Chapter Text
Prologue – Bondi, May
The war was over. But peace had yet to make itself known.
For a couple long weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione stayed at the Burrow. The Weasley home, usually bursting with warmth and noise, had become a quiet, aching place. Fred’s absence was felt in every room, every silence, every too-polite smile. It hung in the air like dust that refused to settle.
Ron was grieving in the only way he knew how: by trying to be useful, by helping his mother, by staring blankly out the window when no one was watching. He was kind to Hermione, sometimes even tender — and one night, aching and exhausted, they crossed a line they couldn’t uncross. They lost their virginity to each other quietly, almost without ceremony, two young people clinging to a brief illusion of comfort in a world that had fallen apart.
But even in the midst of that intimacy, Hermione felt something missing. Ron was consumed by loss, and rightly so. But she too had lost something precious — not a brother, but the very core of her identity. And no one seemed to notice.
Not even Harry.
They had always known about her parents. She had told them, months before the war reached its final crescendo — how she had altered their memories and sent them to Australia under new identities, just in case things went wrong. They had nodded, accepted it, perhaps admired her for the sacrifice. But they had never understood it. Not truly.
Ron had a family to bury and console. Harry had Ginny, and the entire wizarding world clambering to shake his hand. And Hermione? She had silence. No one had asked if she was going to retrieve her parents. No one had offered to go with her. Not even Harry, who — more than anyone — she had thought would see her.
She had always believed that she was his family, too.
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When Neville Longbottom handed her the Gringotts transfer scroll, she nearly dropped it.
“This is too much,” she’d said, voice shaking. “I can’t accept this.” She said, even though she was negotiating the sell of all her books to pay for the muggle plane ticket after trying to secure a free portkey in the midst of chaos, didn't work.
Neville had merely smiled. “You saved my life more than once, Hermione. Let me return the favour.”
He not only paid for her travel to Sydney — he arranged for her to have an open line of credit with the Wizarding Bank of the Southern Hemisphere. He also contacted St. Mungo’s counterparts in New South Wales and secured a place for her parents at St. Brigid’s Hospital for Magical Trauma. Luna, ever serene, had insisted on joining her. “You’ll pretend you don’t want me there,” she’d said dreamily. “But you’ll feel safer if I come.”
And she had been right.
They arrived in Bondi in the end of May. Her parents — Daniel and Emma Granger — were still living under the identities she had crafted for them: Wendell and Monica Wilkins. Their dental practice was thriving, their elegant townhouse overlooking the coast pristine. Their rental in Bondi. They remembered everything about their lives, they remembered their wealth — except her.
The process of restoring their memories was delicate, harrowing even. St. Brigid’s had seen cases like this before, but never one quite so deeply laced with love and guilt and war. For weeks, Hermione worked side by side with the mind-healers. Sometimes she watched from the doorway as her mother sat in a daze, unable to place her own daughter. Other times she wept into Luna’s shoulder, trying to explain how it felt to be erased from the hearts of the two people who had once loved her most. They were renting a small flat that Luna didnt let her pay for.
But slowly — gently — the cracks began to mend.
Her mother remembered first. It came not in a flash, but in a breath. One afternoon, as they walked along the Bondi promenade, Emma reached out and took her daughter’s hand.
“You always hated the sun,” she said, frowning slightly. “Hermione. My Hermione.”
It wasn’t perfect. Her father came around a few days later, confused at first, but overwhelmed by the weight of emotion when he finally recalled her as a child — all wild curls and books clutched to her chest. He broke down in the middle of their kitchen. She held him as he sobbed.
They forgave her. Completely. Not because they agreed with what she had done, but because they could see what it had cost her. And they were her parents. That was enough.
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By mid-June, she had settled into a rhythm.
When Luna left (Hermione's parents got to meet her with their memories full) and things settled, she stayed with them in their home, a bright second-floor space filled with books, plants, and the salty breeze of the Pacific. Her days were spent in quiet therapy, in long conversations with her mother, in rebuilding trust not just between them, but within herself.
She received letters. Ron wrote, haltingly, unsure of what they were now. Harry’s letters were more formal, always brief. Hope you’re well. Things are busy at the Ministry. Ginny sends her love. He meant well, she supposed. But it felt like he was speaking to someone else entirely.
Only Neville and Luna truly understood. They wrote often, sent little enchanted parcels with flowers that didn’t wilt and self-stirring tea. Luna’s handwriting looped in elegant spirals. Healing is like stargazing underwater, one note had read. You can’t force the clarity. You have to float until it comes to you.
And it was beginning to come.
She swam every morning. Her skin grew sun-warmed and freckled. She helped part-time at the local Muggle library, quietly shelving books and answering questions about Jane Austen. Sometimes she dreamed of Hogwarts, and the dreams no longer made her wake in a sweat.
She got closer to someone. Her body was still alive. Things were lighter.
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In late July, an owl arrived — sleek, midnight-black, with a seal from Hogwarts.
Professor McGonagall’s letter was handwritten and warm. The school would be reopening that September. The reconstruction was nearly complete. And the new Board — eager to right the wrongs of the last year — wished to invite Hermione back to complete her final year.
We would be honoured if you would return as Head Girl, McGonagall wrote. You are, after all, the embodiment of what it means to carry both courage and knowledge through adversity.
There was a pause in her heart when she read those words.
In another envelope came a formal notice from the Ministry: Hermione Jean Granger had been awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class. A hero’s honour. With it came a sizeable monetary award. She tried to use it to repay Neville, and he refused with a firm smile.
“You’ve earned every Galleon and more. Spend it on something that brings you joy.”
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And so she stayed a little longer. Walked along the edge of the sea with her parents. Helped her mother prepare Sunday roast, Muggle-style. Wrote a few letters back. Avoided others.
Hermione knew she would return. To Hogwarts. To Britain. To everything that had changed.
But for now — just for a little longer — she was healing.
She was still Hermione Granger.
But she was no longer broken.