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Chapter Text

The Hogwarts Hospital Wing, usually a sanctuary of quiet healing, vibrated with a terrifying, unnatural stillness. On the pristine white bed, Hermione Granger lay utterly motionless, her skin the color of old parchment, lips tinged with blue. The faint luminescence of the ceiling charms reflected starkly in her wide, unseeing eyes. A chilling, sickly green light pulsed around her, barely visible, but deeply felt—a malevolent aura that seemed to draw inwards, stealing the very essence of her vibrant magic.

Madam Pomfrey moved with a desperate urgency, her usually unflappable demeanor shattered. Her hands, typically precise, trembled as she cast frantic diagnostic charms over Hermione. Each spell shimmered, then dissolved, like drops of water on a hot stone. "It’s beyond physical injury," she muttered, her voice raw with a fear Harry and Ron had never heard from her. Harry knelt beside the bed, clutching Hermione's cold hand, his own trembling violently. Ron stood frozen, his face a mask of horrified disbelief, tears tracing clean paths through the grime of battle on his cheeks.

"Her core," Madam Pomfrey gasped, pulling back as the greenish light around Hermione seemed to contract further, "it’s eroding. He didn't just injure her, he struck at the very heart of her magic, unmaking her. She's… she's dissolving." The words hung in the air, a death knell. Hermione’s breaths were now shallow, ragged gasps, each one a struggle, each one a slow, agonizing surrender of her magical being.

"Fix it!" Harry pleaded, his voice a desperate, raw cry. "Please, Madam Pomfrey, you have to fix it!"

The mediwitch wrung her hands, her gaze frantic. "My potions, my spells, they cling to her but cannot take hold. It's like trying to mend a tapestry that’s unraveling thread by thread. Her magical core, her very essence, is bleeding out." She slammed a fist softly on the bedside table, vials rattling precariously. "There's only one thing. An ancient binding. It’s not a cure, mind you, for the curse itself. It doesn't mend what's broken. But it might… it might provide anchors. External magical reservoirs to hold her own magic in place, to keep it from bleeding out entirely."

"Anchors?" Ron repeated, the word sounding foreign and nonsensical in the face of such profound dread.

"Six of them," Madam Pomfrey clarified, her eyes alight with a desperate, almost crazed, flicker of hope. "Six strong, willing magical cores. It’s a ritual lost to time, forbidden for centuries. It will link her, irrevocably, to each of them. Their magic will become a living dam, containing hers, preventing its complete erosion. But understand this," she warned, her voice dropping to a grave whisper, "it will be a constant drain. A connection that, once forged, can never be severed. Her life, her very magical existence, will be tethered to theirs."

Harry’s mind reeled. Six? Who? And quickly? Time was a luxury they didn’t have. "Who, Madam Pomfrey? Who can do this?"

"Those with strong, established connections to her. Those who would willingly give. There is no time to gather all six at once for a single ritual, her magic is draining too fast. They must anchor individually, as they arrive. One after another, until she holds."

Without hesitation, Harry barked orders, his voice finding a surprising strength amidst his terror. "Ron, get Dumbledore! Tell him! He’ll know who to send."

Madam Pomfrey nodded grimly, already rummaging through a locked cabinet, extracting a small, intricately carved wooden casket. Its surface was ancient, worn smooth, and it seemed to pulse with a faint, unseen energy. Inside, nestled on crimson velvet, lay a single, iridescent crystal, unlike any gem or magical artifact they had ever seen. "This will be the conduit," she explained, placing it carefully on Hermione’s chest, where it immediately began to pulse with a faint, irregular beat, mirroring her fading heart.

Moments later, the Hospital Wing doors burst open and Sirius Black strode in, his dark hair flying, his face contorted with a fierce, protective fury. He had apparated directly from the Ministry battle, his presence a dark storm front against the sterile white of the room. He took in Hermione’s ghostly form, the ominous green shimmer, and Madam Pomfrey’s grim face. His eyes, usually alight with a mischievous spark, were now burning with raw pain.

"What do I do?" Sirius demanded, his voice a low growl, already reaching for his wand.

"Place your wand tip to the crystal, Sirius," Madam Pomfrey instructed, her voice urgent. "Focus your magical intent. Let your magic reach for hers. Anchor her."

Sirius didn't hesitate. He knelt, his hand surprisingly gentle as he placed his wand tip against the cool, pulsing crystal on Hermione’s chest. Madam Pomfrey began to chant, her voice low and resonant, speaking in a language so ancient it hummed with forgotten magic. A thread of Sirius’s powerful magic, pure and unyielding, shot from his wand, through the crystal, and into Hermione. He felt a profound tug, a desperate demand from his own core. It was cold, so cold, where Hermione’s magic should be vibrant, a gaping maw that threatened to swallow his own. With a fierce mental roar of denial, he poured his magic into the void, a living dam, holding back the deluge. The crystal flared once, radiating a deep, resonant black, then dimmed slightly. The greenish shimmer around Hermione flickered, momentarily receding, but did not vanish entirely.

"One," Madam Pomfrey whispered, exhaling slowly. "Not enough. We need more."

It was only minutes later when Remus Lupin arrived, led in by a frantic Dumbledore. Remus's face was pale, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, but the sight of Hermione galvanized him. Dumbledore gave a curt, grave nod to Madam Pomfrey.

"Remus, quickly!" Madam Pomfrey urged. "Hermione is fading."

Remus didn't need further explanation. He understood the urgency, the grim weight of the task. He moved to the other side of the bed, placing his wand tip firmly against the crystal. As Madam Pomfrey resumed her low, ancient chant, Remus felt his own magic, controlled and steady despite his inner turmoil, reach out. He felt the cold, eroding edge of Hermione's magic, and then the nascent, fierce shield Sirius had already erected. He poured his own magic into the connection, a warm, protective flood joining Sirius's staunch defense. The crystal pulsed, radiating a steady, comforting grey, and when it dimmed, the greenish shimmer around Hermione lessened further, becoming fainter, less aggressive.

"Two," Madam Pomfrey murmured, her shoulders slumping slightly with a flicker of hope. "But still, she drains."

The next to burst in, surprisingly subdued, were Fred and George Weasley. They had been in Diagon Alley, celebrating a successful invention, when Ron’s frantic Patronus had found them. Their faces, usually alight with mischief, were etched with a profound, terrifying seriousness.

"Is she…?" Fred started, his voice unusually quiet.

"Fading," Madam Pomfrey interrupted, her gaze sharp. "Place your wands, both of you. You must bind with her."

Without a word, the twins moved, their synchronicity chilling in its gravity. One on each side of the bed, they pressed their wand tips to the crystal. As Madam Pomfrey’s chant rose once more, a unique dual-strand of magic, vibrant and fiercely loyal, flowed from them. They felt the cold demand, the fragile, flickering warmth of Hermione’s core, and the anchors already in place. Their combined magic surged, not just supporting, but subtly reinforcing, strengthening the existing bonds with a powerful, almost playful, resilience. The crystal flared with a mischievous, bright orange and red, then settled, its dull surface now containing faint, interwoven lines. The greenish shimmer was almost gone, a faint wisp around Hermione.

"Four," Madam Pomfrey breathed, a tear escaping her eye. "The erosion is almost halted. But she is still brittle."

Charlie Weasley arrived next, smelling of dragon hide and travel. He had taken the fastest Portkey Dumbledore could arrange from Romania. His usually cheerful face was grim, his eyes scanning Hermione with professional urgency. He listened to Madam Pomfrey’s clipped explanation, his jaw set.

"Right then," he said, pulling out his well-worn wand. He reached for the crystal. As he made contact, a raw, elemental surge of magic, accustomed to wrestling beasts larger than himself, flowed from him. He felt the vastness of the magical drain, but also the formidable strength of the anchors already holding. He poured his power into the connection, a steady, unwavering flow that fortified the delicate barrier. The crystal pulsed with a strong, earthy brown, then dimmed, radiating a quiet, stubborn strength. The last vestiges of the green shimmer vanished, leaving only a faint, golden glow emanating from the now-invisible bonds.

"Five," Madam Pomfrey whispered, placing a hand over her heart, a wave of profound relief washing over her. "She holds. Her magic is stable. But she needs one more."

Finally, Bill Weasley appeared, looking weary but resolute. He had Flooed directly from Gringotts, alerted by an urgent message from Dumbledore. His scars seemed to deepen with concern as he took in the scene. He knew the stakes.

"Poppy," he said, his voice calm, even as his eyes conveyed fierce determination.

"Bill, the last," Madam Pomfrey urged, pointing to the crystal. "Seal the binding."

Bill nodded. He placed his wand tip to the crystal. As Madam Pomfrey’s final, powerful chant resonated through the wing, Bill’s magic, ancient and wise, flowed forth. He felt the complex weave of connections, the vulnerability of Hermione’s raw core, and the combined strength of his family and friends supporting her. He poured his magic into the tapestry of their bonds, weaving a final, intricate knot, strengthening the entire structure. The crystal pulsed with a deep, ancient gold, then faded, becoming utterly dull, its magic now dispersed into the powerful, unseen network.

Madam Pomfrey sagged, utterly exhausted, but a profound triumph radiated from her. "It is done," she whispered, her voice hoarse with relief. "The erosion… it is stopped. She is stabilized."

Hermione lay still, her breathing now shallow but steady, a faint, almost imperceptible rise and fall of her chest. The color had not returned to her face, and she still looked terribly fragile, but the terrifying sense of her magic unraveling had ceased. Yet, there was something new in the air, a subtle hum, a deep, resonant connection that now bound her irrevocably to the six wizards who had, by individual acts of desperation, and an unspoken, profound love, become her living anchors. Their ordeal was far from over. The curse remained, a dark stain within her, and the true nature of this ancient, forbidden binding was a mystery even to Madam Pomfrey. But for now, Hermione Granger, against all odds, was holding on. And she wasn't holding on alone.

Chapter Text

A profound silence descended upon the Hospital Wing, thick and oppressive, heavier than any magical ward. The frantic energy of the binding ritual had dissipated, leaving behind only the rhythmic, shallow breathing of Hermione Granger and the weary, stunned gazes of her six anchors. The iridescent crystal on her chest lay dull and opaque, its vibrant magic now diffused and woven into an invisible tapestry of life-sustaining bonds. It looked like an ordinary, uninteresting stone now, a stark contrast to the brilliant conduit it had been only moments before.

Madam Pomfrey, having expended every ounce of her magical and emotional strength, slumped into a nearby chair, her usually rigid posture melting into exhaustion. Her face was ashen, and her hands, which had just performed an impossible feat of ancient magic, trembled noticeably as she reached for a restorative potion vial on her bedside table. She uncorked it with a shaky thumb and drank deeply. "She is stable," she finally croaked, her voice hoarse, "for now. The erosion has ceased. The binding… it holds."

The wave of immense relief that washed over Harry and Ron was so potent it felt like a physical blow, leaving them weak-kneed and gasping for breath. Harry sank to the floor beside Hermione’s bed, burying his face in his hands, shuddering with the release of pent-up terror. Ron, leaning against the cold stone wall, simply stared at Hermione, tears still tracking through the grime of battle on his cheeks, a silent, profound gratitude radiating from him.

But for the six wizards who had just given a piece of themselves, the relief was tangled with something far more complex, a strange, unfamiliar sensation that hummed beneath their skin. It was a subtle, constant thrumming at the very edge of their magical perception, a new, almost spiritual awareness of a shared space within their own cores.

Sirius felt it first – a faint, almost imperceptible warmth spreading from his wand arm, where he had touched the crystal, now settling deep in his chest. It wasn't pain, nor was it pleasure, but a pervasive awareness, a soft, constant tug that reminded him of Hermione, like an invisible string tied directly to his own magical core. He glanced at Remus, whose brow was deeply furrowed in concentration, a distant, introspective look in his eyes. Remus met his gaze and gave a slow, deliberate nod, a grim acknowledgement of the shared sensation. For Sirius, it felt like an extension of himself, a new, delicate nerve ending that resonated with Hermione’s fragile magical signature. It was an intrusion, yet utterly welcome, a constant, undeniable reminder of the life they had just saved. His heart, long accustomed to the ache of loss and imprisonment, now carried a new, living burden, strangely comforting.

Remus, ever the more introspective of the two, felt the connection as a gentle, yet insistent pull, like a faint, continuous whisper from deep within his magic. His core, usually a contained well of power, now felt subtly porous, connected. He recognized the signature of Hermione's magic – a brilliant, precise, almost fiercely intelligent hum – but it was muted, weakened, and held in place by their combined force. He closed his eyes briefly, envisioning the intricate web they had woven, a fragile but powerful shield around her essence. He wondered what the long-term implications for them would be, how this constant, subtle drain might affect his own magical reserves, particularly given his lycanthropy.

Fred and George, who rarely showed anything but exuberant chaos, were surprisingly subdued, almost unnervingly so. The playful spark in their eyes was dimmed by a profound, newfound sobriety. They felt a continuous drain, a subtle trickle of their exuberant magic siphoned away, not painful, but noticeable, like a tiny leak in a well. It was strange, alien, yet… anchoring. They felt Hermione, not just as a concept, but as a living, fragile presence within their own magical beings. George absently rubbed his chest, over his heart, feeling the connection, a silent commitment that transcended any joke or prank they had ever conceived. Fred, for once in his life, had no witty retort, his usual quick-fire mind grappling with the enormity of the act, the solemnity of the bond. Their shared core, already accustomed to twin-magic, now encompassed a new, delicate addition.

Charlie, accustomed to the raw power and clear boundaries of dragon magic, found the subtlety of the connection unnerving yet fascinating. He felt Hermione’s core like a faint, distant star within him, fragile yet undeniably there. His robust, elemental magic, usually directed outwards in bursts of fire and control, now had a constant, gentle call on it, not enough to weaken him, but enough to know that a part of him was no longer solely his own. It was a peculiar sensation, like having a constant, soft background hum to his own energetic magical signature. He wondered how this would affect his work with dragons, whether the beasts would sense the new, complex magical signature he now carried.

Bill, ever the most grounded and magically sophisticated of the Weasley brothers, felt it as a deep, resonant hum, a constant undertone to his own powerful magic. It was like a new, deeply embedded root, drawing sustenance, but also providing unwavering support. He could sense the delicate fragility of Hermione's magic, and felt an instinctual urge to protect it, a powerful, paternal sense of responsibility he hadn't known he possessed. His knowledge of ancient curses and counter-charms, usually a purely intellectual pursuit, suddenly felt intimately personal. He ran a hand through his long hair, a frown of deep thought on his scarred face.

Madam Pomfrey, after a long, fortifying draft of her potion, finally looked at them, her gaze sharp despite her exhaustion. "The binding is permanent," she stated, her voice stronger now, though still gravelly. "Your magical cores are now intrinsically linked to hers. Think of yourselves as living phylacteries, holding her magic in place. Her life force, her magical strength, will now draw upon yours, albeit subtly. This is what I meant by a constant drain. It will not incapacitate you, not in the short term, but it is a permanent tether. A mutual dependency has been formed. Her very magical existence will be contingent upon your continued magical stability."

"So… she’ll always need them?" Ron asked, his voice small, pushing himself off the wall.

"In a way, yes," Madam Pomfrey confirmed, a grim line forming on her lips. "Her magic will likely never fully restore itself without this support. The curse damaged her core at a fundamental level, shattering it in a way that conventional healing cannot mend. The binding prevents further collapse, it doesn't reverse the damage done by Dolphin's vile magic." She paused, her eyes sweeping over the six wizards, taking in their expressions of awe and grave understanding. "Furthermore, the curse itself is still within her. Dormant, for now, due to the binding, but not gone. It is a slow poison, held at bay by your collective strength. Her recovery will be long, arduous. We need her to regain her strength, both physical and magical, before we can even begin to think about tackling the curse itself. She needs profound rest, and she needs… quiet, constant strength from you all. Your very presence, the proximity of your magical signatures, will be a comfort to her recovering core."

Just then, the double doors of the Hospital Wing swung open once more, and Albus Dumbledore entered, his long robes sweeping around him, his expression unusually grim. His bright blue eyes, usually twinkling with an inner amusement, were serious, shadowed with concern and a deep, calculating pensiveness. He moved with a swift, almost silent grace that belied his age, his gaze immediately falling upon Hermione’s still form, then upon the exhausted Madam Pomfrey, and finally, settling with an intense scrutiny upon the six weary, magically interconnected wizards.

"Poppy," he said, his voice soft, yet resonating with an undeniable authority that filled the quiet room. "You invoked the Sixfold Anchor. A drastic measure indeed. One not seen in centuries, and for good reason, I might add."

"A necessary one, Albus," Madam Pomfrey retorted, meeting his gaze with unyielding resolve, her own eyes blazing with the conviction of a healer who had fought death and won, at least for the moment. "She was unmaking before my eyes. This was the only way to hold her."

Dumbledore’s eyes lingered on the dull crystal on Hermione’s chest, then shifted to each of the men, one by one. He could clearly feel the new, profound magical resonance in the room, a complex, interwoven melody that had not been there before.

"Indeed. A powerful act of ancient magic. Its implications are… considerable. For all involved." He then looked at Harry and Ron, who had quietly risen and were watching with wide eyes. "You two, go. Fetch food. And perhaps some strong, sugary tea for Madam Pomfrey. She has performed a miracle, and miracles are exhausting work." His tone was a gentle but firm dismissal, a clear signal for them to give the others space for a more private discussion.

As Harry and Ron reluctantly left, their footsteps echoing faintly in the corridor, Dumbledore turned back to the anchors, his expression turning even more serious.

"This binding, as Poppy has explained, is permanent. Your lives are now inextricably entwined with Miss Granger's. Her strength will, in part, be drawn from yours. This is not merely a magical connection; ancient bindings such as this often forge a deeper, empathic link over time. You may find yourselves… more attuned to her, and she to you, in ways you cannot yet fathom. Emotions, even thoughts, may sometimes ripple across these bonds, particularly during moments of stress or strong magical influence." He paused, his gaze thoughtful, a hint of concern in his eyes. "This must remain a profound secret. Such magic, especially one involving multiple cores and so fundamental a change to a person’s being, could cause widespread panic or, worse, attract the wrong kind of attention from those who would seek to exploit or control it. Only those present, and perhaps Severus, if his expertise becomes necessary in understanding the remaining curse, need ever know the full extent of this truth."

As Dumbledore spoke, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through Hermione. Her eyelids fluttered weakly, a soft sigh escaping her lips. The six anchors felt it simultaneously – a ripple through their shared connection, a vague, almost dreamlike sense of returning consciousness from Hermione’s side. It was like a very distant echo of their own thoughts, a brush of a feather against their magical selves, a whisper of life reasserting itself.

Sirius instinctively leaned closer, a spark of fierce hope in his eyes, breaking the solemn silence.

"Hermione?" he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Her eyes remained closed, but her breathing, though still shallow, deepened fractionally, becoming a little more even. The golden glow around her, which had been faint, brightened minutely, pulsating with a soft, steady rhythm, no longer flickering. It was a subtle response, but enough. She wasn't just stable; she was there, truly there, held safe by their combined will and magic, cocooned within the powerful, protective web they had woven.

"She is not out of the woods, not by a long shot," Madam Pomfrey warned, pushing herself up from the chair with a renewed sense of purpose. "But she lives. And she is held. For now, that is all that matters." She moved back to Hermione's side, beginning to administer strengthening potions.

The weight of their commitment settled heavily, yet not unpleasantly, on the six wizards. They had offered their magic, a profound act of selfless sacrifice, and in return, they had gained an enduring, silent connection, a responsibility that transcended any they had known before. The journey to truly understand what this ancient binding meant, for Hermione and for themselves, had only just begun. The unseen threads hummed, a soft, constant song in the heart of the Hospital Wing, a testament to a life saved and fates forever entwined. The very fabric of their magical world, and their personal lives, had been irrevocably altered.

Chapter Text

The decision was made swiftly, a hushed conference between Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey in the corner of the Hospital Wing. Hermione needed more than just conventional healing; she needed absolute secrecy, unwavering magical support, and a place untouched by the Ministry’s prying eyes or Dolohov’s lingering influence. Grimmauld Place, dark and cloaked in its own ancient magic, was the obvious, albeit grim, choice.

Moving Hermione was a delicate operation. Madam Pomfrey insisted on a specialized, magically cushioned stretcher, levitated carefully by Dumbledore, while Sirius, Remus, and Bill walked alongside, their hands hovering protectively. The other anchors – Fred, George, and Charlie – had returned to the Burrow briefly to explain the dire situation to Molly and Arthur, without revealing the full, terrifying truth of the binding. They would return to Grimmauld Place as soon as possible. Harry and Ron, still shaken, remained at Hogwarts, tasked with maintaining a semblance of normalcy and answering any casual inquiries about Hermione’s “concussion and exhaustion” from the battle.

The journey to Grimmauld Place was a blur of contained anxiety. The air, thin with residual apparition magic, made Hermione’s fragile form seem even more vulnerable. As they materialized in the shadowed hall of Number Twelve, the usual chilling gloom of the Black family home felt strangely comforting now, a powerful shield against the outside world. The portraits of Sirius’s ancestors seemed to glare down with their usual disdain, but even their scorn was a welcome barrier.

They carried Hermione to the master bedroom on the second floor, a room Sirius had grudgingly cleared of some of its more offensive ancestral paraphernalia, making it marginally less oppressive. It was still filled with heavy, dark wood furniture and faded tapestries, but the bed had been changed with clean, soft linen. Madam Pomfrey immediately set about casting a myriad of diagnostic and restorative charms around the room, fortifying the wards and ensuring a sterile, healing environment. A gentle, shimmering light now emanated from the bed itself, a soft, warm counterpoint to the room’s inherent darkness.

As Hermione was carefully settled, her delicate frame seeming almost swallowed by the large bed, the anchors who had accompanied her felt a subtle shift in their internal connections. The invisible threads, which had been stretched taut during the transfer, now relaxed, humming with a quieter, more intimate resonance. Proximity seemed to deepen the sensation, making Hermione’s fragile magical signature feel more distinct, closer to their own.

Sirius stayed by her bedside, his hand resting lightly on the blanket near hers. He could feel her, a faint, rhythmic pulse within him, a living counterpoint to his own heartbeat. It was an uncanny sensation, deeply unsettling yet profoundly reassuring. The warmth in his chest intensified slightly, a gentle echo of her presence. He spent hours just watching her, his thoughts a tumultuous mix of fear, protectiveness, and an unfamiliar tenderness.

Remus settled into a worn armchair by the window, watching the silent street, but his attention was wholly focused inward. He felt Hermione’s life force as a quiet, consistent draw on his own magic, like a gentle, steady breath. It was a symbiotic relationship, though one-sided in its current state. He knew he had to conserve his energy, especially with the full moon approaching, but the thought of disconnecting from Hermione, even for a moment, felt impossible. The bond was a new limb, a new sense.

Bill, ever practical, moved through the house, checking the external wards and adding new, complex protections of his own design. Even as he worked, he felt the underlying hum of his connection to Hermione, a constant reminder of the delicate balance within. His own ancient, robust magic now had a permanent, subtle outlet, and he found himself subconsciously adjusting his own magical output, ensuring a steady flow to his new charge. He knew, instinctively, that any significant magical exertion on his part might send a ripple through the bond, potentially disturbing Hermione’s fragile state.

Over the next few days, the rhythms of Grimmauld Place shifted to accommodate Hermione’s recovery. Madam Pomfrey remained, an unyielding sentinel, meticulously administering potions and performing quiet, steady diagnostic spells. Harry and Ron were allowed to visit, their faces pale with worry, their presence a source of comfort to Hermione, even in her semi-conscious state.

Fred and George arrived, their usual boisterousness muted, replaced by a quiet intensity that was almost unsettling. They took shifts, sitting by Hermione’s bed, sometimes in silence, sometimes murmuring gentle, nonsensical words. The twin bond, already a unique magical phenomenon, now had a third, deeply integrated element. They felt Hermione’s fragile core as a continuous, almost tactile presence between them, a delicate, precious entity they instinctively sought to shield with their combined magical energy. The subtle drain on their magic was constant, but strangely, it felt less like a burden and more like a profound responsibility. They found themselves anticipating each other’s unspoken thoughts regarding Hermione, their shared concern amplifying through the new connection.

Charlie, when he could leave the dragon sanctuary, brought a different kind of energy. His presence, grounded and earthy, seemed to soothe the agitated magic of the house. He would sit and simply exist in the room, his hand often resting near Hermione’s. He felt her magic, a faint, consistent draw, and his robust, fiery core instinctively offered its strength. He often found himself unconsciously sending surges of calming magic through the bond, an instinct he hadn't known he possessed.

Hermione herself remained largely unresponsive, drifting in and out of a dream-like state. Yet, there were subtle signs of the binding’s impact. When one of her anchors entered the room, or placed a hand near her, her breathing would momentarily deepen, her eyelids would flutter, and the faint golden glow around her would brighten. She didn’t open her eyes, but a subtle shift in her expression, a barely-there sigh of contentment, indicated some subconscious awareness. The anchors felt these reactions through their bonds – a faint stir of recognition, a momentary sense of peace rippling back to them.

One evening, as Sirius watched over her, he felt a sudden, sharp ache of loneliness, a familiar pang from his years in Azkaban. Almost immediately, a faint, soothing warmth spread through his chest from the bond, a gentle, unspoken comfort that was distinctly not his own. It was soft, empathetic, and seemed to quiet the raw edge of his pain. He looked at Hermione, startled. Could she truly be sending such a subtle response, even in her unconsciousness? The implications were staggering.

Madam Pomfrey, observing the changes, offered a grave warning. "Her magical energy is no longer eroding, but it is critically low. It will be a slow, painstaking process to build it back, even with your support. The curse, though dormant, is a constant pressure. Any sudden shock, any severe emotional distress, or any significant magical drain on any of you, could destabilize the delicate balance we have achieved. Her recovery depends not just on her own will, but on your collective vigilance and strength." She paused, her gaze sweeping over them all. "And remember Dumbledore’s warning: this secret must be kept. The true nature of Hermione's condition, and your role in it, must remain hidden at all costs."

The anchors understood. Their lives were now irrevocably intertwined with Hermione’s, bound by unseen threads of magic and sacrifice. Grimmauld Place, with its ancient secrets and hidden depths, became their sanctuary, a crucible where a new, extraordinary connection was silently forging, far from the world that sought to break them. The long, arduous road to Hermione’s recovery, and to understanding the profound implications of their bond, had truly begun.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The scent of antiseptic herbs and quiet magic lingered in the air, sharper than usual to Remus’s sensitive nose. The Hospital Wing always smelled that way, a blend of starwort, essence of yarrow, dragon’s blood tincture, and the faintest undercurrent of fear. But this time, the fear wasn’t abstract. It was real. Heavy. Personal.

Remus sat beside Hermione’s bed, long fingers steepled in front of his mouth, watching her breathe. Shallow, slow, but steady now. The way her chest rose and fell reminded him of tides, gentle and inevitable, borrowed from the moon.

He could still feel her.

It wasn’t a metaphor. It wasn’t grief or imagination. It was a literal sensation, an undercurrent in his own magic, steady and alive. Her presence. Soft and fragile, like a bird nesting just under his ribcage. Every once in a while, it would flutter, and he would feel it like a second heartbeat.

He had known what the ritual might mean. When Madam Pomfrey had looked them each in the eye and explained what it would cost, an open channel, a shared resonance, a slow unspooling of privacy, Remus hadn’t hesitated. Of course he hadn’t. Hermione was Hermione. Too young, too bright, too full of unspent potential to be allowed to vanish beneath some twisted fragment of Dolohov’s curse. Not while he could still act.

Still, he hadn't understood the weight of it.

Not until the night she'd stirred.

It had been faint, a pulse of fear rippling through his own body that wasn’t his. He’d been reading at the time, some worn book about defensive enchantments, when the feeling had struck. Like a cold wind down his spine, then a fierce, clenching panic that had no root in memory or thought.

His first instinct had been to transform. That part of him, the part the full moon never quite relinquished, had responded immediately, preparing to protect.

But then the panic had broken like a wave, and in its place was something fragile and exhausted.

Hermione.

Now, hours later, she was resting again, not fully asleep but not awake either. She existed in that in-between place, floating on a tide of potions and fatigue. And he was the one watching her. He’d insisted. The twins had needed rest, and Bill had left to deal with Gringotts matters. Sirius had resisted, of course, but Remus had convinced him with a glance. A glance that said, let me be the one. I need this.

He had always been good at waiting. Years of exile had made him patient. But this was different.

She shifted slightly. Her brow furrowed in pain or memory, and Remus felt a faint echo of it in his own magic. A tightness in his chest that wasn’t physical. Instinctively, he leaned forward, murmuring softly.

“You’re safe, Hermione. Just rest.”

The words weren’t for her ears. They were for the bond. For the thread that now wove through his soul like a root seeking warmth.

It was a strange kind of magic. Older than wands and spells. Deeper than blood.

The ritual had been ancient, rooted in old earth, performed beneath the stone vaults of the castle in a hidden chamber long forgotten by most. It had required sacrifice. Not of life, but of sovereignty. He was bound to her now, not in servitude, but in resonance.

And she was bound to all six of them.

Remus closed his eyes. He could feel the others faintly, like stars half-glimpsed through mist. Bill’s magic was distant and steady, a low hum like ancient song. Charlie’s was warm and coiled, dragon-strong and resting for now. Fred and George were quieter than usual, sleeping, probably, but still humming with twin mischief even at rest. Sirius, bright and jagged, his emotions always skimming just beneath the surface, had finally given into sleep a few hours ago. The tension in his bond-thread had never truly vanished.

And then there was Hermione’s.

Soft. Flickering. Recovering.

Remus turned back to his book, though he wasn’t reading. The page was a blur. His eyes kept drifting back to the girl in the bed, the young woman who had once asked him, with solemn honesty, if werewolves dreamed differently than humans.

He hadn’t known what to say then.

He wasn’t sure what to say now.

What did you say to someone whose life you were now, in part, responsible for? Someone whose pain might one day tear through you like claws? Someone who would feel your grief as their own?

He tried to picture it, what it would mean, six wizards bound to one witch, all of them vulnerable through her. What happened if one of them was injured in battle? If Fred was hurt, would she feel it? If Sirius lost control again, would his rage crash through Hermione’s body like a storm?

Could his own monthly transformation bleed into her magic? Could she taste the silver?

Remus sighed, rubbing his face with both hands.

They didn’t know. Madam Pomfrey had theories, but even she admitted this kind of bond was rare. Ancient. Often lost to time. No one could say for sure what the long-term effects would be.

And none of them had asked the hardest question.

What would happen if one of them died?

Would the anchor break cleanly, or would it rupture something deeper? Would it unravel the entire bond, collapsing the web that kept Hermione’s core from falling apart? Remus hated himself for thinking about it, but someone had to.

There had to be limits. Magical bonds always had rules, even when those rules were obscure. Hermione would want to know them. Soon, she would demand answers. And he would need to be the one ready to give them.

He had already begun researching. Quietly. In off hours. Ancient ritual theory, obscure binding magics, magical symbiosis. There were hints in old texts, but no clear case like theirs. What they had done was unprecedented in the modern age.

He wondered if that was why he had felt her fear so strongly earlier. Her magic was already seeking the shape of things to come. She would not stay passive for long. Even now, in her healing, there was a kind of inquiry in her presence. A restlessness that matched her nature.

A small sound made him glance up.

Hermione’s eyes were open again. Not fully focused, but tracking him now.

He gave her a soft smile. “Hello again.”

She blinked slowly. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. Remus reached for the vial of hydrating potion and carefully tipped a few drops into her mouth. She swallowed with effort, her throat working slowly.

“Thank you,” she rasped, barely audible.

Remus nodded. “Anytime.”

She frowned slightly. “You... feel tired,” she murmured, barely more than breath. “Like... sadness.”

He hesitated. Then nodded again, slower this time.

“Yes,” he said. “But not because of you.”

Her brow furrowed. “Because of me too,” she whispered.

Remus smiled sadly. “You’re very clever.”

She didn’t reply. Her eyes drifted shut again, but not before he felt a flicker of something from her, an emotion that wasn’t quite hers or his, but somewhere in between. Concern. Affection. Guilt.

The bond was getting stronger.

Madam Pomfrey had warned them this would happen. Your magic is still raw, she had said. It will seek comfort. Familiarity. You will become that for each other, whether you intend it or not.

Remus leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, letting the hum of her magic settle against his own. The room was quiet. Still.

But he could feel her.

And in that moment, despite the unknowns and the terrible price of the ritual, he made a silent promise. Not a vow of loyalty or protection. Those were already given. No, this was something older.

He would understand her.

Not just shield her or heal her or reassure her, but know her. As she changed, as she struggled with what it meant to be alive like this, he would be there. Steady. Silent, when needed. Present, always.

Because sometimes, that is what anchors do.

They hold.