Chapter Text
Have you ever confused a dream with real life? Or stolen something when you have the money? Have you ever been melancholic? Or thought your train was moving, when really it was sitting still? Maybe I’ve lost my mind. Maybe my illness is the result of my turbulent childhood.
Maybe there isn’t anything extraordinary about me. Maybe I imagined it all. Hogwarts, Harry, Ron, Voldemort...the entire Wizarding World. My children.
My whole life.
Or maybe I really am a witch; Muggleborn... interrupted.
All Fools’ Day 2025 had begun as any other: Hermione woke up in her village cottage, read the morning’s uneventful copy of The Prophet as she ate her breakfast and watched the Starlings in the garden. She got ready for the day as quickly as possible with minimal make up, and a twisted bun at the base of her skull to keep her curls tidy and out of her face.
She kissed her still-dozing husband (who, despite being co-owner of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, hadn't even so much as set up any Farting Gnomes by her favourite dining chair) goodbye and set off for the Ministry.
Now in her sixth year as Minister for Magic, the witch found herself appreciating the new calm that had veiled over every aspect of her life; with Hugo sitting for his N.E.W.Ts later in the Spring, and Rose away on her post-graduate travels, things at home with Ronald were…serene. Peaceful. Still.
Boring.
And having excellent staff, plus an adept Majority Wizengamot made her position as Minister a breeze, now. Hermione Granger-Weasley had never imagined that leading wizarding Britain would be so…unchallenging. Effortless. Simple.
Boring.
Still, she thought as she arrived in the Ministry atrium with a pop, she had her condition to keep her on her toes. The Minister made a mental note to send for a refill of her potions this morning - as much as she craved something beyond the mundane, the dull pain spreading pins and needles from the base of her neck to the hairline above her forehead, didn't exactly fulfill the thrill she sought.
Hermione, and her gynaecological Healer, had chalked it up to the effects of perimenopause.
Strange though, seeing as how for a witch, forty-five wasn't even considered middle aged yet. And she experienced no other symptoms - her periods were regular, there were no hot flashes, no hormonal fluctuations and no issues with… lubrication.
Not when she was by herself, anyway.
And certainly not when she was thinking about him.
Swiftly directing her thoughts back to the ‘headache’, Hermione informed her secretary Charlotte that she would be needing her prescription filled today, before ambling into her large, homely office. Admittedly, with the children away from home, despite the humdrum nature of her work she did feel rather content here among her abundant supply of books and personal artefacts - it was a space that was just hers. A concept that bore no significance in Hermione's home life.
She couldn’t remember how long she’d suffered with the sensitivity to light, sound and smells - a year, perhaps longer. Not long after that, the omnipresent tension in her eyes gave way to significant fatigue; something the witch hadn’t ever struggled with, even in pregnancy. Then came the constant nausea, mood changes and eventually, the visual disturbance more commonly known as ‘Aura’ began to cloud her vision every few days.
‘Chronic Migraine, due to early onset Perimenopause.’
She’d have laughed at the implication of ‘early onset’, if as a witch, her lifespan wasn’t estimated to be at least three times her current age.
The rest of the Minister's morning remained monotonous - except for when she fought for her life not to think of him , as she worked her way through the piles of paperwork on her desk. Signing here, initialing there, approving this, that and the other all day long in between the images of his eyes, his hair, his smile, and his hands.
His grey, smouldering eyes whenever she'd catch him watching her as they spoke.
His thick and wavy, almost shoulder length hair, white blond and tousled, usually swept back or to the left.
His wry, charmingly lop-sided smile that he'd quickly hide with a sneer whenever Hermione went off on a tangent about something or another.
And his hands…Godric, his strong, well-manicured yet broom-calloused Seeker’s hands, adorned with an assortment of silver rings, including his ancestral signet one.
And the simple wedding band he still wore, almost six years after being widowed.
Hermione chastised herself for…what was she doing wrong, exactly? Fantasising? Yes, for fantasising as a married woman, about a widowed man who still pined for his deceased wife.
A man whose son was dating her nephew, and had been friends with Rose since their first year at Hogwarts.
The wizard who had somehow become so entangled in Hermione's life, yet remained distant enough to stay a fantasy.
The wizard who fucking hated her guts, and made it known – all because she'd shown him an ounce of empathy and testified in his favour, after the war.
But he was attracted to her – he'd also made that known – to the Minister herself, at least.
Hermione closed her eyes, inhaling deeply as she blinked the thoughts away – vivid thoughts of those silver eyes burning into her as he whispered her name; a fervid prayer as the sound left his lips and landed at her altar.
Her own fingers running through his soft, thick locks as the smile tugging on his lips pressed softly against hers, and Hermione swore she could taste him on her as his mouth worshipped hers.
And his hands… there was no way she'd ever had those hands on her, and yet, the way they glided, exalting her body with lascivious, repenting need – even the way his long, slender digits curled inside her – were etched into her muscle memory, like abstract sketches on parchment. She knew every touch, every breath, every dulcet phrase coming from his parted lips.
But these weren't memories.
The man had never touched her.
These were no more than fantasies; daydreams for the indulgence of a woman whose husband had no actual interest in her.
And as though he’d been summoned, the devil himself pushed the door to the Minister’s office open, hastily clearing his throat in demand of the witch’s attention.
Hermione looked up from the paperwork she hadn’t been paying any regard to, to appraise the subject of her acute daydreaming. The Head of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes stood tall and straightened with his hands firmly clasped behind his back; ever the picture of his aristocratic upbringing. Time hadn’t marred the wizard whatsoever – on the contrary, Hermione thought. Draco Malfoy was ageing like an overpriced Firewhisky – and Merlin knew how the Minister yearned to feel him burning in her. She flushed at the thought and shuffled some parchment.
“Yes, Malfoy?”
Malfoy sneered, avoiding eye contact as he flickered his eyes to the far wall, appearing not to actually be looking at anything. “A moment of your time, Minister?” He gave a slight nod, still looking away.
“Get on with it, then,” Hermione rolled her eyes. Well, she did warn us - Malfoy hated her guts.
As he did every single day, the blond went on to detail his reluctance for coming directly to the Minister, since he detested her so much, but his department had an issue requiring urgent action, and Malfoy was unable to take the action required without the go-ahead from herself and the Wizengamot.
“Alright,” Hermione clicked her tongue, shuffling parchment around some more. “Have…whatever it is on my desk by the end of the day.”
Malfoy narrowed his eyes to slits as he focused on the lamp in the corner of her desk, behind a photograph of Rose and Hugo. Hermione saw him gulp in the corner of her vision as his heated gaze flickered to the photo quickly, returning to the lamp almost immediately. His face hardened and he grunted before forming any words. “You don’t even want to know what it’s about?”
“I’ll know what it’s about when it’s on my desk, Malfoy,” She risked a peek of her own at the frame where he’d been transfixed for a millisecond. “Have you heard from our children today?”
The wizard fidgeted uncharacteristically, oscillating his mercury irises in hesitation, as though Hermione had just asked him a trick question.
“Your son… Scorpius…” Hermione drawled, looking at the man directly now, unsure of Malfoy’s odd (yes, even for him) demeanour, “...and my daughter…Rose? They’re travelling with Harry’s son, your potential son-in-law, Albus.”
Malfoy’s eye twitched with repugnance under the Minister’s scrutiny. “Yes, Minister, I am perfectly aware, thank you. I haven’t heard from Scorpius today, no.”
“Mm,” Hermione hummed, almost sounding triumphant. She retrieved a postcard from the drawer of her desk and levitated it to the blond as he returned to his stiff, stoic state. “This arrived a few hours ago. Looks like they’re in Malaysia, following their itinerary to a tee.”
“Indeed–”
Hermione’s neck spasmed and her face numbed suddenly, causing her to bury her hands in her face, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands as the familiar sensation of blind spots crept slowly into the center of her vision, like the lapping of the tide coming in.
The tension in the room left the air as the sound of Malfoy gently exhaling pierced her eardrums like knives. It was masked by her pain, but had he sounded…concerned?
“You should really see someone else about that, Granger.”
“Yeah.” She said indifferently, continuing to massage her eyelids despite knowing it would make absolutely no improvement.
‘Follow the light, Hermione.’
Startled by the sound of her given name coming from his lips, the witch lifted her face to look at him through severely blurred vision. “What?”
She heard Malfoy scoff, irritated that she hadn’t heard him. “I said, this is just like when you were in labour with Hugo and you told me to–”
‘Can you follow the light for me?’
The waves continued to lap at her sight, bringing in a tide of blackness. Hermione watched as her office and the wizard standing in it went from blurred to non-existent – she was in the dark.
Within a moment, the darkness had reversed itself, turning into a blur and soon, clear vision.
Her warm-toned, well-decorated office and mass of tomes lining the walls were gone.
The Minister’s robes were gone.
The wizard was gone.
“Hermione, look into the light for me. Pupils are equally responsive; she’s lucid.”
Hermione recoiled, backing away from the small torch the man brandished from side to side.
Her head and back made contact with a sparse metal headboard; she was on a bed. A hospital bed.
What the fuck?
Hermione’s eyes came into focus under her mess of curls as the man appeared clearly in her vision, now that he was further away. He wore forest green Muggle Doctor scrubs and he – he had short white blond hair, kind grey eyes and sharp features softened by an empathetic expression.
He was Malfoy…only, very clearly not.
Snapping her head around in alarm as she wrapped her arms around herself, Hermione took note of her attire: a white t-shirt, grey cotton jogger bottoms, and bed socks -- then, the clinically bare white walls, mind-numbing fluorescent lights and white tiled floor. There was a single, small window guarded by bars fused to it, and another bed lay parallel to the one she began to rock herself on. There sat her parents, Hugh and Jean, watching her fearfully as they held one another.
Hermione looked past them, at the window. This couldn’t be. Her parents had been dead for years, and even before that, they certainly wouldn’t have been holding one another. It must be a trick. Maybe this was Ronald’s prank for All Fools’ Day, and he’d gone too far. Way too far. Had he convinced two people to Polyjuice into her parents to pull this off? No, that couldn’t be…he’d need live DNA for the potion.
‘Jean’ found her feet and swapped seats, to perch on the edge of Hermione’s bed. She slowly brought a hand to her daughter’s face, causing the woman to jerk backwards.
“Hermione,” the Muggle Doctor posing as Malfoy said gently, urging her to look at him. “You’re alright. You’re safe now. You’re back. This is your mum. It’s been a while since she’s seen you. Can she say hello?”
The sting of tears threatened at her waterline as her jaw trembled and her nostrils flared. She didn’t look away from the Doctor, and allowed Jean to touch her. She remembered now.
She remembered where she was.
Jean's tears fell when she stroked the dark curls away from the younger woman’s face, trying to catch her inattentive stare. “Hermione, darling. I need you to fight it, okay? Your dad and I - we know you're afraid. I know the world feels like a hard place sometimes, but you've got people who love you. We - me and your dad, sweetheart we have all the faith in you. We'll always be with you. Please don't give up, my baby. Stay with us.”
Hermione finally met her mother's gaze, fighting through her own tears. None of this made sense. How were Mum and Dad alive? How had she come back here?
“I– I can’t stay, Mum… I need to go back to the Ministry, I’m the leader of–”
“Wizarding Britain,” the Doctor drawled in a serious tone. “Yes, we know, Hermione. But maybe wizarding Britain will be alright without you, just for a little while hmm? After all, how helpless can they really be, with magic? Stay with us, the Muggles. Just for a day. How does that sound?”
“But…Ron, and Rose and Hugo–”
The Doctor sighed and flickered his gaze downwards, grabbing a clipboard from the end of the bed to scribble on furiously.
Jean bawled as Hugh came to comfort her, and Hermione turned to them both.
Her Mum and Dad were here, alive and well.
Alive, and well, and together.
And they loved their daughter.
Maybe… maybe she could stay, for a little while.