Deathly Hallows - A Darker End

-by Mohammed Rauhaan and Anvita Goyal

No one escaped Voldemort unscathed. Physical wounds healed, but the mental impact was never spoken about.
Our take on what happened in the 19 years after the Battle of Hogwarts that Rowling couldn’t bear to write about.

Ron and Hermione

No one can prepare for a battle. Sharpen your skills, hone your senses, but what about your mind?

Those scuffles at the ministry and in the forest were just that: small fights, a few exchanges of spells.

But the battle, the battle was crazed destruction. Hogwarts was left in ruins. Their safe place was where they suffered. They won, but they suffered.

That was their first kiss. Adrenaline rushing through their bodies, fear mounting, preparations ongoing. And a sudden passionate kiss, faced with certain death.

Once the war was over, the road seemed to be paved for a happy life. Spending their life with each other was a dream turned to reality, a long life surrounded by family and friends, and soon, children.

But a few years into marriage, the same kiss that once stood for passion and comfort in a time of crisis slowly turned into a reminder of that battle. Their expression of love for each other brought back flashes of memory from the castle. It kept coming back. The flashes of spells flying by. The shouts of people hit. The rumble of walls breaking apart. The wailing of a loved one. The screams of terror. Bodies lying everywhere. The stench of burning flesh. The ground shaking as another section of the building fell.

It got to a point where Hermione was unable to kiss Ron without it triggering him. He felt guilty about associating his most tender emotions with horrific thoughts of the war, but it was like an engine of love coupled to carriages of destruction. They came crashing in together and left a gaping hole in his soul every time they passed through. His nightmares were a usual haunt for the lifeless faces of his brothers, lying there in the Great Hall after the battle.

As for Hermione, she had sacrificed everything, right down to her family, for the war. She had nowhere to return to, no one she could call her own, except for Ron, and even he was slipping away. Her work became her solace. She wanted to change the outlook wizards had towards muggles and other magical creatures. Through her reforms to help others, she tried to make peace with her past.

It started pulling them apart. Hermione couldn’t provide the emotional support Ron expected from her. He began to detest her way of dealing with issues and the single-minded devotion she had towards work.

No one should have to think twice about being affectionate to the one they love, and unable to do so racked up a toll. Without having each other for support, even therapy could only hold them together for so long, and eventually they had to let go for the sake of each other. They still loved each other, but being together was would never be possible again.

For they left the war behind, but the war never left them.

Fred and George

The unfinished sentences. Being called by the right name. The weight of being alive, when your heart is buried 6 feet under.

Hermione was the one who had recommended therapy, doing things the muggle way. George at least pretended to listen while the world around him continued to fall apart. He only stopped going when the counsellor suggested moving on, 2 months in. Just got up halfway into the session and left. There was nothing to say.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Denial. Denial. Denial.

He tried to return to the joke shop. Some bullshit about keeping Fred’s legacy alive that everyone had been feeding him. There, in the shop they built together, in the products that bore not just their names but an entire life’s worth of ambitions, in the one place they truly felt at home, George knew he’d never be whole again.

The recurring nightmares. A hint of him in the mirror.

George had taken to visiting seedy, underground London bars with Mundungus. It had started small. A pint here, a bottle there. Waking up with a hangover was better than waking up from the dreams he’d been having, so he kept at it. Seated in a dingy corner, downing drink after drink, subconsciously searching for his brother’s face among strangers- nothing else felt real anymore.

Falling and flying. Flying and falling.

He’d used up all the capital they’d been saving up for the shop. There was always a justification, any guilt drowned out by the thought of whiskey on his lips.

The bartender finally refused to serve him after his unpaid tab crossed a hundred pounds. He dragged himself to the curb outside, secretly scanning the pavement for dropped coins. A homeless man next to him, missing a few teeth (and on closer inspection, probably a limb as well), patiently listened to his story. The man didn’t know what social conventions to follow when a random ginger on the sidewalk tells you about the murder of his twin, so he offered George the thing that brought him the most comfort. Grateful, George rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and let the man search for a protruding vein.

Draco

Anywhere he went, Draco couldn’t shake off the feeling. The feeling of someone stuck in the middle, someone who couldn’t choose a side when he had to.

Those death eaters who weren’t incarcerated weren’t too happy to include him in their social circles, what with him first failing to kill Dumbledore and then turning tail and running away with his family during the battle of Hogwarts.

He thought it would give his family redemption. They ended up choosing the right side, didn’t they? After all, they didn’t stand with the other death eaters during the final battle.

But was it really because of a sense of righteousness, or was it just fear and survival instinct? He knew they wouldn’t last, and it was safer to flee.

That didn’t mean his image was any better in the eyes of those on the other side. Every time his family name was brought up, people’s attitudes towards him changed. Their expressions visibly darkened and their demeanour became less friendly. There was even an instance of him being turned away from a store in Diagon Alley.

It had to be done, he couldn’t take it anymore. This was no life, he told himself as he pulled out his old school trunk. It would break his poor mother’s heart, but he had to get out of here, he had to get away.

He would start a new life in America.

Arthur and Molly

Mr and Mrs Weasley of No. A-67 Brixton street, tried to act perfectly normal, thank you very much. Not that many people in their vicinity would care to notice the middle-aged ginger couple that just moved in.

Arthur and Molly had lost a lot in the last few years — Fred, Percy, Lupin, Tonks, Dumbledore, Sirius, innumerable other friends. All these sacrifices, the mass violence, the widespread destruction, all of it aided by one thing (according to Arthur), Magic. Consumed by the guilt of surviving when so many others had perished and disgusted by the very trait that made them unique, he had decided to give up magic for good and assimilate into London’s muggle community.

Molly, battling demons of her own, put up surprisingly little fight. Every corner of The Burrow reminded her of what she’d lost. At times, walking upstairs, she swore she could hear Fred’s laugh or Percy’s quiet footsteps. Her once living, breathing house had become a haunt for painful memories.

Trying to get the kettle to boil at his semi-furnished London flat, Arthur realized he’d love to spend the rest of his life tinkering with muggle electronics. There was a small problem though. He still thought electricity was a bunch of tiny, invisible wizards zooming through those narrow wires.

Hermione and Harry helped him apply to a few colleges. The first community college he interviewed at couldn’t ascertain if he was serious about his education (or the lack thereof) but decided their pay-check wasn’t worth these insane arguments and referred him to the local high school. The school authorities were just as baffled, but slightly more understanding. They let him write a test to gauge his intelligence and ended up placing him in the sixth grade with 11-year olds. A grown man in a three-piece suit, top hat, and a walking cane became the talking point of the institution whose previous claim to fame had been a girl with webbed feet. Arthur secretly liked the attention, despite what he told Molly.

Molly spent the first few months in bed, only getting up to let Arthur in and out of the house. Ginny, Harry, and Fleur came by often to remind her to take her pills, clean the house, and stock up the fridge. The anti-depressants made her drowsy and confused, which was still preferable to the long weeping and screaming bouts she had without them.

She never made another sweater.

Ron couldn’t bear to see the strongest person he knew reduced to such a state. He rarely came over and when he did, he would awkwardly sit beside his mother’s bed and stroke her hand, thousands of unspoken words between them. Hermione, still at Hogwarts, wrote long letters which went unopened and unanswered.

Being around young children helped Arthur deal with the repressed feelings he had about Fred and Percy’s deaths. In helping Molly, he had effectively compartmentalized his own grief. Putting up a brave face for his family in times of adversity had always been his strong suit and even now, he played the part to perfection.

In the few years of schooling that followed, Arthur became the de-facto counsellor for many of his young classmates. He listened to their problems, and in his affable way, gave them the courage and guidance they needed.

His entire family attended the graduation. In his speech, Arthur explained how aeroplanes managed to stay up.

He finally ended up owning a rubber duck.