Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If I could go back, I would do everything differently. If I could, I would swallow my words and my anger. If I could turn back time, I would have savoured more — your voice, your scent, the warmth of your arms. I wouldn’t have hidden behind the walls of my pride; I would have let you in and shown you all the scars, all the ugliness of my being. And I know you would have accepted me, loved me, despite everything and, at the same time, because of everything.

There is something almost ethereal in the feeling that fills the void and silence right after someone murmurs, “My condolences” or “I’m so sorry.” Rose was certain there was something in the way their gaze turned vacant, a mixture of sadness and pity, that seeped through her skin, invaded her soul, and made her want to scream.

The burrow’s kitchen was freezing, almost as if hundreds of dementors were hovering above the ceiling, draining all the joy that had once existed in that room. And yet, despite being a place full of memories and, therefore, unbearably painful to be in, it was better than anywhere else.

If someone hugged her one more time, she would explode. She was sure of it. Just one more “I truly am sorry”, and she wouldn’t be able to answer for her actions.

"I am not here. This is a nightmare. It’s all a lie." The denial echoed in her mind, rhythmic and relentless, as her nail dug into the delicate skin of her arm. Her crossed arms formed a barrier — yet another — against everything that day meant, against the stares, against the whispers and muffled sobs coming from those around her, and most of all, against the fact that her mother was, at that very moment, dead.

It seemed absurd. How could someone like Hermione Granger just die, out of nowhere? The mere suspicion made her skin prickle, and the restlessness of that feeling was the only thing keeping her on her feet. She wavered between moments of pure desolation, curling into herself, motionless, as if petrified, her eyes fixed on anything but another person’s face. Other times, she felt alert, as though a surge of adrenaline coursed through her veins, propelling her to find the gap — the flaw — that would explain this madness and bring her mother back.

She found, in the kitchen window’s reflection—distorted by a mixture of grease, dust, and rain—a fleeting escape. Fleeting, because she could lose herself in her own features, admire her eyes, her freckles — she could force her brain to latch onto those tiny details, and, for a few seconds, her vacant image was all that existed. But then, the raindrops, thick as bullets, pelted against the roof, and the sound dragged her back.

Merlin, it was raining.

The sky poured its tears freely, in heavy drops, and Rose was convinced it was mourning too. And, in that instant, she envied the sky and its ability to release its grief. She wished she could do the same. She wanted to scream, cry, thrash — anything that would allow the pain to finally consume her, to swallow her into darkness, so she would not have to feel anything anymore.

It was as if she were trapped in one of her nightmares — one of the most vivid ones. And if that were the case, painful as it might be, it would still be better. Because it would mean that, at some point, she would wake up, she would open her eyes and see her mother again.

Yet, deep in her mind, a voice she desperately tried to silence whispered relentlessly—this was no dream. It was raw, unrelenting reality, consuming her whole and tearing away, second by second, what little sanity she had left.

It felt as if her heart had been split in two. One part of her clung to the belief that this was just a nightmare, that there was no way her mother’s life had ended so suddenly. But the other—the part she so desperately wished to silence—unravelled her illusions like tangled knots and threw the truth in her face. This was real. And there was no escaping it.

"Don’t get lost in your thoughts, my dear. The answers you seek aren’t hidden in some corner of your mind." Molly Weasley’s gentle voice made Rose turn almost immediately. She hurried into the plump arms of her grandmother, who had already been waiting to embrace her.

"Ah, my dear... I wish there were a way to spare you from this pain," Molly murmured, her hands moving frantically up and down Rose’s back.

"I thought you wouldn’t make it in time," Rose mumbled, her voice barely audible.

"Your uncle Charlie has some influential friends, and they were kind enough to lend me their floo network. I had to be here. I had to say goodbye," she said firmly, though even she couldn’t stop the lump from forming in her throat by the end of the sentence.

Silence stretched between them, and Rose slowly stepped back, just enough to move out of Molly’s reach. Face to face, they held each other’s hands. Molly watched her granddaughter carefully, but Rose couldn’t meet her gaze. Instead, she stared, without the slightest subtlety, at her own mud-stained boots.

"Your mother was like a daughter to me. I always knew she would be part of this family, even before she and your father started dating. I couldn’t bear the thought of not saying goodbye. I… I had to be here."

Molly’s voice was soft and low, almost a whisper. Almost as if she wasn’t speaking to Rose, but to herself.

"She was so proud of you, you know?"

The words, spoken with such innocence and so unexpectedly, drove straight into Rose’s chest like a knife. A bitter taste rose in her throat, and in the same instant, an overwhelming urge to run surged within her. She needed to disappear. But her feet betrayed her, rooting her to the ground as if they had turned to stone.

That’s not true.

The thought remained trapped between her mind and her lips. Rose was certain—without a shadow of a doubt—that her mother had no reason to be proud of her. Quite the opposite. She had been Hermione’s greatest disappointment.

As if she could read minds, Molly squeezed Rose’s hands more firmly, closing the space between them.

"I don’t know what happened between you two. But let me share a certainty that only motherhood has given me: there is absolutely nothing you have done, or ever will do, that could change the enormity of the love your mother had for you. That love is something you will carry with you always, right here."

She placed her hand over Rose’s chest, directly above her heart.

Rose closed her eyes, hoping this would be the moment she would finally cry. That she would finally be able to release all the pain that had been building up inside her, threatening to consume her entirely. She was safe, in the arms of one of the people she loved most in the world. And what Molly was saying was everything she needed to hear. Everything she needed to be true.

But the tears didn’t come.

Nor did the certainty that Molly’s words were true.

All that remained was shame. And guilt.

And anger.

So much anger.

Anger at herself, for never giving Hermione a reason to be proud. For hurting her when all she had wanted was to be close—to be her friend. The anger grew with each passing second, as she realised how foolish she had been, how she had wasted the time she had been given—time she could never get back.

And it was that anger, burning inside her chest, that finally made her move.

Muttering an apology, she hurried out of the kitchen.

The burrow had always been one of her favourite places in the world. Perhaps it was the smell of freshly cut grass and warm cake, wrapping her in nostalgia. Or the way the house always seemed to maintain the perfect temperature, shielding her from the cold and heat, no matter the weather outside. Or maybe it was the memories—birthdays, family lunches, the sound of laughter and conversation, all blending together to form the comforting sensation of home.

But not today.

Today, the Burrow was cold.

There was no scent of warm cake or fresh grass, only the damp earth. The air was filled with the murmur of hushed voices, but there was no laughter—only tears. And the memories that had once made her smile were now like daggers, piercing straight through her.

The house was crowded. As she walked outside, Rose observed the people around her. Most were lost in their own grief, oblivious to her presence. They merely stepped aside to let her pass before returning to their murmured conversations.

"Yes, it was so sudden."

"Such a talented witch. A terrible loss, truly."

Rose refused to listen. As if their words could make everything feel more real—more final.

So, she clung even tighter to the feeling that this could only be a nightmare—one of those dreams where you know you are dreaming, yet you keep moving forward, just to see how far the illusion will go.

Hearing their words would mean admitting that it wasn’t a dream.

And she couldn’t do that.

Accepting it would mean there was no second chance.

That there was no way to go back.

A few more steps, and she was outside, standing beneath a large tent that sheltered the mourners.

At the centre of it all stood a steel casket, painted the purest white. Gold handles lined its sides, giving it an air of both strength and delicacy.

A row of white chairs stretched along its length, and in the centre seat sat Ron Weasley.

Her father’s expression was that of a broken man. Discreet tears fell from his blue eyes, tears he made no effort to hide. His gaze alternated between the floor and Hermione, and he looked utterly shattered, as if looking at her was as necessary as breathing, but at the same time, so painful that he had to pause, as if fearing he might die with her. He was undeniably devastated, and Rose recognised that feeling, for it was exactly how she felt.

And in that moment, she knew she would never forget that scene, not in a million years. She would never forget how her father’s body moved almost imperceptibly with each breath, as if the simple act was agonising, as though part of his heart had stopped beating the moment Hermione’s had. She would never forget her mother’s lifeless body, perfectly still, which, for some reason, made her seem even smaller, more fragile. She would never forget the scent of roses, rain, and earth, and how they blended together to create what would forever be etched in her memory as the very smell of death.

As she watched the scene unfold before her, she felt her anger falter and was once again paralysed by pain. Her feet rooted to the ground, she had no courage to take another step. Her breathing became more frantic, and her chest felt like it was about to split in two. Rose placed a hand over the source of the pain, an automatic reflex, trying to hold her chest together, as if that might keep it from cracking open.

"Is this finally it?" she thought, desperate to cry. She knew the tears could ease the pain, could carry away some of the sadness and anger she felt towards everything, everyone, and most of all, herself. But once again, her body betrayed her. The tears refused to fall, and with each passing second, Rose felt like an elastic band stretched to its limit, a hair’s breadth away from snapping.

The hand that had been clutching her chest slowly dropped and curled into a fist. She squeezed it so tightly that blood stopped flowing to her joints, and her nails dug into her palm. The pain brought her back to the present, forcing her to face the tent, now nearly full.

All the faces — some familiar, others not — were fixed on the coffin. There were no more murmurs or whispers, only an overwhelming and deafening silence. Her eyes scanned the crowd quickly, until they landed on her father once more. But this time, he was no longer sitting or alone. He was standing, embracing her uncle, if that could even be called an embrace. Uncle Harry had his arms around her father, who seemed like a dead weight as he struggled to return the gesture. It was painful to watch. It was as if she were witnessing him die too, right before her eyes, and there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop it.

Harry and Ron stepped back. Harry’s hands remained firmly on Ron’s arms, as if holding him up, making sure he didn’t collapse. They exchanged a look, a silent conversation that only years of friendship and camaraderie could make possible. It was then that Rose knew the time had come. Not because anyone had told her directly, but because earlier that morning, she had overheard the conversation between her father and her uncle, hidden behind the kitchen door.

"Harry, I need you to speak at the funeral. I won’t be able to." Ron’s voice was low and shaky. Not from whispering, but from crying.

"Of course." Harry replied without hesitation, his voice equally soft but firm.

A silence stretched between them. Rose pressed her face against the door, focusing all her attention to catch every word.

"But there’s something I need to talk to you about." Her uncle’s voice broke the silence like a blade. "He wants to come to the funeral." The tone was stern, as if he were struggling to keep his anger in check.

"He. Wants. To. Come?" Ron repeated each word slowly, disbelief and indignation evident in how he enunciated every syllable. "This has to be a joke."

"I told him he has no right to be here." Uncle Harry’s voice overflowed with anger, impossible to mask or hide.

Rose immediately became alert — who were they talking about?

"Just because Hermione was minister doesn’t make today a Ministry event. This is her funeral, for Merlin’s sake!" Frustration was palpable. "She was your wife, the mother of your children! You don’t have to deal with this, not today... I’ll talk to some people and make sure he doesn’t show his face here."

"No." Her father’s voice abruptly interrupted her uncle’s tirade.

"No?" Harry repeated, confused.

Back at the funeral, Rose watched the people around her closely, now looking for the unwanted guest. Who could it be? She ransacked her memories, searching for a name, a face — someone who stood out as an unwelcome presence. But nothing came to mind. So instead, she turned her attention to the behaviour of the people around her, trying to identify the wrong piece in the puzzle. Who didn’t belong in this scene?

But they all seemed the same, with red eyes and swollen faces. Their features were marked by sadness, their bodies slightly hunched, as though the weight of grief had bowed them. Everything felt strange, like something from another world, and for a moment, Rose felt as though this wasn’t her mother’s funeral. As if she wasn’t Rose. As if she were the intruder.

She took a deep breath.

"I’m going mad." She whispered to herself.

She scanned the faces around her once more, and when none caught her attention, she gave up. With effort, she forced her legs to move, one step at a time, weaving through the crowd until she reached the centre of the marquee, positioning herself beside her father.

He turned to her at once, cupping her face in his hands and pressing a kiss to her forehead before pulling her into an embrace. They had barely spoken since she had arrived. In truth, everything had happened so quickly that she felt as if she had been the last to know—only hours before the Daily Prophet’s special edition would break the news to the rest of the world.

It was her uncle who had told her.

She had been working a double shift that evening. Ms Lefout had mixed up the rota and given the other night-shift waitress the evening off, and, not wanting to leave the old woman alone, Rose had offered to stay. In the end, it had been pointless. The pub had been dead all night, and even the old lady could have managed it by herself.

Uncle Harry had entered discreetly, doing his best not to draw attention. Rose had had her back to the door and hadn’t seen him approach. The warning had come from the customer she was serving, who, with wide eyes, had whispered excitedly:

"Harry Potter is here!"

She had turned immediately and, the moment her gaze met her uncle’s, she had known. Known that something terrible had happened.

Ms Lefout had let them use the tiny back office so they could speak in private, away from the curious stares of the customers. The room smelled of coffee, as if someone had spilt an entire pot over the carpet and never bothered to clean it up.

Uncle Harry had been gentle.

He had taken Rose’s hands and asked her to stay calm.

"Your mother..." He had paused, as if the words had caught in his throat. As if they were suffocating him. His green eyes had widened, filling with tears. He had squeezed her hands tighter and, when he had finally managed to speak, his words had taken everything with them.

"Your mother is dead."

Rose had never thought much about death.

In fact, she had avoided the subject whenever she could. She didn’t know how to deal with it—not really. She had never lost anyone. Not anyone she had known. Not anyone she had loved.

But she had seen how death affected others.

She had seen how her grandmother froze whenever someone, unintentionally, mentioned uncle Fred. How uncle George never lingered too long in front of his own reflection, whether in a mirror or a puddle.

Her maternal grandparents were dead too. But Rose didn’t know how or why.

No one talked about it.

Ever.

Sometimes, her mother would look at her or Hugo, her eyes suddenly glassy, one hand pressing against her chest as if she had been winded and was struggling to catch her breath.

On the rare occasions Rose had asked, she had received the same melancholy response—that her mother had remembered someone she had loved deeply. That you couldn’t outrun the past forever. That sometimes, it came back when you least expected it.

She never spoke about her parents.

Never spoke about what it had been like to grow up among Muggles. To discover she had magic.

Never spoke about the war.

Never spoke about what had happened to her family. She had only ever said that they were dead and that there was nothing more to say. Then, with a dismissive wave of her hand, she would change the subject and focus on something else.

As Rose stared at Hermione’s lifeless body inside the steel coffin, the feeling returned—that this had to be a nightmare. And the voice that had once been a cold whisper at the back of her mind grew louder now, more insistent, forcing itself to the front—impossible to ignore. The question pounded against her ribs, and she felt as if she might collapse at any moment.

"How?"

She had always imagined that death would come with some kind of warning—that the sky or the air would change, or she would feel a shift, a premonition of sorts. Anything to let her know that her world was about to fall apart. But there had been nothing. And she had only found out when there was nothing left to be done, when aunt Ginny and uncle Harry had already made all the arrangements and all that was left for her was to show up and take her place as a daughter beside her father and brother.

In a way, she was immensely grateful that her aunt and uncle had handled all the decisions regarding the funeral. She wouldn’t have known how to do it. Wouldn’t have even known where to start, and it was far too important not to be done with absolute perfection. But at the same time, she felt almost betrayed. And from that feeling, a suspicion began to grow, a nagging doubt that there was something she hadn’t been told. That something was being kept from her. And no matter how hard she tried to push the thought to the back of her mind, it kept creeping back, relentless, until it was all she could think about.

When she arrived at the burrow that night, her stomach twisted into a knot, and she had to fight the urge to turn and run.

Her father pulled her into a hug the moment she stepped inside, and immediately, he broke down. She had never seen him like that before. His sobs were loud and unrelenting, his body trembling as if he were being electrocuted.

She, on the other hand, felt paralysed, as if trapped in slow motion.

Not that she didn’t feel the sadness or the pain of the moment. She did. She felt it so deeply that she was convinced she might die from it. Trapped inside herself with all those emotions, unable to let them out, unable to ease the weight of her grief.

But she simply couldn’t express it. Not by crying, like the others. Not even by speaking.

Nothing came out. No words, no tears.

She felt like a black hole, drifting in the midst of a universe that wasn’t hers, absorbing the grief of those around her, adding it to her own, and being consumed by it. If that was even possible.

Chapter Text

  "When the people we love un-happen, our ground un-happens too. We un-happen a bit as well. Until we understand that people un-happen so they can happen in a different way inside us." - Alessandra Roscoe.

I close my eyes, pretending it gives me the power to stop time, to freeze this moment and unmake it. And if I could, that’s exactly what I’d do.

But I can’t — and I know that when I open my eyes, I’ll be in the tent, standing before her. And she’ll be dead.

People say that when someone dies, their whole life flashes before their eyes. If that’s true, I wonder what my mum saw.

I swallow hard as I picture fragments of the war passing before her eyes: her parents’ deaths, us — in the Burrow, gathered as a family — or us, bickering over things that now don’t even matter. Did she have to relive every single time I broke her heart?

I tap my heel against the ground, trying to rummage through my mind for good memories, for happy moments. At first, I can picture small scenes: me, still a child, sitting on the bed, chatting animatedly as she brushed my curls — as unruly as her own.

The next second, we’re hugging at King’s Cross, the first time I boarded for Hogwarts, before everything changed.

These moments blend with so many others, and I cling to them, wishing with all the strength of my being that they’d float through the air and penetrate her mind — so she can leave this life with something good. So she knows I love her, even if I didn’t say it every time she deserved to hear it.

But, unexpectedly, my mind plays tricks on me — and, the next second, I’m back at the restaurant.

My mum sits across from me, her eyes brimming with stubborn tears that cling to her eyelashes and refuse to fall. Her cheeks are red, her lips slightly parted, as if she’s about to say something — but the words don’t come.

I shake my head, wanting to flee from this memory, and, in a reflex, I open my eyes.

And there she is.

No flushed cheeks or tear-filled eyes. She could be sleeping. But she isn’t. The pallor of her skin reveals what my heart refuses to accept: there’s no life left there.

The rain thickens, and the sound of heavy drops against the tent canvas reverberates in my chest. The air is thick, laden with the smell of wet earth, grass, and roses — and, for me, this becomes the smell of death itself.

My uncle takes a step forward.

I know it’s time to say goodbye.

  And I’m not ready.

"We are gathered here to bid farewell to Hermione Granger. I know that for many, she was a symbol of intelligence, a master, an invaluable talent. And, indeed, she was all those things.
But for me, she was more.
She was my oldest friend.
Someone to whom I owe my life.
I don’t know what life will be like from now on without her. But I know how she’d want it to be — and that’s why I tell you: remember her.
Remember her by striving for excellence in your actions, by remaining loyal to your friends, by loving your families.
Do this, and you will be honouring the legacy she left behind.
Do this, and she will continue to exist within each of us."

My uncle takes another step and, muttering a spell, places a white rose inside the coffin.

Then it’s my aunt’s turn. She lets go of her children’s hands and approaches. Her face is swollen from crying so much, and on her first attempt to speak, her voice is practically inaudible.

She clears her throat, and on her second attempt — though trembling — her voice finally comes out, clear:

"I can’t believe this. I refuse to. To me, you’re going on a trip. A long trip. And I’ll be waiting. I’ll be waiting for the day we meet again, and we’ll laugh and talk like we always do." — She pauses briefly and continues: "I love you so much."

The last sentence comes out stifled by a sob and the tears violently streaming down her face.

She quickly moves away and walks to Harry, who is already waiting for her with open arms.

Then I feel the cold embrace my hand, replacing the warmth of my dad’s hand.

I almost abruptly shift my gaze from my aunt and uncle and look at my dad, who, with slow steps, approaches the coffin.

He cries in silence for a few minutes — minutes that feel like an eternity.

It’s painful to watch.

My heart breaks again. He’s saying goodbye to the love of his life, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

"Thank you, Mione. Thank you for all these years, for the family we built. Thank you for staying."

My dad cries more freely now. His weeping is loud, uncontrollable.

I see people exchanging uncomfortable glances; others, overcome by his grief, cry even harder.

I look at Hugo with a mixture of discomfort and sadness, and, in a silent agreement, we approach our dad.

One on each side, we help him up from the coffin.

His gaze wanders between my eyes and Hugo’s. He tries to compose himself, takes a deep breath, and pulls us into a tight hug. Then, he slowly pulls away, leaving Hugo and me side by side, facing the coffin. And it’s then that I feel what little air remains in my lungs extinguish.

I’m sure I’m suffocating.

It’s as if I’m drowning.

I feel my lungs fighting for air, my chest burning with each breath.

A buzzing echoes in my ears, muffling all sounds around me.

So, is this what death is? A huge mess filled with pain and anguish?

In the midst of the chaos, a question pulls me back to the surface — back to reality.

My dad’s voice echoes in my mind: "Thank you for staying."
Staying? Where could she have gone?

This is yet another piece that doesn’t fit — and it joins so many others that make this day improbable. And it acts as fuel for the part of me that still refuses to accept that this is the end.

I feel Hugo’s presence move away.

Now I’m alone, facing the coffin.

I remain silent, trying to form a coherent sentence. Something beautiful. Something worthy of her. But I fail miserably.

Then I whisper the only thing that makes sense:

"I’m sorry."

As I return to my place, beside my dad and my brother, something shifts inside me.

It’s as if I’ve been hit by a cold wave — I’m numb.

My vision is blurred.

  This can’t be how things end.

I watch, petrified, as the coffin closes.

  This can’t be how things end.

As it begins to descend, vanishing into that dark hole of earth, I feel my stomach churn.

I’m overcome by an uncomfortable feeling — something is wrong.

Maybe it’s just intuition.
Or maybe I’ve finally gone mad.

Either way, something inside me is screaming — insisting — that this isn’t the end.

With each passing second, this thought solidifies further:

  Hermione Granger — the brightest witch of her age, the woman who defeated one of the greatest dark wizards at just eighteen, the youngest Minister for Magic in history — simply… drops dead?

That’s absurd.
It makes no sense at all.

What if something bigger is happening? Something dangerous? And the only way to protect everyone… is for her to fake her own death?

Suddenly, everything begins to make sense.

I feel my heart pound, adrenaline rushing through my veins, as if every thought I’d had until then has just been validated.

The more I think, the clearer everything becomes.

What if the body in that coffin isn’t even my mum’s? What if it’s a cadaver disguised with Polyjuice Potion? This idea takes hold of me like fire to dry straw.

I needed to know the truth. The urgency to find out was overwhelming.

If I could just see her one more time, I think. Just one more time. If I can see her face, I’ll know. I’m certain. I just need to see her… one last time.

Everything happens in a flash.

The adrenaline surge propels me into action and, with trembling hands, I raise my wand. One swift movement, and thick vines erupt from the ground, twisting and intertwining, stopping the coffin from descending completely.

A cold shiver runs down my spine when I realise what I’ve just done. But the idea of letting the answer be buried along with the coffin was unbearable.

I need to know.
I need the truth.

The silence that followed was deafening.

I’m sure everyone can hear my heart hammering in my chest. My eyes, wide and panicked, scan the sea of shocked faces until they find his.

My uncle comes towards me. The usual calm he carried like armour has vanished, replaced by something tense, difficult to decipher.

His hand comes straight to my wrist — firm, but not aggressive — guiding my wand down.

"What are you doing?" His voice is controlled, but there’s a tension behind it that only makes my heart pound faster.

His eyes are locked on mine, searching for an answer I knew I couldn’t give.

"I… I need to see her," I whisper, pleading. "Please, I just…" My voice falters as I try to pull away, but his grip tightens.

"Rose, no," his voice is low, but his desperation is still clear. He gently pushes my wand away, his fingers firm yet kind. "Think of your dad."

His breath hitches — almost imperceptible, but enough.

"Please — I beg you — don’t do this."

My gaze automatically turns to my dad, and all the fight left in me dissolves.

Guilt hits me like a punch to the gut. How could I do this to him?

He looks… destroyed and confused. Shoulders slumped, mouth agape, as if trying to find words that simply won’t come. He’s lost, overwhelmed, unable to process the scene unfolding before his eyes.

Uncle Harry realises I’m no longer resisting and makes a subtle gesture to someone. The vines vanish, and the coffin slowly resumes its descent.

"I’m sorry, Rosie…", he murmurs, his voice thick with regret. "There’s nothing more we can do now… other than let her go."

The damp air makes my hair stand on end and some strands stick to my hot face. I’m seething with rage, frustration tightening my chest. I probably look insane — wide, lost eyes, as if I belong in Azkaban.

How could he? Of all people, I thought he’d understand me.

Time seems to slow as I stare at his face, frozen in the moment my last chance was snatched away from me.

And it’s then that, for the first time, I truly look at my uncle. Not just at the famous scar — but at the marks of time that mould his face. The deep circles under his green eyes. The weight he carries on his shoulders, visible in the way he stands.

He’s exhausted. Heartbroken. But, even so, alert — too alert. As if he’s waiting. As if he’s preparing.

And then, like a puzzle piece clicking into place, I understand.

Harry would have done it. He would have lied to everyone — to me, to my aunt… and even to my dad — if it meant protecting my mum. The bond between them was always more than friendship. It was something forged during the war and tested in the silent pauses between battles.

I always knew that, at some point during the war, my dad left them. He walked away in the middle of the Horcrux hunt. In the end, he came back. But that choice — though never spoken aloud — changed something between them. My mum was the one who stayed. She remained loyal, unwavering. She would have died for Harry, if necessary.

And now, as I stare into his eyes, I realise something else:

My uncle would do the same for her.

If this idea had come from my mum — if it was something she needed — he would have done everything in his power to make it happen. This thought echoes in me like the final click of a conspiracy I’d built myself.

As I absorb this information, paralysed by the conclusion of my theory, the coffin descends and vanishes into the earth. A headstone appears in its place.

The inscription, permanently etched into the stone, sends a shiver down my spine:

Here lies Hermione Granger — loving wife and mother, loyal friend, and the brightest witch of her generation.

I remain standing, petrified.

This is it. It’s the end.

All the strength I have left drains from my body like water through my hands. The truth imposes itself upon me like an avalanche: I’ll have to find another path. Another way to be sure. Until I come across undeniable proof, I refuse to accept that she’s gone.

"Do you want to talk about it?" my uncle’s voice comes in a whisper.

"All I want is for you and everyone else to leave me alone," my voice comes out hollow, still trembling with rage inside.

He hesitates, and then makes a subtle signal to the others. Perhaps it’s my gaze, like that of a caged beast, or the silent warning in his eyes, but no one dares to argue.

Within minutes, I’m completely alone.

I remain standing, facing the headstone, as the crowd disperses and reality closes in around me again.

A part of me — the rational one — whispers that I’ve lost my mind. That this is all just grief twisting into delusion. But the other part — the rebellious one — is stronger. It tears apart every logical thought and stitches everything back together into a crazy theory, yes, but one I can live with.

And there’s no doubt which voice I’ll listen to.

Because only the rebellious one gives me peace.

  She’s alive.