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Hermione Potter-Granger prided herself on having an iron will.
She had, after all, survived being friends ( and later lovers) with Harry Potter for more than two decades. She’d endured Ron’s tendency to leave his socks everywhere like they were horcruxes. She had lived through the actual war, time travel, and explaining basic wizarding governance to reporters who insisted she smiled more.
But nothing — absolutely nothing — had prepared her for the cultural sickness known as I Married a Death Eater!
A soap opera.
A wizarding soap opera.
A wizarding soap opera that glamourized toxic relationships, terrible life choices, incoherent plot twists, and, in Hermione’s words, “an alarming misunderstanding of how murder trials work.”
Every Thursday evening at 8:00 pm sharp, her living room became a warzone.
Harry, Ron, and Ginny gathered like cult members. Snacks were prepared. Blankets. Butterbeer. And the minute the opening musical sting played — a suspiciously dramatic orchestra that sounded like someone had hexed a harpsichord — all hope was lost.
Hermione would stalk through the room with a book under her arm and say, “Honestly, you’re grown adults—” but no one listened.
They were too busy shrieking at the screen.
It started innocently enough.
Years earlier, Harry had accidentally walked in on Ginny watching it after a Harpies match. The episode had featured the main character — a wide-eyed witch named Maribella Moonpuff — dramatically discovering that her mysterious, emotionally unavailable husband Horatio was actually a former Death Eater from the Midlands (the show said this in italics; no one knew why).
After Harry watched Maribella slap Horatio while dramatically shouting, “YOU SAID YOU WERE A DARK WIZARD ENTHUSIAST, NOT A DARK WIZARD!” he was hooked.
He binge-watched five seasons in a week.
He had opinions.
He made charts.
He wrote on the walls in marker like he was solving a crime.
Hermione had walked in, read “Horatio’s REAL motive???” with twenty arrows pointing to a drawing of a goat, and had threatened to levitate him into the sun.
Then came the Guest Star Incident.
The show’s producers, thrilled that Harry Potter publicly tweeted (well, Owled) about the show constantly, invited him to cameo.
“Just a small role!” they said.
“Nothing big!” they promised.
“It’ll be fun!” they assured.
Harry, who had the self-preservation instincts of a wet leaf, agreed before Hermione could tackle him.
He only learned his role after arriving on set.
“You want me to WHAT?” Harry said, staring at the script.
The producer, a chipper man wearing robes patterned with falling rose petals, beamed. “You’ll be playing Voldemort!”
Harry stared harder.
“Disguised, of course,” the man added quickly. “In a memory sequence. Very artistic. Lots of fog.”
“Why would Voldemort be in a marriage counseling flashback?” Harry demanded.
The producer sighed, rubbing his temples. “Harry… it’s a soap opera.”
-The Filming-
Harry had worn a bald cap that never fully stayed on, prosthetic cheekbones sharper than cursed daggers, and a nose putty charm that kept failing every time someone yelled “CUT!”
He also had to speak entirely in sultry whispers.
(Sultry Voldemort, Ron said later, was something he could have gone his whole life without experiencing.)
In the scene, Maribella experienced a dramatic vision while peering into a cursed teacup — Voldemort swirling in the steam, sighing dramatically about how “love is the real Unforgivable Curse.”
Harry delivered the line perfectly.
Too perfectly.
The crew applauded.
Ginny cried laughing.
Hermione briefly considered filing for magical emancipation.
-The Aftermath-
When the episode aired, the wizarding world lost its collective mind.
Teenagers reenacted the foggy monologue on TikTok-cauldron.
Memes appeared — “Voldemort But He’s Soft™.”
Someone wrote an academic article titled The Dark Lord as Sensitive King?
A very confused historian asked Hermione for comment.
And Harry?
Harry watched the episode six times in one night.
He claimed it was “for research.”
Hermione did not believe him.
Present Day — A Thursday Evening
Hermione arrived home from work, stepping through the fireplace with a sigh.
She dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and froze as she saw the living room filled with:
– Ron wearing a shirt that said “TEAM HORATIO”
– Ginny holding a bowl of popcorn the size of a cauldron
– Harry on the sofa, eyes sparkling with unholy anticipation
– A gigantic poster of his Voldemort cameo hanging above the mantle
Hermione closed her eyes. “Why do we own that poster?”
Harry grinned sheepishly. “A fan sent it. It felt rude not to display.”
Hermione opened one eye. “You hung it next to our wedding photo.”
Harry: “I mean… balance?”
She groaned. “I’m going to my study.”
But as she turned, the TV suddenly blared with the opening theme.
“Previously… on I Married a Death Eater!”
Hermione paused.
Her resolve wavered.
The narrator’s voice was too dramatic. Too ridiculous. Too compelling.
“…Maribella discovered that her husband’s long-lost twin — who is also his clone and possibly her cousin — may not actually be the villain he appears…”
Hermione muttered, “That’s genetically impossible,” but her feet betrayed her.
Ginny smirked. “Come on. One episode.”
Ron shook the popcorn bowl enticingly.
Harry patted the seat beside him like he was calling a cat.
“Just sit,” he said, eyes crinkling with affection. “Tonight is the season finale. They promised a big twist.”
Hermione hesitated.
Because she knew — she knew — that she was above this.
She was an adult.
She was an intellectual.
She was—
“THE GHOST OF VOLDEMORT RETURNS!” the narrator thundered.
Hermione dove onto the couch.
“MOVE,” she said, elbowing Harry so hard he wheezed.
Ron cackled. Ginny offered her popcorn. Harry wiped a tear from his eye, whispering, “I knew you’d crack eventually.”
And so, gathered together like a family of highly unwell magical pigeons, they watched absolute narrative insanity unfold.
Hermione screamed at the screen more than anyone.
Harry clutched her arm for emotional support.
Ron shouted, “CALL THE AURORS, YOU LUNATIC!”
Ginny yelled, “MARRY THE CLONE, MARI, HE’S BETTER FOR YOU!”
Hermione yelled, “STOP USING LOVE POTIONS AS A METAPHOR, THIS IS IRRESPONSIBLE STORYTELLING!”
And somewhere, deep down — though she would never admit it aloud — Hermione felt a guilty, fleeting affection for the whole ridiculous show.
Even for the infamous soft Voldemort scene.
Especially for the way Harry beamed every time someone mentioned his cameo.
After the Episode
Hermione, breathless, pointed dramatically at the screen as the credits rolled.
“That plot twist made no sense,” she said. “I hate this show. I hate it. I hate every second of it.”
Harry slung an arm around her shoulders. “You love it.”
“I do not.”
“You yelled louder than Ron.”
Ron: “Oi! I contain multitudes.”
Hermione crossed her arms. “I only watch it to monitor cultural decline.”
Ginny snorted. “Sure.”
Then Harry leaned down, whispering: “They asked if I’d come back for another cameo.”
Hermione’s head snapped toward him.
“Harry James Potter,” she said slowly, “if you play sexy ghost Voldemort, I will hex your eyebrows off.”
Harry grinned like a man who absolutely would.
Ron tossed popcorn into his mouth and said, “Hell yeah, he’s doing it.”
Ginny fist-pumped.
Hermione pressed her hands over her face. “I should’ve married Krum.”
Harry laughed, kissed her forehead, and said, “Too late. You married a man who starred as Voldemort in a soap opera.”
Her groan was drowned out by the theme music playing again for the “Next Week On…” teaser.
And despite herself — despite every ounce of dignity she possessed — Hermione leaned forward, eyes narrowed.
“OH COME ON,” she shouted, “THE CLONE WAS POSSESSED BY WHO?”
Harry high-fived Ginny.
Ron fell off the sofa.
And the living room filled with the kind of laughter that made absolutely everything, even bad television, feel perfect.