“Hermione dear, so glad you made it. This is for you,” Molly pressed a gift, wrapped in tissue paper, into Hermione's hands.
Hermione perched on an ottoman and opened it. A green jumper with an H in the middle.
“Thank you, Molly,” she said. “This is beautiful.”
“Mum! Why are you sticking Hermione in Slytherin green?” Ron said, peering over.
Molly smacked him, wearing an expression of offense. “Ronald! It's emerald green and it's a lovely colour for her skin tone. It reminded me of Harry's eyes.”
“Looks like Slytherin green to me.” Ron grimaced as Hermione pulled it over her head. “Ugh. Gives me nightmares just looking at it.”
Hermione and Molly's relationship was somewhat strained. When Arthur was first cursed, there had been a great deal of hope that Hermione and Bill would collaboratively be able to reverse or break it. Molly had been effusive in her appreciation of all Hermione's efforts. However, as time passed and hope dwindled, Molly withdrew. It wasn't blame, per se. It was simply painful. Hermione represented a deep hope that had failed.
Their interactions were still warm, but they kept them limited.
Hermione knew from second-hand accounts that Molly had vehement objections to her advocacy for the Dark Arts, but it was not a conversation they had ever actually had together.
Hermione wasn't sure if Molly had chosen the colour on the basis of skin tone, or if it was a form of reproof. It wasn't really worth thinking about. She was so tired of pointlessly arguing about it.
She left Ron and Molly to argue and went to find Arthur.
Mr Weasley was sitting on the floor in the corner, going through a lift-the-flap book. Hermione watched him carefully and cast a diagnostic spell on his brain. Arthur Weasley as an adult was still locked away somewhere. The curse Lucius used hadn't driven Arthur mad or scrubbed his memory. The magic had suspended Arthur's mind at a specific point in early childhood. The rest of Arthur was still inside, waiting to get out; Hermione could see it in the diagnostic. But she didn't know how to break through the magic without causing real and severe brain damage.
The lost parts of Arthur's brain were slowly deteriorating. His brain activity gradually shrinking smaller as the disused neural connections died off.
There was nothing Hermione could do about it.
“Arthur,” Hermione knelt down beside him, “I have a Christmas present for you.”
He looked up from his book expectantly. Every time their eyes met she felt a pang in her chest and an overwhelming desire to offer apologies he couldn't understand. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't get you out. I'm sorry I can't fix this.
“I wasn't going to buy presents for anyone this year, but I saw this in a shop, and I knew I had to get it for you.” Hermione reached into her pocket and pulled out the gift. “It's called a rubber duck. It will float on water. You can have it in your baths. Or put it in the sink.”
Arthur snatched it from her hand and stood up suddenly. Hermione gripped her wand. She'd been knocked across a room by him on several occasions when he'd become overexcited or cross.
“Bill! Bill, do this.” His voice was adult, but his words and the insistent tone were childlike. He waved the duck over his head. “In the sink!”
Bill donned the false expression of cheerfulness that he always wore around his father and leaned forward. “What have you got there?”
Arthur carried it over and shoved the toy into Bill's face until it nearly poked Bill in the eye. Hermione winced.
“A duck! In the sink.”
“Right, should we see how it floats?” Bill stood up. Arthur turned on his heel and proceeded to bolt down a hallway toward the bathroom. “No running, Arthur!”
Hermione headed further into the house and found Fred and George outside in the gardens. George was attempting to do a handstand on his crutches. As Hermione opened the door, he lost his balance and fell face first into a snowdrift.
“George!” Hermione went and pulled him out, brushing the snow off by smacking him. “If you're going to do things like this, at least be sober.”
“Sorry, Mum.” George said jokingly as he let her pull him upright and fuss over him while Fred picked the crutches up.
Hermione rolled her eyes at him, and he kissed her full on the lips.
She stared at him astonished.
“Happy Christmas, Herms. A pretty girl deserves a Yuletide kiss. Fred promised his to Angelina, so I drew the short straw and had to kiss the woman who saved my life.” He placed a hand across his heart and smiled beautifically.
Hermione shook her head. “You're awful. What if that had been my first kiss?”
George donned an expression of elaborate despair. “It wasn't? Been snogging other patients of yours before me?”
Hermione felt the tips of her ears grow warm and looked away. “Actually my first kiss was with Viktor.”
“Crushed my heart, you have.” George stumbled back overdramatically with his crutches. “It's because I'm not surly enough, isn't it? Or maybe you only like Seekers.”
Hermione shook her head and tried not to think about surliness or Seekers. “I'm going back in. If you must risk your neck after all I've done healing you, at least do it when I'm not looking.”
She went back inside and seated herself on the couch in the corner, watching the festivities with a sense of bewilderment.
Charlie was teasing Ginny and Harry, he tilted his head back and laughed. Hermione couldn't remember the last time she'd heard Charlie laugh. Or Ron or Harry.
They were all happy. Happier than she had seen them in years.
As Hermione observed it, a creeping sense of horror came over her.
The cheerfulness brimming inside the cottage was more than Yuletide merriment and alcohol. The house was bursting, nearly vibrating with a sense of hopefulness.
Hermione wouldn't have understood it if not for the conversation with Angelina.
It wasn't just the Resistance. The Order members also believed they were on the way to winning the war.
As Hermione sat in the corner absorbing it, she felt as though she were trapped inside a daydream charm while the world around her burned down.
The Order would never change tactics now; they would never agree to use the Dark Arts. She had done this.
If Draco ever turned on them, or achieved whatever atonement he was in pursuit of and ended his service, the Resistance would start to free fall, and there would be nothing to catch them.
And if the Order ever found out about Draco, in any context… it would likely break the entire organization. The trust in Kingsley and Moody would be shattered.
Hermione felt like she might be sick. She wanted to leave.
She sat in the corner like a statue.
Harry came and dropped down on the couch next to her. They watched the room. Ginny was with Arthur. Ron, Fred, and George appeared to be in the middle of a prank of some sort. Molly was bustling about, setting out food and Charlie was helping her.
“This — is everything I ever wanted,” Harry said after a minute. “This is what keeps me going. Every day.”
Hermione was silent.
“Are you thinking about your family?” Harry studied her carefully. Hermione gave a short nod. Harry wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “Someday your parents will be here with us too.”
Hermione watched Molly pause to press a kiss on Arthur's forehead and admire his duck.
“They — they won't; they'll never come back from Australia,” she said quietly. Harry looked at her with confusion. Her eyes dropped down to her lap. “Extensive obliviation only has a certain window for reversal. Otherwise there is a high risk of acute brain damage. If I were going to reverse the memory charm, it needed to be done before Christmas last year; before the five year mark.”