Patron (Harry Potter AU) (Complete)

Chapter 60: Resolution

The Dark Mark flared up, lit by all the colours of the rainbow. Black smoke rose from it. Yennington jerked and opened his eyes. Then he screamed. And kept screaming as he thrashed, his flailing arms and legs knocking the extinguished candles around.

Hermione Granger was grateful that she didn’t catch more than a glimpse of the Death Eater’s expression before his head jerked back and his face was hidden in the shadows cast by the glowing mark. When he finally stopped screaming, she was exhausted, spent. And relieved. And she felt guilty.

She didn’t know how much time had passed. How long it had taken the man to die.

“L-lumos!”

The tip of her wand lit up, illuminating the room. Yennington was on his side, sightless eyes staring at the floor. His entire left arm was blackened. The Dark Mark was gone, replaced by a rotting hole down to the bone. The stench of burned flesh, and worse, hit her, and she retched, then vomited right next to the corpse, until nothing but bile came out.

Wiping her mouth, she cast a Bubble-Head Charm, then gulped down the clean air it produced until she felt better. Standing up on shaky legs, she pointed her wand at the corpse.

“Evanesco!”

Yennington’s remains disappeared. It took a few more castings to remove all other traces of the ritual, and she almost collapsed at the end, but it had to be done. She couldn’t leave any reminder of what she had done. Her memories were bad enough.

She had killed every marked Death Eater. She had destroyed a soul.

And she had saved Harry.

*****​

Ron Weasley screamed as he cast a Piercing Curse at the dark witch who was torturing Harry. His spell was absorbed by her shield, as was Neville’s Cutting Curse. And Ron’s Bludgeoning Curse. And Neville’s Reductor Curse. Bellatrix was laughing, her wand pointed at their screaming friend. Her entire front was covered in blood, dripping from her robe.

“Confringo!”

His Blasting Curse hit her shield, and he saw it waver. So did the witch. She whirled around, facing Ron and Neville, and her face split in a crazy grin while her wand flew up, pointing at them. Ron jumped to the side, rolling behind the Headmaster’s desk.

Neville wasn’t as quick or nimble, and Ron heard him scream in pain. He popped up behind the desk and sent another Piercing Curse at the witch. Her shield shattered, but before he could cast again, a flick of her wrist threw the desk into him. His own Shield Charm shattered, but it stopped Ron from getting crushed against the wall.

Neville though, was in a bad way. His left arm was shriveling, his hand blackened and twisted, while he writhed on the floor. Ron’s friend all but jabbed his wand into his arm.

“Diffindo!”

Neville cut his own arm off! Ron saw blood spurt from severed arteries.

The dark witch was cackling with glee. “Ohhh! Little Neville cut himself up! How clumsy! Do you need a hand?”

She had recast her Shield Charm, and Ron’s next two spells were stopped by it. But he had caught her attention again. For a moment, Ron thought time slowed down. The dark witch was turning towards him. Behind her, Harry was stirring and Neville was casting something at his stump while the blood kept spurting out. Her wand was raising, jabbing towards him. He was about to slide down behind the desk, but knew he wouldn’t be fast enough.

Then Bellatrix froze and screamed. Her left arm lit up and started to smoke.

*****​

The Dark Lord Voldemort had a link to Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived! If he had known this… and now they boy was being tortured by Bellatrix, and Voldemort could feel Potter’s pain. It was just a pale shadow of what the brat was suffering, but it was distracting. As distracting, he thought, as the fact that Bella was torturing the boy instead of killing him - had she fallen that quickly to the influence from the wand?

He couldn’t dwell on either thought, not in the middle of a battle with Dumbledore. A wave of his wand raised another wall, and temporarily shielded, he sent Fiendfyre at the balcony Dumbledore was standing on.

His werewolves and Death Eaters - those who had not fallen to Dumbledore’s spells - had engaged the teachers and Aurors. Even without Steinberg’s wands, they would provide enough of a distraction for him to finish Moody and Dumbledore’s brother. With those wands… he grinned.

A quick glance confirmed that the Fiendfyre he had unleashed was still confined to the balcony. The magnificent basilisk formed out of cursed fire twisted back and forth, its gaping maw seeking more fuel, but unable to progress, held back by continuously shifting, growing stone walls. He grinned. That would keep his old foe busy while he slaughtered the worms around him.

Moody had crushed his walls in the meantime, and the old Auror was coming at him, a snarl on his mutilated face. Voldemort, in a body far younger and nimbler, sidestepped the man’s first volley of curses and retaliated with some curses of his own. The man’s Shield Charm shattered, and a Piercing Curse struck Moody’s good leg while the Auror jumped to the side, behind debris.

The Dark Lord sent a few Blasting Curses at Dumbledore’s brother, driving him into cover, then aimed his wand at the debris.

“Supra Onus!”

The charm had been developed by a follower of Grindelwald, to blind and deafen a target by overloading their senses. It had been a failure, its effect far too weak to justify casting it. But the Dark Lord had power to spare still, and Moody was famous for using an enchanted eye. Voldemort heard the tough old Auror scream, and smiled.

“Bombarda!”

The debris blew up, shredding Moody and opening a crater two yards deep. It also killed a few wolves, but taking out the veteran Auror was worth their lives, and more. The rest of the wolves and Death Eaters were pressing the enemies hard. Mostly. He saw Flitwick kill one of the wolves with a charm that was only not banned in Britain because it had been a family spell of a now extinct line. He idly wondered how the half-breed had learned it while sending a pair of Killing Curses at the diminutive teacher. They were intercepted by two walls rising from the floor - McGonagall’s work.

Snarling himself, he turned the stone she was standing on into a field of spikes. She screamed when her legs were pierced, but when he sent another volley of curses at her, she changed into a cat and the spells passed her. She wouldn’t escape though, another…

His shield flared when several spells hit it. He dodged to the side, only to find himself in the middle of a oil slick, which went up in flames right afterwards. Dumbledore’s brother had flanked him, and taken out a few Death Eaters on his way.

Enough! He ignored the fire; his robe’s protections would keep it from harming him. He didn’t have to fight like those worms! He had the power to shatter the wards of Hogwarts, he could crush them like the bugs they are! He was the Dark Lord Voldemort!

He jabbed his wand at the ground.

“Terra Unda!”

A circular wave of stone and earth rose around him and rushed away, tearing up the ground and crushing everything in its path before smashing against the walls of the school, breaching them in several spots.

The wave had left broken wizards and witches and animals in its wake, many of them half-buried in the rubble that was left of the ground. He saw Dumbledore’s brother had survived. The wizard was hurt though, and struggling to get up. Easy prey.

Pain. Worse than he had ever suffered. Worse than the Cruciatus. Different too… and yet familiar. This was… his soul! Something was attacking his very soul! He fell to his knees, unable to stand, unable to speak, unable to breath even. His skin was smoking, as if his body was burning from the inside! The pain! He willed a shield in place, but it did nothing. It wasn’t a spell… it was a ritual! The link! They were attacking through the link!

He wouldn’t die, not like this, not when he had won! He focused his will on the link to Potter.

He would possess the boy before he died!

*****​

Harry Potter was screaming. The pain was unbearable. Then it suddenly cut off. The witch was laughing still, taunting his friends, cursing them, and he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even move with his limbs still jerking around.

Ron was screaming, but with rage, not pain. Harry would have smiled, had he been able to control his muscles. Then Neville screamed. With pain and horror. And the dark witch laughed. Cackled. Enraged, Harry fought to move, to get up, to help his friends. His body didn’t want to obey him though. He lifted his head, turned it, excruciatingly slowly. He saw the witch, then Neville, bleeding, and Ron. She was about to kill his best friend!

Suddenly, the witch screamed, and smoke rose from her arm, and Harry felt elated. Hermione had done it! Had finished the ritual! They had won!

Then the pain hit him, through his scar. Blood flowed down his face. Another vision? He focused on his Occlumency, he didn’t want to watch, much less feel the Dark Lord die!

His mind was protected by an impenetrable wall, smooth and strong, keeping the pain away… he felt a probe smash into it. Shatter it. The pain increased. He felt rage too, and desperation - and couldn’t tell if it was his, or Voldemort’s. Grinding his teeth, he tried to fight back. His mind was protected. It was his! Harry focused on pushing the probe away, rebuilding his wall, his shield. To no avail.

He felt the Dark Lord slice through his mental barriers, into his mind. Bringing his own rage and pain with him. Tainting him!

Harry didn’t hear how he growled, screamed, didn’t see how more blood poured from his scar, how his eyes started to glow, didn’t feel his head smashing into the stone floor while he thrashed around. He couldn’t feel or sense anything but the Dark Lord’s presence in his mind.

And he wanted it gone!

He didn’t try to raise walls, didn’t attempt to push it back anymore. He wanted to destroy the Dark Lord before Voldemort destroyed him. He ignored the pain, knowing the Dark Lord would be suffering far worse, and struck at Voldemort, tearing at the Dark Lord’s mind. That monster had killed his parents, had killed so many people, so many innocents. It would not kill anyone else. Not today. Not ever again.

He wasn’t just fighting for himself, but for all his friends. And for Hermione.

*****​

The Dark Lord Voldemort was dying. He knew it. His soul was being shredded. The pain was unbelievable. He didn’t know who was doing this. It wasn’t Dumbledore - the old wizard had been fighting him, not doing a ritual. And the Headmaster wouldn’t have used such dark magic anyway. But whoever was doing this was using the link to Potter. If he could possess the boy, he could attack him. Disrupt the ritual. It was the only chance he had. His Horcruxes would not save him from this.

He did his best to ignore the pain and pushed on.

The boy was brave, and stubborn. And foolish. His Occlumency shields didn’t stop Voldemort. And Potter’s attempt at attacking him directly was pathetic. A child could not match his decades of experience, nor his will, tested and trained against the worst temptations and dangers of the Dark Arts!

To his surprise, the boy put up more resistance than he had expected. Voldemort couldn’t brush his presence away, couldn’t simply take over the body. Something, someone must be helping Potter. The pain was growing worse. He tried to pour it into the boy’s mind, overwhelm him with it.

It didn’t work. But he had sensed something. A weakness! Fending off the next attack, he struck out at Potter’s memories. The brat knew who was doing this to him! It was…

… the girl? The mudblood was killing him? The shock made him falter, just for an instant, but it was enough. Potter struck at him, and the pain had grown worse. He had not much time left. He had to rally, to strike back, to…

The girl wasn’t here! She was deep down in the dungeons of Hogwarts! He couldn’t reach her, not in time to stop her. But if she wasn’t attacking him through the link to Potter…

He pushed on, half-mad with pain from the attack on his soul and Potter’s mental strikes, sifting through the boy’s memories. The mudblood was attacking through the Dark Mark! Bella!

The last thing he saw was Potter’s memories of his Bella screaming as the Dark Mark started killing her.

*****​

Aberforth Dumbledore had survived that terrible spell. He had even managed to recast a Shield Charm and raise his wand, despite his broken leg and arm. He would meet his end on his feet, facing the Dark Lord.

His end didn’t come. The Dark Lord collapsed, screaming, as black smoke rose from his skin. Aberforth shuddered. Ritual magic. Dark Ritual Magic. He glanced to the balcony, where the Fiendfyre was still raging, if diminished. What had his brother done? Aberforth knew the price such magic demanded!

With a mixture of horror and relief he saw that the Dark Lord’s body was evaporating, going up in thick, foul black smoke. And the wizard was screaming, kept screaming, was trying to scream even when there were no lungs anymore to provide the air to scream. When anyone else would have been dead already. And Aberforth stared, unable to take his eyes off him, until all that remained were the Dark Lord’s robe and wand.

Merlin!

A voice loud enough to be heard in all of Hogwarts made him jerk and almost fall down when he twisted his broken leg. Albus. He was still alive then. The relief he felt was soon suppressed.

Aberforth looked up. His brother looked like death warmed over, but he was standing, and able to cast still. An Amplifying Charm, at least.

“The Dark Lord has fallen! Victory is ours!”

*****​

Kenneth Fenbrick was panting and bleeding. The gash in his right side had opened up again when he had taken a dive to the ground and rolled behind the remains of a conjured wall to escape that purple curse coming at him. He was the last fool who had participated in that sally that had routed the enemy’s second wave still outside the walls and alive.

“Episkey!”

The pain didn’t lessen much, but it stilled the bleeding. Hopefully. He peeked over the debris providing him with cover, then ducked again when a Blasting Curse hit the ground nearby. He changed his position by crawling along the wall’s remains while another curse flew over the wall. Those Death Eaters threw curses as if they were hexes.

He heard the enemies howling. They’d charge again. He had to get inside Hogwarts! But the breach in the school’s walls was 20 yards away. He wouldn’t make it. And Disillusionment Spells didn’t work.

The howling grew in volume. They were charging. He cursed. He hadn’t done this since Hogwarts, and he had been drunk at the time, and it had been a dare. But he had no choice. His broom had been shredded in the first sally.

He raised a wall. It wouldn’t last more than a few seconds. But he didn’t need more than that to point his wand at himself.

“Depulso!”

He shot through the air, towards the breach. His robe’s protections had prevented him from breaking his own ribs, but they were spent - again - now, and the impact would hurt. Especially since he might have misjudged his aim in his haste.

“Accio Kenneth’s robe!”

He was yanked off his collision course with the wall, and before he could get his bearings he collided with someone. The two of them rolled over the cobblestones, with him ending up on top when they finally stopped. Blinking, he stared at Bertha’s frowning face.

“I should hex you, Ken! How stupid can you be?”

That was Mathilda, standing next to him. She looked bruised and battered, but wasn’t bleeding or missing any body parts.

“He’s a Gryff,” Bertha said. She was unhurt as well. Fortunately.

“Stop fooling around and get in line!” Iva shouted. Her mercenaries - those still able to fight - were already sending volleys of spells at the breach. Kenneth saw one enemy jump through the breach and get bisected before he hit the ground. He cast a few spells of his own, together with Bertha and Mathilda. Auror training had never covered casting blindly, but Iva’s tactics worked when faced with a horde of seemingly suicidal enemies intent on rushing your position no matter the cost.

“The Dark Lord has fallen! Victory is ours!”

Kenneth blinked as he heard Dumbledore’s announcement. The Dark Lord was dead? And Dumbledore was alive? Yes!

“You’re not joining another sally,” Bertha said, in that tone he knew meant that she was dead serious.

Iva’s mercenaries had no such orders, and charged. Or counter-charged. Kenneth wasn’t an expert on such terms - he hadn’t known what a sally was until today. Half the enemies he could see turned away, the rest kept coming at the defenders, casting curses until they were overwhelmed.

“They’re running! Pursue them!” Iva shouted, and her surviving wands roared, giving chase.

Kenneth checked the skies. Their flyers and broom riders were still hard-pressed by the harpies, but if the Dark Lord had died and his followers were fleeing, the skies would soon be clear as well.

They had won the day, and the war. Kenneth didn’t want to think at what cost though.

*****​

“The Dark Lord has fallen! Victory is ours!”

Arthur Weasley took a deep breath and started to smile upon hearing Dumbledore. They had won! The battle was still going on though. In the sky, and, judging by the sounds he was hearing, on the walls.

He looked at Percy, standing next to him, behind their transfigured barrier. In front of them, he had placed half a dozen ‘Claymores’, with their ‘front toward enemy’, as it said on the devices themselves. Or, in this case, toward the side door they were guarding. Or rather, the stone wall they had replaced it with, after a group of dark wizards had broken through.

He saw that his son was about to move, and held him back with a gesture. “Son, we still have to stay at our post. The enemy may have lost, but they are still fighting.”

Percy nodded. Arthur raised his voice a bit. “That goes for you too.”

Above them, on the wall, Fred and George grudgingly acknowledged the order. Arthur was certain that if half the Gryffindor seventh years and a smattering of sixth years hadn’t been with his sons up there, ready to follow them, the twins would have charged off. They had grown up, finally. Some at least.

He also was certain Minerva would tear a strip off him for not sending the boys and girls back to the dorm, but he knew they’d not have obeyed. Gryffindors were brave, after all. At least this area had been rather safe, with no convenient approaches for large numbers.

Ginny would have been there too, if not for Molly gathering her daughter, and Luna and Aicha, and all but sitting on them. Arthur chuckled, thinking of the girl’s reaction. Ginny had forgotten that he and Molly knew their children very well.

He worried about Ron and Bill though. He hadn’t seen either during the battle. Ron should be safe in Dumbledore’s office, with Neville, but Bill was with Fleur helping Rubeus and Remus. And those two wouldn’t stay safe.

He wanted to go and look for them, but as he had told his sons: They couldn’t leave their post yet.

“Why haven’t you used those muggle devices before today?” Percy asked.

Arthur smiled. “They’re not that effective, son. No more than a well-placed Blasting Curse.”

“But you can stack them. And you’d need a really well-placed curse to duplicate the shrapnel.”

Arthur nodded. “Right. But it’s still not that big of an advantage. Using them would have been more trouble than it would have been worth, since the Dark Lord’s followers would have pointed at the use of such muggle devices to support their claims of muggleborns being a danger. The political cost would have been too high.”

“And after the attack on the Ministry, that was no longer a consideration.”

Arthur nodded. “Too many of those who might have taken offense are now dead,” he said grimly.

“Indeed. You might be the highest-ranking Ministry official still alive, dad.”

Arthur sincerely hoped he wasn’t. That would mean even more people than he had thought had died.

*****​

Remus Lupin watched the last of those Death Eaters who had not run scream and cast blindly after getting hit in the face by one of Hagrid’s Spitting Cobras. He disarmed the wizard and caught the wand flying towards him. He didn’t bother to finish the man off, the poison would kill him soon enough.

“The rest are fleeing,” Gilderoy said, joining him. The author and temporary teacher looked far less disheveled than anyone who had been in such a fight had any right to be.

Remus took a closer look at the wand. He didn’t recognize the style, but it felt wrong in his hand. Wrong and powerful. He shuddered. The Headmaster would want to see it, otherwise he’d have destroyed it already.

“Prussian style, unless I’m mistaken,” his colleague said.

“Not Gregorovitch’s work though.”

“No. Someone else. And skilled, but not well-known. Or not well-known anymore,” Gilderoy added.

“It feels very different. It could be a new wandmaker.”

“Maybe. But the style looks a bit too… sophisticated.”

“You’re right.”

Jenny and Rubeus joined them. “The area’s clear of them now. The centaurs will be finishing off those who fled into the forest,” the Australian said. Remus noticed that her boots were covered with blood. The charms on them must have failed. If she had ever cast them in the first place - the witch had sometimes peculiar ideas about clothes. Bill and Fleur were in the Infirmary, helping Pomfrey. Remus knew their expertise with foreign curses would be needed - those attackers had cast a lot of curses Remus had only recognised thanks to his extensive study of the Dark Arts.

He handed the wand over to Rubeus. As a half-giant, he’d not be affected by the wand’s lure. “Please give this to the Headmaster. He might use it to find out who made it.” They had recovered dozens of those wands, but this one seemed to be the most advanced Remus had seen to date.

“Yer not gonna give it ta him yerself?”

Remus shook his head. “No. I’m going to see my … the children.”

Rubeus smiled widely. “Of course! The little tykes will be glad to see you!”

Jenny and Gilderoy were smiling as well at his slip of the tongue. Remus simply nodded, and left. He knew that as a teacher he should be helping as well, checking on the students in their dorms, but Mats and Letta took priority. They were his.

He found the two children in his quarters, where he had left them with a pair of house elves he had ordered to keep them company so they’d not be too scared. The two elves visibly relaxed when they saw him enter, lowering the kitchen knives they had brought with them. Remus smiled at the two. They wouldn’t have stood any chance against even a single wizard, but they would have died trying to protect the children.

“The battle is over. The Dark Lord has fallen.”

The elves cheered and started to talk excitedly, but Remus wasn’t listening to them. He was looking at Mats, who was peeking out from his bedroom.

“Did we win?” the boy asked.

Remus nodded. A second later the boy was in his arms. He was home.

*****​

Ron Weasley had managed to stop the bleeding from the stump, with the help of a crying Fawkes too weak to fly, but Neville needed a Healer. He was stable, but unconscious. Wiping sweat and blood from his brow, he tried not to look at the shriveled, rotting remains of Neville’s left arm while he made his way over to Harry.

His best friend was trying to sit up, but he was having trouble still. Harry was smiling at him, his face covered in blood. “He’s dead. Voldemort is dead.”

“I know,” Ron said, helping his friend up and casting a Cleaning Charm. “Dumbledore announced it all over the school.”

Harry’s legs were not cooperating, and Ron leaned him back against the wall. He glanced at the body of Bellatrix Lestrange. Apart from the blackened spot on her left arm, where her robe had been burned off, the dark witch looked far older, far more haggard than when she had been alive.

“Make certain that she’s dead. She fooled me before,” Harry said.

Ron winced, but nodded and cast a Piercing Curse at her head. “She’s dead.”

“Good.” Harry closed his eyes.

Ron was torn. Neville needed a Healer, but he couldn’t leave Harry alone, not when there might still be enemies around and he was all but helpless. The redhead peered out of the window, or the hole where the window had been. A few flashes in the distance showed the fighting hadn’t ended yet.

“I felt him die, you know. He tried to possess me.”

“Merlin!” Ron stared at Harry.

His friend chuckled. “I just had to stall him until Hermione finished her ritual. Destroyed his soul.”

Ron winced. “I don’t think that’s something you should talk about in public.” Not everyone would think that such a ritual had been justified.

“It’s just us two here, isn’t it?” Harry said. His legs were still trembling, but his hands had stopped shaking.

“And Neville, but he’s … out.”

“He gonna be OK?”

“Yes. Just needs a healer.” And a new arm.

Harry suddenly turned his head, towards the secret door, and smiled widely.

“Hermione!”

*****​

Another step. And another. And another.

Hermione Granger forced herself to focus on the next step, just the next step. Just one little step. Even as exhausted as she was, she could take the next step. Even if she had to use the wall to steady herself.

She could see the door now, and smiled. Her torc was warm - Harry was nearby. A few more steps. Her wand touched the door, and it slid back.

“Harry!”

“Hermione!”

She ignored Ron, who was hastily pointing his wand away from her, and Neville, who was on the floor, out cold, as well as the body in the middle of the room and stumbled towards her love. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, and looked as exhausted as she felt, but he was alive. He was pale and his scar was red, inflamed, and bleeding still, but he was alive.

She fell to her knees next to him, and they embraced. “It’s done,” she stammered, tears running down her face.

“You did it,” he said, hugging her. She felt his muscles tremble, and tensed. “What happened?”

“Cruciatus,” he said.

Hermione hissed. Who had… “The witch?”

“Yes. Dead now. Dark Mark.”

Satisfaction filled her. She had killed the witch who had hurt Harry! Hermione smiled, then leaned forward, kissing him.

Ron spoke up: “Keep an eye out, Hermione, OK? I’m taking Neville to the Infirmary.”

She felt a brief spike of anger at the interruption, then shame. Breaking the kiss, she nodded. “Alright, Ron. I’ll keep watch.”

She turned around in Harry’s lap, leaning against him while their friend left the Headmaster’s office. She knew she should be worried about their friends, whether they had been hurt, or even killed, but right then she couldn’t. She was too exhausted to do anything, to feel anything but happy to be with Harry.

*****​

Pansy Parkinson was the first Slytherin out of their dorms after Slughorn had opened the door. Greg, Tracey and Daphne were right behind her though. Of course, all of them knew why Pansy was so eager to leave the safety of their dorms, no matter how dubious it might have been.

“The Gryffindor dorms are that way,” Greg pointed out.

“I know,” Pansy said, “but I’m going to the Infirmary.” She didn’t think Potter would have spent the battle in the Gryffindor dorms, which meant Ron wouldn’t have been there either.

No one said anything for a while. Pansy thought they were asking themselves whether she was optimistic or pessimistic in assuming her boyfriend would have been hurt in the battle. She didn’t know either.

“Merlin!”

Daphne’s comment upon seeing the courtyard of the school summed up Pansy’s reaction. It was devastated. Large sections of the walls had been turned to rubble, and parts of the roofs had been smashed in. And there seemed to be bodies everywhere! Pansy felt as if her heart had skipped a beat. The black robes worn by Death Eaters looked far too much like the black robes students wore at Hogwarts. Any one of those bodies could be…

She shook her head. No, it couldn’t be! She hurried on, to the Infirmary, her friends behind her. Someone sobbed. She didn’t know who.

The Infirmary was another horrifying sight. The wounded, many of them with open wounds or even missing limbs, were filling the hallways already. Their moans and groans and sobs formed a cacophony. The young witch was frantically looking around, searching for a familiar shade of red, feeling more and more miserable.

“McGonagall!” Tracey exclaimed.

Pansy turned around, hoping to ask the Deputy Headmistress for help, but her question died on her lips when she saw the witch being floated into the Infirmary. The Transfiguration Mistress looked so bad, Pansy would have been certain she as dead if not for the frantic attempts of a Healer to treat her wounds. Fighting back tears, she searched on. There! That was… Ron’s elder brother, William Weasley. She made a beeline towards the Curse-Breaker. “Mister Weasley!” she all but shouted when she saw he was about to head out.

“Yes?”

“Where’s Ron?” she asked.

“Ron? Has he been hurt?” The concern in the man’s voice told her that he didn’t know either.

“I don’t know… I came here…”

“I need a Healer!” a familiar voice sounded from the entrance.

Pansy whirled around. That was Ron! And he looked healthy. Unhurt at least. Better than after some of their duels. He spotted her, and his face lit up in a smile. His brother beat her to him, only to get told to take care of Longbottom, who was floating next to Ron. He didn’t seem to be angry about it though.

“Pansy.” Her boyfriend nodded at her.

“Ron.” She ignored the sniffling from Daphne behind her. She wanted to run her hands over him, check for wounds, bruises. He had been in a fight, she could tell. Before she could ask him what had happened though, he hugged her.

“You didn’t stay in your dorms,” she whispered, after a brief kiss.

“I was with Harry and Neville,” he whispered back, next to her ear. “Bellatrix Lestrange attacked us.”

She froze. Ron was here, Longbottom was alive, did that mean?

“We held her off, until Hermione killed her.”

Potter’s muggleborn mistress had killed the right hand of the Dark Lord, the most feared dark witch in Britain? Pansy couldn’t help thinking that she was very fortunate to have mended that particular bridge.

“I have to get back to them. Hermione and Harry … they’re not … they need a Healer as well.”

“I’m coming with you.” She wouldn’t let the Gryffindor out of her sight again for quite a while.

She told herself that the others following them were coming because it beat staying in the Infirmary, and tried to ignore Tracey and Daphne whispering to each other while they walked to the Headmaster’s office, where apparently Potter and Granger had killed the Dark Lord as well. Ron wasn’t quite clear on that.

Pansy didn’t mind. He was safe, and that was what counted.

*****​

“That’s the last time I’ll let you kill a Dark Lord by yourself, you hear me?”

It wasn’t the best joke Sirius Black had ever made, but it made Harry and Hermione chuckle. Weakly, but given their surroundings - an infirmary packed with the wounded and cursed - that was as good as he could have hoped for. Very, very few had come through the battle unscathed. The worst cases were being transferred to St Mungo’s, after a force of Aurors and Hit-Wizards scratched together from the survivors of the Battle of Hogwarts and volunteers from the Order and other civilians had secured the clinic.

“Yes, Sirius.” Harry said.

His godson was occupying the bed Sirius had been lying in until a bit ago. He had vacated it as soon as he had woken up to find Harry sitting at his side, and still suffering from the aftereffects of the Cruciatus. Harry had tried to insist that he was fine, but between Hermione and Sirius, he had stood no chance and was now confined to this bed. Next to him lay Neville, with Ginny sitting at his bedside. Sirius glanced at the stump where the boy’s left arm had been. If he had known what would happen, he wouldn’t have left them alone there. Dumbledore’s office should have been safe, curse it!

Hermione, lying next to Harry, nodded. She looked like death warmed over, and she had been safe deep in the dungeons of Hogwarts, behind a massive door. Where she had performed a dark ritual to destroy the Dark Lord’s soul. On second thought, the witch looked very fine for what she had done. And she had managed to destroy a Dementor.

Valérie was standing next to him, ready to hold him up should his recently fixed leg break again. Or so she claimed. Sirius was just glad she hadn’t been hurt, again. And that Eugénie’s wings had been shredded by harpies, not by dark curses. She’d recover fully. Chantal had caught a dark curse, but a mild one - a gash in her leg. Unlike the poor bastard of an Auror Sirius had seen levitated towards the fireplace. That wizard had looked like someone had dropped him in a room full of knives, and then had let Peeves play inside.

Worse were those who hadn’t made it to the Infirmary, of course. So many dead… But as selfish as it was, Sirius was happy none of his family had died.

“You should go home and get some rest,” Harry said.

Sirius snorted. “As if. You will be lucky if I let you out of my sight before you take your N.E.W.T.s, Harry!”

“Valérie…” his godson said in a long-suffering voice.

Sirius’s fiancée nodded and gripped his elbow, starting to steer him away.

“Hey!”

“Laure will keep guarding them until I return. You need to rest, cherie,” Valérie said, still guiding him away.

“I can rest here!”

“No, you cannot.”

Sirius protests fell on deaf ears. He was tempted to change into Padfoot and make a break for it, then blinked. Padfoot… shouldn’t he want to change, just to find some rest? He didn’t though. Hadn’t in some time.

He was still pondering this when he was dragged into the Floo connection by Valérie.

*****​

“Iva.”

Aberforth Dumbledore nodded at the young mercenary leader. He was very glad to find her alive and happy.

“Aberforth.” The witch smiled at him, then looked at his leg, propped up by a conjured ottoman. She suddenly chuckled, so she probably had understood the joke then.

“I’m glad you survived,” he said.

“So am I,” she answered. “Can’t spend your gold when dead.”

Lea’s granddaughter was a typical mercenary. She’d mourn the members of her clan she had lost later. Like Aberforth would mourn the friends he had lost in this war. After casting a privacy spell, he asked: “So, how much loot did you carry off after you helped take back the Ministry?”

Iva’s grin grew even wider. “A lot.”

He chuckled. “Good girl.” The Ministry could afford it. Gold was cheap, blood was expensive - and Iva’s group of hired wands had lost a number of good wizards and witches. Too many in Aberforth’s opinion. “When will you be returning to Albania?”

“In the next few days. Your brother told me that we are making the natives nervous.” Iva snorted. “Maybe he simply does want to save some gold?”

Aberforth chuckled. “Maybe.” His brother was far too active for an old wizard who had been near death a day ago. Albus would only stop meddling when he was dead, Aberforth expected.

“You will visit us regularly, of course.”

“I will?”

“Yes. Or grandmother will be mad at you.” Iva nodded sagely.

“I will then.” It would be good to see Lea again. He sighed. He had wasted too many years, entire decades, avoiding her. Not just her either.

“Will your local friends also be rewarded?” Iva sounded honestly curious.

“Yes. Orders of Merlin.” Third Class, probably, but he’d pressure Albus to grant those among his friends who had given their lives, or their health, an Order of Merlin, Second class. Like Bertram Kettlestock and Lucrecia Browtuckle.

Iva scoffed. She obviously didn’t think that would be a fitting reward. Not enough gold.

Aberforth chuckled, and started to explain to her that the Orders would be displayed in his inn, and how that would annoy the same people who wanted her gone right after they didn’t need her anymore.

Iva was laughing out loud when he had finished.

*****​

So many dead. And he yet lived.

Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk in his office in Hogwarts, and closed his eyes. Two days after the Battle of Hogwarts, things were still far, far from returning to normal. He had repaired the damage done to his quarters, but the school was still showing much of the destruction visited upon it, and would continue to do so for some time. Other tasks were taking priority. Reorganising the Wizengamot. Hunting down the remaining Death Eaters. Not that too many were left - all of the marked ones had perished with Tom, and most of the rest had been killed at Hogwarts, as had most of the werewolves fighting for Voldemort. But the one responsible for those abominations of dark wands was still at large. As were the Dementors. But Miss Granger had found one way to kill those fiends, if there was another, less costly, they might yet be eradicated. Saul might pursue that task, once the Ministry was in working order again and his Unspeakables could return to their experiments and research. It would do them some good, working with others again, Albus thought. Even if thanks to their isolation and secrecy, the Department of Mysteries had been the only part of the Ministry that had survived the attack without losses.

He also had to hire new teachers. Filius had been killed by the Dark Lord with one spell, together with Septima and dozens of Aurors, Hit-Wizards and Death Eaters. That Minerva had survived that carnage was a small miracle. Sybill had been killed as well when the tower she had been defending had been crushed by that transfigured dragon.

Alastor hadn’t survived facing Tom. Albus didn’t know if his friend had died due to the Blasting Curse that had mauled his body, or if he had been killed when his artificial eye had burned itself out. Literally. He didn’t want to know either.

Hestia had been defending the approach from the Black Lake, and had been struck down by a Dark Curse that had caused her to cough out her liquefied organs before anyone could help her. A curse so difficult, it was rarely used in battle, yet many of Voldemort’s followers had been casting it, and easily. All due to those cursed wands.

Far more people had been hurt by dark curses than usual in such battles. Their cursed wounds would not be easily healed. Fortunately, Sirius’s fiancée had proven that muggle medicinal techniques, like physiotherapy and reconstructive surgery, could deal with wounds magic couldn’t touch. It would be difficult to organise, but those who would have been maimed in the past could now look forward to a much improved fate. Not all of them, though. Muggles couldn’t regrow limbs, after all.

Amelia, Cornelius, Augusta and the majority of the Wizengamot as well as many of the Ministry were dead. The Old Families had been decimated. And all of them would have to be replaced by far less experienced people. Which was both a problem and an opportunity. With most of the old guard gone, Albus didn’t expect there to be any significant resistance to properly rewarding those who had saved Wizarding Britain, regardless of their background. Like his brother’s friends. Who had proven him wrong about them, Albus had to admit. And would have to admit to his brother. Maybe his next attempt at reconciliation wouldn’t go quite as badly as all the others.

But no one deserved a reward as much as Miss Granger. News of her killing the Dark Lord was already spreading, even if it was rather unclear on how exactly she had managed that. If he confirmed the rumour, few would dare to offend her, or Harry.

The war had been terrible. The wounds it had caused would hurt for a long time. But Albus couldn’t help feeling hope. Hope that the next years would bring a lot of needed changes to Wizarding Britain.

And that a certain young couple would find the happiness together that they deserved.

*****​

Epilogue: On the Path to a new Britain

 

Epilogue: On the Path to a new Britain

Hermione stepped out of the lift into the entrance hall of the Wizengamot Chamber with measured steps, appropriate for the occasion. Today was an important day, the culmination of years of work. Half her life, if she wanted to be dramatic. She nodded in greeting at those members who were standing outside the chamber, milling with family, friends, and other members. Most of them nodded back, but some didn’t manage to hide just how forced their smiles were. Many of those were wizards and witches who had been members of this body for a long time. Those who had escaped when the Dark Lord had attacked the Ministry of Magic.

Not all of them, of course. But in the young witch’s opinion, there was no difference between the survivors, and those of the same generation who had replaced the dead. All of them were purebloods, and all of them were far too … conservative.

And all of them were afraid of her. She smiled widely at Malcolm Selwyn and noted with satisfaction that the old man paled and looked away. Fortunately, Harry wasn’t there yet, or he’d joke about ‘fear keeping them in line’ again.

In a way, things had not changed that much compared to the first time she had stepped into the chamber, in the Spring of 1997. They had been afraid of her back then, as well. She looked down at her Order of Merlin, which was prominently displayed on her robe.

*****​

Hermione Granger had felt nervous when she had approached the open door to the Wizengamot Chamber, despite the occasion. Until she had realised that that was exactly what had been intended by the assembly. They had wanted to impress her. Her and Harry. Impress, and cow them. The wizards and witches who had made up Wizarding Britain’s Parliament and High Court had been dressed in their finest robes, and the room, not really damaged in the Dark Lord’s attack to begin with, had been restored to its old splendour with a diligence and effort other areas had been lacking.

And yet, she had told herself, none of them would have been present if not for her and Harry. And there would have been far more empty seats - not all dead members had been replaced yet. So she had thrust her chin out and entered with her arm linked with Harry’s. Her defiant gesture - she had still been his retainer, and should have walked a step behind him - had caused the esteemed members to whisper to each other, which in turn had made her smile. Even more when most of them had looked away when she had stared at them.

“Told you, they’re scared of you,” Harry had whispered to her, his grin barely hidden.

“They should be,” she had whispered back. “We’ve saved them all, killed Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and they still act as if they are superior to us.”

They had had friends among the Wizengamot, of course. And friendly acquaintances. Sirius. Neville, who had inherited his seat from his grandmother, as well as Parkinson, who had inherited hers from her father. And of course Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and the one who had, together with Harry, largely been responsible for their presence that day. He had been waiting in the centre of the room, with two velvet cushions floating next to him, an Order of Merlin resting on each of them. First class, both of them.

Hermione had known that the Wizengamot hadn’t wanted to award her an Order of Merlin, First Class. Not to a muggleborn. And especially not to the muggleborn girlfriend of Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry had insisted though. He had threatened, in private meetings with a few of the new leaders in the Wizengamot, to refuse an Order himself, unless Hermione would be awarded the same honour. Dumbledore had supported the decision using his own influence. Hermione had still been certain that ultimately, the matter had been decided by the Chief Warlock’s declaration that she had been the one to kill the Dark Lord and his followers, and some veiled hints that she could repeat the ritual that had allowed her to do so.

“It is with great pride and pleasure that I welcome the two young people who have done more than anyone else to save our country from the Dark Lord Voldemort. Harry Potter, who defeated the Dark Lord as a baby, and then went on to defy him several more times, until he defeated him in a battle for his very soul. And Hermione Granger, who risked her life to destroy the Dark Lord and prevent him from ever returning again.

“As a reward for those remarkable deeds, Wizarding Britain awards you both its highest honour: The Order of Merlin, First Class!”

The old wizard had flicked his wand, and the two Orders had floated up, towards Hermione and Harry, gently setting around their necks.

While she and Harry had bowed at the beaming old wizard, the audience led by Sirius had started to cheer loudly. The assembly itself had joined in the cheering, if not quite as enthusiastically.

After a while, Dumbledore had spread his hands, and the room quieted down before he had spoken up again: “As a recipient of the Order of Merlin, Miss Granger is now recognised as a pureblood witch. As such, she cannot be a retainer.”

On cue, Harry had stepped forward and turned to face her. She had handed her wand over to him, and he had raised it while she had bent her right knee.

“Hermione Jean Granger. I, Harry James Potter, Head of my family, release you from my service and from the Oath you swore to me. I return your wand to you, so you might wield it in defense of your honour, as Head of the Granger family.”

She had accepted her wand and had felt the Oath vanish. For a moment she had been afraid, deathly afraid, that her feelings would have disappeared as well. They hadn’t. Then she had been afraid that the life debt would have been restored. It hadn’t. Smiling brightly, she had stood up and had raised her wand, touching Harry’s.

“Thank you,” she had whispered, then she had lunged and hugged him. And the audience had cheered again, despite the breach of decorum. Or maybe because of it, in some cases.

*****​

Hermione smiled, remembering that moment. It had been the first time in years she had been truly free. Free of the Oath. Free of the life debt. Free of the constraints of a muggleborn in Wizarding Britain. That alone would have been enough to treasure that memory forever, but that day had become even better. The new Minister for Magic, Elphias Doge, an old friend of Dumbledore, had quickly appointed both her and Harry to two of the free seats in the Wizengamot.

Elevating two students to the Wizengamot had caused a brief uproar among the old members of the Wizengamot. Neville, one empty sleeve pinned to his robe showing what price he had paid in the war, had dealt with that quickly though. Their friend had stood up and reminded everyone that his age had not been a reason to refuse his inheriting of Augusta’s seat. Pansy had stood up as well, backing him up. Both had been among the youngest Heads of families as well, and had already encountered that kind of prejudice.

She didn’t see Neville, but she hadn’t expected to see him yet. He had mentioned he had another fitting of his new prosthetic arm planned; she hoped there hadn’t been any complications. His wound hadn’t been able to be treated with muggle means, unlike many others. Voldemort’s forces had been using wands specifically made for the Dark Arts, and it had shown in the kind of curses they had used. And all because of one evil wizard: Siegfried Steinberg alias Karl Klugmann.

*****​

It had been the first trial she had taken part in as a member of the Wizengamot. The prisoner, an older wizard with long grey hair, had been dragged in by two Aurors and roughly secured to the seat for the accused with enchanted chains as well as spells. The Prussian hadn’t shown any sign of discomfort or fear though, just disdain. She had glanced up to the audience rows, where the brother of Dumbledore had been sitting, scowling. He had been the one who had caught the fleeing wandmaker, together with two Aurors. He hadn’t been wearing his Order of Merlin, and rumour had claimed that he had only accepted it to use it as a coaster in his inn. Since the Orders of Merlin awarded to the wizard’s friends and associates had already been on display on the walls in the Hog’s Head Inn though, Hermione had doubted that.

“Siegfried Steinberg, you stand accused of having supported the Dark Lord Voldemort by crafting wands for his forces. Wands created by the Dark Arts, as deadly to their wielders as to those they fought against. Wands that were, in effect, sacrificing their wielders, using dark rituals. How do you plead?”

Hermione had felt a pang of guilt at the hypocrisy of judging a man for something she had done as well - or nearly done. It disappeared quickly though when Steinberg sneered and spat “Guilty!” as if it was an honour. “Guilty of advancing my art, and expanding the lore of magic!”

“Let the plea be noted as ‘guilty’,” Dumbledore had told the court scribe.

“As if there would be any other verdict!” Steinberg had said. “At least I’ll have the satisfaction of seeing my work endure - in the flesh of many of yours! Others will pick up where I left.”

Hermione had started to suspect then that the wandmaker had been influenced himself by his work. Dumbledore must have suspected the same, she had thought, but the Chief Warlock had followed procedure and had interrogated the prisoner, helped along by Veritaserum. The muggleborn witch had felt sick even before the tale of the man’s life had reached his recruitment by Voldemort. What he had done in Grindelwald’s service… She had shuddered. And the wizard had firmly believed that the knowledge he had gained had justified the crimes he had committed.

His recounting of his time in Voldemort’s service had not brought many new findings, but the callous way the Dark Lord had sacrificed - literally - his followers had not failed to impress the audience. Hermione had felt guilty for being grateful that this trial would do a lot to prevent the surviving werewolves in Britain and Scandinavia from thinking of the Dark Lord as a martyr for their cause.

The verdict had never been in question - the Wizengamot unanimously sent the wandmaker through the Veil. Hermione had attended the execution herself, as an observer. Steinberg had been defiant and unrepentant to the last.

*****​

Unlike many of her colleagues, the young witch doubted that the wandmaker’s work had died with him. Steinberg’s notes might have been been destroyed by Aberforth Dumbledore, but that would not keep the knowledge that such wands could be created from spreading. And there would be wizards willing to recreate those things. No matter what the Minister for Magic claimed in interviews.

Speaking of interviews… she spotted Luna and Aicha among the people mingling outside the chamber before today’s session. The blonde was waving wildly at Hermione, smiling widely. Aicha was a bit more restrained. The two witches had been inseparable during their sixth year, and now were living together, both working for The Quibbler. They made a good team, Hermione thought, Aicha ensuring that Luna didn’t let her enthusiasm take her too far. At least in articles that didn’t cover mystical animals. The Daily Prophet was still the most popular newspaper in Wizarding Britain, but The Quibbler had gained quite the following among the younger crowd, mostly thanks to those two witches.

Hermione walked over to the couple. “Hello Luna, Aicha.”

“Hermione!” Luna hugged her. “I’m so excited for you! This is what you’ve been working for, for years!”

“It’s not been over yet, Luna,” Hermione said. “I expect a lively discussion.” Although she didn’t expect the bill to fail - Harry, Dumbledore and she herself had spent a lot of time working on the Wizengamot members to gather a majority for the bill. But if three years in the Wizengamot had taught her one thing, it was that you couldn’t be certain until the votes had been counted.

“We’ve been asking the members here for statements, and the opinions were rather favourable,” Aicha said.

Hermione smiled at hearing that. She was more than a bit nervous, if she was honest with herself. Harry would say she was worrying over nothing, like before her exams, but she simply couldn’t help it.

“Where’s Harry?” Luna looked around as if she was searching for a snorkack. To think she and her father had actually found them!

“He went to return some files about werewolf criminality rates to Kingsley.” Werewolves were still discriminated against in Britain. Remus, who Wizarding Britain thought had been infected with lycanthropy two years ago by the ‘poor children an evil werewolf had infected’, was doing what he could, with the full support of Dumbledore, Harry and herself, but it was a slow process. Hermione hoped the laws would be changed by the time Mats was old enough to enter Hogwarts.

“And the Head of the DMLE wanted to cultivate him again as a supporter for his further career,” Aicha said.

“Oh, yes.” Hermione frowned. That wizard was even more ambitious than Percy, who was in line to become a Department Head himself, as soon as a spot opened. So different from his father.

As if he had known she was thinking of him, Arthur Weasley was walking towards the chamber. Some had expected Arthur, as the most senior Department Head to survive Voldemort’s assault, to take over as Minister for Magic. Not Hermione though. She hadn’t been surprised when Arthur had used his seniority, as well as the fame he had earned escaping from the Ministry after it had been taken over and defending Hogwarts, to become the Head of the new Department for the Adaption of Muggle Inventions. He had been instrumental in pushing the use of muggle medical techniques to deal with the lingering effects from the dark curses from Steinberg’s wands.

Hermione sighed, remembering how for a brief while, muggle culture had become a fad. It hadn’t lasted, of course, apart from muggle movies and a small scene of muggle literature and music fans. Muggle culture simply lacked magic to appeal for long to wizards and witches. Clubbing in muggle London had been an escape during the war, but wizards and witches, including those born to muggles like Hermione herself, simply didn’t want to go without magic for any length of time if they could help it. Who would want to, after experiencing the wonders of magic?

*****​

Hermione Granger had stood next to Harry Potter at the Leaving Feast at Hogwarts, wearing their head girl and head boy badges, when the Headmaster had called on the gods. With her having been made a pureblood by the Wizengamot during their 6th year, there had been no way anyone else would have been chosen as head girl. And no one else but Harry as head boy.

Dumbledore had stood up and raised his goblet, as tradition had dictated.

“At the end of this year, we are gathered to give the gods their due so they will bless those among us who leave Hogwarts to enter their adult lives with peace and prosperity in their future.”

Hermione had raised her own goblet, together with everyone else. There hadn’t been as many empty spots as after 6th year - a number of those students whose families had fled Britain had returned after the Dark Lord’s defeat, such as the Patils. And hadn’t that been an awkward moment when Padma had seen Pansy on Ron’s arm!

“Janus.” Dumbledore had dipped the goblet, letting the wine pour out. “Bless them with a good start in their new life.”

Hermione had felt her skin starting to tingle when she had dipped her own goblet. Just as her skin had tingled during the ritual. She still hadn’t known what caused this. She hadn’t wanted to know, either. Hogwarts, the gods, or magic itself… she simply watched as the red wine vanished in sparks before it reached the floor.

“Hecate. Let magic protect and guide them.”

She had focused on the wine that had kept falling, pouring out of her goblet, more than the cup could have held, and had tried to ignore how the tingling had intensified, how her hair had started to float.

“Apollo. Keep them healthy and guide them to fruitful and passionate pursuits.”

She had been surrounded by sparks then, almost glowing until the wine stopped falling. No one had commented on it though, not to her face at least. Another advantage of her reputation, since this was a topic she really hadn’t wanted to discuss. She’d find out what caused this in good time by herself.

The rest of the feast had been a joyful affair. The wounds the war had caused had not been healed completely yet, but enough time had passed for things to have gone back to normal. Students had once again cared more about the House Cup and Quidditch, both won by Gryffindor, and their relationships than politics. Most of them, at least. Hermione and Harry had had plans already, even though that evening, they had celebrated their graduation like everyone else.

*****​

“Hermione?” Luna was waving her hand in front of her face.

“Sorry, just remembering something.” Hermione smiled. She hoped her friends would think she was going through her arguments again, instead of reminiscing about the past.

“Oh? What did you remember?” Luna asked. “Did you forget to turn off the cooking charms at home?”

No such luck. She wasn’t about to lie to her friends though. “Graduation actually. I was thinking just how far we have come since then.”

“That’s not a surprise,” Aicha said, ”since Harry and you focused on politics.”

“We have other interests as well,” Hermione said. Magical Research, specifically spellcrafting, for her. And that stupid game for Harry. Star Seeker for Puddlemere United… as if he hadn’t already been hounded by fans in public! At least they tended to leave him alone when she was with him, she mentally added - her reputation had advantages.

Hermione ran her wand over her medal, polishing it and cleaning the ribbon. It wasn’t needed; the medal was enchanted to be self-cleaning, but she hadn’t cast those charms, and felt her own were just a bit better.

Hermione had taken full advantage of computers for her research in the last few years. She had published some of her new spells, but the optimised versions of others she had kept to herself and Harry, and their friends. Her advantage wouldn’t last forever, of course, but as with her and Harry’s fame, she would be using it for all it was worth in the meantime.

“Polishing your medal, again?”

Hermione turned around while Luna and Aicha chuckled at the teasing tone. “Harry!”

She smiled at him, then hugged him. She knew older members of the Wizengamot would frown at the open display of affection and love, but she didn’t care. She wouldn’t ever hide her love anymore. “I don’t have to hex Kingsley then.”

“It wasn’t Kingsley, actually. It was Braggling.”

“Simon Braggling? Again?” Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Yes. He offered me his vote for today if I would make the DMLE put Paige Caldwell back on the wanted list,” Harry said.

Hermione frowned. “If he had an ounce of moral fiber left, he’d support the werewolf legislation, after narrowly escaping becoming a werewolf himself. He should know best that it could happen to anyone.”

“I told him the same as usual: Dumbledore had his reasons for that decision, and I’d not question them.” Harry shook his head. “That man can carry a grudge!”

“He’s not the only one,“ Hermione said. Luna and Aicha nodded. It was understandable, of course - so many had been killed in the war.

*****​

“... and so we have gathered here to honor the dead, those who have given their lives to protect us all, and those who have been murdered despite our efforts. May this memorial ensure that such madness never again takes hold of our country.”

Dumbledore’s speech had been received with applause by the audience - and with tears as many among them had remembered loved ones whose names had been carved on the giant obelisk placed just inside the gates of Hogwarts.

It had been an impressive sight: Polished white marble, 20 feet high, with black plates on all sides where the names of those who had died slowly appeared and disappeared in an endless cycle. There had been far too many names, in Hermione’s opinion, but she thought the simple, straightforward design had been fitting. Far better than the proposal from some idiot in the Wizengamot to list the ‘heroes’, and the ‘victims’ in separate columns. In a war, everyone was a victim, first and foremost. There were better ways to remember the heroic deeds people had done in the war than by dividing the dead.

When Dumbledore had stepped aside from the memorial, Harry and Hermione had stepped forward, and both had put their hands on the marble, remaining there, unmoving and silent, for a moment. Others had followed their example, and it had become a tradition for all students at Hogwarts to visit the memorial on the first day of each year, so they would never forget the cost of war.

*****​

“There you are!”

Hermione looked to the lift and saw Ron heading towards them, together with Pansy. She was still getting used to thinking of their best friend as ‘Ron Parkinson’ instead of ‘Weasley’.

Ron hugged all of them. He wasn’t wearing his Auror robes, so he wasn’t on duty today.

His wife and Head of Family was a bit more restrained. “Hermione,” Pansy said, bowing her head.

“Pansy.” Hermione bowed back. She and Pansy were not exactly best friends, but they were friendly. Friendly rivals at times - Pansy had inherited her seat after her father had been killed in Voldemort’s attack, and they didn’t always agree on what the best course of action was. Not too often, actually. But it was a civil rivalry.

“Harry.” Pansy bowed to him. “When will you make an honest witch out of her?” she asked, making a point out of glancing at Hermione.

Harry chuckled while Hermione rolled her eyes. That ‘joke’ had been old two years ago. “We are married,” she said, holding her hand up to show her ring. “You should know, you were at the wedding.”

“A muggle wedding,” Pansy said.

Hermione shrugged. “It’s not my fault the Wizengamot doesn’t recognize it.” She certainly wasn’t going to marry in Wizarding Britain unless they adopted the French way of having dual Heads of Families. She was her own witch, equal to Harry, and she’d stay so!

Besides, she had had her dream wedding already.

*****​

The open carriage had been a wonderful choice. Hermione had beamed all the way to the church. A classic model, shiny black with gold trim, drawn by a pair of beautiful black horses. To think that Sirius had wanted to create a copy of Cinderella’s carriage. From the Disney movie! Fortunately, Mrs Smith-Forsythe had dissuaded him from that plan. And from most of his other ideas. No air-dropped flower petals at this wedding either. Nor marching bands. She hadn’t managed to avoid the elephant though - Luna had made elephant rides a condition for being the maid of honour. And Hermione had wanted her, of course. The poor wedding planner had doubled her rates when she had heard that ‘Mister Black’ was financing the wedding, but she had been worth every penny. It had been Sirius’s money anyway - the Head of the Black family had spared no expense for the wedding of Harry and Hermione.

And it showed, Hermione had thought when she had arrived at the church. Sirius’s gold, and Mrs Smith-Forsythe experience had resulted in a wedding that had outshone even Nymphadora’s, without looking crass or nouveau-riche. It certainly had shut up those members of her family who had thought she had been pregnant, just because she had been marrying right after finishing school. Especially her snobby cousins, who had been half her bridesmaids, the other half having been formed by Ginny and Aicha. Hermione’s wedding dress had cost more than Cynthia’s entire wedding, she had thought. And the jewelry…

Not that she had cared that much about the costs, not when she had walked down the aisle on her father’s arm, towards Harry and Ron, who had been waiting at the altar. The look on Harry’s face when he had seen her for the first time in her wedding dress… that would have been worth all the gold in their vaults, and more. The vows had been altered a bit from the classic form since everyone had agreed that calling on the Christian god would not be good for their political goals. Hermione didn’t know how much it had cost Sirius to rent a church for a wedding where the vows didn’t involve God, but the wizard had managed. Some magic might have been involved as well, but no one had wanted to confirm that.

“I, Harry James Potter, take thee, Hermione Jean Granger, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, and this is my solemn vow.”

“I, Hermione Jean Granger, take thee, Harry James Potter, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, and this is my solemn vow.”

And then they had kissed as husband and wife. Finally.

Harry’s aunt and her mother had cried during the whole ceremony. As had Daphne, though Pansy had later told her the former Slytherin had likely cried because Harry was now definitely out of reach, but that had most likely been a joke.

Stepping out of the church to take the carriage to the reception, they had discovered that Sirius had hired aeroplanes; but fortunately, they hadn’t carpet bombed the party with flower petals, but had written his well-wishes in the sky. A touching gesture, and almost restrained, for Harry’s godfather.

The orchestra waiting at the reception had been a bit over the top, Hermione had thought, but the music had been wonderful, even if she had felt some regret that they couldn’t have had magical musicians perform. That had been the only such moment though. The day had been perfect otherwise. As had been the wedding night.

*****​

“It’s a good thing they didn’t marry in Wizarding Britain, or she’d be lost twice as long in her memories!”

Hermione glared at Ron while Harry wrapped his arm around her, chuckling. It had been her dream wedding. She knew many of their friends still didn’t understand why they wouldn’t marry according to Wizarding Britain’s law. Not after they both had longed to be able to for years. Pansy at least understood why Hermione didn’t want to exchange her freedom for marriage, even if she teased her and Harry about it. Hermione knew that most of the Wizengamot, and Wizarding Britain, desperately wished Harry would marry her and become her Head of family. They wanted the witch who had destroyed the Dark Lord under the control of the Boy-Who-Lived. Well, they wouldn’t get their wish.

“Harry! Hermione!”

A shout announced the arrival of Sirius Black. Harry’s godfather hadn’t changed in the years since the end of the war. Not even his marriage to Valérie had managed to temper his rakish attitude. Fatherhood might, according to Harry, but the Veela wasn’t showing any signs of pregnancy yet. Apart from his wife, Sirius was accompanied by Chantal, Laure and Eugénie, and Remus with his two children. Hermione noted with a frown that people shied away from the teacher, most of them not bothering to hide their fear, or worse, their revulsion. Some though, greeted him warmly, which gave her hope that the discrimination of werewolves could be fought successfully.

“Nymphadora and Viktor can’t make it,” Sirius said. “Little Rayna has some issues with her shape-changing again.”

Which meant she wasn’t in a shape to be shown to the public. Hermione really hoped none of her future children ever were metamorphmagi. She first hugged Mats, who seemed very excited, and then Letta, who clung to her father’s leg. “How are you two?”

“I’m doing great! Father will be buying me my first training broom! And Letta will get a toy broom,” Mats said animatedly. “I’ll be able to fly as much as I want at home!”

Hermione smiled indulgently. “Don’t overdo it. It’s not a toy.” She knew that the two children growing up at Hogwarts was part of Dumbledore’s plan as well - if two werewolves were raised at the school, any argument that they were a danger for the students and therefore shouldn’t be allowed to actually attend the school would be disproven easily. Remus was already proving that werewolf teachers were no danger to their students.

Letta showed her a Chocolate Frog Card: “Look, Aunt Hermione! I got you!”

Hermione laughed. “Oh… they messed my hair up again.” Privately, she thought it was the company’s revenge for having had to redo the cards for her and Harry so often in a few years. First, their Order of Merlin, then their marriage, then her published spells and works… she had kept the card designers busy.

Letta giggled, pointing at the bushy hair the figure on the card had. “You’re funny looking!”

“Just on the card,” Hermione said. She left the kids to Luna, who started to entertain Mats with a story about snorkacks while Aicha’s genie entertained Letta, and greeted Harry’s godfather and his ‘wife and lovers’, as he liked to introduce them in polite society. Their relationship still looked a bit weird to Hermione, but as long as they all were happy and the temper tantrums involving fireballs were kept to a minimum, the witch didn’t care how exactly they handled it.

Their muggle wedding, six months after Harry’s and hers, had caused Mrs Smith-Forsythe to quadruple her rates and take a three-month-long vacation afterwards. The magical wedding had been held in France, of course.

*****​

“You look pensive. Having second thoughts about marriage?”

Hermione had looked up as Harry had summoned a drink for her. She had known he had meant a magical marriage, and had shaken her head. “No. Just a bit tired. I hadn’t been aware that Veela weddings involved so much dancing.”

The actual ceremony, in as much as vows had been concerned, had been rather similar to British customs. Just with other gods being called upon - nominally; the Veela revered the Greek Pantheon, which was quite similar to the Roman one whose gods were revered in Britain. A bit more archaic too.

But the rest of the wedding… Veela priestesses had performed ‘Sacred dances’ to bless the couple. Aerial dances had been performed to honour the mythical ancestor-goddess of the Veela. Then Sirius and Valérie had opened the actual wedding dance.

Harry had taken a seat next to her, watching the couples turn around each other on the floor in the great hall of the Chateau D’Aigle. Sirius had been dancing with all his lovers as well as his wife nonstop, making Hermione wonder if he had taken a potion to keep on his feet.

“You know, if we married in France, we’d both be the Heads of our family,” Harry had said.

He had sounded as if he had just been making a casual remark, but Hermione had known that he had been giving the matter serious thought.

“I know,” she had said. “But it would be limited to France. The British don’t accept that system.”

“They might, if a few of us do it,” Harry had said.

“Do you want to marry magically?”

Harry had sighed. “I wanted to. Now… I don’t know anymore.”

She had hugged him. “We’ll take it one step at a time. Once we can marry without having to subjugate one of us to the other, we’ll do it.”

Around them, Veela and wizards and witches had mingled, drinking and dancing and enjoying the marriage. And flirting. Hermione hadn’t seen that much flirting since 6th year’s opening feast.

“No wonder he wanted to hold his wedding here. It’s a very Sirius wedding.”

“At least Rubeus still hasn’t managed to breed a flying elephant.”

*****​

Neville arrived, earlier than expected. His prosthetic arm looked fine, from what Hermione could tell when he greeted them. Mats shied away from the ‘wooden arm’, but Letta seemed fascinated by it. The little girl even asked Neville to hold her with the arm.

Of their circle of friends, only Ginny wasn’t there. The Holyhead Harpies had an exhibition match today and as a starting chaser, Ginny couldn’t get out of it. Or so she had claimed. Ron had jokingly offered to break her wrist, and had been hexed for it. Hermione didn’t know if Ginny really hadn’t been able to get away, or if the redhead’s relationship with Neville was in a ‘complicated’ state again. The ups and downs of that particular couple seemed to keep at least two journalists each at the Daily Prophet and Teen Witch Weekly in business.

The doors of the lift opened again, and Albus Dumbledore walked into the hall. The Chief Warlock smiled and greeted everyone warmly, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel a bit jealous. Dumbledore had been as much, if not more responsible for the destruction of Voldemort’s soul, and he had publicly claimed responsibility for devising the ritual she had used, but people didn’t seem to be fearing him that much. Even ‘Dancing with Death Eaters’ hadn’t helped much there, despite the author’s diligence in detailing the war’s crucial events. Although, once again Lockhart had added too many quips and rather lurid descriptions of his paramour.

The Chief Warlock’s arrival had signaled the impending start of the session, and the Wizengamot members still outside the chamber started to file in, including Harry, Hermione, Sirius, Pansy and Neville, while the rest of their friends and family headed to the entrance for the audience.

The Wizengamot didn’t have politically aligned seating. Each seat had a fixed location, and sadly, Harry’s and hers were not next to each other. Hermione squeezed his hand before they separated, and went to her seat, pulling out her notes.

Dumbledore opened the session, reciting the old forms to convene the Wizengamot. They sounded more like a ritual than anything else to Hermione, but there was no corresponding magic.

“Esteemed members, we are gathered here today to discuss and vote on a proposal of Miss Granger: The Blood Equality Bill. You are all familiar with the proposal; it will remove blood status as a legal means of distinguishing between wizards.”

It would also remove the Patron system, but Dumbledore didn’t mention that. He didn’t have to, of course - everyone was aware of that, even without reading the proposed changes. This was one of the most controversial bills proposed in decades.

And it was hers. Hers and Harry’s.

“You have the floor, Miss Granger.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hermione stood up and let her notes float in front of her. “Esteemed colleagues, Wizarding Britain’s customs and laws are based traditionally on magic. We all know that magic is not a tool, but a force of its own. Life debts prove this.” She ignored the whispering that went through the chamber. “Which is why a life debt, even though it is very rare, has such far-reaching legal effects: Magic itself enforces it. This has been demonstrated and proven many times.”

She briefly let her gaze travel through the chamber before she continued. “The same cannot be said for blood status.”

More whispering followed, rising in volume. She cast an Amplifying Charm. “No spell or ritual that would target muggleborns but not purebloods has ever been created. No Anti-Muggleborn Charms exist - and Merlin knows, many have tried to create them. Magic simply does not recognize that there is difference between a muggleborn and a pureblood.”

She had the arithmantic proof, even. Her paper covering that subject had started the biggest controversy in the annals of ‘The Arithmancer’ magazine. As far as she knew, three duels had been fought over letters in the last issue alone. No one had challenged her to a duel though.

“So, why do we dare to act as if there is one? Why are muggleborns and purebloods not allowed to marry?” She raised her chin and pushed her chest with her Order of Merlin out. “I was born a muggleborn, but I’m now a pureblood. My blood didn’t change. I didn’t change. All that changed was a legal classification. Something utterly mundane.”

Hermione didn’t smile when she heard the outraged comments from those fossils who had understood that she just described their legal classifications as something better suited to muggles. She felt like smiling though.

“Where do muggleborns come from? There are many hypotheses, but none of them have ever been proven. Essentially, no one can explain why two muggles would have a magical child. And yet, we think such an obvious act of magic itself is grounds to shun them, and treat them as our lessers?”

She scoffed. “This caste system we have in Britain has to be abolished because it goes against the very foundation of our society: Magic itself.”

She sat down again. Selwyn rose to refute her proposal. He had nothing to say she hadn’t heard and anticipated though. Tradition this, tradition that. At least he didn’t claim muggleborns were dangerous and needed to be controlled.

Harry was the next speaker, and Hermione paid close attention to his speech, even though she had helped write it.

“My esteemed colleague, Mister Selwyn, has spoken about tradition. About the need to introduce muggleborns to our society in a controlled fashion, which gave birth to our current system. Well, I’ve been raised by muggles, and I had no idea magic even existed until I received my Hogwarts letter. I knew as much about our customs and traditions as any muggleborn. Less actually, since most muggleborns were raised in Wizarding Britain. Why wasn’t I treated as a muggleborn then? Because of my blood? I was made a pureblood by a decree of the Wizengamot; when I was born, I was legally a muggleborn, despite my father being a pureblood.

“I was a Patron for a muggleborn, despite being born a muggleborn myself, and despite being raised as a muggle. And yet, I know our traditions and customs, better than many purebloods my age.”

Hermione saw how Harry glared at Selwyn and the other old fossils. “The blood laws of Wizarding Britain are not just rubbish, they are insane! We treat people who were born to magical parents in Wizarding Britain, who were raised in our country and lived their entire life as wizards and witches, differently just because their parents were two muggleborns instead of purebloods or half-bloods.” He leaned forward. “And yet when it suits us, we ignore our own laws, and arbitrarily declare muggleborns as purebloods, proving that blood truly does not matter.

“Nor do the actual circumstances of a child’s life matter at all. A muggleborn raised by wizards to become an expert of our customs and traditions would be forced by our laws to swear an oath to a pureblood Patron. A pureblood raised by muggles as a muggle would be treated as a Head of family though.

“This makes no sense at all. It is time to abolish the blood laws in Britain.”

A few more members rose to speak, but nothing really new was said, even though the debate grew quite lively. But the majority of the members of the Wizengamot had already made up their minds about their vote before today. All that was left was the posturing. Something that didn’t sit well with Hermione. It seemed so wasteful.

Finally, the votes were called. Hermione fought to keep a calm, composed expression, instead of biting her lower lip and constantly restyling her hair. She knew that the bill should pass. The arguments she and Harry had presented didn’t matter much; the fossils wouldn’t listen to them anyway. But there were enough of them who were too afraid to go against the explicit wishes of Dumbledore, Harry and herself.

Dumbledore received the results, then rose to announce them. “Blood Equality Bill. For: 29. Against: 20. The bill has passed.”

They had done it! Hermione closed her eyes, savoring the moment. She had had doubts, irrational ones, and fears, but they had done it!

She still had much to do. Werewolf discrimination needed to follow the blood laws to the rubbish heap of history. She had to find a ritual to destroy Dementors more easily. There were a dozen spells that she wanted to create. And there was that standing offer from Saul Croaker to join his department, should she ever tire of politics. She had all the options she had dreamed of and feared she’d never have when she had become Harry’s retainer so long ago.

But today, she simply wanted to celebrate. With her friends, and with Harry.

They had earned it.

*****​