Broken Strings

Copyright: What elements of this story that I own, and are not the property of anyone else, are licensed CC-BY-NC-SA. That means that you can take anything in this story, up to and including the whole thing, and use it however you like, as long as you promise me three things:
1. You will link back to me (preferably to my author page)
2. You will not make money off whetever you do
3. You will share your work under these same conditions

This is a new project I'm taking on, born out of a weird and twisted mind. It'll be pretty short, looking like 10 chapters right now, and I've got the next two already written and ready to be digitized.

Words of warning: If the idea of Harry and Ginny or Ron and Hermione having kids makes you physically ill, run away. This is fully DH- and epilogue-compliant (with a handful of exceptions), which means that James, Lily, Rose, Hugo, and even Albus Severus are all here. But it won't be a happy story, or a sad story. It's the story of a life, and life is sometimes good and sometimes bad. Hope you enjoy.

Last comment, this chapter contains spousal abuse. If you can't handle that, don't read. If any of what I wrote sounds familiar to you, contact someone; most countries have abuse hotlines. If you or someone you know has been victimized by their spouse and you're not satisfied with my portrayal of the subject, I'm sorry both for your hardship and my disappointing depiction, but I frankly couldn't bring myself to do research.

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Chapter 1: Endings

“It was a beautiful service, Harry.”

Harry Potter grunted in reply. He’d been deflecting comments like that all day, all from people he’d never met but who seemed to be on first-name terms with him. He didn’t understand funerals, really, not even after all these years. He understood grief, god knows he understood that all too well, but as he looked over the crowd of people gathered to, ostensibly, mourn the end of a life, he saw a lot of talking, a lot of laughing, and a lot of the eating of little sandwiches. He did not see a whole lot of grieving.

Another witch Harry didn’t recognize approached, eyes filled with a disgusting painted-on sympathy. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” She told him, her words dripping with untruth as she shook his hand. Harry wasn’t stupid; he was famous, and so was his wife, and they were both rich, so this funeral was really a society event. Harry hated society events.

“Yeah, well, she was old.” He returned bluntly. “Old people die.” The woman blinked in surprise, and seemed more than a little put out, which suited Harry just fine. He didn’t have many pleasures in life anymore, so he had to take them as they came.

The man to his right, the very spitting image of Harry himself as a younger man, elbowed him lightly as the woman passed by, shaking hands down the very, very long line of immediate family. “Dad, be polite.” He hissed. “These people have come to pay their respects to Mum.”

Harry looked back at the crowd. The President of the Holyhead Harpies, the club his wife had played for in her younger days, was chatting up some rich old crone from the Bridge club Ginny had joined when the team finally gave her the boot (and a generous severance package). “The hell they are.”

James Potter followed his father’s eyes. He knew what was going on as well as anyone else did. “I know,” He admitted. “But you have to pretend.”

“I played the game for fifty-five years. Let an old man be.”

“Please,” James pleaded, “If you won’t do it for Mum, do it for the family.”

Harry swore under his breath, looking down the long line of relatives. He certainly had a large one, even if he didn’t talk to most of them very often. Both James and his youngest sister Lily had married, and their kids had married, and so on in the grand Wizarding tradition of marrying young, so that even Harry’s great-grandchildren were starting to conceive children of their own. Some of them were, anyway; Harry squinted at the youngest of his descendants, a young lad of fourteen, and dearly hoped that he wasn’t starting to sow his wild oats just yet.

Only Albus - who had changed his name to Albert literally the moment he turned seventeen, though Harry still called him by his birth name mostly to be annoying – had no children. He had come out as gay, to the great disappointment of his mother and grandmother, when he was in his twenties. It was only Harry’s strenuous intervention that kept him officially part of the family. He gingerly passed his hand over the ancient scar on his right buttock, but still winced. Ginny had been mad that day.

But none of his family knew about that; not even James, who was more privy to his mother’s dark side than most. They all wept, and wept honestly, for the mother and grandmother and great-grandmother they all dearly missed. Harry Potter may have been an angry, bitter old man, but he loved his family and knew how important this was to them.

A curse on smart-assed children.

True to his word, Harry was tolerably polite to the remainder of the well-wishers. Not looking at them helped; eyes on the floor, shake a hand, mumble “Thanks for coming,” and let everyone think you’re sad.

Easy.

It was easy, anyway, until one of the mourners grabbed him into a bone-crushing hug.

“Bloody fucking hell!” He exclaimed, turning more than a few heads his way, as he tried unsuccessfully to escape the maniac who was trying to murder him. “Get the fuck off of me, you stupid tit.”

The attacker tutted him. “I don’t know why I bother; after all the years I spent trying to teach you manners, this is how you greet me.”

“Hermione?” It was indeed Hermione. She looked as old as he felt, but she bore it gracefully, after her own fashion, and wore the same gentle smile she used to wear, when they were both much younger and more foolish, to show him that she wasn’t really angry.

“Of course it’s me; who were you expecting?”

Harry straightened up, but didn’t get far before his back erupted in fire. So much for that. “Sure wasn’t expecting you,” he answered, nodding at the casket, “Considering.”

“Not many Weasleys left to keep me away,” She remarked sadly, casting her eyes down the line of relatives to where Lily Malfoy, youngest of Harry’s immediate brood, was giving her a look of unforgiveable hate. Hermione shrank. “Though apparently still too many.”

“Don’t worry about Lil, Aunt Hermione.” James cut in. He was always the diplomat, so unlike his namesake, and his parents, in every way that Harry often wondered if the boy was even his. Only the uncanny resemblance kept him from questioning too deeply. “You’ve got as much right to be here as anyone.”

Hermione smiled at him, but she looked more tired than happy. She was getting old, Harry knew; they all were. “Thank you James, but I should be going all the same.” She laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder; it was warm, or else he was just cold. “I just wanted to give my condolences.”

“Thanks, Hermione.” Harry said and, for the first and last time that day, meant it.

***

The house was quiet. A small house would have been comfortably still, reposing for the first time after many long years of riot and noise. But Harry Potter lived in a big house, a big and old house passed through generations since his family began; and when big houses get quiet, Harry was learning, they’re as still as death. Even one other person made the mansion bearable, but his wife worked and his children were all together at Hogwarts, little Lily’s first year, so Harry was left alone, suffocating in the silence.

Harry hated this house, and so had his father. Before Harry’s wedding, Potter Manor had stood unoccupied for a century. It was intimidating in its size and emptiness, and seemed much the larger for being full of nothing; the most recent incarnation of the Potter family, all five of them, took up only one wing, and Harry knew for a fact that there were rooms he had never visited. He didn’t care to rectify that.

He padded softly through the corridors, past the sheet-draped statues they had never bothered to uncover, carefully watching for the little uneven areas of the floor that still tripped him up after more than fifteen years, lest he spill his tea. He arrived at the parlour without incident but, for all his prior effort, nonetheless lost his grip on the mug when a female human dropped out of thin air onto his rug.

“HERMIONE!” He exclaimed, rushing to help his old and dear friend up from where she lay groaning on the floor, and was shocked beyond belief when her face purpled under his gaze.

“Harry?” She asked, staring blearily up at him as one eye blackened and swelled shut.

Harry was horrified, but he pushed that to the back of his mind in favour of the more pressing issue: his friend’s comfort. “Come on Hermione, let’s get you up.” She offered no resistance, hanging in his arms as limply as a wet noodle. As soon as he set her down on the sofa, and sat beside her, she came alive and threw herself at him, gripping the front of his shirt as though he were the only thing holding her onto the mortal plane. Harry forced himself to ask: “What happened?”

She could barely speak through the tears that flowed freely and noisily, sobbing in a way that he had never seen Hermione behave. She was Hermione the Strong, Hermione the Indomitable. And she was sobbing into his shoulder. “Ron…” She choked. “He hit me.” A fresh wave of sobs. “I can’t believe he hit me.”

The first thing to go through Harry’s mind, after the initial surprise, was the urge to kill Ron Weasley. Ron was a soft target; Harry hadn’t been an Auror like he had, quitting the training years ago to raise his children, but he had kept in shape and he knew that he could apparate over and break Ron’s neck in eight places before the wanker’s wards even recognized an intruder.

But then Hermione burrowed closer into his side, as if sensing his murderous desire, and he forgot that thought. What was most important right now was the young woman crying into his shirt. He ran his hand through her hair, finding it surprisingly soft, and hushed her soothingly as he had hushed his own children not too many years ago. “Just let it out, it’s okay.”

“Don’t…leave me.” She pleaded, closer to the mark than perhaps even she realized.

“I’m not going anywhere,” He promised, and meant it.

She cried for hours, and when she ran out of tears she went on sobbing those awful choking hiccoughs that tore at the listener’s soul, until she finally fell asleep in his arms. Harry didn’t move an inch, or say a word, except to rub her back and remind her that he was still there. She didn’t sleep for long, and when she awoke she rubbed her eyes and hissed at the contact with her swollen one. “Is Ginny home?” She asked hoarsely, having sobbed her vocal chords away, as she dabbed gingerly at the swollen flesh.

He took her hand and squeezed it, gently removing it from her injury. “No,” He replied softly. “She’s playing a tournament in America.”

Hermione sniffled. “Good. I don’t want her to see me like this.” She looked away, and Harry could sense rather than see the new tears welling. “I don’t want you to see me like this either.”

He took her chin in his hand and gently turned her head towards him. “Then let’s get you fixed up,” He suggested, drawing his wand. “I promise my healing charms have improved.” She smiled at that. It looked painful.

“There, good as new.” His voice rang with a hollow cheerfulness, trying to bolster her spirits and her own and failing miserably. He didn’t keep it up. “What happened, Hermione?”

She swallowed heavily and stalled for a moment under the pretence of checking his handiwork. “I guess you know Ron lost his job last week,” She began when her excuse lost the last of its credibility.

Harry did know; Ron had been implicated in a huge misconduct scandal within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and had been fired very publicly. He had denied the allegations strenuously, but in his less charitable moments Harry wasn’t so sure. He had heard Ron’s boastful stories, and he knew that his friend cut corners everywhere. He was an impressively bad Auror, really, but Harry would never tell him that to his face.

“Ever since then, he hasn’t been the man I married.” Hermione continued. “All he does is drink and eat, and listen to Quidditch on the wireless. Last night, I’d had enough.

“I told him he was being childish, that he would overcome this, and that he should go out and look for another job. He told me he was happier without one.” She smiled thinly. “I might have lost my temper after that.”

“I guess he did too.”

She nodded. “I said some not-very-nice things, but the next thing I know he’s standing over me with his fists up, and then you were picking me up off the floor.”

She looked in danger of crying again, so Harry held her tightly against himself. “You can’t go back.”

“I know,” She responded. “But I have to.”

“Hermione, no!” He almost shouted, and kicked himself when she flinched away. “I still remember some of the psychology we did in Auror training; you and I both know that if he did it once, he’ll do it again.”

She smiled thinly again. “I know, and I know I’m falling into every pattern in the book, but the man I married is still in there. I have to believe I can get him back.”

Harry shook his head. “No. Stay here for as long as you need, forever if you like. Just don’t go back.”

She kissed him on the cheek, but still got up. She was shaky, as though she was unsure how to use her legs, but she waved him back when he moved to hold her. “Thank you for the offer, but it’s time for me to go home.”

“Why?” He demanded, angry despite himself. “You know he’ll do it again; every abuser does. Why do you think he’ll be the exception?”

She paused, and half-turned so he could see the fresh tears rolling silently down her cheeks. “Because I made a choice, and so did you, and that’s the way it is.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

She smiled again. It was a sad smile, a far-away smile that told more in a moment than Harry would know in his entire life. “I’m sorry, Harry.” And she was gone.

Until the next time, and the time after that, and the time after that…

Really, it was inevitable that one day Ginny would be home.

Copyright: What elements of this story that I own, and are not the property of anyone else, are licensed CC-BY-NC-SA. That means that you can take anything in this story, up to and including the whole thing, and use it however you like, as long as you promise me three things:
1. You will link back to me (preferably to my author page)
2. You will not make money off whatever you do
3. You will share your work under these same conditions

I'm back, with chapter 2, much quicker than I’ll be with Chapter 3 (still getting into the routine of posting to FFnet and Portkey). As you may have gleaned from chapter 1, there are two stories running in parallel: one starts in (roughly) 2019, with the Second Generation all in school and the adults' lives falling down around them. The second starts in 2058, with Ginny's funeral. The 2058 story will always be the section before the break, and the 2019 story will always be after. Eventually the two stories will converge, but I'll cut out long years of not much new happening and focus on the important moments only.

For now, enjoy, and don't forget to leave a comment letting me know what you think: love, hate, or "meh."

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Chapter 2: Lies

“What was she doing there?”

Harry groaned. All her life, Lily Potter had been difficult; there was too much of her mother in her, too much of the hard-headedness that occasionally made Harry try to punch holes in random walls. Of all of his children, she had taken Ginny’s teachings closest to heart: the only girl, the youngest child, and the spitting image of her mother in virtually every way. So naturally she hated Hermione, just like Mummy would have wanted. He groaned again; he was too old for this bullshit. “She was there for the same reason everyone else was; your mother’s funeral.”

His daughter frowned. “Mum wouldn’t have wanted her there.”

“You don’t know that.” He returned, unconvincingly. Ginny Potter had been a lot of things, but she had not been forgiving. She had borne a terrible grudge against Hermione since the first time she had come home to find Harry comforting the broken woman, and she pursued it with the same fire that she pursued everything else. He couldn’t prove it, but he knew that most of the hardships in Hermione’s life, after the divorce, had been Ginny’s design. So no, Ginny would certainly not have wanted Hermione to attend her funeral.

“She had no right to be there. She betrayed her family; your family.”

Harry rubbed his eyes, James’ pleading request still fresh in his mind. It was so hard to be polite, even to his own daughter, but he was trying. Oh, how he was trying. “What happened was a long time ago, and you were very young.”

“I still remember what that woman did. I remember…”

“No,” Harry interrupted, loudly. People turned, concerned, but he ignored them. “You were told. Your mother told you, and your grandmother, and Uncle Ron.”

“Are you telling me they lied?” She asked incredulously, as though the idea of the Weasley family telling a falsehood had never entered her mind; in fairness to her, it hadn’t.

Harry cried out, raising his hands to the heavens as though praising some divine miracle. “Of course they did. They couldn’t handle the truth, so they fed you kids that bullshit to keep you on their side.”

She slapped him. Hard. Now, it must be said that Harry was in excellent shape for a man pushing eighty; despite arthritis in his back and hands and knees, he had exercised regularly all through his life, and done Pilates, and cycled, and done generally as much as he could to keep up his physical ability. But he was still an old man, and he was unsteady on his feet – especially on a damp day like this one – and when he was hit he went down.

So that was how Harry Potter found himself flat on his arse in a graveyard, cursing in new and inventive ways. Rather than helping him, as he struggled to use the nearby gravestones to hoist himself back to his feet, his daughter bent low and hissed in his ear: “I’m surprised at you, Harry. ‘Family first,’ that’s what you taught us.”

Harry snorted, and swore again as his foot slipped on some wet leaves. “Don’t blame me for that one: that was your mother’s line. I tried to teach you to do what was right, but I suppose that got blown out of the water.”

Lily straightened, and laughed sardonically. “So now you’re calling Mum a bad parent; that’s awfully rich.”

“She was never fucking THERE!” He yelled, finally dragging himself to his feet. “What the hell else would you call that?”

“I’d call it doing what she had to, for the good of the family. It’s a hell of a lot more than you ever did.”

“Lillian, you have no idea what I did for you kids.”

“Isn’t that typical: Harry Potter the martyr. Save it for someone who-“

“Would you both SHUT UP?” The warring Potters turned, surprised, to see James standing nearby, quivering with anger. “Can’t you two stop fighting for one damned day?”

“Not if he’s going to keep calling our family liars.” Lily replied defiantly, shooting Harry a withering glare.

“Lily, stand down.” James answered her softly, the fight suddenly drained from him. He knew what had happened, as Harry well knew. He had passed beyond the lies and discovered the truth for himself. Harry was proud of his son for that, but he knew that the boy wasn’t going to tell his sister. Sometimes we prefer a lie, because the truth is too terrible to admit; it’s just easier that way. Harry could understand that feeling.

So could Lily, he knew. She was inflamed with passion, staring at James in surprise and anger. Ginny had been her rock, her constant source of guidance and wisdom – of a sort – and learning that she had lied would upturn all of that. She couldn’t bear to see that memory defiled, Harry knew, but knowing doesn’t imply liking. “Are you taking his side?” She hissed at her brother, seething in a way that was so much like Ginny used to.

“No.” He replied, a sense of finality in his voice. “I’m trying to stop the two of you from killing each other in the fucking cemetery.”

It occurred to Harry that a cemetery would be the ideal place to kill someone, what with the convenient disposal implements and well-fertilized soil, but for a change he decided not to voice exactly what he was thinking. He was tired of fighting. He was tired overall, actually, and his arthritis was acting up something awful. He just wanted to get home.

While Harry was thinking all of this, Rose had taken several calming breaths. “Scorpius and I are hosting dinner tonight,” She informed her father in a much more measured, through frosty, tone. “Come if you want to.”

If you want to admit you were wrong, he knew she meant. Several less-than-diplomatic replies passed through his head, but she had disapparated before he could choose his favourite. Only slightly disappointed by not having the last word on his daughter, he instead turned on his son. “Didn’t feel the need to tell her the truth?”

“Today wasn’t the right time.”

Harry knew that. He also knew that, for Lillian Luna Potter-Malfoy, it might never be the right time. He had a hard time accepting that, but he knew it all the same. Of course, as has been previously noted, knowing does not imply liking. “Seemed like the right time to me.” He snapped, lying through his teeth.

James ignored it. “Don’t expect you’ll be coming tonight, then?”

“Smart boy.”

James sighed. “You won’t make things better this way, you know.”

“I’m not going to keep lying about her, James.” He replied, angry. He knew his son understood the truth, that Hermione Granger had not been all that Ginny and Molly Weasley had painted her as. But he couldn’t, could never understand how James could live with that duplicity in his head, knowing the truth but partaking in the lie. Thinking about it just made him more angry. “She deserves better than that, and you know it.”

James looked back at the freshly-turned earth, and the ornate headstone watching over it: an angel with shielding wings. Ginny had picked it out. Harry thought it looked depressing, none the more so because of the inscription it bore. “Don’t we all,” James whispered sadly.

Harry James Potter

1980 –

Ginny Molly Potter

1981 – 2058

***

“What is she doing here?”

Harry groaned internally, careful not to let his frustration show. He had been putting off telling his wife about Hermione’s late-night visits, but as they became more frequent and the Quidditch season wound down, it had only been a matter of time before the two women were both in the house.

At least, he mused, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been; he had gotten up to use the lavatory when Ginny had gotten home to find Hermione asleep on the sofa in their parlour. Had she walked in five minutes earlier she would have found her husband holding another, sleeping woman much more tightly than a wife typically likes to see. Platonic relationship or no, Harry sincerely doubted that he would have survived that experience.

But now his web of unintentional lies was starting to unravel, as such webs often do. He wasn’t exactly sure why he was so hesitant to reveal everything to Ginny; this was the first time in their entire history that he had felt compelled to keep something from her. He had a sense, more than anything else, that she would not respond as he hoped she would. “She just had to get away.” He replied evasively.

Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “Away from what?”

“Just…away. You know what Ron’s like sometimes.” He winced as soon as he had said the words. He really hadn’t wanted to bring Ron into the conversation; Ginny was fiercely protective of her family – Weasley family trait – and in her current, suspicious state she wasn’t going to take kindly to accusations against any member of it.

“Are you saying Ron’s a bad husband?”

Yes, Harry thought, but didn’t speak immediately. How exactly do you tell someone that their brother’s favourite hobby is getting trashed and beating up his wife? “No,” He answered finally, choosing his words carefully. “They’re just having a row; you know how they always manage to push each other’s’ buttons.”

She still looked suspicious, but Harry was relieved beyond measure when she seemed to accept that explanation. The relief didn’t last, however, as she instead switched to a different track. “I’m just not sure I like the idea of you two being alone in the house together.”

Harry blinked. This was new. “Excuse me?”

“It’s just that we haven’t had a lot of…quality time,” She stressed the word ‘quality’ to obscene levels, and Harry caught on immediately, “Since James was born. I understand that men have…needs…”

Harry laughed out loud. He knew it was only going to make his situation worse, but the whole thing was so ridiculous funny that he couldn’t help himself. He could decide the best part: the implication that he may have been having an affair with Hermione Granger – Weasley – in the moments after she had literally been beaten black-and-blue, or that his own wife, even after eleven years and three children, was uncomfortable talking about sex.

Exactly as expected, Ginny did not appreciate the levity of the situation. “I don’t know what you find so funny, but you can’t honestly tell me that you’re not at all attracted to her.”

Harry stopped laughing. She had him with that. Hermione Granger – fuck the ‘Weasley’ – was not unattractive, and Ginny knew that he saw it. She had put on some weight since Hogwarts, the curse of motherhood, but she had worked hard to lose it again, while still managing to keep the advantages pregnancy had provided certain critical areas. It was only in the past month, since her first late-night visit, that she had begun to let herself go. Even that new weight, though, she carried well. In that, as in all things, Hermione carried herself with dignity and good grace.

Ginny, on the other hand, was the only person Harry knew who had actually lost weight since Hogwarts, and that was most assuredly not a good thing. Harry hadn’t seen her unclothed form in quite a few years, but he did her laundry and had noticed both her dress size and cup size steadily decreasing until, he swore, she was shopping from the children’s sections. Harry didn’t think such weight loss was healthy, but when pressed she only told him that it was a natural consequence of being a professional athlete. Harry doubted that very much, he had played Quidditch before and it had never made him inhumanly thin. Either way, the thought made him slightly ill.

“No,” He admitted, trying both to ignore the flash of triumph in her eyes and keep the exasperation out of his voice. “But I’m not going to fuck Hermione; I couldn’t do that to the kids.” Her eyes narrowed. “Or to you.” He added quickly.

“Still,” She began slowly, clearly disbelieving. In her defence, Harry wasn’t entirely sure he believed himself either. “You’re only human; if she and Ron are having problems, how do I know she won’t try to start something?”

Harry laughed bitterly. He almost wished Hermione would start something, anything that would break the unwavering loyalty she still, for reasons inconceivable, displayed towards her husband. It killed him: watching her go back night after night, only to return a few days later. No, Hermione wasn’t going to participate in an affair; she was too stupidly loyal. Gryffindor to the end – though hopefully not literally. “Ginny, trust me: Hermione is devoted to Ron. She would cheat on him if her life depended on it.” And it almost does, he wanted to say but didn’t.

“Then why can’t she work out her problems with him? Why does it have to be you?”

Harry was stunned. He knew why, of course, that was the easy part. But her question had blindsided him, how quickly she jumped from one track to the next. It left him confused, unable to process a response, and vulnerable. He didn’t like being vulnerable. He briefly flashed back to his Auror training, where they had learned how to turn a situation to your advantage. Unfortunately, ‘arguing with your wife’ hadn’t been part of the syllabus. Maybe it should have been.

“I don’t think she needs to be burdening you with her problems.” Ginny continued, a finality in her voice that had been well-learned from her mother: the one that brooked no argument.

But Harry was getting angry. Hermione had been there for him at a time when nobody else was, on more than one occasion. His wife knew that. Repaying that loyalty with abandonment wasn’t in his nature. Surely his wife knew that too. “What am I supposed to say to her?” He asked sarcastically. “’I’m sorry Hermione, you’re on your own’? She needs my help, and you want me to turn her away?”

“Harry. There’s no need to get angry.”

Her calmness. That infuriating, condescending calmness, the tone she would take with the children when explaining something they didn’t quite understand. All of her words were meaningless to him compared to that calmness; it boiled his blood, and he saw red. “Like hell there’s not; she’s my best fucking friend!”

“I thought Ron was your best friend.”

“He lost that distinction when he started beating his wife.”

Shit.

“Is that what she told you?” Ginny asked coldly.

Harry blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that. “What?”

Ginny scoffed. “I can’t believe you don’t see it.”

“See what?”

“Then again, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“See WHAT?”

“She’s making it up.” She answered, slowly, in that damnably patient voice.

Harry’s blood ran cold. Of all the possible outcomes he had considered, this was not one of them. Ginny was denying it. He couldn’t conceive of it, how she could bring herself to ignore what was in front of her eyes. “If she’s making it up, why does she show up covered in bruises?”

“Obviously she’s trying to play on your sympathies.”

“And why would she want to do that?”

“She’s attracted to you.”

He took a second to piece this information together, trying with whatever intelligence he had to see what in the bleeding hell his wife was deluding herself with. “So let me get this straight,” He began slowly. “Hermione Granger, mother, promising politician, and all-around genius, is bruising herself and apparating into our sitting room at unholy hours of the night, bawling her eyes out, in the hope that I’ll have sex with her?”

“See? Was that so hard to admit?”

Harry blinked. Then he blinked again. This could not be reality. This was a nightmare, but it was the worst nightmare he had ever had, and it would not end. All of reality had turned upside down.

But no, this was real. He knew, as twisted as his subconscious was, he could not conceive of this. There was, in fact, a situation so ridiculous that it had to be true, and he was living it. “You’ve gone mental.” He told his wife, finally. Or I have, he thought.

She frowned, clearly annoyed by his refusal to believe her (in her mind) well-reasoned argument. “Why don’t we call Ron and ask him?”

“NO!” He shouted, ten thousand horrible thoughts going through his head. He had always believed divination was a crock, despite the prophecy that had governed his life since birth, but if he hadn’t known better he’d swear that he’d had a vision of the future, right then and there. It wasn’t pretty.

If Ginny called Ron, he would deny it. He would say that their marriage was never better; he would lie through his teeth to his little sister, and she would send Hermione back to him. If Hermione was lucky, Ron wouldn’t believe that she was trying to seduce Harry.

If she was lucky, maybe she’d only go to the hospital.

If she wasn’t, maybe she’d go to the morgue.

“Don’t tell Ron.” He pleaded, begging his wife as she picked the telephone receiver up from its cradle.

“So I was right.” It wasn’t a question.

Harry ground his teeth, the battle warring inside him. On one side, he could make the Lion’s choice and stand by what he knew to be right. It would destroy his marriage, that much he could tell, but he knew that Ginny would deliver Hermione back into the hands of her tormentor, and far worse would befall her there.

On the other hand, the Coward’s choice. Hermione would still be delivered to her husband, but the consequences would be no worse than they ever were, and she had survived them before. But she would never be able to seek refuge with him again. Ginny would forbid it.

There were no other options. Hermione’s parents were dead – an unfortunate side-effect of sending obliviated muggles into an environment that was home to many, many incredibly poisonous creatures – and he knew that she couldn’t put her faith in anyone else. They had learned hard lessons during the War, including one that Mad-Eye would have been proud of them for: Trust No One.

But the decision had been made for him the moment he saw the things that might have been. He had seen Hermione’s lifeless body, laid out on a steel table, and he knew that, for better or for worse, he would rather be a coward than have her die.

“You were right.” He answered in a small voice, defeated.

Copyright: What elements of this story that I own, and are not the property of anyone else, are licensed CC-BY-NC-SA. That means that you can take anything in this story, up to and including the whole thing, and use it however you like, as long as you promise me three things:
1. You will link back to me (preferably to my author page)
2. You will not make money off whatever you do
3. You will share your work under these same conditions

Here’s chapter 3. This is going to be another dark one, I’m afraid, so sorry about that. I promise that it will start to get both cheerier and more Harmonious shortly.

On that note, I got a criticism that I’d like to address publicly. This isn’t exactly typical Portkey fare, a fluffy, perfect love story. This is Life; life is messy, and we don’t always get what we want right away. We make choices, and we suffer the consequences, and maybe we walk out of it with a reward at the end. I debated a long time with myself whether or not to even put this story here, but I decided to partly because it’s probably the thing I’ve written that I’m most proud of, but also because, as I wrote, I realized that is really is a love story, even if it doesn’t seem like it now. I only ask for your patience, and hopefully for your reviews.

WARNING: Contains suicidal thoughts, but no actual suicide.

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Chapter 3: Betrayals

Thirty-eight years, Hermione Granger thought to herself, Is a long time to be away from the people you love. Sometimes she wondered what it would have been like if she hadn’t left, if her infinite patience had been a little more infinite. Would she have been strong enough to survive? Would he have changed her? Was there some secret part of her soul that would have endured, or would she have been crushed under the weight of tyranny? Would she have changed him? Was there still that spark of goodness left in him, and would she have been able to make it burn again?

She didn’t know. She would never know. But she did know one thing for certain, and it was the thing that haunted her, dogged her thoughts, tugged at her conscience, and populated her nightmares: she would have seen her children grow up.

She was a great-grandmother, or so they said; even after so many years the Weasley name captured enough interest for their comings, goings, and romancings to make the papers. She would have been seeing her third generation off on their Hogwarts experience this year, standing by proudly as they took their first, trembling steps into the world, and offering wisdom and support to the parents, in whose shoes she had been many times before. Instead, she hadn’t been to King’s Cross since her son Hugo’s second year. So long ago. The last time she had seen her children.

She brushed the tears from her eyes as the approached the door of the handsome house. That had been many years ago, and she had been punished for it, time and time again. But now, with the loudest voice against her Gone, it was time to right that wrong. She knocked, and waited, and knocked again. The door opened, revealing a narrow-faced man with brown hair graying at the edges; he looked so much like his father, though Hermione knew that was by his choice and no cosmic accident. She had been ecstatic to read the news of her daughter’s marriage, glad that daughter had chosen better than mother. “I’m here to see my daughter.” She announced in words that seemed much too big for even her bravest voice.

He looked at her, unrecognizing, frowning. She couldn’t blame him, it had been a long time, and she had changed. “Sorry ma’am, you must have the wrong house.” He tried to close the door, but Hermione stopped him.

“No, this is my daughter’s house. Her name is Rosalind; yours is Theodore, although you prefer ‘Ted.’ Your parents were heroes of the War, and very good friends of mine.”

Ted’s frown deepened, and then all at once his face relaxed into wide-eyed terror as he realized to whom he was speaking. “Aunt Her-“ He stopped himself, sparing a glance into the house. Hermione could hear voices.

“Please,” She pleaded. “I have to see my daughter.”

Ted pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hermione, I have nothing against you.” He began in a low voice. “I’m sure you had very good reasons for what you did, but…”

“Honey, who’s at the door?” Ted’s advice may have been very good indeed, and knowing his heritage it more than likely was, but Hermione would never hear it. There, in the doorway, was her mirror image. Rose may have been twenty years the younger woman, but she had a weathered look about her, a few more lines in her face and brow, that aged her beyond her years. Hermione wondered how many of those lines were her fault, and where the rest came from, and she felt the urge well up inside of her to hug her baby girl close to her chest and tell her than everything would be all right.

But whatever Rose’s feelings were upon seeing her mother for the first time since childhood, they were most certainly not compatible with Hermione’s. The light, easy smile of a woman content with her life slipped away, replaced by confusion, then recognition, shock, and finally settling on anger. “You are not welcome here. Go away, and don’t you ever come back.” She spat, attempting to slam the door in the older woman’s face.

Hermione stopped it again, wincing as the door bounced off her arm. “Rose, please; let me explain.” A thousand times had she imagined this moment. It had been the only thing to hold onto some days, the only thing worth holding on for. Hermione Granger had wanted to die, and more than once she’d find herself on a chair staring through a coil of rope, or feeling the gentle press of steel against her skin. But she would always get down again, turn the knife away, find some reason to stay tethered to the world. Those reasons were few and far between, but this moment was one: the hope, hope beyond hope, that one day her daughter would understand; that one day, she would be forgiven.

But Hermione couldn’t tell Rose any of this. There aren’t words for some things, for the thoughts that come to you in dark places, for the despair that fills you and spills out of you until even stranger on the street look sideways at you, or for the hope that shines in even when it seems to be impossible. Hermione couldn’t explain to her daughter the endless torment she had endured – from within just as much as without – or she had paid a hundred times for every grievance Rose had against her. These things can’t be expressed, they can only be felt.

But anger can always be expressed, and that was how Rose answered when her mother could not: “Thirty years ago I would have been interested in explanations,” She said coldly, her words chilling Hermione’s soul. “Maybe even twenty. But I’ve done without a mother for this long. I don’t need one now.”

“Please,” Tears flowed freely down Hermione’s face. She had waited so long, given up so much, and endured so much for this moment, but it was slipping through her fingers even as she struggled to hold onto it. “Please, I have to explain.”

“You left us!” Rose choked. She was fighting back tears, Hermione saw, but she was so far away; all the years of non-presence between them, keeping her from comforting her only daughter. “You cheated on dad and left us. There is nothing you can say – NOTHING – to make that right.”

Hermione again found herself without words, though this time it was shock that kept her silent. She had heard the rumours, of course; her fame at the time had been great enough, and the status difference between The Brightest Witch of the Age and Ron Weasley noticeable enough, that the separation had caused endless speculation. Even Harry had been a target, something Hermione was sure Ginny had had some words to say about. But the papers could produce no ‘other man,’ nothing more than idle speculation and vague rumours, or more fantastical claims quickly debunked by happily-married wizards and their happily-married wives. She had expected all of that; it was what tabloids did. What she had not expected, though, was that her daughter – her daughter – would be taken in, that the little girl she had so carefully tried to teach that things weren’t always what the papers made them out to be, would have believed these obvious lies.

“Rose…”

“Good bye, Hermione.” The door closed, and Hermione sunk to her knees at its foot and wept.

She would never see her daughter again.

***

This was it; she had finally done it. It had been so easy, once she’d set her mind to it: leave sandwiches for lunch, take Rose and Hugo to the train, and then go. He wouldn’t even know she was gone until dinner time. The perfect crime, except that she had nothing of her own, no possessions but her wand, the key to her very finitely-stocked vault, a few pounds, and the clothes on her back.

But that was okay, because Harry would help her. Harry would know what to do.

She had never liked Potter Manor. It spooked her. It was old and empty, mausoleum to an era of Pureblood tradition. And it reminded her a great deal of Malfoy Manor. There were things about that house that Hermione would never forget, images that were indelibly burned into her brain, that came to visit when she dared to sleep. The Worst Night of her Life had been spent in a house very much like this one, until the dubious title had been claimed by another. So she was none too pleased to be at the house.

But He was here, and therefore it was where she knew she had to go. She lifted the knocker on the great wooden doors, and waited.

Ginny answered. “Hermione!” She exclaimed, “What a pleasant surprise; what brings you here?”

She didn’t look well, Hermione could see. She had covered herself from head-to-toe, unusual in and of itself for a woman who had once loved to exploit her body, but the skin that Hermione could see was stretched taught over the frame, like butter scraped over too much toast. In the redhead’s hollowed-out eyes, Hermione knew that the two of them had a base understanding of pain, a bizarre sisterhood that connected them, bonded them in ways that no two people should ever be bonded.

But Hermione felt no kinship with Ginny, her sister-in-law no more. Whatever pain she had experienced was far removed from Hermione’s; a world away, so far that there was no modicum of understanding in the younger girl’s head. Hermione knew this: ever since Ginny had found her in the Manor that night, months ago now, Harry had told her that she couldn’t come back. She knew it was Ginny’s influence. She had wanted to hate her, wanted to hate Harry for listening to her, but she couldn’t; she didn’t have the strength to hate anymore. But neither could she trust this woman, the woman who had caused her so much more pain. “Please,” She said, “I need to speak to Harry.”

A dark cloud passed over Ginny’s face. When she answered, it was much less pleasantly. “He’s not in; he went to take the children to King’s Cross. Can I take a message?”

Of course, Hermione kicked herself. She had been so involved with her plan that she had forgotten that Harry would be at the platform as well. But it was too late now. “No, I have to see him in person. Can I come in and wait?” It occurred to Hermione how strange it was that Ginny had stayed behind and Harry had gone alone; that was very atypical, but she decided not to question. She tried to push past Ginny, into the house that seemed safe even to her, when compared with the exposed outside, when Ron could come by any time he felt like it.

But the young woman did not budge. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Ginny, please.”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

Hermione hesitated; she didn’t want to, didn’t trust this girl who had once been her friend. Hermione had never had siblings, but she read a lot about child psychology – read a lot on any subject, really – and she knew the strong bonds that form between siblings of similar ages. Bill and Charlie had been too old, Percy too self-absorbed, the Twins too rambunctious; Ginny and Ron would have had a very special connection growing up, misfits in a family of Misfits. Hermione didn’t know how far that loyalty would stretch. She didn’t care to find out, either, but she saw no other option. She was desperate, she needed to hide. When he found out she was gone, he would be angry. He would look for her, and she needed to be protected. Fine. She would do it. She had no choice. “I left Ron.”

Ginny’s eyes widened briefly, then narrowed. “So you’re going to divorce my brother?”

You can’t get a divorce in Magical England, Hermione thought, and it was true; the world was out-dated in that respect, as in so many others. She thought this, but she only said “Yes.”

“And you want to talk to Harry about this?”

Again, “Yes.”

“Of course you do.”

That caught Hermione off-guard, the matter-of-fact tone in Ginny’s voice and the angry look in her eye. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not stupid, Hermione.” She answered angrily. “I know what’s going on.”

“Then could you explain it to me?” Hermione asked with a small, nervous laugh.

“You’re trying to steal my husband.”

“WHAT?”

Ginny sneered. With her thinly-stretched skin, she looked unsettlingly like a grinning skull. “Don’t play coy; I know you’re attracted to him, you told me so yourself.”

She had, Hermione recalled with a blush and a pang of regret. It had been during a Girl’s Night In, before Rose was born and before any of them were even married, when Ginny had introduced Hermione, Luna, and Hannah Abbott to a muggle drinking game called ‘I Never.’ They had all gotten very drunk by the time somebody – Hermione couldn’t remember who – had posed the challenge “I never fantasized about a man who wasn’t my fiancé.”

Of course, once absolutely everyone had taken a drink they all had to go around the circle and confess their secret desires. Most of them had been quite tame, which made Hermione even more self-conscious when she sheepishly mumbled Harry’s name, wishing she wasn’t too honest to lie.

“Ginny, I’m begging you; I only need a few days to find an apartment and a new job.”

Ginny scoffed. “Sure; and will you have his pants off as soon as I leave for work, or will you not even wait that long?”

“Ginny,” Tears flowed freely down Hermione’s cheeks as she knelt on the doorstep, humbling herself, clasping her hands as though she were at prayer, anything she could think of to keep this one, last door of hope from closing. “You have to believe me, I would never try to take Harry from you.”

“I don’t believe you.” Was the sharp reply.

Hermione was sobbing openly now. Whatever dignity she had hoped to retain was gone as she continued her pleas through bitter, hopeless tears. “Please, I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“How about back to your husband?” Ginny spat. “Remember him? The man you promised to stand beside until death do you part?” She sneered again, and spat directly on Hermione’s head. “Goodbye.” And she was gone.

Hermione lay at the foot of the door for hours, weeping, not bothering to wipe the remainder of Ginny’s last degrading act from her body. She waited, and waited, either for Ginny to change her mind or for Harry to come and deliver her. Morning changed to afternoon, and as her tears finally turned into dry, heaving sobs Hermione left of her own accord, miserable, debased, and utterly alone.

Copyright: What elements of this story that I own, and are not the property of anyone else, are licensed CC-BY-NC-SA. That means that you can take anything in this story, up to and including the whole thing, and use it however you like, as long as you promise me three things:
1. You will link back to me (preferably to my author page)
2. You will not make money off whatever you do
3. You will share your work under these same conditions

This is going to be a long note, so let's dive in.

First, I'm sorry to those who enjoyed this story that it's taken me so long to update. This was a very difficult chapter for me, very emotionally charged and very hard for me to get onto paper. But I did, and here it is, and I hope you enjoy it.

Second, you'll notice that I changed the name of this story. I've done a lot of thinking about it as I wrote this chapter, and I came to realization that this story isn't so much about the consequence of choice (although that's certainly an important theme) as it is about pain, so the new title better reflects that. The title comes from the book "Paper Towns," by John Green (since this book was recently rated one of the top 25 Young Adult novels by NPR, statistically most of you have probably heard of it). John introduces the metaphor of broken strings as a way to explain a suicide, that "all the strings inside him broke." John spends the rest of the book arguing against this metaphor, because it imagines a world where we can be irreparably broken, that once the string breaks you can't tie it up again. I disagree. I think you can tie the strings back up, but it's a very difficult thing to do, expecially with no one to help you. I thought that was appropriate, for reasons that may become clear in this chapter.

Third, on a related note, I'm still really fascinated by the idea of choice, so I'm starting a new project that I'd like some input on. Check out my author page for details.

Lastly, I need to take a break. This was an incredibly difficult chapter for me, and I need to recover from it a bit. I have chapter 5 already written, but not typed, so I'll try and get that up by Monday and then take about a two-week break. It's a fair spot, as it's right in the middle of the story.

On that note, I hope you enjoy the show.

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Chapter 4: Healings

“Fuck.” Harry Potter cursed as he knelt in the flower bed behind his small cottage. He liked the small house, liked it a whole hell of a lot better than the mausoleum he had lived in with his late wife, but he still wasn’t happy. Hadn’t been for a while, in fact. It wasn’t boredom that he disliked, he was used to that; retiring from unemployment was a distinction without much of a difference. It was age. Harry Potter had grown to hate a lot of things as his years advanced, but the thing he hated above all others was getting old. He hated the effect time had on him, hated how his joints protested every action until even gardening, an activity he usually enjoyed very much when it was for his benefit and not Aunt Petunia’s, was a new lesson in pain. “Shit.” He cursed again as his hand cramped around the trowel he was gripping as loosely as he was able. He hated getting old.

“Did you ignore everything I told you about language, Harry James?” The female voice behind him caught him off-guard, but he turned as quickly as his back would allow.

“Hermione.” He greeted, truly happy for the first time in a long while, as he slowly rose to his feet. Not slowly enough, as it turned out as his foot turned on a rock and sparked burning, stabbing, shooting, horrible pain in his bad knee. He let out a terrible cry as he fell to the ground, and then another as his bad knee hit the ground.

“HARRY!” She cried out, and was by his side in a split second. “Are you alright, what happened?”

No, Harry Potter was not ‘alright.’ Ten thousand tiny instruments of torture were stabbing him in the knee, his head was spinning, all the world exploding with pain. “Knee.” He managed to grunt, sweat trickling down his brow from the effort of keeping his composure.

Hermione understood instantly. When hadn’t she? And if anyone would understand this pain, it would be her; he remembered vividly being there when she had thrown her first hip, and how not even her strength had been able to keep her from screaming. But she was here now, under his arm, taking the weight off his bad leg as they stumped along towards the house. It would be difficult to describe how difficult he found this simple action: it’s awfully hard to walk in a straight line when the world is a macabre merry-go-round, just spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning and…

He was dimly aware of a voice, soft and muffled as though it came from miles away. “Where are your drugs?” It seemed to ask. He opened his mouth to answer, but felt the bile rise in his throat and quickly shut it again. “Bollocks.” He heard the voice say, and he felt an inscrutable force patting at his pockets even as his brain gave up the struggle and he slipped into blessed unconsciousness.

He was in bed when he awoke, the pain in his leg reduced to a dull throb and the familiarly bitter taste of pain potions on his tongue. He spat viciously; he hated that taste. He heard someone enter the room, possibly attracted by the sounds of his waking, but he could see nothing but a great dark blur. “Harry?” Hermione’s voice. “Are you alright?”

“Never better.” He replied with a less-than-subtle edge of sarcasm. “Where are my glasses?” On cue, the blur set something on his face and vision returned. And what a vision it was before his eyes, so heavenly and beautiful that he almost – almost – forgot the taste of potion, and felt faint stirrings in places that he hadn’t felt stir in a long, long time: Hermione Granger in his bedroom, dressed in one of his shirts and, as far as his eyes could tell, nothing else. “Er-my-knee,” He grunted, suddenly becoming reacquainted with the foulness of his medication. “Not that I’m complaining, but what happened to your clothes?”

She flushed, adorably, aand drew the collar close about her neck, with the unintended side effect of tightening the fabric in other places. Oh yes, there was definitely stirring going on. “You threw up on them you prat.”

“Ah.” He said. Good on me, he thought.

“Aren’t you going to apologize?”

“Nope.”

She rolled her eyes in the old familiar way and swatted him, lightly. “Men: doesn’t matter how old you get, you’re all the same.” She sat herself on the bed beside him and places a hot water bottle on his wounded knee. Harry sighed, the feeling simultaneously heavenly and Earthly. “You don’t have to flatter me, you know.” She said quietly. “I know I’m old.”

“So am I,” Harry answered. “As you’re so fond of pointing out. But you’ve still got better legs than I do.”

Hermione giggled and extended her leg to compare, revealing tantalizing glimpses of milky thigh. Her legs were unquestionably better. Oh they were old, no doubt about it; with prominent and numerous wrinkles, liver spots, and varicose veins they would never be mistaken for the legs of a young lady, but to him they were still wonderful, and powerful, and healthy. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, indeed. “Okay,” She admitted grudgingly. “You win. But you’re no spring chicken yourself.”

:Kettle, meet pot.”

“I used to be quite the head-turner, I’ll have you know.”

“Turned my head.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

“I wish you’d had the opportunity to fully appreciate it, then.”

Harry was silent. They had been bantering playfully, flirtatiously, but that comment had struck a nerve. How many nights had he lain in bed with his wife, dreaming of brown hair and honey eyes? How many nights after Ginny had moved to a separate room, trying to hide her increasingly shrunken frame from his judgment, had he wished he had married a woman he knew would eat a full meal and hold onto it? How many times had he thought over what he could have done differently? How many times – he felt his throat tighten as he recalled the last conversation he’d had with his daughter, at Ginny’s funeral six months prior – had he cursed the red-headed witch for her poisonous influence over his beloved children, and wished he’d given them a better role model than a shallow, posturing society woman?

“Harry?” She asked, tentatively, no doubt seeing the tears that threatened to break through.” Are you sure you’re okay?” He shook his dead. “What’s wrong?”

“Look at me!” He shouted in a cracked voice, flinging the blanket from his body. She had undressed him – he’d probably thrown up on his own clothes as well as hers – leaving him in boxer shorts and an undershirt that looked comically oversized on his frame, worn as it was by Time. He hadn’t aged well, he knew. He was fit enough, in the heart, but the parts that had once been muscle hung limply and tauntingly from his bones, his skin stretching and sagging. He still had most of his hair, but that was going fast and every morning the shower took more of it away, though his eyes were going so quickly that he soon wouldn’t even notice.

“What the hell happened to us, Hermione?” He asked, biting back angry tears. “We were going to change the world: locking up the bad guys and fixing society’s mistakes.” He looked at his hands, spotty and wrinkled, and tried to make a fist. His arthritis disapproved. “Look at me now: spent my whole bloody life trying to raise three good kids, and playing in my fucking garden. Now my joints are so shot I can barely get to the ground. My daughter hates me, my sons don’t talk to me, my best mate turned into a drunkard, none of my old friends come by anymore.” He turned to her, the tortured expression betraying his pain and anger more than words ever could. “What a bloody waste of a life.”

Hermione’s face glistened, but she spoke with iron in hr voice, the old conviction that he hadn’t heard since they were kids. “Don’t say that. You have so much to show for your life.” He snorted, and she wrapped her arms around his body. “It’s true. A lot of people wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

“A lot of people wouldn’t have been in danger if it wasn’t for me.” He noted drily.

“You’ve saved my life a dozen times.” She reminded him. “And even you couldn’t have caused all of them. You couldn’t have.” She interrupted, seeing his disbelieving look. “And what about your kids? They wouldn’t be where they are if it wasn’t for you.”

“My kids hate me.” He reminded her sullenly. It was a difficult thing to bear. The image of them persisted in his mind, younger faces shining with love and affection. That didn’t happen so much anymore.

“James doesn’t. And they’re still great kids. James is practically a living legend.”

Harry couldn’t deny that. His eldest had joined the Auror academy, just like his old man, but he’d stuck to it. Within a few years the Potter name was back in the headlines, cementing the young man’s place in history with a series of high-profile arrests. His frank and honest manner was a hit with the public, and he was often assigned to public events, probably just so he’d get more face time. He’d been offered the Head Auror position – indeed he was offered it almost annually – but he always turned it down. He wanted to stay where he’d do the most good, he said, and that wasn’t going to be as part of the bureaucracy. That had only improved his standing amongst the public.

“Albert has more courage than anyone I’ve ever known,” Hermione continued. “Ginny didn’t do that, you did.”

He also couldn’t argue with that. There had been an uproar at the Burrow when Al had brought his first date to a Weasley Family Gathering – and it had been a boy. Harry had been the only one not surprised, having learned his middle son’s secret a little over a month prior, and he had also been the only one to defend the boys against Molly’s tirade. He knew the rest of the family didn’t mind quite so much, or as vocally, but they were all too afraid of the Weasley matriarch: the sons still remembered the lessons of childhood, and the wives were too easily cowed by her loud and single-minded manner. Harry alone had shouted back, though it hadn’t made him popular with his wife, and he was proud to say that his son, though no longer seeing that young man, had been in a public, committed relationship for a long time.

“And I head that Lily’s turned out to be an excellent teacher, just like you were.”

Lily had excelled in Potions at Hogwarts, prompting Slughorn to remark at every opportunity how much she took after her father and grandmother. When the old bastard had finally retired, there was no question as to who would take his place. She proved fantastic, as McGonagall (and later Neville) delighted in telling him on the rare occasions he saw the Head. She had a way, it was said to him, of speaking neither too far above the slower students nor too far below the brighter ones, and her tutelage produced generation after generation of the best potioneers anyone could remember. Neville had confided in Harry, during one of their increasingly infrequent happenstance meetings, that he could think of no better person to take over when he retired.

“You might as well face it, Harry.” Hermione concluded. “You raised great kids.”

Perhaps it would be hard to believe, but Harry was comforted by that. He wasn’t by any means proud of his life; he’d done too many stupid things for that, and a constant reminder of his worst mistake was currently perched mostly-naked on his bed. No, he’d made mistakes, but he’d weathered his punishment, had weathered his poisonous wife and his solitude and his own conscience for many, many years. And at the end of it all, he did have something to show for it: his children had turned out mostly free of their mother’s darker tendencies and, though nearly as imperfect as he was, he was proud of them.

He looked up at Hermione, tears in his eyes once again – though tears of happiness, now sorrow. “Thank you.”

She smiled gently. “What are friends for?”

“Just friends?” He asked, with a pointed look at her still-exposed thigh.

She flushed and tugged the hem of his shirt nervously, but countered: “How’s your knee?”

“Better, but still a bit sore.”

She kissed his forehead. “Then yes, just friends.”

He laughed. It felt good. “And when I get better?”

“Then we’ll have to see if you can keep up with me, old man.”

“Oi, that was a cheap shot.”

“Are you going to punish me?”

“I might just…”

***

There was nowhere in the world quite like muggle London. The ebb and flow of the crowds, the symphony of the traffic, the peculiar rhythm of the heartbeat of the city; this was one of the few things Harry Potter enjoyed about unemployment, one of only a handful of things he would miss if he ever got a real job. He knew he wouldn’t, of course, his resume had gone a bit sparse since 2002 when he had suddenly taken a new job, going from “Auror-in-training” to “Stay-at-home Dad.” Ginny had made a strong case against him working once James had been born: he had been fighting dark wizards all his life, she said; he deserved a break, she said; when the kids were grown up he could go back to it, she said.

But, of course, that last one had been a lie. He knew he was unemployable now, at least for any job of substance. Not now, after twenty years, when his particular set of skills had dulled into nothingness. But he had let himself be talked into it. He certainly didn’t have to work, not with the fabulous wealth that paid for his enormous house, but he didn’t like being idle. Idleness was when the tingling came back.

He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs. He couldn’t make Ginny understand that, couldn’t explain to her how visions of the War haunted him like a waking nightmare. She hadn’t seen what he had seen, heard what he had heard. Done what he had done. Felt what he had felt. She was still innocent, in a certain way, Whole in a way that he would never be again. Was that why he had married her? Harry didn’t know anymore, but he had once drawn comfort from her Wholeness, trying to convince himself that there was a way to repair the strings that had broken loose inside his soul. But she could never understand. Not really. He was Other, now; part of a horrible club of pople who knew what is was to Hurt in ways that Healers couldn’t touch. It was something he shared with few; only one who was still unhealed.

He winced at the thought of Her. Hermione had disappeared a month ago, with no warning given, and little asked for. Harry alone knew what she had suffered through – he alone knew and cared – and whatever Auror’s instinct he had left told him there was a connection between that pain and her abrupt disappearance. He had wondered, once, whether Ron was to blame, whether he had finally drunk one too many, finally pushed her too hard, finally crossed the narrow line that separated abuser from murderer.

The papers, at least, didn’t wonder. Ron had released a statement saying that she had been prone to leaving and returning at odd hours, conveniently leaving out the self-incriminating portions of his tale, and the Prophet had run with it. Chief among false witnesses, they had fabricated an elaborate fantasy, unquestioned by any, in which Hermione pursued wealthy wizard after wealthy wizard, all while raising the children of her fellow War Hero, her blinded-by-devotion husband, the long-suffering Ron Weasley.

Bullshit.

Harry knew it, as would anyone who truly knew Hermione Granger. But the last of those who would were now gone, off to begin their Next Great Adventure. He was reminded of his fifth year, when lies had been printed about him, and how he had been all but cast out of society because of it. It made him angry. Things had broken. Expensive things.

But Ginny had convinced him not to retaliate. She had made sense at the time: who would believe a rebuttal, even from the Great Harry Potter? And who would print it, given the Prophet’s known tendency to suppress conflicting viewpoints? At best, nothing would change. At worst, he would be discredited, and unable to be any good to her. No, the best way to help Hermione was from behind the scenes. So said Ginny, and Harry had believed her. But it’s hard to help someone who can’t be found.

Part of him was upset that she hadn’t come to him, hadn’t trusted him to keep her last secret, or to help her. But another part of him knew that he didn’t deserve her trust. He could have done more, should have done more to protect her. Fear had kept him from doing what was necessary, and now she was gone. For good, as it seemed. It gnawed at him, the guilt feasting on his soul, not knowing where she was but knowing that whatever she was suffering was his fault.

“Spare some change, sir?” The voice made Harry turn. It was familiar, someone he knew well, but different, just different enough that he couldn’t place it. His eyes scanned the crowd with practiced precision, for the first time cursing the vastness of the mob. “Spare some change, sir?” Female voice. He narrowed his sweep, now he could tell the general direction. “Spare some change, sir?” There, he’d found her: a small figure, bundled in ragged cloth, huddled over a Tube grille for warmth, a filth-encrusted hand outstretched in search for some meager shred of human decency, face obscured by matted brown hair.

Brown hair.

The blood froze in his veins. The symphony of London fell away, and all there was in the world was him and the Woman. How could he have mistaken her? How many times had he observed the slouch of her shoulders, the line her bones made against her skin, the magnificent architecture of her hands? He knew immediately who he was looking at, and the realization churned his stomach until he thought he would be sick right there. “Hermione?” He asked in a low, strangled voice, so quiet that not even the people nearest him turned their heads.

But she did. He saw her look up, saw her honey eyes take him in, and saw Fear in her. Fear of him, Fear that he had seen what she had become, what she had been reduced her. He moved to her; he could not accurately perceive the motion as walking, it was rather like floating, and he knelt before her. Her eyes never left him. The Fear never left her eyes. He saw his hand rise up and brush a strand of hair out of her face, saw how it clung to his finger and hand limply when he pulled it away. “Where’s your wand?” He heard himself ask, stupidly.

“I sold it.” She answered quietly, liquid Shame welling in her eyes. Harry felt himself break, an ancient and visceral feeling deep inside of him. He felt Oblivion wash over him, the horrible emptiness of the world, personified by the miserable, broken creature before him. He no longer thought, he merely acted, standing her up and vanishing with an ear-splitting crack that would later be attributed to a structural fault, investigated, and then forgotten.

The pair rematerialized outside of a modest cottage, nestled deep in the woodlands. Harry knew the history of the house, though he did not at that moment much care: it had been in his family for a long time, the Goblins said, a hunting lodge from the days when wealthy families still had hunting lodges. He didn’t know why he had maintained it, at first, but he had done so and felt it important that Ginny not find out about it. Sometimes he would wonder what it would have been like to live there, instead of the mausoleum that was Potter Manor. He found that he enjoyed the thought very much, though he knew Ginny would not approve of such rusticness, so it had turned into his refuge, his Safe Place. So it was to the Cottage that he brought her, setting her on a chair in the kitchen and starting a can of soup boiling.

His actions were mechanical, unthinking. He merely Did, and what he Did after starting the soup was dampen a towel and begin cleaning her face, wiping away the grime and the tears and the shame. But he could not wipe away the Eyes, her eyes, eyes of despair and pain and soul-numbing emptiness. He knew those eyes, for they were the eyes that had peered out of mirrors at him in the days when Hope died in him. He recognized the eyes, but he did not recognize her, or hardly. He could not fathom Hermione in defeat, and yet here she was, broken. Or maybe it was the Mask that had broken, the Hermione the Brave and Brilliant Hero washed away by suffering until all that remained was Hermione, neither a hero nor brave nor brilliant, but a girl.

Her face clean, he retreated to the bedroom and returned with some of his clothes, all he had that he thought she could wear: a pair of jeans and a simple t-shirt. She began to change, neither of them caring that the other was there. What was modesty, now, when the doors to the Soul had been laid open for them both to see?

The soup boiled, and he attended it while she stripped the skin of her life-that-could-have-been and redressed in the memory of his.

Finally, as she ate the soup with the same mechanical motions that he had used in preparing it, he had to ask: “What happened?”

“Nobody would give me a job.” She replied after a long, soupy pause. “Not since I left Ron.”

“You left Ron?” He almost shouted, kicking himself when she winced.

“Over a month ago. I came to your house.” Her voice cracked. “September first. You weren’t there.”

And then Harry understood. “Ginny sent me on a vacation; I was gone for a week.” She had been insistent about it; said he had suffered too much over the summer. It had been difficult, to be sure: James had found his first girlfriend, and was only interested in being locked in his room with an owl and sufficient parchment for his designed; Albus had hit puberty, reaching that curious age when he was young enough to know everything and old enough to refuse to be told any different; Lily had been over the moon after her first year, forcing Harry to spend what time he had left either monitoring her to make sure she wasn’t using magic or listening to her incessant, mile-a-minute recanting of every single second she spent in the Castel. He had been frazzled, to say the last, but nothing he hadn’t survived before, but Ginny had all but packed his bag for him. He was taking that vacation, whether he wanted to or not. And now he knew why.

She had known. He didn’t know how that was possible, how his wife could have predicted Hermione so perfectly, but he knew that was how it must have been. But to what end? He didn’t know. He knew only that the woman he had married, who would once have risked her life to defend her friends, was gone; she had been replace by a mockery, devoted to Image and Appearance. And she had brought him down with her.

“Harry,” Hermione began in a small voice, barely disturbing the air between them. “Why weren’t you there?”

“I made a mistake.” He answered weakly, but the simple admission of that galvanized him. He had made a mistake, he had made the wrong choice. But he had been given a chance, She had been given a chance, to begin to repair the damage he had caused. “Stay here, for as long as you need.” She opened her mouth to protest. “No arguments. It’s my fault you were out there. You’ll stay here. I’ll come back with food and better clothes. I’ll…”

“Stay with me.” She interrupted, finally breaking in with what she had meant to say.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He answered gently, taking her hand in his. “Supplied can wait until tomorrow.”

She shook her head. “Not just today; not ever.”

He paused. It wasn’t so bad of an idea. Nobody else knew about this place, except the goblins and they weren’t very talkative. No one would find them. Visions of green-eyed children with bushy brown hair danced in front of his eyes, and for a split second he smiled. But then brown shifted into red, and the smile died. He could be happy with her, he knew, but the guilt would destroy him. He could not leave his family; she had made the choice, but he could not. He had made his life and, for better or for worse, he had to lie in it.

She must have seen the answer in his face because she nodded, neither satisfied nor disappointed, and the two of them sat together in the oppressive silence, trying and failing to take comfort each other in what time they had left.