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The world is different now.
Everyone thinks that with Voldemort gone, the world righted itself and everyone will carry on as if it never happened. But, that can’t be further from the truth for Hermione Granger. The War stole so much from her; freedom, youthfulness, faith.
As she enters a hole-in-the-wall cafe in New South Wales, after failing to restore her parents’ memory for the third time, she’s utterly shattered. ‘Drained’, Molly calls it, from attempting spellwork too advanced for a nineteen year old witch. ‘Battle Fatigue’, Madam Pomfrey calls it, from fighting against Voldemort since the age of twelve. ‘Post Traumatic Stress’, her therapist at Mungo’s calls it, from the moments of torture at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange.
Whatever it is, Hermione struggles against it. There are people who have it much worse; the dead, the maimed, the lost. She’s fortunate, of course, that her parents are alive and that she is only suffering from nightmares and depression and panic attacks, and that she’s not dead or dying or trapped or forgotten. She’s lucky she’s not George or Harry or Teddy or Lavendar. She’s lucky.
But, Merlin, being lucky doesn’t make it easier.
Luck doesn’t stop the dreams.
Luck doesn’t stop her wondering if danger still lurks around every corner.
Luck doesn’t stop bile rising into her throat every time she sees Mudblood written on her arm.
She ran from England so fast and hopes that it will never catch up with her.
Fate has other ideas today.
He’s sat on a shabby chic sofa with a small, steamy mug and a scone. He’s staring ahead, eyes on her, and jaw slack because, she’s sure, he never intended for England to find him again, either. He’s pale as she approaches him and it’s not until he holds his breath that Hermione realizes how it must look. Quietly, as if afraid of the answer, the blonde boy stutters his worries.
“Is he dead?” And though Hermione remembers the stories of a bully, she doesn’t see that now. She only sees sadness. “Y-you’re here to collect us?”
Hermione sits next to him, knees angled towards him as she pulls his hand into her lap and squeezes it between her clammy palms. She shakes her head.
“No, Harry’s alive. We-” won just isn’t the right word. “It’s-” over isn’t the truth, not for her. “Harry’s alive.”
A long sigh escapes him and he uses his free hand to gulp down the remaining dregs of his tea. “Mum and dad’ll want to go back. They hate Australia.”
“It’s safe,” she assures him. “For you. In England.”
He makes a noise. “I haven’t been right. Not since-”
She holds his hand tighter. This, she understands. “It’s alright to be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid.” Patrons glance over at them as his voice hisses through the cramped cafe. “I just… it’s… I’m not afraid.”
“Dementors are meant to show us the darkest parts of ourselves,” she says as if reading from a textbook.
“I’ve never felt so alone.”
“You have your parents,” she reminds him and finally releases his hand. “And Harry.”
“My parents don’t understand.” He grabs her hand and holds it tight. Like it’s a lifeline and she’s the only thing tethering him to his spot. “They think he’s dangerous, but he - he saved us. And I just want to… do that, too.”
It reminds her of First Year. A troll, two boys, and a scared Muggleborn who couldn’t make sense of the world to which she belonged. At the end of it, she knew this was it; her life, her soul, her heart, it belonged to The Greater Good, to Harry Potter, to making the world a better place. When she saw first hand what saving people could do, she chose to stay the course. No matter the cost.
“It’s Survivor’s Guilt,” she explains to him. “When you live through trauma and see others die or suffer, it creates a need to keep that from happening to anyone else.”
“No one understands,” he says after several moments. His fingers are twisted in hers and he’s pressed close to her side.
“I do,” she promises him. “I can help you, Dudley.”
“Why would you?” His eyes close and he breathes as if he’d been holding onto it for an eternity. “Before all this, I wouldn’t have-”
“The world changes and people aren’t static,” she explains. “You’re meant to change and to be better than you were yesterday.”
“I feel like the darkness will always chase me.”
“It will.” It is the saddest truth she’s ever uttered. “It will never go away and you’ll have to fight it off every single day. But that’s what we do. We carry on.”
His eyes open and a small, almost imperceptible smile appears on his face. “We’re British.”
She can’t help the way her lips finally rise to his words. There is a comfortable silence between them now as they share a sofa and after several moments, Hermione orders a tea to go and then Dudley follows her into the sunshine that barely filtered through the shop. Her parents are a short walk away and somehow she’s more confident than she’d been before. She can do this. All of it. She can retrieve their memories and she can face England and the Wizarding World again.
“Thanks,” he tells her as he lifts his cardboard cup in salute. “I hadn’t settled on being a copper, but I think it’s the only thing I can do now.”
She smiles and ducks her chin. She understands; her only path forward is to save the world from itself, too. “I’ll see you around.”
She feels different now, watching him walk away, than she did when she entered the shop. It’s familiar and it’s warm and it’s hopeful.
“I hope so,” he says over his shoulder with a smile on his face.
Something tells her that she’s going to be seeing a lot more of Dudley Dursley.