A/N: Hi reader, thank you for stumbling onto Memoriae. This fic is complete, with 15 chapters in total. I will be uploading one chapter a week, same time every week.

This story was a labour of love, so I hope you enjoy it! Shoutout to my beta, Chronicler of Caesura, for being so wonderful.

Reviews are a writer's lifeblood, and I'll just leave it at that :D

What is a memory?

Is it the first crunch of autumn's red leaves beneath a little girl's boots? The vastness of a single snowflake as it rests on the ridges of her fingertip? The warmth of her mother's cheek against hers or the way her father's laughter rises like a bubble as he lifts her up in the air?

Or is it in the howl etched across her best friend's features as he watches another life ripped from his grasp? The ethereal blue-gold haze of the night sky as it is lit by a hundred wands raised in mourning? The way the fingers of a pair of lovers remain intertwined as they lie lifeless beside each other?

2007

With a faint crack, she Apparates onto a deserted street. Empty beer cans and still-glowing cigarette stubs litter the pavements under the street lamps, and the faint musk of perfume curls in the warm night air. The atmosphere is slightly perturbed, as though many people have just Disapparated together, one after the other.

Because it's Friday night. And nothing vacates her sleepy little neighbourhood of its inhabitants faster that Friday nights, not when there are restaurants and bars and clubs to be filled up in the larger towns nearby.

There would be peace and quiet, at least until the early hours of dawn. It's just what she needs after yet another late night at the office, as she pictures herself curling up in her armchair at home with a stiff drink in her hand.

She heads straight for Machado's, a family-owned liquor shop she had discovered a few months ago and visits almost weekly now. It's not that she depends on the stuff, it's just that the mess inside her head would be easier to bear with a drink or three.

Bells tinkle overhead as she enters the shop. An old man with light brown eyes and a full head of white hair looks up at her and smiles with a warmth that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

"Another late night at the office, Hermione?"

"Yes, Joseph. You think you've come close to solving a problem, but you've actually just taken ten steps in the wrong direction."

"Somehow, I know exactly what you mean," he chuckles. "The usual red?"

"Actually, I thought I'd try something stronger tonight."

His eyes falter on her face for a moment before he nods. "Certainly. What are you craving? Something sweet? Dry? Spiced?"

As long as it takes the edge off.

"Happy for whatever you recommend, Joseph."

The old man rubs his hands together as he thinks, his eyes widening suddenly in triumph. "Think I've got just the thing," he says, as he steps around the counter to one of the display shelves arranged around the shop.

He mutters to himself as he skims over the shelves, finally settling upon a tall glass bottle filled with a rich, burgundy-coloured liquid.

"Black currant rum imported directly from Germany," he informs her proudly, his eyes twinkling. "Deep, fruity notes, with a touch of acidity. Pairs perfectly with a good book. Unless of course, you're having company tonight?" he adds with a kindly wink.

"No, no, nothing like that, Joseph," she smiles. "I've just been in need of a change recently. This looks perfect."

There is a silence as Joseph rings up her purchase and slides the bottle of rum into a sleek black bag.

"Everything alright with you these days, Hermione?" he asks as he hands it to her.

She wants to tell him then, to release some of the pressure that has been building up in her chest these last months, to secure herself in the very separateness of their lives. Because she's tired. Because it's just nice to be asked sometimes.

"Yes, everything's fine. Just been a bit overwhelmed at work."

"Don't push yourself too hard, Hermione," the old man says gently. "Take it from me. It's not always worth it."

Joseph is probably the other reason she keeps coming back to the shop. They're strangers, and she knows as little about his life, his family and his past as much as he knows about hers, but then there come these small moments of kindness that ring in her heart for hours.

She presses her lips into a smile and mumbles her thanks.

A small flurry of movement catches her eye when she steps out of the shop. A group of people in loud orange t-shirts are huddled together down the street from the shop. One of them, a woman with wild black hair tamed into a messy braid, catches Hermione's eye, whispers something excitedly to the group, and begins to jog toward her. Glossy black letters spelling M.U.M.P.S are emblazoned across her chest.

Oh fuck, what are these idiots doing here at this hour? Start walking. Pretend you saw nothing-

"Hello!" The woman calls out, but Hermione does not stop and rummages about in her bag like she is looking for something.

"Hello, there!" Go away, go away.

"Hermione Granger, isn't it?" the woman gushes, falling in step next to her.

Fuck.

"We're doing a petition," she says, thrusting a piece of paper into Hermione's hand. "We want to expand anti-discrimination laws to include former criminal status. The current laws are too easily circumvented-"

There are many, many things Hermione wants to tell this woman, but she locks her words behind a tight-lipped smile.

"I'm still undecided on the matter."

"It'll mean so much for the movement if we got a signature from you—"

"I said I'm undecided. I really need to go now."

"Remember, absence of war does not make peace!" the woman calls out as Hermione hurries away, desperation for a drink building painfully between her eyes.

Their world is divided. Anyone could see that. As far as she is concerned, the war hadn't ended ten years ago but had simply gone silent, like a great, raging river disappearing into a cave. Old scars had hardened into badges of moral outrage. Those once hunted and tortured for the mere crime of their birth, those left alive, had grasped among the ruins and found daggers. Over the years, there were whispers of a name for anyone even remotely associated with Voldemort or Death Eaters - Unforgivables, just like the curses they once so freely used. Every single one of them had been driven out of wizarding neighbourhoods, communities, and few cared where.

The Movement for the Unification of Magical Peoples, or MUMPs, is the response. They are a hodge-podge of young people, all brought together by a singular purpose: to rebuild a deeply fractured community.

It makes her scoff. She might have been that naive all those years ago, but she knows better now. In the end, memory makes fools of them all.

Her apartment is a respite as she steps inside, a picture of wood-panelled comfort. She walks into her bedroom, dumping her things onto her bed and stares at herself in the mirror.

There are dark circles under her eyes and her skin is deathly pale. No wonder Joseph had looked concerned.

She thinks back to the moment, exactly two months ago now, when she had sat before this very mirror, a quaking, tear-stained mess. She remembers how the dull scissor blades had struggled through her thick, bushy curls, the way clumps of her hair had floated slowly to the floor, like dry leaves on a windless night.

That's the other thing about wars. They lived on in people, clinging to them like blood on bone.

She changes into her nightgown and has barely sat down by the fireplace to pour herself a glass of rum when something large, brown and feathery sails straight through her living room window.

She almost drops the glass in alarm as the owl crashes onto her coffee table and skids to a halt. There in an envelope attached to its talons, which it releases before staggering back to its feet and flinging itself into the skies again.

She freezes at the sight of the seal on the envelope. Purple, waxy, with a large "H" in the middle.

It reminds her of the letter that lay at the foot of her front door when she was eleven. It also makes her think of warning letters, and offences, and hearings-

Had someone found out?

Heart thudding inside her chest, she reaches warily for the envelope and tugs it opens, pulling out the folded yellow parchment inside.

It's almost four pages long, and written in an impeccable hand, in the inimitable, flamboyant style of Horace Slughorn.

She pours herself a drink and begins to read.

1st of May 2007.

Dear Hermione Granger,

I hope this letter finds you well and furthermore trust that, regardless of any dispute that you may have with the content that follows, you will give it your fullest consideration.

It has been one decade since the end of the Second Wizarding War. Many of you have moved on, and built new lives. Yet, how can we fully stake claim to the end of a war when many old animosities and fault lines continue to linger...

...The War may have ended, but the wizarding world is far from healed. Our communities remain fractured. To move forward we must first seek out the roots…

…Hogwarts houses have been abolished…

The rum almost sprays from her mouth, her eyes combing over the line again and again. Abolished? Had Slughorn meant something else? Or perhaps it was a Quick-Quotes Quill gone rogue?

...much deliberation between members of the school board and the Ministry…

No, no no. But how could they? What was Hogwarts without its Houses, the legacy of its founders? This was thousands of years of tradition they were putting an end to. It was unthinkable, impossible.

...Sorting will be randomised, to ensure that students of all backgrounds, traits and abilities are given opportunities to interact and forge lasting friendships with one another…

She almost laughs out loud. Didn't he realise they had been doing that already? Some of the people she loved most in her life were not from Gryffindor. Even in school, everyone had classes with students from other Houses, people mingled during meals at the Great Hall, most student groups didn't discriminate. All with the exception of one House, but they chose to stick to themselves, to turn their noses up on anyone that wasn't like them. Surely he couldn't mean-

….to commemorate the tenth anniversary of the end of the war, the staff at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry take great pleasure in inviting you to a Reunification Ball…

...as an opportunity to build new bridges and mend those that lie broken...

No. Just no. He couldn't have been serious, could he? How was it any of their responsibility to "build bridges" with them? They had caused the war in the first place, remained so horribly adamant on preserving their precious blood hierarchies. They had betrayed, abused, tortured and murdered so many people, ripped apart so many families-

Her hand is shaking as she tips her glass to her lips.

Perhaps Slughorn still had a soft spot for them, being a member of the same House after all. The man had always been rather eccentric.

...We hope you will join us for this momentous, indeed revolutionary, occasion, for what will no doubt be a critical juncture in the future of all magical peoples...

Yet, she admits as she folds the letter and lays it on the table, a small, very reluctant part of her knows what he means.

After the war, there had been Wizengamot trials lasting months and those who fought with Voldemort were duly punished for their crimes, with many sentenced to life in Azkaban. But there were also a fair few, mainly the young ones, who had gotten off with lighter sentences. After a few years of house arrest, confiscation of wands, prohibition of magic use - all mere slaps on the wrist as far as she is concerned - they were free to go.

Nobody had seen any of them in the intervening years, save for a few sensational Prophet articles claiming some had been overheard planning a revival, or spotted in Muggle neighbourhoods looking suspicious. No one had any real idea where they were or what they were doing with their lives. Once self-proclaimed sovereigns of the wizarding world, now exiled to the margins.

It isn't an unreasonable or unexpected consequence, given their role in starting a devastating war, but she finds that small, reluctant part of herself agreeing with Slughorn. Staying enemies - she finds the word discordant on her tongue, like a bitter Chocolate Frog - is precisely what will impede the wizarding world from re-inventing itself, from applying itself to greater and more useful pursuits than whose blood was superior to whose.

But she'd be damned if she had to take the first step.