Scars

i.

The first time someone spots it, she watches openly with concerned interest. Her eyes follow him for a short time before she flinches away, unwilling to meet his gaze when he finally looks up from her arm.

They're sitting in his room in the Burrow, barely aware of the other occupants roaming around the remaining rooms. It's the only place she feels a brief reprieve from the startling and often claustrophobic grief that envelopes the Weasley family now. She feels Fred's loss deep in her chest, a piece among many of the hurt and devastation she tries to mask.

Her own screams echo in her dreams at night - does that make her a bad person? Hermione dreams of her own anguish, her own helpless fight against hapless insanity. Her eyes close and see a woman twirling a wand with malicious intent, eyes sparking madly as she taunts her, "Come out to play, Mudblood,"

The dialogue rarely resembles anything close to historical accuracy and she tries not to think about why.

"Hermione," He tries, his hands ghosting over her arm before dropping it altogether, as if burned. "I-I don't really know what to say,"

She doesn't blame him. Really, she doesn't. Hermione doesn't know what to say either.

"You can cover it with a spell, right? People won't see?" Her eyes fly to his then, now willing to accept whatever pity they have in store, but her expectations are not met. Ron appears confident, steeled, as he suggests how she continue her life with the branding on her skin.

She falters, "Well, I suppose, yes," Words are not something Hermione struggles with normally. Now, they seem to endlessly evade her; like trying to grasp someone's hand slick with sweat. "There's likely lots of spells."

Her reply sounds weak even to her own ears. Ron frowns, rubbing a hand over his face. He's tired, "No one will ever even know, it can stay between us."

When he removes his hand from his face, his smile is encouraging. Hesitating for only a moment, Ron comes to wrap his arms around her. The solace she feels is fleeting, the interlude only seeming to further intensify the burn she feels from each letter on her arm.

He doesn't understand, she thinks morosely. Other people seeing are the last thing on Hermione's mind, a distant runner-up to the screams, to the intrusion and invasion of her body and the constant reminder you're not good enough.

You're not strong enough. You don't deserve to be here.

She doesn't speak to him again about it.

ii.

Ron had been right, there's a dozen spells Hermione uses to cover up the slur carved into her arm. It's six months later and she repeats the spell daily, even taking great care to make sure her boyfriend doesn't see it again.

Hermione sees the relief on his face when he looks at the unblemished skin. She tries not to feel hurt by it.

On nights where she's alone, she becomes almost obsessive in tracing the word with her index finger, as if somehow eventually the scar will disappear with the tip of her finger. It's on one of these nights that the curtain around her bed is abruptly torn open, trespassing on her private reverence with careless ease.

Hermione scrambles to her wand, but despite the war, her reflexes could never be that good. Her friend gasps loudly, a sound halfway between horror and surprise, and grabs her arm tightly.

She drops her eyes again in resignation, closing them momentarily as she feels Ginny run her finger over the word like Hermione has done so many times before. She won't be weak this time, but when she finally meets Ginny's eyes she's shocked to see the unshed tears the girl valiantly blinks away.

"Merlin, Hermione, I'm sorry," She says, her voice a whisper, "I'm so sorry,"

She wrenches her arm free, self-conscious and unsure, "It's fine, it was ages ago now,"

Ginny lowers her head to try look at her imploringly, "Not that long ago."

There's a short silence. Hermione knows the girl is speechless, uncomfortable and awkward - it's how anyone would feel. This is why she doesn't show people. She looks at her friend, words at the ready to whisper words of assurance and consolation.

As she begins to do this, Hermione pauses. Ginny does not look uncomfortable. She looks… unsure, pensive, as if figuring out a word to a particularly difficult crossword. Finally, her eyes skim Hermione and look back out toward the dormitory room, "Does Harry know?"

A prick of irritation runs through her, but she stamps it down. It would not serve her right now to be adversarial, "No," Hermione replies, and then murmurs, "Can you please keep it between us?"

Ginny grasps her hands, staring at them like she is looking for the answer. Hermione knows she's asking her to do something hard - lie by omission to her own boyfriend. It's not good to keep secrets in a relationship but Hermione has so rarely asked anything of anyone, giving freely without expectation of reciprocity. She needs this, surely Ginny can see that? Surely she can understand why Hermione can't tell Harry this?

"He would want to know," Her eyes remain on their hands, resolutely never straying up her arm, "He thinks you keep nothing from each other."

"We don't," Hermione replies quickly, evenly, "This is the exception."

They stare at each other then, her gaze pleading and Ginny's searching, "Ok, I won't tell him. I think you should though, this is a mistake. He would want to help you."

Hermione doesn't say anything. "Hermione," She stresses, squeezing her hands, "I'm serious. You should tell him."

"Thanks, Gin. Goodnight."

iii.

Hermione graduates top of her class that year and accepts a job at the Ministry almost immediately. Harry and Ron are already there, and the changes she wants to enforce must begin there - it makes sense.

She had grossly underestimated the political machine though. Some people would gleefully hear that Hermione's age and lack of real world experience left her unprepared for the attitudes and machinations of the Ministry employees. They had won the war, but it takes her time to understand what that really means.

As the years go by, she begins to hear the sniggers for what they are when she suggests proposals. Hermione can see their eyes rove over her appearance disapprovingly when she bumps into them in Diagon Alley, clad in jeans and a jumper.

The condescending way Percy Weasley had once patted her hand, eyes filled with sympathy as he told her, "There are bigger politics at work here than the Golden Trio, you understand," when she tried to establish S.P.E.W as a recognised non-profit.

To be taken seriously, Hermione has to change so much about herself. Being noticed takes expensive robes, constant charms to her hair and a light layer of make-up. Being heard takes a raised hand, tentative smile and the support of a pureblood wizard. Effecting change often means letting someone else run with her brain child, someone unencumbered by the burden of their birth right.

By the time she is 30, Hermione no longer feels the sting of rejection or the pain of injustice. She tries to manipulate her own viewpoint so she won't feel hurt, seeing herself as a puppeteer pulling strings from the background. She's a subtler Dumbledore, the comparison to which makes her uncomfortable.

She sometimes feels like the wizard of Oz.

Despite the power Hermione feels from that, there are moments when even her fortified walls and newfound wisdom are shook. One of which occurs late one night at the Ministry, sitting in her office scribbling furiously and barely legibly on a notepad.

Her superior, Caius Greengrass, sits across from her, reading notes aloud every few moments. Frustrated by strands of her hair falling one by one out of the well placed charm, Hermione casts a finite incantatem on herself so she can do it again.

Forgetting her rolled up sleeves, it takes her a minute to register why Caius gasps. Clipping back her hair the muggle way, Hermione lowers her arms slowly, frowning at him in askance. He's not meeting her eyes though and suddenly she wants to be sick - this is the last person Hermione needs to see her scars.

This is an intensely private part of her life, she doesn't want his pity or his scorn. She doesn't want him to know anything about her that personal. Scowling, Hermione roughly yanks her sleeves down to cover her arms. She gestures to him, "Come on, I'd like to get home to my kids soon,"

Caius shakes his head, looking down at his own parchment. He's facing away from her purposely, she realises. Dread begins to bubble in her stomach.

He's smirking.

He's smirking.

Her heart beats erratically, knowing the moment is going to pass by in a flash, downgraded to a memory she takes out and cries over in vulnerable times. She fights with the instinct to call him out on it, her brain racing to discover the best way to handle this. Hermione can't risk anything though. She's gotten so far with Caius, covered so much ground since the sneer he gave her when they met.

She can't go back to that.

"I think we should call it a night," Hermione says, not allowing any softness creep into her tone. She is firm, she is resolute, she is strong.

He nods, "Quite. Maybe you can transfer your notes to something more suitable before we meet next time. We can't rely on muggle technology to keep our thoughts private."

Hermione glances down at her notepad. What can she say to that? She nods in response. Hermione doesn't tell him how the superior the muggle method is, she doesn't point out how the ink smudges on parchment, how the lined paper is easier to write on and how she doesn't have to worry about spilling an ink pot.

She doesn't. That's not what he's concerned about.

He's the third person to see her scars, and in some ways, he's the worst. His reaction represents everything she feels in her job, in her life in the Magical world. The touting of equality and fairness is a thin veil disguising the disconcerting truth; they like to see her fall. They like to see her branded and treated as her birth right demands. They would never say it to her face - only in patronised praise, "Oh, you know, she's extremely intelligent for a muggle-born.. Quite the unexpected one,"

Hermione is ashamed to say that the first person she thinks of to rant about this with is Harry. It could have been Ron, Ginny, even Luna, but no - he's the first person she thinks of in a crisis, and the wrongness of him being ignorant to this hurts her in that moment. For the first time, it feels like betrayal in so many ways.

iv.

"You're kind of scaring me, Hermione," Harry says, laughing good-naturedly. They're sitting in a booth in the Leaky Cauldron. It's a Tuesday afternoon so there's not many patrons, the usual bar flies slouch forward in their stools at the front of the pub. Some Ministry employees relax at other tables eating lunch, chatting animatedly about their days.

Hermione casts a muffliato charm around their table, unwilling to share the conversation. She takes a sip of her wine, savouring the taste on her tongue for a moment. Not usually allowing herself wine on a Tuesday, she relishes the small treat to herself.

The barmaid places a pint in front of Harry, lingering a little too long with a small smile on her face. Harry grows uncomfortable, eyes widening to Hermione in askance. She chuckles and repeats Harry's thanks, "Honestly, thank you for the drink, but we're ok for anything else."

She's still watching Harry, who has found great interest in making circles in the condensation of his pint. Resigned, the girl sighs, "Okay then, if you're sure…"

She trails off questioningly, but Hermione answers swiftly, "We're sure, thank you."

This a common occurrence that normally Ron and Hermione take great delight in teasing Harry for. Occasionally, the same thing will happen with the other members of the Golden Trio, but Harry generally still reserves the most reverence amongst the public.

"Now that that's over," He grins, taking a sip of his drink, "What's up?"

"You'd think you'd be used to it," Hermione comments, moving to lean against the wall of the booth. She takes a breath, steadying herself. There's something dreadfully unfair about knowing you're about to do something, reveal something, that will cause an argument and ruin your day. "I wanted to talk to you about something. I should have talked to you about it a long time ago, but I didn't know how. I-I don't know why, but your reaction scared me. At first, it was because I thought you'd dement yourself with blame but as the years went on, I think it was to protect myself more than anything. Now though… now, it feels like there's a part of my life I kept from you," She laughs derisively, "Which is ridiculous because it's such a small thing. Tiny, really, no cause for a fuss but… well… I just… I wanted you to know,"

Harry stares, dumbfounded, "Hermione, I've no idea what you're talking about but you're really scaring me now." He grabs for her hands without a second thought, "You know you can tell me anything, I promise to try listen without rushing to conclusions,"

The corners of her lips quirk, "Ten years ago you would have been leaping blindly, confidently to conclusions,"

"Yeah, yeah, impulsive Potter, I know," He teases himself, clearly not offended by the words. He tightens his hold on her hands, "Go on, then."

Hermione pulls from his grasp, ignoring the way his expression changes, and takes a deep breath again. Inexplicably, her heart starts to speed up and she swears she can feel each thud in her chest. She slowly pulls her robe up her arm, scraping her nails lightly along the skin as she does so, and takes the charm off.

Immediately, Harry reaches across and gently takes her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. The familiar green is comforting to her, like a hot tea on a bitter day, or a long hug after a blistering row. Hermione shakes her head, seeing those beautiful eyes begin to glisten, willing him to not feel this. She doesn't want to hurt him, Hermione knows that despite his growth after all these years, that he will blame himself in a heartbeat. She has seen Harry Potter beat himself up over senseless things one time too many.

"Harry, please don't," She whispers, regretting her confidence in herself to do this.

"No," His reply is firm, "When was this? Who did this, Hermione? Why didn't you tell me?"

Guilt threatens to swallow her whole as Hermione tries to answer, "Malfoy Manor - I just. I don't know. I didn't want you to feel guilty. I didn't - you had so much going on, I just.." There isn't much she wants to say.

"Are you okay?"

Startled, Hermione looks back to him and barely registers him taking her arm and tracing the word with his finger, "Am I - am I ok?" She repeats, dumbly.

"It has to be hard, right? Everyday, putting a charm on like you're painting a part of yourself. It means you can't forget it, can't move on and box it off. It's a daily reminder every morning of what someone people think about you."

His hand continues to flutter over her arm, causing her stomach to churn but she isn't certain it's unpleasant. Harry looks at her quizzically, "Especially when you feel it in people's actions and words in work, too."

The feeling of relief is so often trivialised. We feel relief when skating into a meeting one moment before your boss can reprimand you, when we run for the bus and just barely make it on before it speeds off, when your child falls only to get up laughing. True, unadulterated relief that comes from years of repression and avoidance almost knocks the air clean from her lungs.

Hermione can't help the tears that come to her eyes, someone understands. She doesn't appreciate the way her voice wavers when she speaks, "How - how do you?"

He hesitates and the grimly points to his own scar, the symbol of all wholesome, victorious and good to the world, but not to him, "It's not the same, but I can empathise."

Hermione scoots around the booth and hugs him with a fierceness that reminds her of being 16 again.

v.

The next 10 years are kind to Hermione, in a way, as she devotes her time to her children and her growing responsibilities at work. Politics is a game she has never been well versed in - Hermione is a direct, uncompromising sort of person. Outspoken to a fault, as Ron used to tell her. She's learned the tricks of the trade over the years, but she's still poor at the manipulative semantics. The constant pessimism in it makes her forget the daily wins and positivity from her efforts.

She's reminded on an idle Thursday when her children are home for the summer from Hogwarts. Hermione is showering after a long day at work, mentally preparing her to-do list for the evening as she washes. When the kids are home, there's always so much she wants to get done. Hermione tries to spend as much time together as possible, having spent the last 9 months missing them. However, with teenagers, that can often be like pulling teeth.

It's funny how eventually, you have to force your children to spend time with you. There was a time when Hermione would dream of days doing nothing but reading, unencumbered by screaming children. How naive she had been.

There's a loud bang, crash that causes Hermione to pause in her ministrations. The shouting that follows causes her to sigh, rinse and get out of the shower. Wrapped in only a towel, Hermione stomps down the hallway to her childrens room where the sound originated. Hugo's room, it seems.

At 14 and 12, her childrens bickering has reached new heights this summer. Hugo is constantly doing something irritating to Rose, and she's needlessly berating him all the time. It was far easier to manage and tolerate the arguments when she and Ron were together.

2 against 1 means that she has to be firmer in her words, leave no room for any sort of disagreement or rebellion. She pushes open her sons door without knocking, intent on putting an end to the fight.

Rose his standing in front of her brother, dark red hair pulled messily into a bun on her head. Her blue eyes are distressed as she waves her hands over the mess on Hugo's desk. Hugo isn't facing her, he's sitting at the desk, moving things around haphazardly as he answers Rose with a low, concentrated whisper.

They're not arguing, Hermione realises with surprise. No, they're frantically trying to fix something.

"What is going on here?"

The two kids freeze, and Hugo curses audibly earning him a sharp glance from his mother. Rose speaks first, the eldest and eager to prove her innocence, "We were practicing some school work and ran into an accident, it's nothing to worry about, Mum, really,"

Hermione walks around her to the desk, eyeing the melting cauldron and soot on the desk with suspicion, "It must be very advanced to cause such a raucous.."

Rose nods rapidly, "Yes, super advanced, we're so ahead of the curve."

She tries to evaluate her daughters expression. Hermione's suspicion increases when she realises Hugo has been silent and turns to him, but he's not focused on the moment. Confusion is written all over his face, and his eyes then flicker upward to meet hers, "Mudblood?"

"What are you talking about, you prat?" Rose snaps. So much for sibling solidarity anyway.

Hermione hastily pulls her arm to her chest, cursing her single-mindedness as she raced here. It's time to face the music with the kids and have this discussion. She's sure Hogwarts and their peers have taught them everything they need to know about the word, but Hermione now feels a certain remorse for having not explained it to them herself. Of course, she and Ron sat their children down and explained prejudice and why they must befriend even Slytherin students (to Ron's utter dismay), but they never expanded on the words they may face.

While they knew the history of muggleborn discrimination when going off to Hogwarts, they did not know the gritty detail.

She hesitates, wondering where to begin, "Come, sit down with me,"

They oblige immediately, seating all three of them on Hugo's bed. Scooting back till she's leaning against the wall, Hermione waits as Hugo adjusts against the headboard and Rose lies her head at Hermione's stomach, legs parallel to her brother. He pushes her feet away from him once, but doesn't persist which underscores the seriousness her children feel on the situation.

Tucking a piece of Rose's hair behind her ear, Hermione begins, "You remember when your father and I explained some of the problems in school I had because I was a muggle born?"

"Yes," Rose answers immediately, "And because you were Harry and Daddy's friend."

"Exactly, darling," Hermione now places her hand on her sons leg, making sure not to exclude him. He's too introspective sometimes. "I'm sure you've heard the term Mudblood in school -"

"No," Hugo interrupts, watching her intently, "No one has ever said that."

Hermione raises her eyebrows and then turns to her daughter, who nods in agreement. Hermione doesn't know whether her children are protecting her from a truth that seems too sad to voice, or they truly have never experienced the word.

If they honestly have not heard 'Mudblood' before, Hermione can scarcely believe it. That's the world she fought for. It's more than she could have ever hoped for, even if the prejudice and discrimination still exists, if her children are unaware of it and unhurt by it by they're teenage years then she has done something.

"Well, it's a degrading word that means Muggleborn," Hermione explains, "It originates in the 1600s when purebloods refused to allow muggleborns access to the wizarding medical services on account of their 'muddy blood'. It evolved from there into a word that encapsulated the second class status and is generally now regarded as hate speech since the end of the last war."

"Like a racial slur?" Rose asks.

Hermione is glad her children attended muggle school prior to Hogwarts, and especially in this moment, "Yes."

"Why is it on your arm though? You never told us people branded you," Hugo seems angry, and she tries to ignore the way his question seems accusatory.

"I wanted to protect you from the uglier side of the war. Unfortunately, I had a run in with a bad wizard who put the word on my arm. I'm fine though, it doesn't hurt or cause me any trouble anymore. No one even sees it," Hermione adds, trying desperately to assure her children all was well.

"Does Dad know?" Her sons tone still seems distrustful.

"Of course he does, Hugo," She snaps, resentful. Seeing his flinch, Hermione is flooded with guilt and opens her arms, "Please, come here the both of you - ow careful with those elbows, Rose. Great, now I have my two favourite people snuggled up beside me. I want you to know that I would never keep something from you to hurt you or make you feel an outsider. Only your Dad, Harry and Ginny know about this. I don't tell anyone not because we feel shame, but because sometimes seeing people you love hurt is hard.

"I'm just a human, too. Being vulnerable and showing that word to people is intensely personal. It can change someone's perspective of me, it can change someone's worldview and I didn't want that for you. I wanted to be your strong Mum who kicked ass in the war," Hermione smiles, enjoying her children's chuckles at that, "I didn't want you to be angry at people whose parents were wrong. I didn't want you to look at the world as if it was capable of that."

Hermione's arms around them tighten, "I love you two more than anything in the world and only wanted to protect you. It was a long time ago, I'm fine about it now."

Rose throws her two arms around her Mum, hugging fiercely, "I'm so sorry that happened to you," she whispers, and Hermione's heart clenches at the way Rose swipes at her eyes when she pulls back, catching errant tears.

Hugo grabs her hands, "You're not a mudblood. That word doesn't exist in our world anymore and we won't let that ever change."

Hermione can't help the watery smile she gives him, "How did I get so lucky to have two genius, kind, warm children?"

Rose laughs, "Now is probably not the time to mention that we permanently damaged Hugo's cauldron then?"

His laugh is more nervous and he scratches the back of his neck, "Um, yes… that also was not schoolwork, we were trying to brew Fidelius Felix for the match tomorrow."

Scandalised, Hermione swats her two children and proceeds to reprimand them and suggest constructive alternatives. Heart warm and full, she watches them clean up the desk with a bright smile.

She glances down at the word on her arm and some of its power has faded.

vi.

The last time someone sees Hermione's scar is inadvertent, too.

When Rose had told her, one year after graduating Hogwarts, that she was in love with Scorpius Malfoy and hoped to marry him one day, Hermione had smiled genially and wished her daughter well.

The girl had been 18, Hermione had believed there was no way they'd marry. Too young, foolish, quick, Hermione could say from experience.

Now, she rushes through corridors that are unknown to her but achingly familiar, taking great effort not to glance around lest the memories assault her. Calling out, Hermione desperately searches for comfort, hoping that someone will come to her by sheer will of thought.

She stops, leaning against a wall and tries to get herself under control.

"Oh, Mum, I can't wait for you to see - the Malfoy manor is just beautiful in Summer,"

How could she tell her daughter the truth? She would never speak of the night again with her children, and certainly not to sully the dream of two kids embarking on their life together. Despite Harry's pleas to see reason, Hermione had remained steadfast in her decision.

Now, she wonders if her hubris is her biggest flaw. Her confidence in her strength is overstated and undeserved. She does what she does best then, and applies logic to the situation. Facts help, facts always help:

1. She is at Malfoy Manor for her daughters wedding. She must not ruin it.

2. She has not been here in thirty years, since she was tortured.

3. Hermione cannot seem to open her eyes and look around.

4. This is not 1998, this is not 1998, this is not 1998. She is safe. She is sound. She is strong.

"Ms. Granger?" Hermione starts, eyes flying open to meet grey and she shuts them again instantly. Those grey eyes, so haunted and reluctant in her dreams as they gaze upon her twisting and contorting violently under the red light.

"Scorpius," she manages, proud of how even her voice is, "Can you please get Harry for me? Where is the nearest bathroom?"

"Merlin, Hermione, what has happened to your arm?" She looks down, seeing now that she has been scratching it relentlessly since she stumbled out of Rose's preparation room, claiming she had to use the loo.

Her skin circling the word is raw, the white scarred letters stark against the prickly red colouring around it. Her other hand scrambles to cover it, but by the look on his face it's too late. Comprehension dawns on her soon to be son-in-law and he reaches for her, spluttering, "Oh, god, oh… God.."

He utters the muggle term again and again, tentatively hugging her as if she'll snap in two. It is the strange instance of him repeating this muggle term that brings her back to ground. This is not 1998 and he is not Draco Malfoy.

"It's ok, Scorpius," she says calmly, rubbing little circles on his back, "It's over now."

He's shaking as he pulls back, unable to look her in the eyes as he rambles, "Rose mentioned the scar - she didn't say - I didn't know - that word -" He flails, hands fisting his hair and then stares at her before weakly saying, "Here?"

She pauses, deliberating her next steps. She won't allow her nightmares to haunt anyone else. "No, not here, I'm just panicking about my daughter getting married. I shouldn't have been though, you're such a wonderful man. I'm so happy she has you," Hermione smiles, reaffirming her words, "Now get out to that garden and I'll make sure she's nearly ready."

It's good timing that as Scorpius slowly nods his thanks, still shaking, and begins to move back, Harry comes skidding around the corner, running straight into the groom. Chuckling, Harry rights himself and then pats the younger man, "Good luck, Scorpius."

As Scorpius leaves, Harry then turns to her, and her breath hitches at the care in his gaze, "Are you okay?"

Hermione nods, not trusting herself to talk as she walks into his embrace. It's always been a place of comfort for Hermione; Harry's arms. It took them so long to see, to understand why they always came back to each other, why their names were the first on their lips. He's the only person in the world who truly understands her and unabashedly admires her for it.

It's the understanding that Hermione has come to rely on, the feeling that no matter how badly she reacts or how stupidly she acts sometimes, he won't run. There's always been a quiet current of affection and devotion, but now that she can act on it, Hermione can hardly imagine she has ever loved before.

She hates the feeling that she disrespects her time with Ron, or his time with Ginny, but it's a far different kind of love. It's not shouting passionately and making up passionately, it's not cursing each other, hurting each other and then whispering words of intense emotion.

Harry is home, as cheesy as it sounds. It's the way his eyes seek her out in any room, it's the touch of reassurance on the small of her back and the way he holds her like he doesn't want to let go. It's the listening, the openness to understanding and civilly disagreeing when she needs it.

There are times she wonders what life would be like had she and Harry realised sooner, but she doesn't dwell on it. Their children are precious, their lives full and meaningful - she would never trade it.

It's all these things that make her smile, knowing he came to find her as soon as he heard Rose's preparation room is in the manor. He knows. No words need to pass between them. He pulls back and brushes the skin under her eyes, silently fixing her make-up before pressing the gentlest of kisses to her lips.

His hands fall to her arms then, and he takes in the skin that is torn, ugly, red, scarred all at once. Harry lifts it, meeting her eyes and kisses it softly.

She can conquer this. She has conquered this so many times before, and will again.

It's not 1998.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I'd really appreciate if you could let me know what you thought, please.

As this is from Hermione's perspective, there is an element of unreliable narrator and bias.

This is my first time writing in years, so I'm excited to put it out there and pick up the pen - keyboard, really - again.

Cheers,

CR.