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It started with toast.
Burnt on one side, just the way she liked it. He scraped it onto her plate, watching the butter melt in slow streaks. She was humming something quiet and borderline tuneless at the window. Her back was to him, hair twisted up, a few wisps clinging to the curve of her neck. She had always been this way in the mornings: half-present, a little softer around the edges. Perfect.
Harry places the plate beside her elbow. “Eat before it gets cold.”
She turned toward him, her smile like sunlight. “Thanks, love.”
He sat across from her. The toast on his plate was golden and untouched. She tore off a corner of hers and popped it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. He watched her fingers—still calloused from the years at Hogwarts and the trials she stood beside him in.
“I was thinking,” she said after a moment, “maybe blue for the bridesmaids?”
He blinked. “Weren’t we doing gold?”
“That was last week.” She arched her brow. “Try to keep up, Potter.”
He laughed under his breath. It felt rusty in his throat. “Blue it is, then.”
She grinned. “Excellent. And I want Luna to walk down with Ron.”
He nodded, though he hadn’t thought about the wedding much. Not really. There was no dress picked out. No decor ideas, save for the ones she scribbled in old journals and tucked in the memory chest at the end of their bed.
But none of that mattered when she looked at him like this.
“Oh, here,” she said, standing from the table and tugging his arm. He relented, following her to a drawer where she pulled out a few pages of parchment. “I got a rough draft of the guest list. Look through it to make sure I haven’t forgotten anyone.”
Harry’s eyes scanned the pages, the names on the lists he would have suggested, and no names on the list he would suggest removing.
“That sums it up,” he said, handing her back the list. She smiled, pulling him to sit on the rug in their small living room. “Now?”
“No time like the present,” she chirped as she grabbed a half-empty bottle of ink and the wedding invites from the counter. She scattered the envelopes and guest lists between them like leaves, moving to sit cross-legged. Harry copied her.
Hermione begins to write in her careful, slanted script, pausing every so often to blow gently on the drying names. Harry did his duty and read out the names and addresses, watching her brows furrow as she tried to make the script as neat as possible.
Almost an hour later, the pile of addressed invites was larger than the unaddressed ones. She finished off another envelope, pausing to shake out her hand.
“We have enough, right? I haven’t done Bill and Fleur yet.”
Harry flipped through the stack, counting how many are left and now many names haven’t been crossed out yet. “Yes, more than enough.”
Her quill scratched lightly against the paper, rhythmic and sure. Harry blinked at the guest list in his hand. The names swam a little—Seamus, Dean, Neville—and his chest pinched a little.
“Here,” Hermione said, passing him a spare invite and envelope. “Just in case.”
He took it. Their fingers brushed. She was always warm.
“You should write to McGonagall,” she went on. “She won’t come otherwise.”
“I know,” he said. “Just…”
“Just what?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Just weird, that she’ll be there. At our wedding.”
Hermione laughed, quiet and fond. “Why? Because she used to assign you detention and now she’s watching you try to dance?”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll lead, don’t worry.”
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Something about the way she held the quill, the way she kept dipping it even though it hadn’t run dry, made his chest feel too tight. The room smelled like parchment and lavender, just like always, and yet…
He didn’t remember picking out the ink. Or buying the parchment. Or how they’d decided on this exact shade of blue for the cards.
He looked down. His own handwriting filled half the pile. But he didn’t remember writing any of them.
“Harry?” He glanced up. She was watching him now, brow furrowed just slightly. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Just tired.”
And just like that, she started packing the cards away, stacking each one with gentle precision, like she was folding up the moment.
“What are you doing?” he asked. She didn’t even stop.
“You said you’re tired. We’re taking a break.”
And, if it were possible, he loved her even more.
They ate dinner on the couch. Leftover stew with warm bread. The wireless buzzed low in the background, some old Celestina Warbeck song filtering through static. Hermione curled beside him with her legs beneath her, head resting lightly on his shoulder.
“I’m glad we’re doing this,” she murmured.
“Doing what?”
“All of it. The wedding. The quiet life. After everything…” Her hand drifted down, finding his. “It feels like a second chance.”
Harry nodded, but his throat tightened. He didn’t trust his voice.
She always said things like that—second chance, fresh start, healing. Maybe they were healing. Maybe this was what healing looked like.Long days and handwritten invitations and the sound of her breathing beside him.
Still, there were moments. Quiet things. Like how she never seemed to sleep. Or how her tea never steamed. Or how she only ever ate when he was watching.
He stared at their joined hands. Hers looked solid. Felt solid. Warm.
But sometimes, in the corners of his vision, she seemed to blur. Like he was trying to remember a dream while still inside it.
Later, in bed, he lay awake listening to her breathe.
The sound was steady. Real. Soothing.
She shifted, curling into his side, arm across his chest.
“Do you think we’re ready?” she asked softly.
“For what?”
“For forever.”
He closed his eyes.
“I’ve wanted forever with you since we were fourteen.”
She smiled into his shirt. “Then what are you afraid of?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to say it—that he was afraid of waking up.
That part of him already suspected he had.
He was back in the rubble. Not an active battlefield, exactly, but the aftermath of one– stone scorched clack, books torn to a pulp, the smell of blood and ash thick in his throat. He was running, lungs burning screaming her name into the smoke.
Hermione.
There was a wand in his hand. Broken. Useless.
Hermione.
He found her at last, half-buried under the shattered arch of the Astronomy Tower. Her eyes were wide and blank. Her fingers twitched once, then stilled. He dropped to his knees, clutching her shoulders, shaking her.
“Please. Please, not you.”
And then she opened her mouth.
But it wasn’t her voice. It was Voldemort’s.
“Why do you keep pretending?”
Harry shot up with a gasp, drenched in sweat.
The room was dark, moonlight bleeding through the curtains. His hand gripped the sheets like a lifeline. His chest was heaving. His scar didn’t burn, but his heart did.
Then, a soft voice right beside him:
“Harry.”
Hermione sat up slowly, hair falling around her face in sleepy curls. She touched his arm– lightly, then firmer when he didn’t respond.
“Hey,” she whispered. “It’s okay. It’s just a dream.”
He blinked at her. She looked the same as always. No blood. No dust. Just Hermione, warm and alive in their bed.
“You were crying,” she added, brushing his cheek with her thumb. “You haven’t done that in awhile.”
His throat clenched. “I saw you die.”
Her hand stilled.
He hadn’t meant to say it. The words spilled out, unfiltered and raw.
“I saw you,” he repeated. “In the rubbled. You weren’t breathing.”
She moved closer, wrapping her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder. Her voice was a soft murmur against his skin.
“But I’m here.”
He didn’t hug her back. Not right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the far wall, where a crack ran from ceiling to floor. He hadn’t noticed it before.
“You’re safe,” she said. “I’m safe. We’re safe.”
It sounded like something he would say, if the roles were reversed, If she were the one haunted by the past.
Slowly, his arms folded around her. He held her like he was afraid she'd vanish.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Her breath tickled his collarbone. Her fingers made soft circles along his spine– something she used to do during exam season, back when his worst nightmare was failing Potions.
But now, her touch didn’t soothe. It only held him, like a pause.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
She shifted just enough to meet his eyes. “For what?”
He swallowed. His throat was dry. “For waking you up. For dragging you into it.”
“You didn’t drag me anywhere.” Her hand moved to his chest, palm flat above his heart. “You miss parts of the past, Harry. That’s normal. We all do.”
“But it wasn’t just the past. I think…” His voice cracked. “I think part of me doesn’t believe this is real.”
She didn’t flinch, or laugh, or argue.
“What makes you say that?”
He hesitated.
“I don’t remember yesterday,” he admitted. “Not really. I don’t remember what we had for dinner, or if I ever bought that parchment. Or how long it’s been since we left the house.”
She sat back slightly, just enough to look at him full-on. “We’ve been through hell,” she said gently. “Your brain is allowed to forget the quiet days. That’s not a crime. And it doesn’t make them any less real.”
He nodded. It made sense. She always made things make sense.
But wasn’t that the problem?
He looked at her—her perfect, steady face in the dim light— and realized she didn’t look tired or aged or worn. Not like he was.
“You always say the right thing,” he said before he could stop himself.
“Maybe I’ve just learned how to love you in all the ways you need.”
The silence after that was enough to choke him.
She curled back into his side like nothing had cracked open between them. And he let her. He held her.
But he didn’t sleep.
Not that night.
And not the one after.
The Burrow felt bigger than he remembered.
It always did, after the war. There were fewer voices now. Fewer footsteps on the stairs. Mrs. Weasley still fussed over the tea, still scolded the kettle like it could hear her, but even she has lost some of her volume.
Harry sat across from Ron at the kitchen table, nursing a chipped mug of tea gone cold.
“She wants to do blue for the bridesmaids,” he said, smiling faintly. “Changed her mind again.”
Ron looked up slowly.
“She?” he echoed.
Harry nodded. “Hermione. And she’s set on you walking with Luna, by the way.”
Ron didn’t speak for a moment. He stirred his tea. Once, twice, three times counterclockwise.
Then, softly, “Hermione would’ve loved nagging me about that.”
Harry’s brows furrowed. “‘Would’ve’?”
Ron looked at him again, and in that look was something exhausted. Familiar. Old.
Grief.
It settled into Harry’s chest before he could stop it.
“I mean,” Ron started, then stopped. He ran a hand through his hair, now flecked with early grays. “She always loved planning things. Bossing me around. Even if she pretended not to.”
Harry opened his mouth. No sound came out.
The clock on the wall ticked far too loudly.
“You know, I still hear her sometimes. In my head. Telling me to fix my posture. Stop slouching.” He exhaled. “She’d hate how quiet it’s gotten.”
“Ron,” Harry said urgently. “She’s—she’s at home. She’s been writing invitations. You’re on the list. She said—”
“I know what she said.” Ron’s voice was almost too gentle. “I know.”
Harry’s fingers tightened around the mug. His stomach turned.
“Why would you say it like she’s gone?” he asked, voice cracking. “Why would you—”
But Ron didn’t answer.
He just reached across the table and rested his hand over Harry’s knuckles. Solid. Heavy. Real .
And Harry realized– this wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. It wasn’t even the second.
Ron squeezed his hand once and let go.
Harry didn’t say anything else.
He stood and made his way to the floo network, avoiding Ron’s eyes.
The house was silent when he returned.
Too silent.
Harry closed the door behind him and stood in the foyer, waiting to hear her voice. A greeting. A laugh. Even the crack of the kettle.
Nothing.
The kitchen was empty. The dishes from breakfast were gone. No toast crumbs. No butter knife.
He moved through the house like someone walking through a dream, hoping she’d appear around the corner, tie loose, hair pinned up, asking where he’d gone off to without telling her.
But the rooms were still. Undisturbed.
He found himself in the attic without thinking. The old trunk– their memory chest, filled with memories too personal to keep at the bottom of their bed– sat beneath the window, its brass hinges dulled with age. Dust filmed the top like frost.
She never let it gather dust.
Harry knelt and unlatched it with trembling fingers.
Photographs rustled inside. Old Hogwarts essays. Ribbons from ribbons past. A copy of Hogwarts: A History , first edition, spine cracked down the middle.
He dug deeper, desperate now. Not for something specific, but anything that would tell him that she was still here.
Then, he felt it.
A small, folded clipping. Slightly yellowed. Fragile.
He lifted it out slowly.
The paper was brittle. The headline blurred at first.
But then it sharpened.
IN MEMORIAM: Hermione Jean Granger
Beloved friend, brilliant witch, tireless advocate for justice.
Killed in the Battle of Hogwarts, aged eighteen. Survived by–
“No,” he whispered.
He read it again.
And again.
And again.
A sound escaped his throat– half a sob, half a laugh, choked and raw.
He clutched the obituary to his chest. His fingers shook.
Behind him, the floorboards creaked.
He turned.
She was standing in the doorway of the attic. Barefoot. Her hair was down, loose around her shoulders. She looked like she always did on a quiet Sunday– soft, familiar, the way he’d let himself remember her.
But now—now—he saw it.
She wasn’t breathing.
There was no rise and fall in her chest. No shadow beneath her feet.
And her eyes—still brown, still warm—were too still. Like she knew. Like she’d always know.
Harry didn’t speak.
He didn’t move.
She took one slow step toward him, then paused.
And for a moment, neither of them said a word.
He wanted to reach for her. He wanted to scream and fall into her arms and pretend none of this was real.
But that’s what he’d been doing, hadn’t he?
Pretending.
The clipping crumpled in his hand.
She gave him a look then—something between a smile and sorrow. And in that look, there was forgiveness.
And love.
And goodbye.
She didn’t fade with fanfare.
She didn’t vanish in a flash of light or a gust of wind.
She just wasn’t anymore.
One moment there. The next, gone.
Like she’d never been there at all.
The attic was quiet.
Dust floated through the air like falling ash. The late afternoon painted the floor in long gold streaks, soft and aching.
Harry sat there for a long time, the clipping clenched in one hand, the other resting where she stood.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t move.
Not until the sun dipped below the horizon. And in the dark, finally—finally—he began to cry.