Chapter Text
July 31st, 2025
The kitchen of Grimmauld Place smelled like treacle tart and rosehip gin. Someone had enchanted the fairy lights to blink in time with Celestina Warbeck’s greatest hits, and Hermione was already nursing a headache.
Harry Potter’s forty-fifth birthday party was in full swing, and it was loud in the way only Weasley-adjacent events could be. Feral children shrieking, adults laughing too hard, and the general clatter of magical cookware making more food than could possibly consumed in one evening. She stood by the bay window, sipping a glass of chilled wine and watching the enchanted garden light up with dancing fireflies.
“Don’t suppose you’ll be joining the others in the garden games?” Theo Nott’s voice was low and smooth, he had a habit of appearing out of nowhere.
Hermione didn’t look away from the window. “Only if you want me to hex someone.”
“Tempting,” he said, “but I rather like the furniture intact, those chaises were imported from Dubai”
She allowed herself a half-smile. Theo had become a fixture at these things, he wasn’t loud like George or showy like Ginny, but constant. Quiet. Steady. He and Harry had a way of grounding each other that relieved her every time she saw them together.
“Where’s the ex?” Theo asked gently.
“Honeymoon number three,” she replied, tone clipped. “Paris.”
“Ah.”
Theo didn’t press, for which she was thankful. Ever since the divorce Ron could never quite settle down which was evident in the way he left a trail of ex’s in his wake. Theo wandered off a moment later, leaving her alone again. The party carried on without her, and she let it.
She’d almost made it to the hour mark before Harry cornered her in the hallway.
“Okay, Hermione, you’ve been avoiding me all night,” he said.
“Hardly. I talked to your husband.”
“For thirty seconds.”
Hermione sighed. “I’m trying, Harry.”
“I know you are.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Which is why this next part comes from love, not nagging.”
“Oh, good,” she said flatly. “Another intervention. It’s been nearly three months since the last one. Lets see, which one is it now, am I a workaholic or an alcoholic?”
“Mione…”
“No.” Her voice was sharp now, brittle. “For fuck’s sake, Harry, I am a forty-five-year-old woman whose oldest child just graduated from Hogwarts. I’m a divorced, single mom. I survived a war. I do not need a lecture from my best friend about how much of a loner I am.”
Harry blinked, clearly taken aback. “Well. Happy birthday to me.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Sorry. Migraine. And your wine is dreadful.”
“About the alcoholic comment,” Harry teased, “It’s Theo’s fault. He picked it.”
They stood in silence. Somewhere in the other room, Molly chased after the younger grandkids.
Harry rubbed the back of his neck, teasing falling away. “We want to send you away.”
She blinked. “You what?”
“To the house in Greece,” he said. “It's quiet, no Floo, no obligations. J ust... rest.”
“I can’t possibly-”
“You can. And you should.”
“The girls-”
“Theo and I have got back to school covered. You’ll be back before they even miss you.”
Hermione crossed her arms. “This is absurd. I don’t need a holiday, I need to be a mother. I need to work. I need–”
“You need to stop bleeding yourself dry for everyone else,” Harry interrupted, gently this time.
Theo appeared behind him, leaning against the doorway. “Also,” he added, “I refuse to be the only one Harry’s focused on saving.”
Hermione looked between them. Her throat tightened, the protest caught somewhere behind her tongue. She was too tired to say no. Too raw to say yes.