After the war was over

This story is very graphic in parts, there are scenes of rape and torture and a great deal of angst. It is an old story which I have edited and am reposting. ~ Lucie


PART ONE - FINDING WHAT WAS LOST

Hermione did not know how long she had sat on the old stone bench. Time seemed to pass differently when she was here with Harry. Well, with him in the only way that she could be these days. Harry had been lost after the final battle. Three days before his seventeenth birthday he had done what he had been foretold to do from the day he had been marked as Voldemort’s equal and rid the world of one of the most evil wizards who had ever lived. The wizarding world had exploded in celebration, parties had gone on for days, but Hermione could not celebrate. Not with Harry missing.

For a long, long time she had hoped that he had survived and had kept thinking that she saw him in the distance or in crowds, she had tried not to give up hope. But now, twelve years later on the anniversary of his great victory Hermione could not help but think that Harry had indeed died. Had gone forever and that she would never see him again in this world at least.

Once a year she came and sat by the stone statue that had been raised in this corner in honour of the child hero and spend some time with the nearest thing she could get to represent her lost friend. Later on there would be parties, celebrations and speeches.

But not here.

Hogwarts was closed for the summer holidays and there were just a few teachers in residence at the moment. Some, like she, had a number of things to do before term began and liked to have those things sorted out before they took a break. Some had already gone away and would rush back the week before term started, struggling to get everything ready before the old building swarmed with children once again and others like the shadowy figure standing in the semi darkness of the nearby copper beech tree had nowhere else to go.

She had been covertly watching the intruder on her memories for several minutes to see if he would come forward but he seemed unaware that she could see him. He always kept to the shadows these days, the bright, white-blonde hair that was his curse dimmed by the perpetual semi-darkness he inhabited. The sparkle of life, that had once made his grey eyes dance with malevolence, put out for evermore.

He was a mere cipher of the spiteful boy she had known as a child, left with nothing by the ministry and escaping Azkaban only because so many on the side of light had spoken up for him. The deciding factor of his freedom being the scrawled note written by Harry himself before he disappeared. Draco Malfoy had stood out all too clearly after the war was over. The child of Death Eaters himself and marked with evil, Malfoy was easily identified, easily targeted and easy to hate.

It had been several years before he had finally returned to the sanctuary that Hogwarts offered, dragged there by Ron Weasley of all people, and irony of ironies he now did the job that had once been Hagrid’s, the mighty Malfoy heir reduced to Keeper of Keys.

“Draco!” she called, watching as the figure stiffened, shocked at being caught staring at Harry’s image. He started to back away but Hermione was too fast for him. The grace and speed that he had demonstrated as a teenager was long gone. This Malfoy shuffled and stumbled broken down by one too many injuries and one too many words of hate. She rushed towards him before he could turn to try to run and grabbed his wrist, gently pulling him into the morning sunlight.

“Come on,” She said softly “there is room here for you.” she manoeuvred him over to the bench and gently tugged at his arm until he sat down beside her. At first he kept his eyes lowered, his body stiff. But gradually, once he realised that Hermione was not about to say anything, the tension in his back and shoulders eased somewhat and his gaze tentatively rose to rest on Harry’s face.

This was the best of all the statues that had been created in Harry’s honour, at least that was Hermione’s opinion. So many of them seemed to convey nothing of the real Harry, portraying a clichéd hero figure that was so far from the boy Hermione remembered as to be almost funny. But this statue had been made by Dean Thomas and demonstrated all the skill that that young man continued to display, this was the work of a true artist and someone who had known and cared for Harry as a friend.

This Harry portrayed the sweetness and uncertainty that had characterised the 16 year-old. He was Wart, not Arthur. If he had lived Harry would undoubtedly have become the greatest wizard of his generation. Indeed considering the amount of raw power that he had demonstrated at the final battle Harry would probably have become the greatest wizard of several generations.

But Harry’s magic was lost when Harry was and there was nothing that she or anyone could do to change that, and all that potential, all the goodness, the empathy and love that were amongst Harry’s most notable strengths, they were lost too. Had Harry survived the world would have been a better place Hermione believed. He would not have allowed the wizarding world to tear itself apart as it had. The mistrust and hatred against Slytherins and pure-blooded families that was characteristic of those early years would have been tempered by the forgiveness that Harry embodied, and Scrimgeour would not have been given free reign to run roughshod through age old traditions, destroy families and turn away “dark creatures” in the way that he had.

Hermione hurriedly stifled the sob that threatened to escape and found her hand gently grasped by Draco. She turned to him through a haze of tears but he had not looked away from Harry so she studied his profile for a while before returning her regard to Harry’s granite features. She gently squeezed the comforting hand that held hers and returned to her memories, whilst all around them the day grew steadily warmer and the noises of the awakening castle came to them muffled on the summer breeze.


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Severus Snape was surveying the castle grounds from his sitting-room window when Hermione and Draco returned to the castle. He watched them for some time as they walked across the grass, not speaking yet united in their sadness. He was glad that Draco had returned to Hogwarts at last, maybe now the young man could finally find peace?

He thought back to the night that Ron had bundled a bruised and battered Malfoy into Minerva’s office. They hadn’t known who it was at first in Ron’s arms, cradled like a child but Ron had deposited him gently onto the sofa that was placed for warmth in front of the large fireplace and the hood that covered him had fallen away revealing the distinctive hair and a myriad of bruises. Severus and Minerva had been enjoying a last cup of tea before bed when the youngest Weasley male had come crashing up the spiral staircase. Ron had grown into an enormous young man, with huge hands and feet and yet he handled Malfoy with surprising tenderness, making sure that he was comfortable before turning to address the headmistress and her oldest friend.

“I found him in Knockturn Alley,” he’d said, “Some bastard has given him a right kicking. Why the fuck can’t they leave him alone? Hasn’t he suffered enough?”

Snape had been stunned by Ron’s comments, not that he didn’t agree with them, because he could hardly have put it better himself, but because it was Ron saying these words. Ron had hated Malfoy at school. Ron whom he had always underestimated – whom most people underestimated come to that, had surprised him again.

There were lots of things that had happened the day of the final battle that Severus had never really known about and the bond of friendship that later formed between Ron and Draco had been nurtured then. Just before Riddle Manor exploded in a shower of masonry and blinding light Draco had appeared from nowhere in Ron’s arms. He had been naked and bleeding and Ron had apparently heard Harry’s voice in his head asking him to look after Malfoy. He had tried he’d said, but Malfoy, imbued with his family’s stupid pride, had refused. After spending six months in the Ministry’s holding cells Malfoy had vanished into the Muggle world and the edges of the dark-side of the wizarding one. However he did not disappear before searing Ron with a diatribe of scathing comments about his family’s poverty and his own ineptness. Weasley though had never given up searching for his erstwhile enemy and had sworn to someday bring him home.

Draco had retreated from the wizarding world like a wounded animal when he had found nothing but contempt and scorn poured upon him from all those who had willingly kowtowed to his father. The Muggles he’d encountered had found the sadly diminished and very naive Draco easy prey indeed. Not allowed to have a wand for several years he had been little better than a squib so he had cultivated a taste for Muggle drugs - Severus shivered at the very thought and had been selling his arse in Knockturn when Ron had found him. If only Severus had not had to spend nearly two years in Azkaban before Minerva was able to get him released, he would have taken Draco in but by the time Severus was out of prison Draco had disappeared into the dark underbelly of Muggle London.

Of course the fact that Severus had been freed at all was in the end also down to Harry. Even the testimony of the majority of the Order of the Phoenix, Albus’ pensieve plea and the absence of the Dark Mark on his forearm had not swayed the Wizengamot in the favour of the man who had killed Dumbledore. It was only when Hermione discovered that the tattered scroll penned by a weakened Harry when Voldemort imprisoned him had actually been written in his own blood and was therefore a document which they were legally and magically bound to accept, that Severus had finally been given his freedom, a begrudged apology and his surprisingly unbroken wand.

How Harry had come to write the document no one knew. But it seemed that he had somehow, wandlessly, managed to transfigure some of his ragged clothing into parchment and quill and written passionately about how Dumbledore had begged Severus to kill him as he had been dying in agony from the poison he had ingested earlier that evening. Harry had been the only witness to Albus’ final hours and therefore his testimony was irrefutable.

Not only that, but Harry had indeed turned out to be the Chosen One and nobody, not even Scrimgeour was going to argue with the last words of the Saviour of the Wizarding World.

Severus suspected that Harry had been unable to transfigure any ink as his guards were by then denying him water and had used the only liquid available to him at the time to proclaim the innocence of both Severus and Draco. It chilled him to the bone to think of what must have gone through Harry’s mind to make him write those letters. All on his own by then, in pain and probably convinced that he would not live much longer he had decided to try and save the two people who had caused him as much grief as they possibly could in his all too short life. His bitter relationship with Harry Potter was in fact Severus’ greatest regret in a life that was full of regrets.

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Harry had been missing from his Muggle home for several hours before anyone knew he had gone. He had been supposedly safe there, but leaving Harry with his Muggle relatives had they discovered been Dumbledore’s supreme folly. Snape had found himself summoned to Hogwarts by Fawkes on the day that Harry had disappeared. Thinking he would never return there again he had been astonished when the Phoenix had arrived at his house at Spinner’s End.

Albus had left messages in his pensieve for Minerva and for Harry, explaining everything, Harry of course had never seen his message, or Albus’ heartfelt apology for all the boy had had to go through. Severus remembered with shame how he had scoffed when Albus had expressed his regrets for how Harry had had to grow up.

He thought about the chaos that had ensued upon his arrival, The Order had been gathered in Minerva’s office arguing over what Snape had done and what was to happen next when three terrified, blood covered Muggles had suddenly appeared in their midst. They turned out to be Harry’s aunt and uncle and his grossly overweight cousin Dudley. Slowly over the course of the next few hours The Order discovered that Harry’s uncle had sold Harry to some men he had met in a pub. The men were Death Eaters and they had discovered Harry’s address somehow.

Unable to enter the wards they had hung about to see what they could find out and had overheard Vernon Dursley bemoaning the return of his “criminal” nephew they had swiftly engaged the man in conversation and offered a fee of £1,000 to “take Harry off his hands” for the summer. When Harry had returned from Kings Cross he had found four Death Eaters sitting in his Aunt Petunia’s lounge, sipping coffee. Taken by surprise he had been easily over powered and snatched away.

What seemed to outrage Harry’s uncle more than anything was the fact that the Death Eaters had then decided to take the Dursleys with them too, presumably to have some fun torturing them and maybe using them as leverage against Harry? Though why Harry should care what happened to his appalling relatives after such a betrayal was beyond Snape.

Apparently he did, however. Because here they were, standing in the headmistress’s office a little bit beaten up but otherwise unharmed. How they had got there through the supposedly impenetrable wards of Hogwarts no one had ever discovered. But, considering subsequent events, Harry surely must have had something to do with such powerful magic.

Harry’s obese cousin seemed the only one amongst them who had any remorse or understanding about what they had done as he was spluttering and wailing. Crying for Harry, begging the order to rescue his cousin from the evil “dementoids” and the men in cloaks and masks. He kept pleading for forgiveness for all he had done to Harry over the years and at that stage it was perhaps only his apologies which had prevented The Order from killing the Dursleys there and then.

Molly Weasley had been sobbing loudly, telling Petunia Dursley that she deserved to be whipped. Mad Eye Moody had had to be held back by Bill Weasley and Kingsley Shacklebolt as he was threatening to rip Dursley senior’s head from his shoulders, although Severus suspected that neither Bill or Kingsley were planning on trying too hard to restrain the grief stricken auror. Arthur Weasley was pale and shaking, muttering, “sold for fifty galleons,” under his breath over and over again. The twins were loudly threatening to embark on a reign of terror against Mugglekind and Tonks sat in a corner rocking a stunned Remus in her arms with tears streaming down her cheeks.

But Minerva had been magnificent. She had always had a secret fondness for Harry but scrupulously fair to her Gryffindors as she was, she had tried to hide her feelings for Lily and James’ child. Now, however, she was like a lioness with a threatened cub. “Do you know what you have done?” She roared at a trio of stunned Dursleys.

“You have condemned the world to darkness. Once we are gone, the last bastion of the light, do you really think that Voldemort will leave your world in peace? He wants to destroy Muggles! We are all that has kept you safe, and our one hope of defeating him was Harry. You have destroyed our hope. “You have destroyed our world and your world and you have condemned an innocent child to torture and death.

“How could you?

“How could you do that to a child? Such a sweet and special child? You have sold us all into slavery for a handful of galleons. You are beyond evil! You disgust me!

“ Hagrid!” She bawled at the gentle giant who sat sobbing in the corner, “Get them out of my sight!”

The stunned silence that followed her outburst lasted for several seconds and despite all that happened subsequently Severus remembered those long anguished moments as the lowest time of the war. The time that everyone feared that Harry was dead, Voldemort unopposed and the whole world teetering on the edge of an endless dark age. He never discovered what happened to the Dursleys immediately afterwards but he hoped that what ever it was had been difficult and uncomfortable, later they were tried as child abusers and supporters of Voldemort and sentenced to Muggle prison for the rest of their lives.

Only Dudley escaped their fate, his memory modified, he moved in with Arabella Figg the one person who would consent to help him.

Severus remembered that just as he thought to break the silence with a question about what the hell they were going to do next, his Dark Mark had started to burn and he had rushed out of the office, heading for the nearest apparition site, hoping and praying that Harry was still alive and promising The Order to report back as soon as he could. Promising himself that he would do his best to bring the child home safe. His best he remembered, was in the end, not nearly good enough.


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A sharp rap on his door stirred Severus from his ramblings. Hermione came in after a moment and she smiled kindly at him. “Severus it is time for the ceremony,” she said. Severus stood and sighed, he moved over to the rather beautiful young woman that she had matured into, inclined his head towards her as a gesture of respect and tucked his arm around her’s. Together they set off for the Great Hall walking slowly; they made their way downstairs, each of them lost in their own thoughts. They were heading for the memorial that had mysteriously appeared embedded in one wall of the Great Hall just three days after the final battle. The memorial was in the form of a plaque, 6ft tall and 10ft long and shiny as a mirror. A list of names and two short inscriptions were carved into the obsidian, which was as black and unfathomable as the irises of Snape’s eyes.

Snape stood before the dark oblong and once again read the dedication. Not all of those named were dead of course. The Longbottoms still lived on and Dennis Creevey slept in St Mungos deep in a magical coma, the energetic child that Snape remembered still at last, Ollivander had never been found, nor had Harry and as the years went on it seemed more and more likely that they were among the fallen and not simply “lost”. Severus closed his eyes and heart clenching with sadness he listened as Minerva read aloud the words carved into the stone, just as she did every year.

For all those we have lost, or who have gone before,
We will hold you in our hearts forever more.

And then the words of a Muggle poem carved starkly and plainly:

For The Fallen

They shall not grow old, as we who are left grow old:
Age shall not weary, them, nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them*.


Under these words - which Hermione assured him, were read at Muggle ceremonies every year on the 11th of November to commemorate the dead of numerous wars - there was a list of names that seemed to go on forever. The list included adults and children, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, Gryffindor and Slytherin as Death Eaters had in the last days killed indiscriminately murdering all who came into contact with them:

James Potter, Lily Potter, Gideon Prewitt, Fabien Prewitt, Frank Longbottom, Alice Longbottom, Sirius Black, Regulus Black, Albus Dumbledore, Amelia Bones, Florean Fortescue, Octavius Ollivander, Emmeline Vance, Bertha Jorkins, Cedric Diggory, Oliver Wood, Filius Flitwick, Rolanda Hooch, Gregory Goyle, Patricia Finnegan, Alastor Moody, Percy Weasley, Angelina Johnson, Terry Boot, Margaret Boot, Dennis Creevey, Rachael Morrison, Zachary Smith, Lucinda Smith, Malcolm Smith, Daphne Greengrass, Lavinia Greengrass, Geraldine Clearwater, Dedalus Diggle, Narcissa Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy, Harry Potter.

There was something about the way that Minerva read the names in her rich Scottish accent, at a measured pace, that was unbelievably moving. Severus studied the little group of people gathered around and thought sadly how few there were compared to previous years. The numbers of mourners diminished as people got on with their own lives and began to disregard the past. But each person here today, remembered for their own reasons, they were close to those named and would never forget.

Amos Diggory was here; thinking of his son and with him was Amanda Wood mother of Oliver. Oliver who had died alongside his girlfriend Angelina. Terry Boot and a number of other Hogwarts students killed during an attack on Diagon Alley at the height of the war. Penelope Clearwater was here too, daughter of Geraldine and girlfriend of Percy. Percy Weasley had finally had enough of the corruption at the Ministry and had lost his life trying to protect his girlfriend’s mother and his own little sister from yet another Death Eater attack. He had failed to save Geraldine, but the fact that Ginny was alive today was thanks to his actions. Penelope and Percy’s beautiful, doe-eyed daughter Amelia stood quietly beside her mother.

Draco was in the crowd of mourners too.

Head bowed, probably thinking of his parents for whose promised safety he had tried to kill Dumbledore and thus precipitated the final events of the war. Narcissa had died under prolonged Cruciatus, pleading with Voldemort not to hand her son to his Death Eaters to use as they wished. Lucius newly freed from Azkaban in the battle that had finally killed Moody died trying to prevent Walden MacNair from raping his son yet again.

Last year Draco had come later after the ceremony all on his own to pay his respects. But today he stood flanked by Hermione and Ron, Neville and Susan, Luna and Dean, Ginny and Blaise, Vincent and Pansy. Couples who had gotten together at the height of the fighting or soon afterwards and stayed together ever since. They were here with their children, some of whom were still just babies, hoping to ensure that their lost friends were never forgotten. All those lives senselessly cut short. They had been the generation hit hardest by Voldemort’s madness and as they took their places in the wizarding world they had sworn to ensure that such a war never happened again.

But still Snape wondered. The corruption at The Ministry carried on regardless. Scrimgeour helped by unscrupulous minions like Dolores Umbridge had outlawed dark creatures such as werewolves and giants, sending Hagrid fleeing to France to his beloved Olympe and Lupin and Tonks to goodness knows where. Every area of wizarding life showed their malevolent influence and Snape sometimes wondered if all the loss and destruction had been worth it after all. Without Albus, without Amelia Bones, without Harry Potter there had been no one influential enough to stand up against The Ministry and so in the end, the Minister and his cronies had had their way in all things.

He lifted his gaze to survey the room once more and his eyes met the chocolaty brown ones of Hermione, which shone with sympathy and understanding. Snape felt unworthy of all the support and quiet happiness that he had found after the war. So many people who were better in every way than he was had died and he could not understand why he had survived when others, far more worthy, had not.

But Snape was a Slytherin after all and that meant that he made the best of every opportunity. So when Arthur Weasley had turned up in his cell at Azkaban seeking to release him, he had gone gratefully with the gentle man.

He had embraced the friendship that Hermione had offered, deeply touched by the regular visits she had made to his prison room. Later on he had also developed a friendship with her husband Ron who he had gradually come to respect and trust. He treasured his time with Draco, eighteen months at Hogwarts now and slowly beginning to heal. And he also cherished his deep and abiding relationship with Minerva, who had doubted him only briefly and had defended him fiercely ever since.

Just before he turned to leave the gathering and head back to his sitting-room sanctuary in Slytherin tower he sent a silent prayer that all the fallen had found peace and that Harry where-ever he might be, in this world or the next, had at last found the happiness that he so richly deserved.

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Hermione tutted loudly and dropped the letter she was holding scornfully onto the table in front of her. “What’s wrong babes?” asked Ron looking up at her over his copy of The Daily Prophet.

“It’s just this letter from the granny of a Muggle born.” She answered “Although this one must have had some links to the wizarding world from the amount of knowledge she seems to have, maybe she is a squib or something?

“She says she doesn’t want her granddaughter exposed to the dangers and prejudices of our world without a number of assurances that she will be safe.” Hermione sighed deeply.

This year and last had seen a huge increase of children heading to Hogwarts for the first time. The inevitable explosion in the birth rate that had followed the defeat of Voldemort was surely a good thing for the wizarding world? But a massive headache for Hermione, as most of the organisational details that would ensure that the children received a decent education had fallen on her slender shoulders.

Hermione had started teaching just over three years after she graduated and had been Minerva’s right hand woman ever since. Together they had come up with a charm that ensured that the welfare of all magical children was monitored from birth, never again would there be a Tom Riddle or a child that suffered as much for his magical ability as Harry had. As soon as the child’s name appeared in the ledger of magical births the charm was activated. It supervised their safety and development and alerted the authorities if there were any problems. Susan Longbottom nee Bones and Hannah Abbot headed up the department in the Ministry that watched out for the children. Deeply moved by the details of Harry’s childhood that had emerged after the war they had guaranteed that no child would be treated as Harry had, and had indeed removed a number of children over the years from unsuitable homes both magical and Muggle.

Susan and Neville had adopted one little girl who was being abused. Pansy and Vincent had adopted twins. Crabbe’s childhood had been less than perfect and once he had managed to overcome much of the prejudice that he and Pansy suffered immediately after the war for being the children of Death Eaters he had gone on to become a staunch supporter of all that Hermione was trying to do.

Crabbe now ran a small shop in Diagon Alley. He and Pansy had been supported, like a number of Slytherins who had come on hard times, by something called the ”Lenoir Foundation.”

This was run by an eccentric Frenchman who had come to prominence after the war - or at least his representative had - Lenoir, as far as anyone knew had never set foot in Britain. But he had nevertheless helped a number of impoverished Slytherin families and even paid legal fees for Draco and himself. Without Lenoir a lot of children and families of Death Eaters would have fallen on very hard times indeed

The Department of Magical Child Protection (DMCP) had become one of the good things that had come out of the war, however it meant much more work for Hermione. Muggle relatives were visited before their children attended Hogwarts, invited to visit often and gently introduced into the magical world. But with so many magical children reaching eleven over the last year or so Hermione just did not have the time to see them all separately these days. So families were brought to Hogwarts and shown around, introduced to the teachers and wooed and welcomed. The subject of this latest letter, the granny of one Flora MacLeod had repeatedly refused to visit without assurance after assurance and insisted that Hermione come to her.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Ron asked. He worked as an auror these days. Just as he and Harry had decided to do, so long ago. Ron was one of the best people that Kingsley had. He was fair and loyal, a good tactician and an honest man. He had slowly worked his way up through the department and was now Kingsley’s deputy. He was however owed some time off and wanted to spend it with his beloved wife. “Where do they live? We could stop by, say hello and head off somewhere for a few days, what do you think?” He asked waggling his eyebrows at her suggestively. Hermione smiled and nodded.

“Go on then.” She said, grinning up at him. “The family lives on the Isle of Skye. I hear it is very beautiful there, and it would be nice to have some time together I suppose.”

He sidled over to her, grinning like the lovesick fool he was when it came to Hermione, wrapped his arms around her and then they sealed their bargain with a tender kiss.



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Two days later they found themselves apparating amongst stunning scenery of mountains and seascape. “Wow!” Breathed Hermione, “This is beautiful!”


“Isn’t it?” Ron said, gently placing a kiss on her nose as she leaned into his embrace. “Where’s the house from here?”

Hermione looked around for a moment before spotting it, long and white, with huge windows, nestled in a group of trees and slowly hand in hand they made their way towards the home of Flora MacLeod.

Soon after, sitting in a bright, sunny farmhouse kitchen Hermione found herself being charmed by the formidable Fiona (call me Fi) granny to the elusive Muggleborn Flora.

Conversation so far had covered the weather today (“delightful for the time of year as it can be dreich around these parts in August.”), the journey (“no problems apparating thanks to your directions.”), and Hermione and Ron’s marriage (“happily for ten years, no, sadly, no children yet.”). Hermione wondered when they were ever going to get to the point when Fi MacLeod spoke again.

“So what guarantees can you give me that my granddaughter will be safe in your world? Can you promise me she will never be hurt, or raped or tortured by evil wizards?”

Hermione taken aback by the sudden change of subject and the harsh words, nearly choked on the mouthful of tea that she had just ingested. What on earth had this woman’s experiences of the magical world been in order to prompt her to say such a thing? Hermione had been asked numerous different questions in her time by Muggle families ranging from what employment was like in the magical world to what the dangers might be. But no one had ever been as blunt as this lady in her queries or as apparently knowledgeable in the way of Death Eaters.

So taking a deep breath, Hermione proceeded to explain how their world had changed. She told Fi MacLeod about Harry and what he had sacrificed. She found herself being scrupulously honest, citing the problems that existed but promising that the violence and cruelty that had characterised the Voldemort years was no longer happening.

Then she returned to the subject of her lost friend and talked long and lovingly about how much Harry had meant to them all. After the recent celebrations and the memorial service he was foremost in her mind at that moment and she spoke about him with passion and gratitude. Finally she finished and silence descended on the room. There was just the sound of an old clock ticking and sheep bleating in the fields surrounding the house to break the stillness. She lifted her eyes to meet those of the woman who had listened quietly to her story and found to her surprise that they, like her own, were filled with tears.

Fiona MacLeod opened her mouth in order to reply to Hermione, or perhaps ask her something else. But whatever she was about to say was never heard as the back door burst open and a small tribe of children tumbled into the room.

“Granny, granny, Finn’s hurt his leg!” Shouted a small boy excitedly.

“It’s bleeding.” Intoned a girl who could only be his sibling so alike were they.

“It’s okay, he fell onto a stone, but Daddy’s making it better.” Said the largest child, a girl with long red hair tumbling over her shoulders. “They are just coming.” She turned her grey gaze on Hermione and Ron. “Hello.” She said politely in her gentle Highland accent. “You must be Mr and Mrs Weasley? I’m Flora, pleased to meet you.”

Hermione lifted her hand to take that of the girl, when she was halted once again by the high pitched giggles of another child who was being swung into the air by a man, presumably the children’s father, as he backed in through the kitchen door. He was tall and strong and brown, glowing with health and contentment. He seemed to bring the essence of the warm summer day, the sunshine and the happiness, into the room with him. He was laughing joyously as he flung the dark haired boy over his shoulders and showered his tummy with kisses. Slowly he turned to face them all with a smile on his lips and his emerald green eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Merlin’s balls!” Exclaimed Ron, speaking for both of them as Hermione collapsed with shock into her husband’s arms, “Harry James Potter! Where the fucking hell did you come from?”

part two.


*The poem that Minerva reads is ‘From For the Fallen’ by Laurence Binyon – go here to read the whole poem and find out about Armistice Day traditions in the UK
http:/www.defence.gov.au/ARMY/traditions/documents/ode.htm