Chapter Text
239 Days
Hermione hadn’t been to the Burrow in months. Not for lack of invitations or trying — Molly always made sure of that — but life had simply gotten in the way. If she were honest with herself, she’d gotten in the way. Work had been relentless, but it was a pace Hermione had set herself. She loved her job, the constant demand for problem-solving, the satisfaction of seeing progress unfold. And truthfully, there was no one waiting for her at home to pull her away from it. She could stay at the office late into the night, going over cases or case studies, without a single reproach.
If anything, her life was easier this way.
Her friends had long since settled into family life. Harry and Ginny had three children already, Ron had settled with Oliver though they didn't have children yet there had been casual discussion about them fostering for some months now. While they were absorbed in nappies, school applications, and endless discussions about balancing Junior Quidditch with parenting, Hermione’s world was still brimming with unanswered questions, unexplored paths, and ambitions yet to be fulfilled.
It wasn’t that she feared a partner would hold her back — Hermione wasn’t one to let anyone dictate her choices — but she wanted to experience these things on her own first. To be able to travel the world without worrying about coordinating schedules. To pour herself into her career without guilt. To have a few more years of selfishness before she surrendered to the tug of settling down.
And yet, society seemed to have other plans for her.
The pressure within the magical community for witches to marry and have children had grown unbearable. What had once been a subtle expectation was now overt, amplified by Ministry initiatives and public sentiment. Hermione couldn’t open a copy of The Daily Prophet without reading some sanctimonious article about the “importance of traditional families ”or the “responsibility of young witches to ensure the future of wizard kind .”
It made her stomach churn.
The rhetoric was disturbingly familiar. She couldn’t help but think back to Voldemort’s reign, when propaganda dripped with the same sickly-sweet appeal to duty and unity. Back then, it was purity of bloodline; now, it was purity of tradition. The packaging had changed, but the manipulation was the same. And just like before, far too many people were eating it up, oblivious to the strings being pulled behind the scenes.
Hermione had always thought herself immune to that kind of pressure, but even she felt its weight sometimes. It was there in the way Molly’s eyes lingered on her during family gatherings, a mix of concern and pity. It was in the questions strangers asked at work functions, as though her marital status were public business. It was in the way her singlehood, once a marker of independence and ambition, was now whispered about like a shortcoming.
She wasn’t ready to settle down. She wasn’t sure she ever would be, not on someone else’s timeline. But as the community closed ranks around its ideals of marriage and motherhood, Hermione wondered how long she could hold out before the walls closed in entirely.
It was Christmas Day, and Hermione finally sat down at the long, mismatched table at the Burrow. She found herself sandwiched between Charlie and George filling the space of the missing Fred — the only other Weasleys without a small army of children clamouring for their attention. It was a position she often gravitated toward, not because she didn’t love the kids (she did, fiercely), but because here, in this little pocket of fun there was more to conversations than what colour poo the baby had had that day or what house she thought James would be in (Gryffindor obviously).
The table was as lively as ever, plates piled high with Molly’s cooking, and the smell of roasted turkey mingling with spiced cider. Children’s laughter rang out from the other end of the room, punctuated by the occasional crash of a dropped toy or the loud wail of a baby. The adults weren’t much quieter, their voices overlapping as they swapped stories and jokes, each one louder than the last.
Hermione tried to soak it all in — the cacophony, the warmth, the sheer life of it all. She wanted to etch every detail into her memory: Ginny’s peals of laughter as Harry whispered something in her ear, Bill attempting to wrangle little Louis before he got his hands on yet another mince pie, and Molly’s happy tears as she scolded Arthur for trying to carve the turkey with his electric carving knife again.
But a thread of sadness wound itself through Hermione’s thoughts, quiet but persistent. This might be the last Christmas she spent with them like this.
She glanced around the room, her heart heavy. The Burrow had always been her sanctuary, a place where she was more than just "Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age." Here, she was family. Yet this Christmas felt different, as though the walls themselves sensed her impending departure.
After dinner, she would have to tell them. The news weighed on her, bittersweet and tangled with conflicting emotions. It wasn't only a career-defining opportunity, the culmination of years of hard work it was also an escape.
She picked at her potatoes as the thought settled in her mind. How would Molly react? The woman who had practically adopted her as one of her own, who so desperately wanted all her children — and Hermione counted as one of them — to stay close, to stay together, Hermione couldn’t count how many arguments she had seen Molly and Charlie get into about his work being so far away. Or Ginny, who had always been her confidante and best friend. And then there was Harry, who had once told her that no matter what happened in their lives, they would always be just a Floo call away.
She would be shattering their unspoken promise of proximity.
The ache in her chest grew, but she forced herself to smile as Charlie leant over, nudging her with his elbow.
“You’re quiet,” he said, his tone light. “Not like you at all, Granger. Thinking up some genius idea to revolutionise the world again?”
George, overhearing, chuckled and added, “Or maybe she’s plotting her next scheme to sneak vegetables into my sweets. You wouldn’t, would you, Hermione?”
The teasing drew a soft laugh from her, but her heart wasn’t in it. She caught George's eye, and for a moment, she thought he saw through her façade. He didn’t push, though, just gave her a small smile before turning back to his plate.
Hermione pushed her fork through her potatoes, her appetite gone. She told herself to be present, to enjoy the moment. After all, the news she carried might change everything — not just for her, but for them. And no amount of laughter or babbling babies would soften the blow she was about to deliver.
~
“You're what?!” The exclamation rang out across the room, echoing off the cosy walls of the Burrow. All eyes were on Hermione as she stood near the hearth, her cheeks flushed, her hands tightly clasped in front of her.
Around her, the warmth of Christmas day lingered. The children, long since spent from the day’s excitement, were sprawled across laps, their snores soft and steady. Plates of half-eaten pudding and empty glasses of mulled wine sat forgotten on the table, but the festive atmosphere had shifted in an instant.
“I’ve accepted a job in Paris,” Hermione said again, her voice measured, though her nerves threatened to betray her. “I’ll be leaving before the new year.”
The room erupted into a flurry of voices.
“Paris?”
“So soon?”
“But why?”
Molly looked stricken, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. Her hands fluttered uselessly, as though searching for something to hold onto. “Paris, dear? So far away? Why on earth —”
Charlie and Bill, by contrast, exchanged looks of approval, small smiles tugging at the corners of their mouths. Charlie spoke first, leaning back in his chair with an easy grin. “Good for you, Hermione. Sometimes you’ve got to take the leap, eh?” Molly shot him an angry glare.
Bill nodded, his expression warm. “It’ll be an adventure. You’ll thrive there.” Having spent years working in Egypt and then in France with Fleur, he understood better than most the pull of something beyond the familiar.
But Molly’s reaction dampened Hermione’s relief. “What about us? What about the family?” she asked, her voice breaking slightly. “You’re one of us, Hermione. We’ll miss you terribly.”
Hermione hesitated, guilt curling in her stomach like a cold weight. She hadn’t wanted to hurt them, especially not Molly. But she needed them to understand. “I love you all. You’re my family in every way that matters. But surely you’ve heard the rumours, haven’t you?” she said softly, her gaze sweeping the room.
The room fell silent. Hermione’s voice hardened slightly, a trace of the fire she’d always carried sparking in her tone. “You don’t expect me to sit back and let the Ministry shuffle me off into some arranged marriage at Kingsley’s whim?”
“They’re just rumours, ‘Mione,” Ron interjected, his brow furrowed in frustration, Oliver nodded in agreement. He’d been quiet until now, but the tension in his voice betrayed his rising irritation. His tone was defensive, as though her decision wasn’t just a political stance but a personal affront. “No one’s forcing anyone to get married.”
Hermione’s eyes snapped to his, sharp and unwavering. “From what I’ve heard, they will be — starting the 1st,” she shot back, her voice clipped but controlled. “Have you been paying attention, Ron? You’ve seen the media. The Family Protection Act, the relentless incentives, the constant propaganda about ‘ensuring the future of wizard kind.’ This isn’t just about encouraging families — it’s about control. It’s a pattern, and we’re too far along in it for comfort.”
Her words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with implication. The crackle of the fireplace was the only sound as the group exchanged uncertain glances.
Harry, sitting across from where she was standing, leant forward slightly, his expression unreadable. He’d been watching her closely, silently weighing her words. “You really think it’s going to come to that?” he asked at last, his voice low.
Hermione sighed, her shoulders sagging under the weight of the conversation. “I do,” she admitted, quieter now, though no less resolute. Her gaze dropped to the floor for a moment before she looked up again, her determination shining through. “And I’m not going to sit around waiting for it to happen. This job is going to be amazing for my career, I’ll get to work on incredibly complex magical systems, collaborate with brilliant minds, travel the world. And most importantly, it gets me out of here.”
Her voice hardened slightly as she added, “Away from the risk of being bred for the sake of Britain.”
The words were sharp enough to slice through the tension in the room, and the reaction was immediate. Ginny flinched, her expression a mix of shock and understanding. Molly gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Even George, usually quick with a quip to defuse any situation, sat back in his chair, his brows raised in silent surprise.
“Bloody hell, Hermione,” Ron muttered, his ears reddening as he avoided her gaze. “No one’s saying that .”
“Aren’t they?” Hermione shot back, her voice rising with the heat of her frustration. Her gaze swept across the room, challenging anyone to deny the truth she saw so clearly. “What do you think our government is putting in place to get people copulating? Their precious incentives aren’t working. They’ve tried tax breaks, bonuses, housing perks — and yet, nothing. The next step is forced pregnancy.”
Her voice cracked slightly on the last words, and she paused, drawing a shaky breath. The enormity of what she was saying wasn’t lost on her, but neither was the urgency. She broke off, shaking her head as though trying to rid herself of the thought.
“I refuse to be a pawn in their game,” she continued, her tone quieter now but no less determined. “And if that means leaving the country to protect my autonomy, so be it. Haven’t we sacrificed enough for England already? How much more do they expect from us?”
Her words lingered in the air, heavy and unrelenting. The fire crackled softly in the silence that followed, as though even it were hesitant to break the moment.
Ron shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding her gaze. Ginny bit her lip, her brow furrowed as she stared into the fire, clearly grappling with the weight of Hermione’s declaration. Molly looked utterly stricken, her hands twisting in her lap, while Arthur’s face was sombre, his usually warm expression clouded with concern.
“Do you know anything, Percy?” Bill asked at last, his voice steady but laced with curiosity. Of everyone in the room, only Percy worked high enough in the Ministry to have access to sensitive information. Arthur was too far removed from the corridors of power to know what whispers might be circulating in the upper echelons.
Percy, however, was another matter entirely.
All eyes turned to him, and for a moment, the room held its collective breath. Percy, seated stiffly in his chair, stared straight ahead, his face a mask of neutrality. But there was a flicker — just a flicker — in his eyes that gave him away. He knew something.
Hermione’s stomach twisted as she studied him, her sharp mind piecing together the clues even before he spoke.
“Unfortunately,” Percy began, his voice carefully measured, “that topic is secured and confidential.”
He stressed the word secured in a way that made Hermione’s chest tighten. It was a magical contract. The Ministry’s more delicate matters were often bound by unbreakable oaths not quite an unbreakable vow but close to it, ensuring absolute silence from those involved. Percy couldn’t say anything, even if he wanted to.
“That’s not a no,” Charlie muttered, his usually easy-going tone edged with unease.
“It’s worse than a no,” Hermione said, her gaze fixed on Percy. “If it were something trivial, or if there were nothing to worry about, there wouldn’t be a magical contract in place. That kind of binding only happens when the Ministry knows there’s something worth hiding.”
Percy’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, but he said nothing.
“Percy,” Ginny pressed, her voice softer than usual. “If you could say something, would they be right to be worried?”
For the first time, Percy’s carefully composed exterior cracked. His eyes flicked to Ginny’s, and for a fleeting moment, they softened, as though silently apologising. “I think a change of pace is a good idea,” he said finally, his voice tight. It was a calculated response, but the faintest hint of guilt flickered across his face, betraying what he couldn’t say outright.
“That’s all we need to know,” Bill said grimly, his lips pressed into a tight line. His gaze lingered on Percy, as though searching for something — perhaps confirmation, perhaps reassurance — but Percy resolutely avoided it.
“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered under his breath, raking a hand through his hair. His face was flushed, his frustration evident, though it wasn’t clear whether it was aimed at Percy, Hermione, or the situation as a whole. Oliver raked his fingers through his hair trying to keep him calm.
Molly looked between them, her confusion and growing concern written plainly on her face. “But Percy, dear — surely the Ministry wouldn’t —”
“Wouldn’t what?” Hermione cut in sharply, her tone edged with barely restrained frustration. “Wouldn’t push legislation that strips witches of their autonomy? Wouldn’t dangle marriage incentives until they became mandates? Molly, we know how it works. They frame it as ‘encouragement’ at first, all smiles and kind words about duty. Then they turn the screws.”
Molly faltered, wringing her hands as she looked to Arthur for reassurance. But Arthur’s face was uncharacteristically sombre. “I think,” he said quietly, “Hermione’s right to be cautious.”
“Kingsley’s been doing this job for ten years now, Molly. Ten years of walking a tightrope, juggling politics, tradition, and public opinion. If he wants another ten, he’s going to have to pander eventually. That’s how power works. No one stays in office this long without compromise.” Hermione interrupted, her voice sharp with frustration but tempered by restraint.
She paused, letting the words settle. Molly looked at her with wide, disbelieving eyes, but Hermione didn’t waver. “He’s not the same man who fought beside us in the war,” Hermione continued, her tone growing colder. “Back then, he stood for something — he fought for freedom, for equality. But now?” she scoffed, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “Now, he’s just another politician playing their game. And if that means giving in to the Wizengamot’s demands or bending to the pure-blood pressure, then he’ll do it.”
The room was silent, the weight of her words pressing down like a leaden fog.
“But surely—” Molly began, her voice breaking.
“Surely what, Molly?” Hermione cut in, her tone rising. “Surely Kingsley wouldn’t let it get this far? Surely he’s better than this?” She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “You know what the pressure of power does to people. We’ve seen it firsthand. Even the best-intentioned leaders make decisions to protect their position, not their principles. Look at Fudge.”
She hesitated for a moment, then added, her voice dripping with bitterness, “And besides, Kingsley’s in his late forties, unmarried, no children. Who’s to say he doesn’t see some personal benefit in all this? Maybe he thinks he will get a nice little wife out of all this?”
Ginny flinched at the accusation, her brow furrowing. “Hermione, that’s a bit harsh,” she said quietly, though her tone lacked conviction.
“Is it?” Hermione shot back, turning to face her. “He’s a public figure in a society obsessed with tradition. You think he doesn’t feel the pressure to fit into their mould? You think he hasn’t convinced himself that this is somehow for the greater good, even if it means trampling on the rights of people like us?”
The room fell silent again, the crackling fire the only sound. Ginny, who had been quietly listening until now, leant forward, her brow furrowed. “But why now? Why push so hard for something like this now, it doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” Hermione said bitterly. “The war decimated our population. They’re terrified we won’t recover, that our numbers will dwindle further. But instead of addressing the real problems — like the divide between pure-bloods and Muggle-borns, or the barriers to education and opportunity — they’ll put all their effort into forcing people to marry and reproduce. It’s easier to legislate people’s lives than to actually fix the system.”
“Fixing the system doesn’t win votes,” Bill added, his voice grim. “Fear does.”
Molly sat down heavily in the nearest chair, her face pale. “This… this isn’t the world I fought for,” she said softly, her voice barely audible over the fire.
Hermione’s expression softened at Molly’s words, but her resolve didn’t waver. “It’s not the world any of us fought for,” she said, her voice quieter now. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to sit back and let them dictate my future.”
Percy cleared his throat, drawing he attention of the room back to him. His face was unreadable, his hand clasped tightly in Audrey’s. “For what it’s worth,” he said carefully, “I think you’re making the right decision, Hermione.” His wife nodded thoughtfully.
Hermione blinked, surprised by the rare display of support from Percy. “Thank you,” she said simply, her voice steady.
Ginny leant back in her chair, exhaling deeply. “I still can’t believe it’s come to this,” she murmured, shaking her head.
“Believe it,” Hermione said firmly. “And be ready. This isn’t the end of it. Not by a long shot.”
The room descended into a heavy silence once more, each person lost in their own thoughts. The fire continued to crackle, its light flickering across their faces. Hermione glanced around at the people she considered family, a lump forming in her throat. She was doing the right thing — she knew she was — but it didn’t make leaving them any easier.