So Rowling had no way of knowing the political climate during the 19 Years Later epilogue, but we do now. So consider this: what kind of world does the Golden Trio live in right now?
Their country is in the middle of Brexit talks, with racism and protectionism at their worst and the magic community isn’t far behind.
Young Pure Bloods march the streets with torches and capes, shouting “They will not replace us!” They wear Deatheater masks and temporary tattoos (oh it’s not the real thing, they’ll wash it off and be back at the office on Monday).
In the news, the authorities call for a cease of violence and ask people not to fight the young pure bloods. In the streets, people talk about talking to them calmly to fix things. Ron is livid. “You don’t reason with bloody Deatheaters! You throw curses at them!”
Hermione’s work for equality in the magical world gets harder every day. She starts getting death threats in her mail, many howlers that leave her in tears. She keeps going. When people insist that every werewolf is dangerous to society and they should all be banned from country, she tearfully remembers Lupin giving his life to protect them all, she remembers Dobby with a knife in his heart and Hagrid with his half giant blood and his giant heart. She keeps fighting.
As much as he hates it —and he hates it a lot— Harry becomes a vocal public figure again, constantly condemning blood purists and calling for action against them. His office calls horrified after the first interview, telling him he can’t be calling for violence against this people who are only protesting. “They are Deatheaters and this is how we deal with them,” he snarls back. “Have you forgotten Voldemort?” On the other side of the line, he can feel them flinch.
No one who fought the war has forgotten it, but so many others seem to, it pains Harry. It’s been barely twenty years since he saw children die in the grounds of Hogwarts, killed by grown angry men who believed themselves superior. It’s been barely twenty years since Tom Riddle’s death body laid on the ground and he thought they could finally have peace.
The trio sends their kids on the Hogwarts Express and they can’t help but remember their experiences there in a time much like this. They never thought their own children would have to suffer as they did, they pray they won’t have to.
Harry touches his lighting scar and reminds himself it hasn’t hurt again for years. All is well. A quiet voice inside his head wonders bitterly: “Is it, really?”
heres to the slytherins who can’t bring themselves to kill spiders. who smile at strangers. who compliment that girls dress just to see her smile. who buy random gifts for their friends just because. who are kind and ambitious despite all of the stereotypes pressed onto them.
heres to the gryffindors who scream when they see bugs. who are terrified of the dark. who want nothing more than to just be a background character. who are shy and brave despite all of the stereotypes pressed onto them.
heres to the hufflepuffs who dont have many friends. who have a resting bitch face that scares people. who have social anxiety. who almost never smile. who dont like social events. who are loyal and lonely despite all of the stereotypes pressed onto them.
heres to the ravenclaws who struggle with their grades. who hate reading with a passion. who need a tutor to keep their grades decent. who cant solve any of the riddles. who arent the best in school but still strive to learn.
heres to the hogwarts students who feel like they dont fit into their house.
Molly Weasley watched her third oldest son turning his back to their family but never gave up on him.
Molly Weasley saw her husband at his weakest moment as he laid wounded in St. Mungo’s hospital. She never understood what muggles thought when they started praying to their god(s): But that night as she sat at her husband’s hospital bed she couldn’t help but fold her hands, close her eyes and just hope that there was indeed a greater deity that could bring her husband back to her family.
Molly Weasley put a bandage around her fifth son’s head when he was bleeding onto her sofa, his ear ripped away. She did not let her heart and actions be ruled by panic and fear. She would not risk her son’s life like that.
Molly Weasley saw her son that wasn’t her son dead in Hagrid’s arms and did not show how she broke inside. Instead, she gripped her wand a little tighter, bit her lip a little stronger and started to fight a lot grimmer.
Molly Weasley cried over her fourth son’s cold body, his last laugh still etched into his face. She witnessed her fifth son crumbling right then and there. She saw her family grieving and crying. She went through hell but reminded herself to keep going.
Molly Weasly got up and stared straight into the eyes of Narcissa Malfoy.
Proud woman, blonde hair, pale skin.
Split lips, bloody cloak, sad eyes.
They did not exchange one word.
But one glance was enough.
Narcissa’s eyes darted to Fred, to Harry, then back to Molly. Her lean finger’s tightened indiscernibly around her son’s bony shoulder.
The war had taken enough lifes. Enough children.
And as one mother to another, Molly Weasley nodded back.