read before, she still had a hard time believing that at one point it had belonged to the Hogwarts library, held in the Restricted Section. If the text was barbaric, the accompanying diagrams and illustrations were an abomination. At the time, even if Harry or Ron had asked to read it, not that they ever would, she wouldn’t have permitted it. No one else should ever have to carry that burden. No one but her.
To think that Voldemort had once sought it out, as a young man still at school, it was unfathomable to Hermione. But then again she supposed, he rejected his humanity from an early age, if he ever was truly human to begin with.
Hermione glanced over at her sad little Christmas tree, propped up on a card table by the fireplace. She hadn’t even gotten around to finishing the decorations, or more accurately she couldn’t bring herself to do it, with or without magic. This year hadn’t felt particularly festive to Hermione. There were a couple small gifts that had been wrapped, and some still left unwrapped, that she had haphazardly piled up around the tree skirt.
Her eyes settled on one that she had picked out right away for Harry and Ginny’s son, James. This would be his first Christmas, and she had to imagine Harry and Ginny were quite excited to spend it together as a family. Or they had been, until today, of course, when Kingsley Shacklebolt and Edgar Fawley chose to propose this monstrous plan of theirs. It was cruel. No, admittedly they hadn’t come right out and said it, but they might as well have.
Harry Potter was the obvious choice for the mission, given his history and deep understanding of how Voldemort worked. She recalled how relieved he had been, immediately following the Battle for Hogwarts, when they all truly thought it was over. He had wept– they all had, but for Harry it was like he was reborn. In some ways, he probably felt like his life was finally beginning in earnest. For the first time in many years, he could allow himself to understand what it meant to be normal. It hadn’t been easy for him, and he had a long, long way to go, but Hermione was very proud of her best friend and how bravely he had dealt with the trauma that followed in the aftermath of the war.
Now in all likelihood, Shacklebolt and Fawley were going to take that away from him.
And as icing on the cake, they had all taken the Ministry’s version of the Unbreakable Vow, so Harry couldn’t even explain to Ginny what had been said in that meeting. She couldn’t imagine how the two of them must be feeling right now, unable to discuss it together as husband and wife. She felt terrible for them, Harry especially. If the Ministry really did force him– would he even be permitted to say a proper good bye?
Hermione brushed her cheek with the back of her hand, wiping away the start of tears. It wasn't like it was her fault, or her decision, yet she still felt guilty about the whole thing. The wine wasn't really helping the situation either.
There were other Aurors with young families too, and while she didn’t expect them to voluntarily step in, they still might be sitting at home, fearful that they could be selected. It was unlikely, but still possible that Shacklebolt and Fawley recognized that Harry likely wasn’t in the right state of mind to go through all this again. It would be risky, and while Hermione wasn’t entirely sure what the ritual entailed, she couldn’t imagine there was a lot of room for error. And they probably only had one shot at making it work.
She had her friends, and her cat of course. Her parents were still alive, although they had no recollection of her as their daughter. Their minds had been too far gone by the time it was safe to reverse her spell. The two of them seemed happy in their child-free life in Australia though, and that she was grateful for. Although she had stopped checking on them a year after the war, as it had become much too painful.
Truthfully, if there was anyone on the task force right now who was in a position to accept the Ministry’s proposal, she supposed it was her. She had a few years of experience under her belt, more than some, and she wasn’t tethered to anything or anyone, aside from Crookshanks. And other than Harry, or Malfoy she supposed, she knew Voldemort best. Which was not very well at all.
Hermione bit her lip, looking down at the old tome resting there innocently in her arms. At the very least it was worth considering, she decided. This might be her chance to make a difference, and finally put an end to it all, for good.
Hesitantly, she opened up Secrets of the Darkest Art to the first page, and began reading.