Chapter Text
St. Mungo’s didn’t sleep. Not properly, anyway. It pretended sometimes. There’d be these brief, almost convincing lulls where things quieted just enough that you could hear the smaller sounds again. The scratch of a quill somewhere. The low clink of glass. Someone muttering through a spell like they were only half paying attention. Hermione had learned to take those moments when she could get them. She didn’t try to hold onto them. They never lasted long enough for that. Tonight, especially, had no intention of slowing down.
The Spell Damage ward was loud. Not just loud, the kind of loud that had layers to it, that settled into the walls and stayed there. Gurneys came through in bursts, never evenly spaced, always in clusters. Like trouble had looked at the schedule and decided to ignore it entirely. People shouted. Others cried out. A chart hovered too close to Hermione’s shoulder before drifting off again, like it had somewhere more important to be.
A healer ran by holding a tray of vials that fizzed ominously. Somewhere nearby, a patient cried out in pain as a mediwitch stood over him, swishing their wand to straighten his bent leg back into place.
Hermione stood at the Mediwitches’ desk, updating her most recent patient’s chart. A young man that had been hit with a rogue Furnunculus Curse, causing large boils to erupt all over him. Hermione set her quill down, just as the ward doors slammed open once again.
“Coming through!”
Padma.
Hermione quickly joined her at the gurney of the young woman, assessing her injuries with a practiced eye. From what she could see, it looked as if she had been splinched.
“What happened?” she asked, wand already out.
“She was found outside a shop in Hogsmede,” Padma said, keeping pace. “Some guy brought her in.”
The girl grabbed Hermione’s hand. Hard. Hermione tightened her grip without thinking.
“Hey..you’re alright,” she said, voice dropping automatically. “You’re safe. Stay with me.”
“I..I left..I just—” The girl squeezed her eyes shut. “I tried to apparate..but..”
“Listen to me, you’re going to be just fine. We’ve got you now.”
The young girl squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep her tears from running free.
“I…I. had a big fight with my mum” she choked out. “I was angry, and I just wanted to leave"
She screamed out in pain as Padma began to pour Essence of Dittany onto the large gash on her stomach.
“As soon as I apparated, I knew.. but it was too late"
“We’re going to let your mum know ok? What’s your name?” Hermione asked, giving the girl’s hand a small squeeze.
“Honoria Treadwell”
Hermione nodded to one of the older mediwitches, who hurried off to contact the mother.
Padma and Hermione worked on Honoria without a word between them. Four years of this, the same ward, the same rhythms, and words had mostly become unnecessary. Hermione conjured her diagnostic and assessed it in a glance while Padma was already reaching for the next potion, already ahead of her. They didn’t need to discuss it. They just moved.
Back at Hogwarts, Hermione and Padma had barely spoken. There hadn't been much reason to. Hermione had never been particularly interested in the things that seemed to bond girls in her year, the gossip, the makeup charms, the endless dissection of who fancied who. She'd always felt slightly outside of it, like she was watching through glass.
Padma, though. She'd always been quieter than Parvati, noticeably so, like she'd decided early on that her sister was doing quite enough talking for both of them. Hermione had appreciated that, in an abstract sort of way. Not that it had translated into any actual conversation. Other than watching her go to the Yule Ball with Ron.. which, in fairness, had not looked like a particularly enjoyable evening for either of them.
Then came her first day at St. Mungo’s. She’d spotted Padma sitting alone in the hospital café, staring into a cup of coffee like it had personally offended her. Hermione had sat down without really thinking about it. They’d talked through the entire lunch break. Talked about Hogwarts, Healing, what they actually wanted their lives to look like, and somewhere in the middle of it Hermione had thought, Oh..There’s a whole person here, I completely missed! Over the last four years, and more cups of coffee than she could count, she’d kept finding more of her. She didn't know how, but Padma had quietly become one of the few people in Hermione's life that she trusted without question.
It was about twenty minutes later, give or take. Hermione had stopped counting at some point and just worked alongside Padma, spells, potions, adjustments, more spells.. until the red flashing lights on Honoria’s diagnostic finally simmered to amber. Then held. Then, slowly, faded to green.
Hermione wiped the sweat from her brow and clenched and unclenched her wand hand.
Padma unstoppered the last potion, a vial of Dreamless Sleep, and tipped it carefully to Honoria’s lips. Neither of them moved until it was gone. The girl’s breathing evened out almost immediately, the tension leaving her face all at once. Padma looked at Hermione. The smile was small. Tired. But it was there.
“Another one for the Golden Girl,” Padma said, like she wasn’t entirely joking.
“Don’t start,” Hermione said, letting out a small laugh as she stretched her neck and flexed her fingers, the stress of the shift finally catching up with her.
She summoned Honoria’s chart, and updated the final notes, scrawling faster than was probably legible, and sent it drifting back toward the mediwitches’ station.
Behind them, the ward didn’t wait. Another gurney came rushing through fast, mediwitches and healers scrambling after it, An old man was shouting, not words, just noise. The kind that meant real pain. The brief quiet was already gone. It always went like that.
Hermione glanced over her shoulder, following the gurney with her eyes and assessing the man’s injuries in an instant. Padma took one look at her.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said. “It’s a broken wrist at best. Marcus is more than capable of fixing him.”
“But maybe they—”
Padma raised a brow. “Go. Get changed. We’re already late.”
“I’ts not that late..”
“I will Imperius you,” Padma said flatly.
Hermione paused at that. “…fair.” She decided it was safer to comply than risk Padma ending up in Azkaban before sunset.
She turned on her heel and headed out of the ward toward the healers’ changing room.
The corridor beyond the ward doors was almost disorienting in how quiet it was. The doors swung shut behind her and the noise dropped away, not gone, exactly, but muffled, like something held at a distance. No shouting. No spells. Just the soft glow of the enchanted lamps and her own footsteps, which suddenly seemed very loud.
The changing rooms were down a side hall, warded for privacy, which she had always been grateful for. There was a faint smell of lavender and something sharper underneath it. Cleaning potions, probably. She pushed open the door and headed inside.
The room was empty.
She exhaled, pressing her back against the door, only then realizing she had been holding her breath.
The room was small and white and smelled like it had been recently scrubbed. Lockers ran the length of both walls. Hermione went to hers, peeling off the outer layers of her healer’s robes as she walked. She muttered an incantation and vanished them, then stood there a moment in her jeans and her plum-coloured top, feeling immediately more like herself.
It was simple. Muggle. Not exactly what the wizarding world expected from the Golden Girl.
With a muttered groan, she waved her wand over herself. The jeans and top became a dress. It was deep burgundy, fitted through the body, V-neck just low enough that Ginny would approve and Hermione would spend the evening mildly self-conscious about. The skirt flared out at the knee. It would do, she thought.
Another flick lengthened her shoes into heels, black, tasteful, already slightly threatening to her ankles. She pulled the clip from her hair and let her curls go, which took up considerably more space than she remembered. She did a quick makeup charm and then gave herself a moment in front of the mirror to confirm she looked like a person. She supposed that was as good as it was going to get.
She studied herself in the mirror for a moment. The transformation felt absurd.
Healer. War hero. Golden Girl. Muggle-born.
It was all the same person, wasn’t it? But Hermione didn’t quite know who she saw in the mirror.
“Just drinks,” she muttered under her breath. “Drinks with friends.”
She slung her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door.
Her heels clicked against the corridor floor, which she immediately regretted. The sound carried in a way that felt slightly absurd for someone trying to leave quietly. She kept moving. The public Floos were two floors down and she was already thinking about the drink she was going to order the moment she got there.
Then, as she turned down yet another corridor, her steps slowed.
She came to a stop in front of a door marked:
"POTIONS STORAGE"
Hermione turned her head to look behind her. She stood perfectly still, listening. No footsteps. No voices. Nothing. She reached for her wand and, with a soft click, the door opened and she stepped inside.
The air was cooler in here. Noticeably so. Shelves ran the length of every wall, packed with vials and jars and sealed containers, all of it organised in a way that suggested someone cared very much about the system.
She went quickly, reading labels as she went and slipping the right ones into her bag without stopping. At the end of the row she had to stretch onto her toes for the last one. A darker substance, swirling slowly inside the glass.
She got it. Slipped it into her bag. Let out a breath she hadn’t entirely meant to hold.
Then she turned and walked back toward the door.
Her hand closed around the handle, and paused. Footsteps. Just outside. Her pulse kicked once, sharp and sudden. She leaned her head slightly toward the door, listening.
A beat passed.
Then the footsteps continued, growing fainter with every step. Once she could hear her own heartbeat again, Hermione slipped out and closed the door quietly behind her.
“Busy evening, Granger?”
The voice startled her, stopping her in her tracks.
Of course.
She turned slowly.
Cormac McLaggen was standing casually against the wall a few feet away, looking like he had been waiting for quite some time. Absolute Prat. His eyes drifted slowly over her body, taking in her short dress, before settling on her face with a self-satisfied smirk.
“Mmmm Granger..You clean up well.”
Hermione kept her expression as neutral as she could manage. Cormac McLaggen. On the board of St. Mungo’s, technically, though no one had ever been able to explain to her satisfaction what that actually meant in practice. As far as she could tell, it meant he was permitted to wander the corridors looking important and making people uncomfortable. Mostly women. Mostly on purpose.
“Thank you Cormac..But I’m late, I really must get going.”
Her hand tightened ejust a fraction on her bag as she started to walk past him, But he pushed himself off the wall and stepped into her path.
“You work too hard, you know that?.. Everyone says it.”
“Well perhaps everyone should mind their own business” she said through a pinched smile.
“You do look rather tired. You really should let someone take care of you.”
Hermione tried to step around him, but again he moved in her way, just enough to stop her. That made her pause. She looked up at him sharply now, her face hardening.
“i’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you.”
Her voice was calm. Final. It left no room for argument.This time she pushed past him and continued down the corridor toward the Floos. But Behind her, she could hear a low whistle, and she had the distinct impression Cormac was staring at her arse. She rolled her eyes at that. The alcove for the Floo was quieter than the ward, though still very busy. Green flames roared to life every few minutes or so, as witches and wizards came and went.
Padma stood waiting in a black chiffon dress, looking gorgeous and thoroughly unimpressed.
“About time,” she said, though there was no real annoyance in her voice. “You said ten minutes?”
“I'm sorry I got held up,” Hermione replied simply.
Padma’s eyes flicked over her, taking in the dress.
“Well worth it though” she said. “Although McLaggen is wandering about here somewhere. Don’t let him see you in that, or he’ll be on you like a Niffler on gold.”
“Too late,” Hermione sighed.
Padma straightened and reached for the Floo powder.
“Right, then. We’d better get out of here before he resurfaces. I can already smell his god awful cologne which means he must be nearby!”
Without wasting another minute, she stepped into the fireplace and threw the powder down.
“Diagon Alley!”
She disappeared into the flames, Hermione following a second later.
The Elixir Room
Diagon Alley’s trendiest bar. It was already alive and buzzing when Hermione and Padma stepped through the door.
Warm and cozy light spilled across the polished, modern bar. Conversations and laughter rose around them as trays filled with delicious food and drinks wove through the crowd. There was a low thrum of music that pulsed beneath it all.
And then..
“Hermione!!!..HERMIONE!!!"
"Over Here!! ”
"Give us a look over here!!"
The flashes hit her before the door had even finished closing. Hermione blinked, mostly out of reflex, not surprise. Years of this. Cameras and journalists and quick-quotes quills, asking everything from what she'd eaten that morning to what colour quill she preferred to write with. Someone had actually published that one once. 12 inches, Royal Blue. She still thought about it occasionally, and not fondly.
There was a small cluster of paparazzi that leaned towards her eagerly, blocking her path. Their voices collided as their quick-quotes quills hovered behind them, ready to record every single word she might say.
“What dress are you wearing? Is it enchanted or off the rack?”
“Any comment on the latest Death Eater sightings?”
“Hey, Are you still dating Ron Weasley?”
“What beauty charms do you swear by right now?”
Hermione pasted on the smile she reserved for exactly these moments. It was polite, controlled and perfectly unreadable. Then she stepped past them without a second glance. Her usual rehearsed line on the tip of her lips.
“No comment.”
“Gods..They’re charming as ever,” Padma muttered under her breath as she fell into step beside her. They moved deeper into the bar, the noise of the paparazzi slowly fizzling out behind them.
It only took Hermione a moment to spot their table. She could pick Harry Potter out of any room in the world. She’d been doing it since she was eleven. Untidy hair, glasses always slightly crooked, the kind of face that looked like it was working something out even when it wasn’t. To her, that hadn’t changed, he was still the same Harry. To everyone else, apparently, it had. He was no longer The Boy Who Lived, now he was The Man Who Lived.
He’d grown into himself, she supposed. Broader through the shoulders. The kind of lean that came from four years of running after people for a living. There was stubble now too, which still occasionally caught her off guard.
Harry was already halfway out of his seat, smiling at her like he couldn't help it.
Beside him was Ginny, sharp-eyed and completely at ease in the way she always was, like the room had arranged itself around her rather than the other way round. After the war, she and Harry had been nearly inseparable. Ginny had moved into Grimmauld Place so gradually that no one had really noticed until she was just... there. Molly had started leaving wedding magazines in conspicuous places not long after. Harry had eventually got the message. The wedding at the Burrow had been loud and chaotic and an absolutely perfect. Hermione had never doubted they would get there in the end.
Across from Ginny sat the newest addition to the group, Blaise Zabini. He was leaning back in his chair as though the place belonged to him.
Blaise had been partnered with Harry eight months ago. Harry had owled her approximately forty-five minutes after Kingsley broke the news. The message had been four words: ‘Is this a joke?’
How, exactly, was he meant to work with a bloody Slytherin?
Then came the dragon farm raid. When a vicious hex had come flying toward Harry from behind, it had been Blaise who had pushed him out of the way and took the curse himself, landing him in St. Mungo’s for a week. Ordinarily, Blaise would have checked himself out after the first day. St. Mungo’s beds, Hermione suspected, did not meet his standards for thread count. But when his healer had walked into the room, he had apparently changed his mind.
She had been beautiful, clever, and utterly immune to his charm. Which, judging by the look on his face every time Padma walked into a room, still remained a particular source of fascination.
On the other side of Blaise was Neville Longbottom, midway through a story and gesturing animatedly about some rare poisonous plant he had recently acquired to show his students.
Neville was the newest Herbology professor at Hogwarts. McGonagall had offered him the position the year before, and he’d gone quiet for a full ten seconds before saying yes. He was thriving. Hermione could see it every time she looked at him, and she was glad.
And finally, beside Neville, was Ron Weasley.
He was listening to Neville babble on about his exotic poisonous plant, but the moment Hermione approached the table, his attention was gone. His expression softening almost immediately.
“Well well..Look who finally made it,” he said, a dopey grin tugging at his mouth.
“Blame the hospital,” Hermione said, easing into the seat beside Ginny.
“I always do,” Blaise said, flicking Padma a knowing look.
Harry leaned forward a bit. “Long day?”
“You have no idea,” Hermione said, already reaching for his glass and finishing it in one go.
Ron watched her a second longer than the others. Harry caught it, then quietly waved a waiter over for another. Hermione glanced around for something else. It had been a long day and she wanted something stronger. Her attention snagged on Blaise’s drink, a deep violet thing with smoke lazily curling off it.
“What’s that?”
“An improvement,” Blaise said smoothly, lifting the glass.
“On what?” Hermione asked.
“The first one they brought me,” he said. “I sent it back.”
Ginny snorted. “Yeah..After one sip.”
“It was badly made,” Blaise said calmly.
Hermione held out her hand. “Give it here.”
Blaise eyed her for a second, then passed the glass over. She took a sip..then another, a smaller one.
“Godric, that's good!”
“Of course it is,” Blaise said smoothly. “I know the owner.”
Padma glanced at him, unimpressed. “You say that everywhere.”
“Because it’s true.”
His gaze slid back to her, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.
“I can prove it,” he said. “Name a place. I’ll take you.”
Padma didn’t blink. “Hard pass.”
He smiled slightly, like he’d expected that.
“Your loss.”
Hermione handed the glass back, a small smile tugging at her lips.
The table settled into easy conversation after that. Neville debated with Blaise about which firewhiskey was actually superior. Harry and Ron argued over the latest Quidditch results while Hermione, Ginny, and Padma talked about Ginny’s new position as Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies. It felt good.
After a while, and a few more drinks, Hermione noticed Harry falling quiet. He was leaning back in his chair, one hand adjusting the side of his glasses, his gaze moving around the room. Not scanning. But aware. Always aware. She set her own drink down. A silver, shimmering cocktail that tasted sweet and citrusy.
“You’re working,” she said.
Harry’s mouth twitched. “I’m not.”
“Yes you are,” Ginny said without looking at him.
Blaise didn’t even glance over. “He always is.”
Harry let out a quiet breath and leaned in a little.
“We had a lead today.”
The shift at the table was small, but it happened. Neville’s smile dropped. Ginny straightened slightly. Hermione felt something in her chest pull tight.
“A lead on what?” she asked.
Harry’s eyes flicked briefly around them, then back. “A confirmed sighting.”
Ron set his glass down. “So it’s not just a rumour then?”
“No,” Harry said. “The magical trace matched.”
A beat.
Hermione’s fingers curled slightly around the edge of the table.
“Who?”
Harry didn't hesitate.
“Rodolphus Lestrange.”
The name landed heavily.
Neville let out a quiet breath. “After all this time?”
Padma leaned back slightly, her expression tightening. “Where?”
“In Knockturn,” Harry said.
Hermione held her expression steady, even as something sharper settled beneath it.
“I thought he’d have run,” she said.
“Yeah so did we,” Harry replied.Pulling his glasses off his nose and cleaning them on his shirt. A nervous habit he had since his Hogwarts days.
“But why stick around? It’s careless going to Knockturn” Hermione mused.
Blaise tapped a finger once against the table. “If he’s showing himself now, it’s intentional.”
Neville glanced between them. “You think he’s building something?”
Harry didn’t answer immediately, but his silence was answer enough.
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” A silence settled over the table. Thinner than before. More careful. Hermione looked down at her glass. They were supposed to be past this. That was the thing no one said aloud. They’d fought the war. They’d won. They’d spent years quietly stitching themselves back together, and now here they were, back at a table talking about Death Eaters like the last decade had just been a long exhale before the next thing.
Ginny finally exhaled and shook her head. “Right. That’s enough of that.”
Blaise lifted his glass again. “Agreed. We’re off duty.”
The conversation picked back up, lighter, louder, deliberately so.. but it never quite settled into what it had been before. The worry remained in the back of everyone’s mind, though none of them would say it aloud. Hermione reached for her drink again, but her gaze drifted past her friends to the far side of the room.
For just a moment. Something uneasy threaded through her. Like a thought just out of reach. She took a sip and let the noise of the bar wash over her again.
Normal. Everything was normal.
Hermione stepped out of her Floo into the quiet of her flat.
The fire behind her dimmed with a soft crackle, the sudden stillness a stark contrast to the noise of the bar. No voices. No laughter. Just the low hum of the city beyond the windows.
She turned immediately and checked the wards with a quick flick of her wand. Once satisfied, she lit the lamps in the living room.
Her flat was warm. That was the first thing, always the first thing she noticed coming home. The bookshelves had long since exceeded any reasonable capacity, stacked two-deep and occasionally sideways when she ran out of options. There were plants she kept meaning to repot, a worn green chaise by the window with a blanket she’d stopped bothering to fold. A half-finished cup of tea sat on the coffee table by the hearth, stone cold. She’d made it before her shift.
It was quiet.
Safe.
Hermione slipped off her heels, carrying them by the straps as she crossed the room. For a moment she simply stood there, letting the silence settle around her.
Then she exhaled and continued toward her bedroom.
She shrugged out of her dress as she walked, letting it fall over the back of a chair. Her movements were slower now. She was exhausted. All she wanted was sleep.
She reached for her pyjamas, and paused. Her gaze dropped. There, along the inside of her wrist, faint beneath the skin, was a scar.
Her scar.
The word was still there.
Faded.
But not gone.
Mudblood.
Hermione’s jaw tightened. She flexed her hand once, just slightly. Then she turned away, finished changing with practiced efficiency, and slipped beneath the covers. The room darkened with a soft flick of her wand. Silence settled around her again.
Eventually, sleep came but it didn’t last. Hermione woke with a sharp, strangled breath. The room was dark. Too dark. Her heart pounded against her ribs, fast and uneven, her body already tense before her mind could catch up.
And then..
Pain.
It burned. Not sharp. Worse. It was a deep, spreading pain. Hermione gasped, clutching her arm as the scar flared beneath her skin, no longer faint, but vivid black, threadlike veins creeping along her arm like fire beneath the skin.
“No!!”
Her voice broke as she pushed herself upright, her breath coming faster now. It was stronger than before. Stronger than yesterday.
It pulsed again..
And spread.
Hermione scrambled out of bed, nearly going down as she grabbed for her bag. Her hands shook as she dug through it, knocking things aside.
“Come on..come on…”
Glass tapped against glass.
There.
She caught it, fingers tightening around the vial, and she pulled it out. The liquid inside shifted darkly. She didn’t think, just pulled the stopper out and drank. It hit her sharp. Bitter. Burned all the way down.
For a second she felt nothing.Then, slowly, the pain started to ease. Not all at once, just… less. Pulling back, sinking under her skin again. The pain wasn’tt gone, it just held there. For now.
Hermione braced herself against the bedside table, breathing hard. Her hands weren’t steady yet, neither was the rest of her. Sweat slipped down her temples. She grabbed the empty vial and tossed it into the bin, where it knocked against a few others already sitting there.
Silence returned. But it felt different now. Like it was fragile, temporary. She closed her eyes, steadying herself.
“It’s getting worse” she whispered.
But no one answered.