Chapter Text
31st July, 2130
Potter’s Grange
In order to fully comprehend the utter absurdity that was to become Hermione’s life, one needed only to know one thing: it was all the fault of the bloody house-elves.
. . .
The first thing she remembered about that dreadful day at Potters’ Grange was Harry’s chuckle. As she descended the stairs grumpily, making a grunt which could perhaps have been taken as a ‘good morning’ if one were a troll, his voice was warm and deep, emerging from the reading nook in their big bay window - her chosen indulgence in the construction of their little fort of isolation. He observed her over his glasses, the morning sun glinting off of the lenses.
“Good morning, Hermione.”
Another grunt escaped her in response. Her brain rapidly caught up, however, and she felt a small smile worm its way through the pre-caffeine muddle that was her head. “Happy birthday, you old codger. How old are you this time, then? Have we finally reached the Big One and a Half?”
“Against all odds, I have truly reached one-hundred and fifty - at least, if the owl from dear Harriet is to be believed. I can’t quite remember myself, but in any case, I’m sure our friend Old Tom is rolling in his grave at the thought of my having survived another year once again.”
“Harriet… is that Etta Greengrass or Henna Bones? Or perhaps little Henriette Malfoy?” She tried not to sound too teasing since it was his birthday, after all, but he heard it anyway, as he always did. His amused half-smirk became slightly more genuine; to this day, vestiges of the Harry-derived name boom from after the Second Wizarding War remained, and after he had gotten over his initial annoyance, it had become a running source of amusement for them, following their schoolmates’ descendants to see who would be named after him and what increasingly creative cognates had sprung up.
“Henriette, actually, and she’s hardly little, or so she says. She’s received her Hogwarts letter and is demanding that I invent and take a potion to regress my years so that I’ll be around in a few years’ time to see her make the youngest Auror of the last century.”
“What a perfect mix of Ron and Draco she is, and isn’t that a scary thought.”
“The fact that they’re co-however-many-great-grandfathers? Indeed,” Harry smirked. He ran a hand through hair which had remained stubbornly dark and grey instead of growing white, the action the exact same as it had been when they were children, fingers betraying only a hint of unsteadiness.
Hermione’s eyes, still attempting to cleave through the crust of sleep, dipped to where a slim, worn book was lying open in his lap. She didn’t recognise it, but she also didn’t inquire, an instinct long tempered by the understanding of their many decades living in what was essentially an hermitage; if one didn’t bring it up, the other was better off not asking. It paid off mostly; there was a certain sense of childish excitement that she got whenever she cracked open an issue of a magical journal to see what new brilliance her dearest friend had come up with, and she knew the same was true for him. When one was as old as they were, any entertainment was a delight, so instead of asking, she yawned.
“Shall I put the kettle on, then?”
She was already padding over to the kitchen, quicker than her aged limbs might have suggested, when her friend murmured an affirmative. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw that his gaze had moved from her to the pages of the book he held, and his expression had quite abruptly been overcome with a strange mix of wistfulness, weariness, and regret. Her eyes narrowed. Perhaps his favourite honey-infused lavender tea would ward off whatever sombre thoughts had plagued him, if his mood didn’t swing the other way first.
She’d just turned on their ancient Muggle kettle when Harry’s instant mood fluctuations ran true. A shout came from the living room, startling her, and she swore as she almost dropped their mugs.
“Dammit, Harry!”
“I’m going to do it today, Hermione!” His voice was suddenly and impossibly buoyant for the hour. It was annoyingly easy to tell he had been awake for at least three hours before she had come down; not once in their one-hundred and thirty-one years living together had she been able to get him to wake any later than the crack of dawn.
(The ghost of Petunia Dursley lives on , he cackled whenever she clucked disapprovingly like the old biddy she’d become. I moved across the damn world and she died a century ago, and still… Knew there was some squib blood in her, a Muggle could not be so damn persistent at haunting me.)
“What’s that?” Hermione called back, over the whistle of kettle. “You’ve finally come to your senses? Going to reveal the cure for vampirism? What name are you going to use this time, then?” She paused. “It’s not that Aurelius Snape nonsense again, is it?”
She twitched, feeling that familiar mixture of amusement and distaste. As admirable as the man’s actions had been during the war of their childhood, his personality had still left much to be desired, and she really couldn’t help the shudder that got her whenever she saw Harry’s work published under the guise of a long-lost Snape relative. Adolescent hurts were adolescent hurts, after all, and she had never quite forgotten the young pain of hearing I see no difference … perhaps she didn’t have a leg to stand on when it came to the lingering ghosts of the past, either. She couldn’t deny the certain sense of gratifying irony such a byline would lend to an article on that specific topic, however.
A chuckle sounded knowingly. “No, no, I’m at a dead end with that, unfortunately.” She snorted at the horrible pun, and he continued on. “This is different - it’s something that’s been in the works for a few years. I’m publishing it under my own name this time, you’ll see it in Advances in the Arcane by the end of the week.”
As she stirred honey into the two mugs, teaspoon clacking against the sides noisily, she cocked her head. “Really? Not going to be controversial, is it?”
“I know it’s been a while since I’ve done it that way, but this one is special. A pet project of mine, if you will. Not something I’d mind putting my name behind at all, and I… I’d hoped to see your face when you read it.”
She pondered that as she brought the mugs over. He certainly had been deep into his books for a considerable time, even more so than when they had been researching Chinese blood wards, trying to nail down the latest victim to be enthralled by the Elder Wand which had refused to stay buried with Albus Dumbledore (and which, upon being reunited with Harry, refused to be parted from him - their attempts to destroy it were still a work-in-progress). He had been disappearing from the cottage quite often, too, recently. The name of the journal didn’t provide much of a hint as to what this could all be about; Advances in the Arcane tended to field a large range of topics, so long as they could all be linked to the esoteric, obscure magics which Harry had found a particular delight in studying sometime after this thirtieth birthday.
As Harry took his tea, she smiled sunnily at him over the rim of her mug, feeling a stirring of long-retired girlish exuberance in her bones. “Consider me intrigued.”
He smiled back at her, and they settled into a companionable silence.
“Hermione,” he said after some time.
“Hmm?” She started, drawn out of thoughts on the schedule she had been planning for the latest brewing order to have come in. Anzam - the Australian and New Zealand Academy of Magic - had begun relying quite heavily on the reclusive ‘Aurelius Snape and his prodigious wife’ for their Nurse’s Wing supplies once it was revealed that they lived quite close and were able to complete enormous bulk orders much more quickly than other potioneers in the region. The orders filled up the time between larger research projects quite nicely.
“Have you been happy?”
“Right now? In general?”
“Either. Both.”
Hermione’s brows lifted. “What’s brought this on, then?”
Harry only gazed at her. Her lips pursed when he seemed not to mind her silence, waiting patiently.
“Yes,” she said after a pause.
“Yes?”
“If you want a more specific answer, give me a more specific question.”
Harry laughed. “You’ve become a right prickly old crone, Hermione.” She rolled her eyes, and he conceded. “Fine, fine. How about the choices we’ve made then? Are you happy with those?” It was an unbroached topic, and Hermione found herself surprised; with Harry and Hermione, there were precious few of those left. She wondered why he had thought to bring this up today, of all days.
“I... I suppose I am,” she finally said, and her left eye twitched at the stutter; it seemed all her youthful ticks were coming to the fore today. She continued more firmly. Unbroached though the topic was, there was much to be said about it that she realised she had never verbalised for him at all. She had always taken it for granted that they seemed to be on the same page, always.
“It was the right choice, leaving Britain after the war, even if… things weren’t the same with the Weasleys, or with anyone else. The both of us… we were different from Ron, or Ginny, or Neville, or Luna. The Wizarding World was never really ours to live in, was it? Only to protect.” Though that wasn’t quite true; the Wizarding World had been Harry’s to protect, but Harry had been Hermione’s to protect.
The man may not have wanted to hear it, but Hermione had spent her formative years with the mantra Harry survives, Harry must survive, Harry survives, Harry must survive seeping endlessly into the cracks of every thought and action she had made. That it had switched from Harry must survive to Harry must be happy after the first condition was resoundingly met was no surprise at all, really.
As much as Harry loved magic, and loved the people he had literally died for, he would never have been happy with the lack of anonymity, the overwhelming demands whenever a new threat arose, or the pressure from all angles to live up to his larger-than-life status. From their year on the run, it had become apparent that Harry felt, to his deeper soul and essence, a duty to help the people he had been raised to sacrifice himself for, but fuck anyone who thought Hermione Granger would leave him at the vicious claws of Wizarding Britain to do it. She had seen too many of them attempt to take a chunk out of Harry, and they would have done so until there was nothing left. She had had enough of them being taken advantage of, and they would continue changing the world on their own terms.
With the broken hearts of their respective Weasleys in their trail, they had left, and had (almost) never looked back.
Harry eyed her, not saying anything. It was one of those rare times where it was hard to gauge what he was thinking, and the only thing she could do was widen her own smile.
“So in that respect, I’m quite satisfied, I think, with the work we’ve done. A close cure for lycanthropy, tackling Muggleborn rights, helping young Aurors. Perhaps if we had stayed, we’d both have a veritable brood of Potters and Weasleys, and be content, but we never would have achieved what we have from here. I don’t think you would have truly been happy, Harry, not being so… beholden to everyone there. A few owls a year from our schoolmates and their children has been a nice compromise, and we’ve improved the lives of so many magical citizens, I hardly think the isolation an unfair exchange.”
Harry still said nothing.
“And in any case, if I weren’t, “ she continued pragmatically, “it’s hardly as if we can do much about it now. We’re rather at the end of our ropes, aren’t we? Even the oldest wizards don’t reach two centuries.”
Harry’s thumb traced the spine of his book absently. “I suppose I ask because we are at the end of our ropes,” he said quietly. “Or, at least, I am.”
Uncertainty, that foreign, old feeling which had fled from her long ago, bloomed in her chest once more, alongside clarity. “Harry, have you been happy?”
“I rather think my answer to be the same as yours,” he said wryly, and she wondered at her own skills at denial that such a revelation, while not surprising, hurt. Still, her eyes were remarkably clear as she nodded resolutely, sounding awfully petulant for one who was coming up to her one-hundred and fifty-first birthday.
“Well, I take it back; it’s not the end of the world. We can finish up all our current projects here, and then go back and finally meet all those miscreants who’ve been pestering us. Neville’s still sprightly too, I hear-”
He looked down at his lap, and Hermione finally saw what it was: the old photo album Hagrid had given him at the end of their first year. It had been flipped back to the first page, where an adoring Lily and James Potter smiled up at their brilliant, accomplished, loving son.
In an apparent non sequitur, Harry said casually, “Why do you think the Deathly Hallows have been gathering? It’s no coincidence that the Wand followed us here all those years ago, and the Stone showing up in January can’t have been an accident, either.” His earlier smile was creeping back. “They’ve lost patience. They’ve waited long enough to be reconciled with their last master, I think.”
Hermione furiously glared at him. “Well, I don’t think! I think they can wait another bloody fifty years! I’ll shove the wand up the next Dark Lord’s arse myself if that’s what it takes to get it away from y-”
His smile was full-blown now, a cheeky grin which seemed to do that which Henrietta Malfoy had wanted a potion for. “Perhaps this is what it’ll take to finally be forever rid of the damn things. We can tick that off of our project bucket list.”
“I can’t believe you’re smiling,” Hermione hissed.
“This is what old people do.” She knew he wasn’t talking about his inappropriate good humour.
“No.” Her fingers were white, clenched around the handle of her mug. “No, Harry James Potter.”
“It’s happening soon, Hermione, I know it. I can feel it.”
She was not crying, hadn’t even felt the tears bubbling up or the tell-tale pressure behind her eyes, but he was kneeling in front of her chair now, tea left cold on the end table. When he looked at her, his eyes sparkled with something that looked too sincere, too accepting, and her anger morphed into panic.
“Without me around, you won’t be anchored here anymore.”
“Harry, you ridiculous buggering man-”
“I want you to be happier. For the long and wonderful time you have left.”
There were still no tears, but her head was racing. She opened her mouth, but there was nothing to say. How could she even articulate herself? No , she would not be happy without Harry, no, who did she have aside from him, no, how utterly selfish of him, the audacity of him to bring this up when she had other things to do, potions to brew-
His weathered fingers traced her face lightly and brushed against a frizzy white curl, cutting her off as effectively as if he had clapped a hand over her open mouth. Green eyes, still as vibrant as they had been that first day, when she had met an eleven-year-old boy eating chocolate frogs on the Hogwarts Express, gazed at her with immeasurable fondness. “I want to be buried at Godric’s Hollow, with my parents. Can you do that for me, old friend?”
A shuddering breath left her, but after two long minutes, she nodded.
. . .
1st August, 2130
Godric’s Hollow
The next day, she delivered on her promise.
There was no weeping involved. As grey as she was, it seemed that anything that might have flowed through the ancient tear ways had dried up, and whatever idea Harry had had about her happiness, she had not had cause for tears in some time. However, that day, kneeling in front of a small plot of freshly-turned earth lined by one nondescript headstone, she truly did feel all her years.
The smooth marble, though handsome, looked no more dignified than any of the others in the all but silent cemetery. It was exactly as Harry had wanted; he had, after all, left the exact wording to be used on a scrap of parchment on his bedside table. Impudent man had been the first thing to come to mind when she had seen it.
HARRY JAMES POTTER
Born 31st July 1980
Died 31st July 2130
Beloved son, friend, and brother
I gladly receive the dreams
which follow in my eternal sleep
She conjured a single lily and sat there for many hours, tracing the lines that made up ‘brother’ with her eyes, committing it to memory. He had been her only family for so long that she felt bereft, a sudden loneliness choking her. Yet, she did not cry. She knew from experience, having sat in on many funerals in disguise with Harry beside her. She had not cried for Ron, nor Ginny or Luna. Not on the day, at least. When it inevitably sunk in days later, that was a different story.
When she finally felt something impose upon the utter ennui she had been wallowing in - a stirring of thought, the need for distraction beginning to sink in - she began the long Apparition back to Potter’s Grange.
The practiced journey through city after city blurred around her, and in her haze, she might not have noticed or even cared if she Splinched herself. However, nothing happened, and when she finally appeared in Auckland, the last jump of Apparition brought her into the home she had shared with Harry Potter. It might have been midnight or early morning by that time, but that was of no consequence. Immediately, boxes were conjured, and she began levitating everything she could find into them, sealing them shut.
It was time to go home. Neville would be ecstatic to hear it.