The war has ended. The world returned to normal. Then they had to live in it.
Five years after the war, Hermione Granger wears her survival like a badge and a bruise-polished, professional, and slowly vanishing beneath the weight of expectations. Ma...
HERMIONE FINALLY CLOSED THE DREADED FILE. Her fingers ached from gripping the quill too tight.. Another summary report destined to vanish into the machine of the Ministry and never read again.
Her cubicle barely passed as a workspace. It was a glorified cupboard-narrow, grey, wedged between two mildew-scented filing cabinets. One cracked photo frame sat beside the inkwell of the trio, fifteen, at Hogwarts. The smile she wore then looked impossibly wide.
She'd expected more than this. All the accolades, the expectations, and still-just another face in an overstuffed ministry, forgotten the second the lift doors closed.
A ding. The lift sighed open. Footsteps passed, then paused behind her.
Back straightening, she turned.
Minister Shacklebolt stood at the edge of her row, smiling warmly. He lingered near the entrance, saying nothing.
"Hello, Kingsley," Hermione said. "May I help you?"
"How's the outreach work coming along?"
She stilled, a polite smile following. "I've been meaning to follow up with Malfoy. We're syncing our schedules."
Kingsley studied her as though he already knew the truth. She and Malfoy had been avoiding their commitment and each other like the plague.
Kindness lingered in Kingsley's gaze. The sort that stung-gentle, but laced with disappointment.
A soft "Mm," and he walked on.
Hermione stared at the blank wall of her cubicle. Her planner was open beside her, the same week's page she'd been pretending to review all morning. Tuesday: finish filing. Wednesday: submit revisions. Thursday: owl Malfoy. A note scribbled four days ago and ignored every time she saw it.
She blamed scheduling.
But it was the memory of his hands and what they awoke in her. Of what they made her forget.
The overhead lights buzzed, sharp and rhythmic, making her temples throb.
The orphanage. Viola.
The girl's face re-emerged in her memory. Not the full expression-just one detail: the slight downturn of her mouth when she asked, "Will you come back?"
Hermione pressed her palm to her chest like she could push down the guilt. It throbbed anyway.
A new sheet of parchment lay ready, but her fingers hesitated over her quill, trembling as the words struggled to form in her mind.
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