#this is so uneditied and fresh dont judge the mistakes

[bembembembis]

Hermione was the only one of the three to decide to go back to Hogwarts, Harry had put most of the money he received from the Order of Merlin towards reconstruction efforts at Hogwarts, and to Saint Mungos, funnelling more money into their Magical Creatures Ward, into their Trauma Ward, among a few others, trying to force the weight out of his chest by giving as much as he could to fix the mess he started. The mess that He started. Voldemort— Harry, they're the same aren't they? A two sided act, a muggle coin with two tails. Harry couldn’t go back there, his throat tightened up when he thought about it, about being there, trapped. He didn’t trust protection spells that weren't from his own magic, and the wards at Hogwarts had been torn down before, right, he thought he was justified in his Paranoia, still didn’t tell Ron or Hermione about his bad habit, placing protego on himself non-verbally now, didn’t even need his wand, his only tell was the slight shift of his magic in the room. It was like a natural instinct, at any panic his mind was ready to cast the spell.  There were small threads of Hermione's magic in their apartments wards, wicked, intelligent, and more importantly, annoying hexes in place for intruders, something much like her snitch hex from fifth year, Hermione somehow, even now, still so focused on the injustice of a situation, as if she had to throw herself into a social and philosophical debate, as if not to break down about the other tragedies in her life.  Ron, however, fought Mrs Weasley tooth and nail about not going back, screamed and begged, and told her to fuck off in an screaming arguement that had left the entirety of the Burrow— in the middle of dinner on Harry’s Birthday. Everyone was left frozen, Ron included, and as if Harry was watching everything in some sort of slowed, skewed vision, he saw Ron’s heart break on his face, absolutely crack in two, as stood up, hands placed flat on the dinner table, as he stared at her in horror, breathing heavily. He couldn’t speak after that, Ron; he had started clutching at his throat, his breath coming out in wild, uneven puffs of air, raspy gasps leaving his mouth as he started to cry. 

Oh the golden trio struggling post war