Chapter Text
“And what do you think of the predictions that you are on track to be the youngest Minister for Magic that the wizarding world has known?”
Hermione blinked twice. This was actually a very common question. After a cursory waltz down memory lane, most interviews turned quickly to her professional achievements over the past three years: So, you were the brains of the “Golden Trio.” Tell me about what that was like…Defeating Voldemort at such a young age...that must have been terrifying! And how is your continued romance with Ronald Weasley?
Suddenly aware of the perplexed expression on the heavily made-up face of the Daily Prophet reporter, Hermione cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Apologies, would you mind repeating the question?”
The confused expression remained on the reporter’s face as she repeated the question. Hermione could already imagine the headline: Hermione Granger: The Brains of the “Golden Trio” Cracked at Last. Taking a deep breath in through her nose, she slowly exhaled as she redirected her attention to answering the question that had now been asked twice.
What did she think of the prediction that she would be the youngest Minister for Magic?
Immediately after the war, Hermione ignored the pleas from Harry and the Weasleys to take some time off to “process and heal” (Molly’s words). When Hermione received word of a special NEWTS level testing session organized by McGonagall for the students whose education was disrupted by the war, she dropped all other responsibilities beyond occasionally feeding herself and devoted herself to studying. Well, “disrupted by the war” was the way it was phrased in the letter that Hermione received, which seemed to her to be the understatement of the century.
Predictably, Hermione performed exceptionally well on her NEWTS and had her pick of careers within the Ministry, although most departments were more interested in her name and cultural significance than her magical capabilities. In another predictable move, Hermione chose to join the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures in the newly founded Office of House Elf Relocation. Since then, her tendency to work eighty hours a week and her voracious commitment to perfection in her work had guaranteed her rapid rise through the department. Last week, at the age of twenty-two, Hermione had become the youngest Ministry department head when she accepted the role of Head of her department.
As Hermione saw it, working was a series of homework assignments (many of which unfortunately required collaborating with less than capable people who were not willing to put in the time to do the job well) that were rewarded financially rather than with a glowing report card. It felt natural to continue to push herself just like she had as a student at Hogwarts. Now that she thought about it, very little had changed since then.
“Ms. Granger?”
Hermione’s eyes snapped back into focus. The women in front of her had moved past confusion and well into irritation at this point. She plastered a smile on her face when she noticed that she had Hermione’s attention again.
“Yes. Well. In response to your question…” Hermione began, but it seemed that her mind was insistent on holding her attention for a little while longer. Something about this question was bothering her. Did she doubt her capability to succeed as Minister for Magic? No, not particularly. Hermione was a realist, and knew that she possessed the capabilities that would make her a successful Minister for Magic. But, did she want to be Minister? That was the question.
“Ms. Granger, I apologize, but is there a problem?”
Once again, Hermione found herself yanked back to the present, where she was currently being interviewed for a front page feature on her historic professional accomplishments. But, unfortunately for the now irritated and impatient woman sitting in front of her, Hermione had no plans to complete the interview. If there was one thing that Hermione had learned as a child stuck in the middle of war, it was to trust her mind. It was the only thing that had kept Harry and Ron alive all those years. In this moment, her mind was trying to tell her something important, and she knew she needed to go somewhere quiet where she could give it her full attention.
Standing abruptly, Hermione sighed. “Yes. There is a problem. I am in the midst of a life-changing train of thought that you keep interrupting. I am going to leave now. I hope that you have a lovely rest of your day.” Quickly grabbing her rust colored knit cardigan from the back of her chair and the small beaded bag that she still carried everywhere, Hermione strode out of her office.
Mere minutes later, Hermione found herself in a small park in Muggle London where she had once seen a particularly memorable rose garden surrounding some scattered stone benches. Wrapping the chunky cardigan around herself, she sat not on one of the benches, but on the low stone wall that separated the flower beds from the gravel path. Now in uninterrupted solitude, she let herself surrender to the train of thought that had been previously interrupted.
Where had she left off? Ah. Did she want to be Minister? It seemed to be a very straightforward question, but for some reason it made her feel a queasy anxiety that she hadn’t felt since the days leading up to the final battle. That was the last time that Hermione was faced with an outcome that she could not predict. There was no way to know if Harry would be successful, if they had been correct in guessing the number of Horcruxes… Hermione had spent every moment since it was announced that Voldemort was finally dead ensuring that she would never again be faced with the unknown. Studying for her NEWTS, she knew that she would be successful if she put in the time and effort. Working for the Ministry was predictable; if you were successful in your job, there was a promotion waiting for you on the other side. Moving into Grimmauld Place with Ron, Harry, and Ginny was the epitome of predictability, as they fell into familiar patterns of behavior that had been established over the years living together in Gryffindor Tower. Her romantic relationship with Ron was predictable: he was content to spend time with Harry when she worked until 8pm every night as long as Sunday mornings she was present at the Burrow for brunch with the Weasley clan. Their sex was predictable: five minutes of kissing, five minutes of foreplay, where Ron would fondle her breasts while Hermione used a vibration charm on her wand to bring herself to orgasm, followed by eight minutes of penetrative sex in either missionary position or doggy style on birthdays and special occasions. Predictable motions with predictable outcomes.
But, this word, want, was bothering her. Upon closer examination, Hermione came to the rather sudden realization that she had not considered want for, well, a long time.
Pushing herself to her feet, Hermione began to walk, exiting the park and passing the quiet storefronts and simple, brick townhomes. The street was quiet, which meant that she could continue walking without the distraction of dodging other pedestrians.
For so long, her wants and desires were pushed to the side because of the war and her obligation to the greater good of the wizarding world. But the war was over now. Things were relatively peaceful in the greater wizarding world now. Helping Harry and keeping him alive had required her undivided attention during her years at Hogwarts. Of course, one could argue that the community of magical creatures had benefited greatly from her advocacy, but she wondered briefly if they required the same singular focus as her previous cause.
Had Hermione ever stopped fighting?
Hermione looked up, finding that her feet had taken her home to Grimmauld Place. After quietly whispering the incantation, the dull brick facade scraped into view. Hermione quickly climbed the stairs to the front stoop and burst through the front door.
_________________________________
When Ron Weasley stumbled out of the dark marble fireplace of Grimmauld Place at exactly 5:03pm, Hermione was pacing. She had spent the last three hours doing the things that normally brought her peace and quieted the nudging anxiety: taking a bath with a lavender potion designed to relieve stress that Neville had sent her for Christmas last year and re-reading the comfortable and familiar pages of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. When none of that had worked, she changed out of her professional robes into some linen drawstring pants that her parents had sent her from Australia and a worn jumper of no significance beyond its comfort, and, as a last resort, she had drank a quarter of a bottle of Ogden’s Firewhisky.
She continued pacing, a tumbler of Ogden’s in one hand, as she watched Ron magically clean the Floo dust from his dark auror’s uniform. Ron had stopped growing when they left Hogwarts, but he still loomed large over Hermione. He had a patchy dusting of red hair on his face, which was tanned and freckled from weekends spent playing Quidditch at the Burrow. Beyond the facial hair and the way his stomach slightly protruded over his belted pants, there was little evidence that Ron had aged. As his blue eyes looked up, Hermione stopped pacing, tilting her head, taking him in as if he were a curious scientific experiment.
Ron started. “Blimey, ‘Mione. What are you doing home so early?”
“Drinking,” Hermione replied very matter-of-factly.
Ron looked appropriately concerned. “You. Home before eight. Drinking. Is everything alright?” He moved towards her, a hand stretched out to reach her. A gesture of comfort.
Without thinking, Hermione held up a hand, signaling for him to stop. She turned away from the obvious hurt that showed in his eyes at her silent rejection of his affection. “No, Ronald. Everything is not alright. I have come to the tragic realization that I have no desire to be Minister for Magic.”
“Alright...well that’s alright, isn’t it?” Ron looked at her like he did not understand the severity of this realization. “You just got this promotion, isn’t that enough for now? You can think about what comes next later.”
“But that is the problem! I do not know what comes next. I don’t know what to work towards. I don’t know what to strive for. I have no purpose!” Hermione’s hair had an unfortunate tendency to react to her moods, and all of the effort of magically straightening it that morning was negated as wispy curls sprung up around her face.
“It’s going to be alright, ‘Mione. You’ve got me, and Harry and Gin. We are here for you.”
Hermione pursed her lips. “What do you really want, Ron?”
Ron looked startled, even offended, at this remark. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” The telltale red flush began on the sides of his neck.
“Damn it, Ronald. Don’t be dense. I mean, what do you really, truly want in life? What do you want your future to look like?”
Ron paused at this, absently rubbing the back of his hand under his scruffy chin as he considered her question. Quietly clearing his throat, he replied. “I want this, ‘Mione. What we have: life with you, spending time with Harry and Gin, time with my family, maybe a family of my own someday…” He glanced up at her, “...hopefully with you.”
Hermione was not surprised by his answer. It made sense that in the wake of the war, in the wake of losing Fred, Ron’s priorities had centered around his family and community, appreciating their company and companionship above all else. It made complete sense.
What did not make sense was Hermione’s aversion to her role in this future. Honestly, she had avoided imagining a future with Ron. She got up each morning, and there he was on the other side of the slightly lumpy mattress that they shared. It was predictable. But what Ron was putting into words now; marriage, children, forever...that was not something that Hermione liked to think about. In fact, she felt the nausea rise to her chest as she thought about it.
“‘Mione?”
Ron was looking at her, a questioning look that registered as she remembered that he had just laid his heart and soul on the floor in front of her. She met his gaze, momentarily soothed by the familiarity she saw there. But the longer she looked, the more she was filled with dread.
When she opened her mouth to speak, Hermione was surprised when a dry sob escaped rather than the logical words that her mind had prepared for her. To her continued surprise, she sank to the floor, clutching the tumbler to her chest as the dry sobs became a torrent of tears and gasping breaths. Her whole body shook, and from a distance the logical part of her observed that these symptoms resembled those of a panic attack, but that did nothing to curb the water streaming down her face.
Ron sank to the floor in front of her, gently prying the tumbler out of her hands that were eternally cold, and after gently setting it on a coffee table, he quietly enveloped her, drawing her huddled form against his broad chest. The smell of him - warm, stale coffee and fresh baked muffins - surrounded her. Familiar. Safe. A known outcome.
Her breathing slowed. The tears still streamed quietly. Gently, Hermione pushed herself away from Ron’s embrace until she sat with her legs crossed directly in front of him, their faces only six inches apart.
Looking up at him, Hermione spoke quietly. “Today, a reporter asked me what I thought about the prediction that I would be the youngest Minister for Magic. I couldn’t respond. I have been living my entire life focused on the next achievement, the next predictable outcome, and I have been living this way since I came to Hogwarts. It is what makes sense to me. But I don’t want to be the Minister for Magic. I have already spent my childhood devoted to fixing the problems of the wizarding world. But what do I want? I haven’t thought about what I want since I chose between getting an owl, rat or cat in Diagon Alley. I don’t know what the fuck I want, and that thought terrifies me.” She took a deep breath, repeating “I don’t know what it means to want, Ron.”
Ron’s fingers twitched where they rested against his black trousers, before coming up to rub his chin in that gesture of thought that Hermione was so familiar with. “Well, ‘Mione, what do you want to do about it?” His voice was quiet, displaying the rare patience that Hermione loved.
“I don’t know.” This was the truth. Her life existed in a set pattern, and this particular upheaval fell outside of the typical schedule of events. “I don’t think that I can ignore this, Ron.”
Ron crossed the distance between their folded legs, rubbing gentle circles on the side of her knee with his thumb. “Bill and Fleur have been wanting us to go see them at Shell Cottage. That could be a nice place to go for a change of pace. I know you have the holiday time built up at work since you never take any time off...”
“I need to be alone,” she blurted out, surprising herself with the conviction in her voice.
Once again, the hurt was instantaneously evident in Ron’s eyes. He withdrew his hand, and Hermione immediately felt the absence of his touch.
“Alone.” Ron’s voice was quiet.
“Alone.” Hermione confirmed, nodding hesitantly.
“Why?”
“I don’t know, Ron. I feel like my world has suddenly been turned inside out and I don’t recognize it. I need to figure out what I want away from all of” she waved her arms around her, gesturing from him to the rather empty walls of the Grimmauld Place living room “this!”
“So, you need time away from us. From your family. From me.” The flush returned to his neck, a sure sign the quiet patience that Hermione loved was rapidly being replaced with the irrational temper that Ron was best known for.
“No, Ron. There is a distinct difference between me needing time for myself and needing time away from you. What I need is the space to look honestly at things without you trying to influence my objective observations.”
Ron scoffed. “I don’t see the difference. Either way, you want to leave me to go off somewhere and make a major life decision that directly affects my life too! You can’t leave me in the dark with this, ‘Mione.”
The longer this conversation went, the quieter Hermione’s logical mind became. On any other day, Hermione would diffuse the tension by leaving the room, giving them both the time to cool down before attempting to resume the conversation. However, on this particular day, it was too late. They were both on their feet, attempting to prowl around each other while also dodging the haphazardly placed furniture that was scattered around the room.
“It isn’t always about you, Ron! I have spent most of my life devoted to keeping you and Harry alive, with little to no consideration for my own well-being. I think I have earned the right to be selfish for once after keeping your asses alive for so long!”
“Oh, there it is! The “brains” of the Golden Trio! What would we have done without you to make all of the “big girl” decisions and keep us alive?” The flush was now moving up Ron’s cheeks, and his voice had raised beyond a volume that was comfortable to use indoors. “You have always thought that you were better than us, when without Harry and me you never would have made it at Hogwarts. Even now, our whole life centers around you, around your routine, around what you need. Get over yourself, Hermione.”
Hermione bent down to pick up her half-full tumbler of Ogden’s from the coffee table and promptly drained the whole glass without looking at Ron. Slowly, she turned her gaze to him, her eyes dark.
“Fuck you, Ronald.”
She turned and left the room, climbing the stairs to the room that she had shared with Ron for the past four years. She took the time to firmly shut and lock the door behind her before walking into the room, taking in the neatly made bed covered in a red quilt that Molly Weasley had given them for Christmas two years prior, the pile of dirty laundry that surrounded the empty hamper next to Ron’s dresser, the framed magical photographs of their friends and family.
Coming face to face with the floor length mirror that was leaning against one of the few sections of wall not occupied by bookshelves, Hermione paused, taking in the reflection staring back at her. Her hair had returned to its natural state: wide curls spread over her shoulders, barely covering the peaks of her breasts. With a small frown, she noted the dull brown of her hair was not unlike the color of the prized pillow case that Kreacher still wore that likely dated from before the first wizarding war. Her skin was pale, seeming to stretch tightly over her bones, and shone with a vague purple hue typically associated with the ill and elderly. Overly carved cheekbones, boney chest, protruding hip bones, and the stark blue veins; all evidence of Hermione’s tendency to forgo most meals in favor of the accomplishment of completing her to-do list. All in all, it was a rather bleak picture; the witch staring back at her with mousey brown eyes seemed to be barely scratching the surface of living.
Wordlessly, she waved her wand with precise and practiced motions, all of her clothing and possessions shrinking as they slipped into her beaded bag. She shuffled through a small drawer in the desk that sat under the dark window, stopping when she found an envelope with her name scrawled hastily on the front of it. Flipping it over, she read the return address:
Casa di redenzione
Crema, Province of Cremona, Italy
She gnawed at her bottom lip as she stuffed the envelope into her back pocket. Ignoring the photographs that covered the middle of the book shelves, Hermione finished removing her stamp on their shared space by removing all of her books. In spite of the quiet rage that coursed through her veins, she was careful to preserve their organization by genre as they too went into the beaded bag, which was still magically extended to hold an entire home’s worth of belongings. Dropping the strap over one shoulder and pulling on her beat-up trainers with her spare hand, Hermione grasped the door handle and yanked it open.
Ron hovered outside of the room, his own turmoil evident in the redness of his face and the shifting of his weight from one foot to the next. Bracing herself, Hermione looked up into his eyes.
“‘Mione,” he began, but Hermione interrupted him.
“I am going to visit Neville. He has always said that I would be welcome to visit him at the, well, farm or hotel or whatever exactly it is.”
Ron exhaled heavily through his nose, looking up at the ceiling and away from her.
“I am leaving right now,” Hermione continued. “Before I can change my mind.”
Ron’s eyes found hers again. “How long?”
“I have no idea.” Hermione fiddled with the hem of her worn jumper, the reality that she was about to go to an unknown place with an unknown outcome to face an unknown future beginning to catch up with her. As the rage dissipated, the anxiety replaced it.
“Well then. I guess that’s that.” Ron’s voice was cold, detached.
“I guess so.”
At this point, Hermione felt like she was trying to outrun the anxiety that was threatening to overtake her. She had to get out. She had to leave while she could, before the logical part of her mind reminded her of every reason why this was a terrible idea, why Ron was safe and good, and why wanting did not matter.
Hermione put her head down and brushed past Ron, speeding up to a jog as she went down the stairs and moved towards the fireplace. She barely registered the sound of Ron’s footsteps following her. Grabbing a handful of Floo powder, she turned so that she was standing in the dusty fireplace looking out into the room. Ron stood there, looking at her, his expression a mixture of rage, disbelief, and sadness.
Hermione paused, her hand poised to throw down the handful of Floo powder, poised to leave for the unknown. “Are you going to ask me to stay?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
She could see the tears spill out of Ron’s eyes as he looked back at her. “Would you stay if I did?” His voice matched hers in volume.
Closing her eyes, Hermione threw the Floo powder down. “Ministry of Magic!”