Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Hallowing 

   "Did you read the newspaper, darling?" Jean asked, her voice low with concern as she stood in the doorway, a folded copy of the Daily Telegraph in hand.

  Henry, hunched over his workbench, adjusted his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. He was meticulously twisting a tiny screw into one of his prized collectible cars, the light catching the silver chassis.

  "No, what of it, dear?" he replied without looking up.

  Jean stepped farther into the room, her tone careful. "I think something from Hermione's world is seeping over."

  At that, Henry paused mid-turn of the screwdriver. He looked up, brow furrowed. "Why do you believe that, Jean?"

  She held out the paper, pointing to a column halfway down the page. "There's been an outbreak. They're calling it a virus, but the way it spreads—it's too fast. Too quiet. A whole cruise line quarantined overnight, and they've got photographs of the dock. Rows of stretchers. People covered in sheets." She hesitated, then added, "But it's not just that."

  Henry set his tools aside, giving her his full attention.

  Jean continued, voice dropping to a whisper as if the walls might listen. "It's the symptoms. They're saying the bodies don't decay properly. That some of the medics swear the dead moved. There's mention of… flickers in their eyes. As if something's still inside. That doesn't sound like any virus I've ever heard of."

  She stepped closer, clutching the newspaper. "And you remember what Hermione told us. About magical creatures that are undead. About the curses that linger. Henry, I think this isn't just some Muggle illness. I think something from her world has crossed into ours."

  Henry sat back in his chair, silent for a long moment. Then: "We'd best write to her."

  Jean sighed, her fingers tightening around the paper. "I'm worried. I haven't spoken to her this week. Have you?"

  Henry shook his head just slightly, his eyes drifting back to the tiny red car before him, though he didn't pick up the tools again. "No. I know she was busy editing some law. Honestly, I didn't ask what it was about this time. She's always involved in something like that—too complex for me to follow."

  "I know. I understand." Jean rubbed her arms, as if trying to warm herself from a chill that had nothing to do with the air. Her voice was softer now, almost fragile. "Maybe we should go visit her instead of writing? I think just seeing her would make me feel better."

  Henry was quiet for a long moment, his eyes tracing the edges of the tiny screwdriver still resting in his palm. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful. "We know our girl. If there was something to worry about… she'd tell us. She swore to us after the Australia incident that she'd never keep anything from us again."

  But Jean didn't answer right away. Instead, her gaze drifted toward the kitchen window, where the trees outside bent under a restless wind.

  The hearth of the Granger Home lit up green, and in stepped Hermione. Her voice shaky as she spoke, "Mum, Dad... I need you to pack."

  She hated this room.

  She had hated it since she was fifteen years old, when she sat frozen beside Harry as the Ministry tried to strip him of his wand. And now, ten years later, that same hatred lived in her like something half-buried but never dead.

  The Council Hall hadn't changed—same cold stone walls, same echo that stretched every breath too far. And now, they were called again.

  "All department heads. Immediate assembly. NOW." The certified black envelope had erupted into flames seconds after she'd opened it—no time to argue, no room for delay.

  Hermione glanced around at the others filing in, most still shrugging on outer robes or clutching half-finished mugs of tea. Familiar mutterings filled the chamber—greetings, jokes, assumptions made in too-loud voices—  

  " What is it this time? " Someone muttered over the rising din.

  " I swear, if we've been summoned for that water break in— "

  But the noise dropped away the moment Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped to the center of the dais, the weight of his presence alone enough to still the room. His expression was drawn. Serious. It wasn't a drill.

  Hermione's chest constricted.

  " Inferi ," Kingsley began, his voice low and even. "Who here is familiar with the word?"

  Nearly every hand rose at once. A hum of voices followed—whispers, half-exchanged memories, the faint rustle of worry just beneath the surface.

  Kingsley let it hang there. He shifted his weight slightly, scanning the room, waiting until complete silence returned before continuing.

  "Myself, Unspeakable Croaker, and his team have been tracking a series of unusual deaths over the past several weeks," Kingsley said.

  "The Auror Department has been working with them quietly to avoid sparking panic."           Hermione's eyes flicked instinctively toward Harry—her best friend, her brother-in-law—who stood a few paces behind Kingsley. His eyes found hers, and in that moment, without a word, she understood. He hadn't told her. And he was sorry.  

  "It has come to our attention," Kingsley continued, voice tight, "that someone—identity still unknown—has interfered with the nature of the Inferi."

  The silence cracked.

"  What do you mean interfered—"

  "What sort of spell could even—"

  Kingsley raised a hand, but his following words cut sharper than any spell.

  "They are no longer puppets. They are the marionettes."

  The hall exploded in sound this time—shouted questions, panicked speculations, disbelief. Chairs scraped. Someone dropped a quill.

  "SILENCE!" Kingsley bellowed, his voice echoing like thunder.

  The chamber stilled, but Hermione's mind did not.

  The shout pulled her somewhere else, back in time, to the echo of Dumbledore's voice calling for calm when the troll had been loosed in the castle. It was the same cadence. The same need to keep people from unraveling.

  Kingsley took a breath, then continued, steadier now: "In the Department of Mysteries, we've constructed a secure laboratory. The Unspeakables have been working around the clock to study the infected and what remains of those who have been taken. We have no cure. No counter-spell. No confirmed method of reversal."

  He looked across the crowd, not with detachment, but with a weary honesty that struck deep. "I want to be transparent with you. I want you to know we are trying. But I cannot promise we'll find the answer in time. Or… at all."

  A hush fell.

  "What we do know, based on what we've recovered, is this: the Inferi are connecting."

  A few gasps. Someone whispered a prayer.

  Hermione's mouth was dry. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. This had to be a fever dream. Something pulled from the pages of a comic book. A hallucination brought on by exhaustion and recycled Ministry air. And yet—She didn't wake up.

  A ripple of unease moved through the chamber like an unseen draft. Kingsley's gaze shifted toward the far left of the dais, where a man in deep grey robes, hood up, face half-shadowed, stepped forward: Unspeakable Croaker.

  Hermione had met him twice. She still wasn't certain either meeting had actually ended.

  Croaker didn't speak right away. He simply raised his wand and flicked it once. A projection shimmered to life above the center of the room: a hovering, slowly rotating image of a corpse. Its limbs jerked in unnatural angles. Its eyes were glassy, but flickering. Occasionally… they blinked.

  Croaker finally spoke, voice low and rasped with age, but eerily clear. "Inferi are animated through a singular magical thread," he began, "typically controlled by the one who cast the spell, like pulling a string through the corpse's spine. It is precise. Obedient. The dead do not move unless told."

  The image flickered again. Now it showed the same body, but veins beneath the skin pulsed with light. Not red. Not blood. Magic. "What we are seeing now," Croaker continued, "is deviation from that law. The dead are no longer following a caster's thread. The thread is… self-replicating. Rewriting itself. It's as if the magic that once controlled the Inferius has remembered how to move, without a hand to guide it."

  Hermione's stomach turned.

  "What we've found," he said, gesturing to the projection, "is a type of magical infection—a mutation in the residue of the original reanimation spell. It spreads by proximity to death. Not blood. Not bite. Death itself. Prolonged exposure to an existing Inferius or a body recently reanimated increases the likelihood of magical contamination."

  Now the image zoomed in on the eyes. There was movement there. Something behind the gaze.

  "Some call it a curse. Others, an evolution. But it behaves more like an echo. A fragment of original consciousness, left behind when the soul departed… and twisted by magic. It latches on. Learns. Grows. And eventually—it commands."

  "They do not feel. They do not bleed. But they remember," Croaker finished. "And that makes them dangerous in a way the Inferi never were." He flicked his wand again. The projection vanished. "We do not know who began the mutation. But it is spreading. Quietly. Effectively. And the Inferi are no longer tools. They are becoming something else."

  Kingsley stepped forward again, face grim. "They are not just wandering corpses anymore. They are hunting. Choosing. Organizing. Magic seems to slide off them, or worse, fuel them. They no longer wait in crypts or swamps. They move in silence. They hunt. And some of them… whisper."

  Hermione could barely breathe.

  Croaker gave a final nod and stepped back into the shadows, his hood swallowing the last sliver of his face.

Chapter Text

The Hallowing

  “Molly, do you need any help with the green beans?” Jean asked gently as she stepped into the kitchen, the warmth of the hearth brushing against her face like an old friend.

  The Burrow—still standing in a far-off field in the middle of nowhere—had become something more than a home. It was a safe place, a haven, a stop for wanderers, survivors, and those chasing hope or simply outrunning death. Once overflowing with laughter and mischief, the old crooked house bore the weight of a world unraveling beyond its boundaries. The wards were strong for now.

  At first, the Weasleys had welcomed everyone freely. Let them stay on the land. Fed them. Sheltered them. But as the numbers grew and the magic began to strain, the wards began to dither—fluttering, flickering at their edges like a dying flame. They had nearly failed altogether the night an Inferius nearly breached the orchard. After that, the rules changed. Visitors now paid their way not with coin, but with magic.

  Near the garden gate stood a narrow stone pillar: bare, except for a faintly glowing rune etched into its surface. Each traveler placed a hand or wand to the stone upon arrival, pulling a sliver of their magic into the wards. It was painless, but it left most tired for a day, especially those who’d already given too much. Children were exempt. Pregnant witches were advised not to cast at all.

  Bill Weasley had designed the system, adapting an ancient Gringotts curse-breaker’s ward into something that lived on rotating anchors. A handful of strong witches and wizards, Hermione among them, took shifts “holding” the core enchantment. It wasn’t sustainable forever, but it kept the protections intact for now.

  Some brought their own means of lodging—pop-up tents charmed to stretch inside. Others took shelter in conjured shacks scattered across the property. A few stayed close to the house, invited inside only when there was room or the weather turned cruel.

  Behind the Burrow, a new structure had been built: A long, covered pavilion with wooden picnic tables and fire pits charmed to resist the wind. It was here they gathered to eat, to talk, to rest when the world felt a little less on fire.

  There were gardens, too—rows of carrots and beans, stalks of corn, wild strawberries tucked beneath leaf-hedges. A few citrus trees had taken root—grown by Hermione herself, nurtured with old spells and whispered pleas.

  It was always a good day when friends or family crossed paths out there…when someone familiar stumbled through the outer perimeter and ran into the arms of someone they’d thought lost. Sometimes they’d leave together. Most stayed only a few nights, their journeys unfinished. But behind it all, the chatter, the firelight, the food—there was a coldness. A bitter edge that no warmth could soften. Because they hadn’t yet dealt with death. But they would. Because death was coming. Always. 

  The Unspeakables issued a directive months ago, which was quietly handed down without embellishment. Across the makeshift compound, it was known as Protocol: Ash Before Moonrise. When someone died, whether by curse, wound, or age, their body had to be destroyed within four hours. If not, it risked reanimation. It risked turning into something that looked like their own loved one… but wasn’t.

  Fire was the only sure method. The cremation pyres sat beyond the warded orchard, quiet and constant. A volunteer crew—Muggle and magical alike—took shifts tending them, often joined by Molly or George to say a few parting words. There were no funerals. No time. If the pyres weren’t immediately available, they turned to Secondary Protocol: Pierce and Burn: a silver spell designed to sever the brain before reanimation could begin. It had to be done quickly. Silently. Mercilessly.

  Hermione had designed the incantation herself. It had taken her three days to stop vomiting afterward.

  There were logs now. Ledgers with names and times of death, piercing, burning. Nothing emotional. Just facts.

  Every loss was a race. Every hesitation costs someone else’s safety.

  Some couldn’t bring themselves to do it. Some had lied. And once, a woman buried her husband in secret, whispering that he deserved peace. He rose two nights later and killed her son before anyone could stop it.

  The Burrow still stood. But the ground beneath it was soaked in more than just rain.

  “Yes, if you don’t mind, dear. I set a basket out by the porch,” Molly said, tossing a tea towel over her shoulder before plunging her hands into the steaming sink. The scent of peeled potatoes and boiling broth filled the air, familiar and heavy.

  Molly and Jean had grown close since the beginning of the Hollowing.

  The day Hermione found out what was happening, really happening, she’d floo’d straight to her parents’ house, still breathless from the Ministry meeting.

  Jean hadn’t hesitated. She looked her husband square in the eye and said, “See? I told you something was coming.” Henry, ever calm, simply nodded and started packing. Hermione shrank down their essentials. Clothes, photo albums, and Henry’s beloved model cars, tucking everything into her beaded bag. “We’re going to the Weasleys,” she told them.

  They didn’t argue.

  When they arrived on the Burrow’s crooked doorstep, Molly and Arthur opened their arms without question. No explanations, no formalities. Just warmth.

  Arthur and Henry became fast friends, nearly inseparable in the shed out back. Most nights ended the same: grimy hands, grease-stained sleeves, and declarations like, “I think we’re onto something that might help.” Their wives always nodded and smiled, even if they didn’t understand a word of it.

  Jean stepped out into the thickening air, glancing at the storm clouds rolling in over the hill. She didn’t fully understand how the wards worked—few did—but she hoped thunder and lightning didn’t weaken them. She spotted the basket Molly had mentioned and carried it toward the bean patch, kneeling at the edge and beginning to gather, letting the repetition calm her thoughts.

  Inside, Hermione descended the staircase, rubbing at her temples as she entered the kitchen. She patted Molly’s shoulder gently, her eyes drifting toward the window. Beyond the glass, two children chased one another through the field, squealing with laughter, oblivious to the world beyond the wards. Further out, a woman knelt in prayer, arms lifted toward the slate-grey sky. Hermione’s eyes scanned the garden and settled on her mother, bent over the beans, silent and steady. A heaviness settled over her. She turned toward the woman she’d come to consider a second mother. “Are you alright today?” she asked.

  Molly sighed and continued peeling potatoes by hand. The Muggle way. Today was her turn to anchor the wards, and the effort was already etched into the lines of her face.

  “Mrs. Weasley?”

  “Hermione, love,” she said with a tired smile. “How many times have I asked you to call me Molly? You’ve been married to my son for how long now? And I’ve known you for even longer.”

  Hermione let out a soft breath of a laugh, but her eyes stayed on the older woman. She could see through the humor. “I know. It’s just… a respect thing. You don’t look like you feel well. Let me make you some tea. You can go sit. I’ll take care of everything here.”

  Molly didn’t answer at first. The clock ticked in the background. Water hissed gently on the stove. Outside, thunder cracked, and the Burrow gave a familiar, tired groan beneath the weight of the wind. Finally, she spoke: “I am tired.” Her voice was low. Barely more than a whisper. “It feels like every time we survive one thing, another rises in its place. We outrun one horror just to be greeted by the next. It’s a cycle, and I wonder if it’ll ever end.”

  Hermione nodded slowly. She didn’t try to contradict her. What would be the point? It was an apocalypse. And they were still in it.

  Some days, she tried to pretend otherwise, to keep her head down, do the work, and live normally where she could. But it was getting harder. Her clearance now only allowed her to visit the Ministry once a week, and even then, she had to undergo a full decontamination protocol before returning home. And that one day always drained her completely—physically, magically, emotionally.

  She’d made herself useful, though. As head of the Ministry’s Emergency Division, she’d worked closely with the Unspeakables, helping decipher field data and coordinate safe zones. She told herself it mattered. That it helped. But the truth was… The Ministry was a mausoleum. A ghost town with cracked walls and echoing footsteps. Sometimes she swore she heard them—people who were no longer there. A laugh from a corridor. A footstep behind her that never materialized.

  There was no normal anymore. Only routine. And even that was fading.

  “What day do you plan on going to the Ministry this week?” Molly asked, gently taking the cup from Hermione’s hands.

  Hermione watched as her mother-in-law inhaled the lavender steam rising from the tea. Little glimmers of calming charm dust spiraled through it, something Hermione had added absentmindedly, more for Molly than herself. Molly’s features softened the moment the scent hit her.

  “Friday. As I always do.” Hermione replied, her voice flat. “I’m hoping something’s changed. Or at least a lead. But if there was…” she shrugged, “I would’ve been notified by now.” There was no point in sugarcoating it. Not anymore. She’d tried in the beginning…for her parents’ sake, for Ron’s, even for Molly’s. But each week, she returned empty-handed, and their hopeful eyes grew heavier. Smiles faded. She decided silence hurt less than false reassurance.

  And the truth was hard.

  Going down into the Ministry, deep into the lower levels, beneath the Department of Mysteries, was like descending into a grave that hadn’t finished swallowing its dead. The containment chambers were brutal.

  Glass walls reinforced with ancient spellwork. The bodies inside: once Inferi, now something worse—floated or hung, twitching against invisible restraints. Twitches that weren’t random. Sometimes they tracked her with their eyes.

  The Unspeakables worked through narrow gloves embedded in the walls, long, jointed, rune-lined devices that allowed them to inject potions, cast silent spells, and conduct examinations. Nothing worked. Nothing ever worked. The Inferi reacted, but they didn’t respond. And each failure cut deeper.

  Whenever she returned home, she peeled off her robes in silence and stood under the shower for too long, the dark bathroom lit only by the moon through the window.  She’d cry. She always cried.

  She’d expected the tears to stop eventually. To go numb. But they never did. Then she’d pull on nightclothes, slide into bed beside Ron, who spent his days still chasing monsters as an Auror, trying to protect what was left. And they’d sleep in silence. No words. No comfort. Just nightmares.

  And in the morning, they’d wake up facing opposite directions. Not touching. Just two people lying beside each other, furious with the grief neither of them could fix.

  “I know, dear,” Molly said quietly. “I see it in your eyes. Twenty came through the wards this week alone. I expect more tomorrow.” Their gazes locked; the silence between them was not uncomfortable, but weighted, as if too many things were being said without needing to be spoken.

  The back door creaked open. “It’s coming down out there, isn’t it?” Jean said it more as a statement than a question. She carried the basket of green beans to the counter, dirt still clinging to the cuffs of her jeans as she wiped her hands down her thighs.

  Hermione watched her mother cross the kitchen, the cuffs of her jeans damp with garden soil, her trainers squeaking faintly against the floor. The sleeves of her jumper were pushed to her elbows, her hair pulled back in a loose, practical twist. It struck Hermione with how ordinary she looked. Like nothing had changed. Like she could’ve just come in from a Saturday market, not from under storm-clouds in a world barely holding together. That sliver of normalcy… her mum in Muggle clothes, doing something as simple as snapping beans, was part of what kept Hermione moving forward.

  Thunder rolled low and steady outside.

  And for a moment, no one spoke. Just the sound of water boiling. Rain tapping the window. And the three of them, three women, stood in a kitchen still pretending the world hadn’t ended.

Chapter Text

The Hallowing

  His wand felt tired. 

  Every muscle in his arm burned as Draco whipped it upward, sending an arc of raw force through the wet, decaying air. The nearest Inferius: a bloated, half-melted corpse with remnants of Ministry robes clinging to its limbs, went flying backward, hitting a crumbling brick wall with a meaty crack. Bones splintered. The thing slumped to the ground in a heap, twitching once before going still.

  He didn’t stop to confirm the kill. They didn’t stay down long enough anymore.

  “ Shit! Malfoy! ” came Theo’s voice from somewhere to the left, panicked and hoarse.

  Draco turned in time to see Blaise stumble, blood pouring over his hand from a wound in his side. A bent metal rod jutted out from behind him. His stomach turned when he realized the Inferi hadn’t struck Blaise directly. One had simply charged, and the force of dodging it had sent Blaise careening into the debris. The rod had pierced straight through his side like a javelin. It wasn’t the first time the ruined skeleton of this city had become just as dangerous as what haunted it.

  Theo reached them a second later, slinging Blaise’s arm over his shoulder. “We have to go! Now! ”

  Draco didn’t argue. He reached out, grasping Theo’s arm as he clutched Blaise’s belt. The three of them vanished in a whirl of displaced air and thick smoke, disapparating out of the ruined street just as more Inferi spilled from the alley behind them. They landed hard, knees buckling, in the center of Ashmere, the magically reinforced camp Draco had helped build just beyond the edge of the Black Forest. It had once been a river town. Now it was a skeleton of salvaged barricades, flickering perimeter charms, and cursed fire pits glowing an unnatural blue.

  A scream rang out in the distance. Someone startled from sleep.

  “ We need help! ” Theo shouted, struggling to keep Blaise upright.

  The camp healer was already running from her tent, bag in hand, rain boots sloshing through thick mud. The cursed fire glowed behind her in its great containment pit: a ring of obsidian rock housing a roaring, eternal flame. Inside it, several bound Inferi twisted and screamed, their bodies writhing in the magical containment field. They were not dead, not exactly—not anymore. They were weapons, should it come to that.

  “What happened?” the healer asked as she dropped to her knees beside Blaise, already examining the wound. “Was he attacked?”

  “No,” Draco said tightly, crouching beside her. “Metal rod. Industrial debris. He was impaled dodging an Inferius.”

  Blaise groaned, barely conscious.

  The healer opened a phial and poured a viscous, smoking substance onto the wound. “This will keep the tissue from corrupting until we can remove the shrapnel. If it pierced anything vital—”

  “ It didn’t, ” Draco cut in. “It didn’t.” But even as he said it, he knew he couldn’t be sure. Not yet.

  Behind them, the cursed fire hissed louder, almost aware of the panic thick in the air.

  Draco wasn’t going to let his best friend die from something stupid like robar. No. If Blaise Zabini was going to go, it would have to be epic. Not killed by a piece of twisted metal like some tragic footnote.

  “We need to get him out of this rain,” the healer said firmly. She glanced between Draco and Theo and immediately recognized what they couldn’t admit: their magic was drained. They weren’t capable of levitating anything, not even themselves. So, without waiting, she took over, her wand steady as she lifted Blaise’s limp body and guided them all toward the medi-tent.

  Draco never bothered learning most people’s names. It wasn’t personal. It was practical. But now, watching this witch work to save Blaise’s life, he felt something stir. A sliver of guilt, or gratitude. Not that he could repay her, anyway. Magical law ensured that no healer could be burdened with a life debt. It was the first rule of their vow—heal without hesitation, for anyone.

  Inside the tent, two nurses were already waiting for them. “Talia, help Mister Malfoy, and—“

  “We don’t need help,” Draco cut in, pointing to Blaise. “Just fix him.

  The two assistants paused, glancing toward the healer. She gave a tight nod, allowing them to proceed.

  Time passed slowly and suffocatingly. At last, Blaise was cleaned, stabilized, and settled on a conjured pillow, his face pale but his breath steady. A cocktail of three potions worked through his system, their faint magical hum barely audible beneath the storm.

  “He’s alright,” the healer said quietly as she Scourgified the mess of blood and whatever else still clung to the floor.

  Draco stood beside her, still watching Blaise with an intensity that bordered on obsession. “Thank you. Er—your name?”    

  “Meredith,” she replied, not looking up. “And you’re welcome. He’ll need rest. But he should be back on his feet in a week.”

  Draco gave a slow nod. “Thank you again, Meredith. I owe you.”

  She straightened, finally meeting his eyes. “I appreciate the sentiment, Mister Malfoy. But this is what I do. I save people. That’s the vow. No thanks necessary… though I’m glad it wasn’t one of those things that got him.” Her voice trembled just enough on “things” to betray her composure.

  Theo stepped over, his usual smirk softening. “We really do appreciate it.”

  “ Well ,” Meredith said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “now that I know he’ll live, do you mind if I look you two over?”

  Draco shrugged.

  Theo grinned like he’d just been invited to a private party. “Be gentle,” he murmured, clearly charmed.

  After his checkup, Draco headed toward the tent’s exit, his right eyebrow lifting as he listened to Theodore rustling up a pillow or two on the cot behind him. Apparently, he needed observation as well. It was hilarious in its own way. Theo was perfectly fine. He just wanted the company of a pretty witch, and now he’d be able to say he stayed faithfully by Blaise’s side until he woke. And really, you couldn’t say the tiny scratch on his arm was nothing, right?

  Draco didn’t bother hiding the tired smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as Theo sighed dramatically and asked for another blanket.

  Outside, the air was cool and damp, the storm having moved on but leaving behind a heavy wetness that clung to everything. Ashmere lay quiet now. Its jagged border of ruined stone and ash-blasted trees was barely visible through the lingering mist. Once briefly illuminated by the alarm, most of the perimeter tents had gone dark again, the restless stirring of sleep returning in slow waves.

  Draco made his rounds like he always did—an old habit from the days right after they’d established the wardlines. He checked the cursed fires, each burning low and steady, flickering blue-orange in iron-wrought containment circles. The fire was born from the same incantation they’d used in the Room of Requirement all those years ago—Fiendfyre, tamed through layered enchantments and runic bonds. A necessary evil, and their most dangerous weapon. Inside each pit, at the edge of the containment barrier, were Inferi—caged by fire but not consumed by it. They groaned and snarled against the warded boundaries, their bodies twisting unnaturally, mouths moving with no sound except the distant crackling of the flame. Draco listened as one let out a deep, rattling growl from behind the wall of flame. It didn’t rattle him anymore. Not like it used to.

  Satisfied that nothing was breaching the line, he moved toward his personal tent. From the outside, it looked like any other—simple canvas, reinforced with wooden pegs and a few weatherproofing charms. Inside, however, it burst open into something more refined. Warm, magically maintained lighting flickered over stacked crates, bookshelves, and the basin of a private wash area. A low-burning hearth simmered in the corner, and two rooms split off from the main space, one for him and Astoria, the other converted into a nursery. He peeled off his outer robes, flinging them across the arm of a chair, and kicked one of his boots under the table with a sharp, graceless motion. The other he barely bothered with.

  Off to the right, his newborn son slept quietly in a floating cradle enchanted to rock gently in response to movement or sound. Draco leaned in, holding his breath as he checked for the rise and fall of the baby’s chest. Still breathing. Still here. He exhaled quietly, brushing two fingers lightly across the edge of the soft grey blanket. Then he moved into the bedroom. Astoria lay beneath the covers, curled on her side, her long hair strewn across both pillows in a careless, familiar sprawl. Nothing looked amiss. But on the bedside table sat an empty phial—its telltale glint and blue residue unmistakable.

  Sleeping draught.

  His jaw tensed.

  She knew he was going to be gone. Possibly all night. Anything could have happened, and she had still taken a potion to sedate herself? What if their son had needed her? What if something in the wards had failed? What if…

  Anger simmered beneath the exhaustion. Not white-hot rage, but that slow-burning frustration that didn’t fade easily. He turned and left the room without touching her. He needed space. Air. Something to keep from waking her and saying something he couldn’t take back. The sitting room was dim, the fire now low in the grate. As he stepped forward, his mother emerged from the shadows of Scorp’s room— surprised at himself that he’d not noticed her before. She wore a soft robe and matching slippers, her hair loosely gathered at the nape of her neck. She didn’t look surprised to see him—only tired, in that quiet, elegant way only Narcissa Malfoy could be.

  “Tough night?” she asked gently. Her voice held that low, even tone that made him feel like a boy again. She crossed the room and pressed a kiss to his cheek, her cool hands coming to rest on his tense shoulders.

  Draco blew a sigh through his nose. “Before I get too angry… did you tell her to take that potion? And are you alright to handle Scorp duty tonight?”

  Narcissa hesitated, not because she didn’t have an answer, but because she had too many. Still, she gave him the one he needed. “Yes, of course, darling. Scorpius had a sour tummy earlier. Astoria was tired. I didn’t mind.”

  He nodded, jaw clenched, and stared toward the fire. The silence between them was comfortable, if weighted. Behind him, Scorpius stirred slightly in his cradle, but didn’t cry.

  “Son, might I ask: do you feel like something is… wrong? Like something more is coming? Or do you think I’m simply overthinking it all?” Narcissa’s voice was soft, but it held weight. She crossed the tent, robes trailing like smoke behind her as she eased onto the small sofa. Her hand patted the cushion beside her, a quiet invitation.

  Draco followed without hesitation, sinking down beside his mother. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I can’t say,” he admitted flatly.“Every day feels the same. We go out, we hunt them, we burn them, but they just keep… coming . It doesn’t matter how many we destroy or trap. There are always more.” His voice wasn’t bitter. Just tired. Frayed. “We are magical beings,” he continued, staring at the wall as if trying to see beyond it. “Thousands of years of knowledge, power in our blood, spells layered with meaning and precision, and none of it’s enough. We can’t stop this. Not here. Not in the Muggle world either.”

  Narcissa’s expression didn’t shift much, but how her hands folded tightly in her lap revealed more than she said. She’d noticed the mention of Muggles, surprised by it, perhaps, but didn’t question it. “You’re right,” she murmured. “Whatever began this… it was vengeance, I think. But so reckless. It’s unraveling everything.” She paused, glancing toward the direction of the sleeping infant. “Why are you so upset with Astoria… for taking a potion to sleep?”

  Draco’s jaw flexed. He bit down on his response, dragging in a breath through his nose. “Because the last time she did,” he said slowly, “she tampered with the perimeter. Didn’t mean to. But she thought she was adjusting the temperature wards and ended up compromising the eastern boundary. We had a breach. No casualties, but it was a close call. But she was… dreaming it. She had no acknowledgment of it happening.” He didn’t mention how he, Theo, and Blaise had covered it up—how they’d repaired the damage before anyone else noticed. He’d convinced himself it had been a one-time lapse. But tonight… Tonight didn’t feel like an accident. Something felt horribly, irreversibly wrong.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Or your father, at the very least? You know we’re behind you, helping you run this camp the best way we can.”

  But that was it, wasn’t it? Running a camp that wasn’t even his. Sure, he helped build it. But it belonged to some name unknown. It was exhausting. Why did it always have to be him? Why couldn’t he ever just be a bystander, someone who watched things happen instead of always being in the thick of it?

  “Because Astoria asked me not to,” he admitted, dragging a hand down his face. “She had been taking it nearly every night. And the last time she did, when the wards failed, wasn’t a coincidence. That was on her, and I covered it up. Theo and Blaise helped me. We kept it quiet. I can only do so much… protecting .”

  Narcissa stilled.

  “So tonight, when I saw the empty phial again…It bothers me that she can be so immature.”

  “She needs to realize she’s the wife of a soldier now,” Narcissa said, her tone tight with restrained emotion. “This isn’t about comfort anymore. It’s survival. I understand where her feelings might feel… overlooked. But every decision counts. We can’t afford missteps. That disappoints me.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” Draco murmured, shoulders slumped. “Maybe it’s the only form of control she has left. Maybe she just wanted to sleep. But you’re not the only one disappointed.”

  “You need sleep, darling.” Narcissa’s voice softened as she leaned forward, giving him a soft hug. She didn’t argue the point further. Instead, she quietly turned and walked toward the nursery, getting into the small cot beside the baby’s crib.

  Draco returned to his room. Astoria was still fast asleep, her body motionless under the covers. He slid in beside her, not touching her, not pulling her close. He lay there, staring at the canvas ceiling of their tent, waiting for sleep to claim him. Out of the corner of his eye, something shimmered. The empty phial on her bedside table caught the dim firelight, but there, near the rim, a single droplet clung stubbornly to the glass. It pulsed faintly, glowing with a soft, iridescent hue—blue, but with an oily sheen that flickered green and violet at its edges. Not the typical pale gold of a standard sleeping draught. Draco blinked. When he looked again, it was gone. Just the bare glass and his own exhaustion. He shut his eyes and told himself it had only been a trick of the light.

  Draco woke to an unfamiliar stillness. The bed beside him was empty, the sheets cold. No sound of shifting blankets, no whisper of breath beside him. He sat up slowly, blinking the sleep from his eyes as early morning light filtered faintly through the seams of the tent walls. A heavy silence wrapped around the space like a second skin. He reached for his slippers, pushing one foot in at a time, and stood with a low groan. The tent’s chill bit at his bare arms. He padded into the sitting area, expecting a flicker of movement. Perhaps his mother tending to Scorpius or Astoria curled on the couch with a book. But the space was still. Hollow. The faint trace of Narcissa’s perfume lingered in the air, lavender and smoke. She’d just gone.

  He moved to Scorpius’s room, only to find it empty. A note lay on the cot: Taken him for the day. Grandpa insisted on a turn. Rest. —Mum.

  He ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair and exhaled through his nose. That explained the quiet, at least. But where was Astoria?

  The camp beyond the tent was just beginning to stir, though most fires remained low and the air still held the bruised hush of predawn. Draco pushed through the tent flap, arms crossed against the bite of morning, stepping out into the dirt path at the camp’s edge. Their tent was set apart from the rest, his choice—shielded by both status and a strong desire for solitude.

  The fog rolled low, weaving between broken stone and twisted metal like ghosts at prayer. Ashmere was still, for once. Silent but for the hiss of fire burning at the perimeter, casting long, flickering shadows down the muddy pathways. A faint smell of breakfast began to linger. The gold-blazed wards shimmered faintly in the distance, a fragile barrier between safety and what clawed at its edges. He rubbed a hand down his face, eyes not yet fully adjusted to the light, when he spotted it: movement, just beyond the containment line. A figure stumbling. Disoriented. Fragile. The fog parted just enough to reveal her.

  Astoria.

  Her thin white nightdress clung to her legs, soaked through from the mist. Her arms hung limp at her sides, fingers curled oddly inward. She was barefoot. One step, another, and another… and yet she didn’t seem to see him at all.

  His blood ran cold.

  He moved quickly, crossing the space between them, the heat of the containment fire licking at his side, the hum of ward-magic prickling against his skin. He reached the threshold at the same moment she collided softly with it. Like a moth hitting glass.

  Her body jerked slightly at the resistance. She didn’t recoil. She didn’t speak.

  She just stood there.

  And then he saw her eyes.

  Blank. Pale. Milky-white.

  His stomach dropped. Something ancient and awful stirred in the pit of his chest. “ Astoria ,” he whispered. Barely a breath, a plea, a denial.

  She didn’t respond.

  A breeze shifted the flames behind him, casting a wash of gold light over her face. It made her look otherworldly. Gone. Draco lifted his hand to the ward, hesitating, then pressed his palm flat against the invisible magic between them.

  She didn’t react.

  Not even a blink.

  Just the slow tilt of her head, as if she’d finally noticed the heat, or the shape of his voice, or something altogether unholy whispering behind him. And then, from the cursed fire behind him, a crackle. A low growl. Something stirred.

  The light snapped.

  Draco’s breath hitched—not from fear.

  Recognition. 

Chapter Text

The Hallowing 

  She was bent forward, a small enchanted lamp casting a golden glow across her desk. One hand scribbled furiously, the other braced against the tabletop to hold her up. Her hair was pinned loosely, held in place by a spare quill, with wisps falling to frame her face. A large mug of tea sat to her left, charmed to refill itself and stay warm.

  “None of it makes sense…” she whispered to herself, frustration curling at the edge of her voice. Her eyes flicked to the log on her right, scrawled in sharp, hurried ink:

Fungal Growth: Present in original stages; receded in all recent samples. Reversal appears to occur once full possession of host is achieved. Cause: unknown.

Hydration/Dehydration: Fluid loss initially severe; later stabilizes. Bodily hydration levels appear to recycle through magical preservation.

Internal Organs: Non-functional but preserved. No regeneration observed; limited restorative magic maintains appearance only.

Blood: Thickening noted within hours post-infection. Coagulation slow and inconsistent; iron levels remain high. Samples resist spoilage.

Tissue Breakdown: Muscle and skin degrade initially, but structural collapse halts. Breakdown suspended entirely within 24–36 hours.

Neural Activity: Nonexistent per standard diagnostic spells. However, reactionary movement and aggression suggest alternate magical stimulus.

Sensory Function: No evidence of sight or hearing in traditional sense, yet infected track movement and respond to sound stimuli. Possible echolocation or magical tethering.

Decay Rate: Initial decomposition slows dramatically within first 72 hours. By day four, visible rot ceases entirely. No standard necrotic markers.

Magical Signature: Faint magical residue remains on each subject. Binding spell suspected. Dark-magic traceable. Origin: unconfirmed.

  “They decay. They rot. They’re puppets of dark magic.” Her voice trembled now. “But these ones don’t rot. They keep moving. They persist. They learn.”

  Her fingers gripped the edge of the desk. “They’ve stopped decaying… haven’t they?”

  She lifted her gaze, staring out into the dim stretch of the Unspeakables’ containment level. Beyond the desk, tall reinforced glass walls shimmered faintly, warded and double-sealed. Behind the glass, the infected floated midair—restrained by invisible runes and magic far older than most dared use. Their bodies twitched with erratic, unnatural motion. Hollow eyes flicked toward nothing. They bared teeth. They mimicked movement. They snapped.

  Just beyond them, cloaked Unspeakables moved with calculated silence—studying readings, adjusting controls, never speaking aloud. Their robes glinted beneath the low amber light. The room felt heavy with observation and dread.

  “I take it you’ve found nothing new,” came a voice behind her, soft, steady, a little tired.

  Hermione stepped closer, arms folded across her chest. Her tone was casual, but her eyes didn’t leave the creatures. This was the new normal now.

  Luna turned at the voice, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Once dreamlike and distant, her expression had dulled into something grounded and hollow.

  “No,” she said simply. Her voice barely filled the space between them. “No.”

  Hermione’s throat tightened. She wanted to reach out—wanted to offer comfort. But Luna had changed. Everyone had. The war had taken their innocence. The apocalypse had devoured what remained.

  “When’s the last time you ate?” Hermione asked, her voice soft but firm.

  Luna slumped into her chair, legs stretched forward, rubbing at her temple. “This morning. I think.”

  Hermione checked her watch. It was seven in the morning. She doubted Luna even knew what day it was anymore. Time warped in the Ministry’s lowest levels. Not by magic, but by pressure and purpose. Down here, hours felt like minutes. Days blurred.

  “Come on,” Hermione said, extending her hand toward her. She deliberately kept her back to the glass, refusing to glance again at the twitching bodies or the shadowed figures of Unspeakables beyond.

  Luna blinked at her, confused.

  “What’s the point, Hermione?” she asked. Her voice cracked, the weight of hopelessness laid bare. She gestured to the room, to the hundreds of notes, phials, and half-solved formulas. “Eating takes effort. And that effort should go here.”

Hermione crouched a bit so they were eye-level. Her voice remained calm. “And if you pass out from exhaustion? Or collapse because you haven’t had water since yesterday? You think that helps us win?” She gave her a moment to let the silence settle. “I’m not saying you need to nap. I’m saying you need ten minutes in the break room. Some food. A moment to be human again. Then we’ll come back. Together.”

  Luna stared at her. She looked like she might cry for a second—but she didn’t. She just nodded once, slowly. Her legs moved stiffly as she rose.

  Hermione gave a small smile, frail, but genuine. And together, they stepped into the shadows of the lower-level corridor. The break room’s glowing door waited just ahead, the only warm light in a place carved out of something colder.

  “When’s the last time you’ve been home?” Hermione asked softly once Luna had sunk into the chair across from her, looking like she hadn’t sat down in days. Hermione poured a can of soup into a conjured bowl and heated it with a flick of her wand, the scent of roasted tomato and herbs filling the break room. “How are the twins? Rolf? Where are you all staying now? I remember last time we spoke, you were still between places.”

  Luna stirred her spoon through the soup but didn’t look up right away. When she finally took a bite, it was like she was forcing herself to swallow; her body rejected the idea of nourishment, even though it needed it. “We’re staying with Bill and Fleur for now,” she said after a moment. “The coast’s been quiet… just a few passerbys, but we’ve helped when possible. It’s peaceful, mostly. But I keep telling Fleur they don’t have the land to garden. There’s no room for proper growth. It doesn’t feel sustainable.”

  Hermione nodded, pushing a small tray of bread toward her. “I wondered about that. Why don’t you all come to the Burrow? There’s more than enough space inside. Molly would love to see the children. Being around her grandbabies makes her feel like things are still… normal. And I know she'd take yours on just as well. My mum and dad are there, too. You'd have a whole village there behind you. Not saying Bill and Fleur are incapable. They should come, too. It kills Molly, being left in the unknown when it comes to her kids.”

  Luna tilted her head as if considering it, but then her expression shifted, “And how are you all doing? With Rose? Harry, and Ginny with Lily? Is it too much? Do you and Ron still…” her voice trailed off before she finished, “…keep your intimacy alive?”

  The question hit like a slap—not cruel, just starkly honest. Hermione’s expression crumpled into something quieter. Her shoulders sank. She didn’t speak right away. “Honestly, Luna… I’ve been so absent,” she said finally. Her voice was low, like it wasn’t meant for anyone but herself. “Rose is crawling now. And I’ve missed most of it.” She looked down, her hands curled around her tea. “I just… I wish I’d been more careful. Babies have no business being born in this world. Not now. It’s unsafe. It’s cruel. And yet… just a glimpse of their smiles makes people believe in something again. It gives them hope.” She looked away, jaw clenched. “And I resent that. Because as much as I want to let go, to just accept this for what it is—the end—I can’t. I split myself between trying to be a mother, a wife, trying to help at the Burrow, and coming back here every week to fix something that might not be fixable.” Her voice broke slightly. She didn’t let herself cry. “I feel stuck. Just… unbearably stuck. It’s the same research. The same questions. The same lack of answers. We don’t even know who patient zero was. We don’t know how this started.”

  She finally looked at her friend, eyes rimmed with fatigue. “It’s been a year. We should have something. Anything.”

  The silence in the room lingered after Hermione’s words. Luna’s spoon clinked softly in her bowl, and for a moment, it felt like the world had paused to let them breathe.

  Then came the yelling: "HELP!"

  Hermione snapped upright. She was already moving when the door slammed open, and Theodore Nott came stumbling through, his face ashen and wand drawn. Behind him, an unfamiliar witch gripped something tightly bound in conjured restraints.

  Not something—someone.

  Astoria Malfoy.

  Her feet dragged against the floor, body thrashing in jerky, unnatural movements. Her eyes were the same milky-white as the ones caged behind the reinforced glass.

  “Bloody hell!” Luna yelped, rising from her chair as a rush of Unspeakables abandoned their stations, surrounding Theo and the restrained figure. Beyond the translucent containment wall behind them, the other infected thrashed and howled in eerie synchrony. Almost as if they knew one of their own had arrived.

  Hermione turned swiftly, intercepting Theo before the Unspeakables could fully take Astoria. “How did you get past the wards?” she asked, breathless.

  “Does it really fucking matter in the grand scheme of things, Granger?” Theo snapped. “She was just turned—doesn’t that help?”

  Luna, now wide awake and fully alert, stepped forward. “Yes. That might help us. What happened? Was she attacked?”

  Theo shook his head grimly and handed Hermione a small phial. “She took her usual sleeping draught last night, but Draco said it looked… off. He noticed something was wrong too late.”

  “Come with me,” Hermione said, already leading Theo to her workbench. The Unspeakables ushered Astoria toward a secondary containment chamber across the room. Glass walls sealed behind them with a resonating hum, and the screaming quieted to a muffled rasp. Luna moved with precision, taking charge of the setup process while muttering spells to increase internal monitoring visibility. They would be watching everything. Heart rate, magical activity, even minute fluctuations in magical resistance.

  Back at the desk, Hermione placed the phial into the ring of enchanted lighting, inspecting it beneath her wand light. “Why do you or Malfoy think the draught had anything to do with it?” she asked.

  Theo rubbed his jaw, exhaling hard. “Astoria had taken a liking to the draught to help her sleep. Normal at first. Then she started having vivid dreams, terrifying ones. Draco thought it was just postpartum stress, everything going on. But a month ago, she had one of those dreams, and she walked straight out of the tent in the middle of the night and dropped the outer wards.”

  Hermione’s eyes widened. “She breached your perimeter?”

  “She didn’t even remember it,” Theo said. “Draco tried Legilimency. He couldn’t break through. Said it was like trying to reach someone sealed behind glass.”

  Hermione flicked her wand over the potion. The light glinted strangely within the liquid. Something shimmered beneath the surface. Her brow creased as she performed a detection charm. A soft gold glow appeared, then quickly curdled into a sickly green, swirling like smoke trapped in oil.

  Theo stiffened. “Well, I'll be the first to say that’s not normal, is it?”

  “No,” Hermione breathed. “This isn’t a standard sleeping draught. It’s been tampered with. Someone added an enchantment. And not a passive one.” She leaned closer, voice low. “This is parasitic. Alchemical in nature. Possibly blood-bound.”

  Theo paled. “You mean someone poisoned her?”

  Hermione shook her head slowly. “No… worse. Someone infiltrated her magic. It appears that this potion was a carrier. Designed to bypass her conscious mind while she slept. Whatever it carried attached to her magic, burrowed into her system. I think it opened a channel. Invited something in.” She moved fast, sliding the phial into a containment ward. “She didn’t just die, Theo. She was hollowed out.”

  Theo was quiet, the tension in his jaw speaking for him.

  “And now,” Hermione added, “we may finally have a chance to study one in real-time. If we can isolate what’s in her bloodstream, we might be able to trace it back. We might be able to reverse whatever this is. I don't want to speak too soon, because whenever we do that, it always screws up the process somewhere, but we may have the answer to the start of a cure.”

  “She’s…” Theo cleared his throat. “She’s part of the science now. Draco knew. That’s why he let us bring her to you.”

  Hermione’s head snapped up. Draco Malfoy. Letting her go. Choosing progress over sentiment. Her eyes flicked briefly toward Astoria’s glass enclosure. Her body was still—too still—but there was something in the eyes. A waiting. “Well,” she said after a long pause. “Then we begin.”

  Behind the glass, Astoria’s hand twitched.

  And somewhere in the shadows of her corrupted magic, something smiled.

  Hermione held the phial between her fingers, the faint shimmer of the unknown additive catching the light. “We’ll get you and Malfoy scheduled clearance to return here,” she said after a beat, her tone clipped but not unkind. “However, it will be restricted. Scheduled visits only.”

  Theo nodded, eyes still darting toward the room where Astoria had been taken.

  “The next task,” Hermione continued, “is for you and Malfoy to find out where this draught originated. Who brewed it? Was it bought from someone outside your camp? Made internally? Black market? That will help us determine whether this was premeditated tampering, or if it was something she only took last night.” She let the weight of her words settle, then added grimly, “Because by the looks of it, Nott—she died in her sleep.”

  Theo's knees felt as though if he moved too fast, would buckle. “You’re saying—”

  “I’m saying your camp is lucky. This could’ve gone wide. If it hasn’t already,” she said, setting the phial down with a careful clink. “Do you know if anyone else may have had access to it?”

  He exhaled through his nose. “Not that I know of. I am not sure where she got it. I'd imagine from the camp's healer..." Theodore internally hoped that Meredith had nothing to do with this. "But I’m sure Draco will put out an action plan.”

  “Good. Definitely check with the healer. I imagine if she's good, she'd not want to accidentally give this out to anyone else.” She pushed the phial closer to him. “Check with Malfoy to be sure. See if Astoria had any of these stashed away. If we can isolate more samples, we can test for consistency and trace the contamination.”

  Theo didn’t move right away. His jaw flexed like he wanted to say something, but instead, he gave her a stiff nod and turned his gaze away from the glowing vial—like it had betrayed them all.

  He hated this.

  The clinical way it all unfolded. The quiet authority in Granger’s voice. The way Luna didn’t flinch when the screaming started from within those glass chambers. The way none of them did. It wasn’t their fault, he knew that. But it still felt cruel. Like the world had hardened without asking if any of them were ready for it.

  Sure, Astoria was annoying. She was dramatic, self-centered, and had a way of making everything about her feelings. But she wasn’t evil. She was tired, scared, and a mother, and she just wanted to sleep. And now she was a research subject.

  He’d never liked magic labs. Never trusted the sterility of it. Too clean. Too cold. Like grief wasn’t allowed in the room. He glanced sideways at Granger, who was already scribbling something in a logbook, her brows furrowed, her shoulders squared. How the hell was she holding all of this together? Astoria was Malfoy’s wife. Theo’s friend, more or less. And now she was Exhibit A in the Ministry’s growing list of victims.

  He swallowed hard.

  You’re not allowed to grieve her, he thought bitterly. You’re here to help solve her.

  His eyes returned to the phial. Just a few drops. That’s all it had taken.

  He shoved his hands in his coat pockets and turned to go—but hesitated. His voice was quieter now, almost uncertain. “Why didn’t the other ones kill her?”

  Hermione paused, her hand stilling on her quill. Luna turned slightly from where she was overseeing Astoria in the new containment space. Hermione’s gaze lifted slowly, steady and haunted. “Perhaps they were building a trust with Astoria… I don’t know. I cannot say for sure.” Her brow furrowed, voice low. “But whoever did this to her, they knew what they were doing. And they took advantage of her vulnerability.”

  Theo felt that sink in somewhere deep. Like multiple stones settling into his stomach.

  He nodded, once, stiffly.

  And then without another word, he turned to follow the witch who had helped him bring Astoria in—feeling more like a pawn than ever.

Chapter Text

The Hallowing 

    A dark wooden chest sat untouched in the corner, the only thing left of her. A.G.

Astoria Greengrass.

  The letters carved into the wood stared back like a cruel reminder that love didn’t leave ghosts behind: It left boxes. 

  She hadn’t left socks at the foot of the bed. No towel on a hook. No scent in the sheets.

  Just silence .  A hollow space where a wife… His wife—used to breathe. 

  Draco had loved her, in his own fractured way. Enough to know that when death came for her, he should’ve fallen apart with it.

  But no tears came. Not one. 

  Outside the thin canvas walls, his son’s soft coos reached him, answered by his mother’s gentle voice. The sound burned through him, cutting deep, twisting.

  Scorpius. His everything, his tether to this damned earth. But even his son hadn’t been born of passion. Not a red, fire-and-blood, passionate love.

  Duty. 

  Survival. 

  And what had any of it been for, if he couldn’t even keep her safe? 

  A low, guttural noise tore from his throat as his fist slammed into the makeshift magical wall. 

  Again. Again . 

  Blood smeared crimson arcs across the surface, his knuckles splitting open with each blow. 

  Maybe pain would strip the guilt away…Maybe it would stop the endless spiral of failure gnawing at his insides. 

  He swung again, but a jeweled hand clamped down hard on his forearm, yanking him back to reality. 

  Lucius stood over him, eyes like a storm ready to break, face cut from splitting cold and war-hardened truths. 

  Blood dripped from Draco’s fist onto the floor, each drop landing in perfect circles. “I’ve failed,” his voice rasped, frayed and barely holding. 

  Lucius leaned in, his words sharp enough to wound: “You don’t get that luxury.” 

  Draco blinked up at him, chest heaving, confusion and rage tangled in his throat. 

  Lucius didn’t waver. “You don’t get to fail, or fall apart, or drown in your own misery. This world doesn’t give a damn about your grief, boy. It’s already fucked seven ways to hell, and every single one of us is waiting for it to swallow us whole. But you ? You don’t stop. Not now. Not ever.” 

  Draco’s breath came fast and shallow, a war between despair and fury thrumming under his skin. 

  “You can’t save them all,” Lucius pressed, his grip tightening like shackles around Draco’s arm.

  “Merlin knows. I tried and failed more times than I care to count. But you fight anyway. You keep bleeding, keep burning, keep moving until there’s nothing left of you but a body holding a wand that never stopped casting. That’s all survival is. That’s all you’ve got left.” 

  Outside, Scorpius laughed again: a fragile sound cutting through the wreckage of everything else. 

  Draco swallowed hard, tasting blood, hatred, grief, the whole explosion of fucked-up reality pressing down on him. 

  Lucius finally released his arm, but the weight of his words stayed, a chain around his ribs. Because grief is a luxury. And luxuries didn’t exist anymore. 

  This wasn’t mourning. This wasn’t life. 

  This was war.

  And he wasn’t dead yet. 

  The weight of his father’s words pressed against him, leaving his chest tight and his lungs raw. 

  Somewhere beyond the walls of the tent, boots approached, slow and deliberate, crunching faintly against the packed earth. Neither man moved to greet. The grief in the room was too heavy to let anyone else in just yet.

Chapter Text

The Hallowing 

  “It’s sad, isn’t it?” Luna’s voice was quiet, almost fragile, as she sat hunched at her desk, eyes fixed on the glass cages where the inferi floated, weightless and writhing in their endless hunger.

  Hermione didn’t look up at first. She had been buried in a massive leather-bound tome she’d pulled from the Unspeakables’ archives.

  The script was old, some of it barely legible, the language archaic. She traced a line of faded ink with her finger, trying to make sense of how ancient wizards had once healed entire plagues with little more than raw magic, while others had twisted similar power into something dark enough to last centuries.

  And now, they were standing at the edge of the world’s collapse, still arguing over what should and shouldn’t be touched. What could possibly be darker than this?

  “Hmm?” she murmured absently, only half-hearing Luna.

   “Malfoy’s wife,” Luna said, nodding toward the furthest glass enclosure. The creature inside, Astoria’s creature now—twisted and clawed at the invisible barrier, shrieking silently in its hollow rage. “She’s in there.”

  Hermione finally lifted her gaze, nostrils flaring as she breathed slowly through her nose. “We don’t get that luxury anymore,” she said flatly. “Sadness. Grief. We don’t get time to fall apart. We just… keep going. Maybe that’s a lesson for Malfoy…that shit happens to everyone.”

  “Hermione!” Luna’s voice cracked like a whip, soft but scolding. Her pale eyes, usually dreamlike and distant, sharpened in quiet reproach.

  “That’s cruel. Yes, terrible things happen to all of us, but you don’t have to throw that in his face.”

  Hermione clenched her jaw. Old habits, old grudges, they clawed up when she least expected them. It wasn’t an excuse, but it was the truth. “You’re right,” she admitted, though the words tasted bitter. “I just… feel relieved, I suppose. That it wasn’t one of…us.”

  Luna tilted her head, expression soft but firm. “What do you mean by that? We’re all one and the same here, Hermione. This isn’t Hogwarts anymore. It could’ve been Ron in that glass. And I don’t think Malfoy would’ve said what you just did.”

  Hermione’s temper flared hot and defensive. “No, he just wouldn’t care, Luna. Malfoy doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

  Luna blinked, truly astonished by the venom in her friend’s tone. “Do you honestly believe that?” she asked quietly, standing now, her voice trembling not with fear but with conviction. “He’s holding down a whole camp of survivors. He’s got an army to lead, a baby to keep alive. That’s not someone who doesn’t care.”

  Hermione froze, blinking at her in surprise, because Luna never defended Draco Malfoy. Luna never defended anyone who didn’t deserve it.

  “He’s not the enemy,” Luna said firmly, reading the thought on her friend’s face before Hermione could speak it aloud. “He’s living this nightmare just as much as we are.”

  “This isn’t the time to cling to schoolyard rivalries. He’s lost his wife, Hermione. You should cut him some slack. And if we’re going to talk about the past, let’s talk about the whole truth. He helped you. He helped Harry. He helped all of us in the end, whether you want to admit it or not.”

  Hermione’s lips parted, but no words came. There were too many conflicting thoughts and memories of Malfoy that didn’t fit neatly into the boxes she’d built for them.

  “Since when do you care so much, Luna?” she finally asked, voice low, defensive. “He held you captive once—”

“He did not,” Luna interrupted sharply, shaking her head, her demeanor hardening like steel. She stood straighter, eyes bright with a rare fire that made Hermione falter.

  “He did not,” Luna repeated, her voice steady now, almost unnervingly calm. “Whatever story you’ve told yourself about that time, it isn’t the truth.”

  Hermione blinked, her brow furrowing. “Luna, he—he was part of them. Part of that house. You were locked in their cellar for months.”

  “Yes,” Luna said, unflinching. “I was. But not because of him. Draco Malfoy didn’t put me there, Hermione. He fed me. He smuggled in blankets when the others forgot we needed warmth. He warned me the night they took you upstairs. Do you remember? He told you not to lie.”

  Hermione froze, her mouth going dry. A buried memory stirred: Malfoy’s pale face, tense and sharp-edged, eyes darting toward the drawing room where Bellatrix waited. “Don’t lie,” he’d whispered. She hadn’t thought about it in years.

  “I didn’t understand it then,” Luna went on, softening just slightly, “but I do now. He was terrified. Of them. Of what they would do to you. And still, he tried to help, even knowing he’d pay for it if they found out.”

  Hermione swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of how tightly she was gripping the edges of her book.

  Luna stepped closer, her voice quiet but unwavering. “You keep telling yourself Malfoy doesn’t care about anyone but himself because it’s easier than admitting the truth. That we’re all just… people, Hermione. Trying to survive. And sometimes, even the people we thought were monsters are the ones holding the door open for us.”

  The words lingered heavy in the air. The inferi screeched against their glass prisons, a reminder of how fragile the line between living and lost really was.

  Hermione glanced toward the enclosure that held Astoria, feeling an unexpected pang of empathy. Not for the woman inside—not exactly. But for the man she’d left behind. Her throat tightened, and the bite in her defenses slipped for the first time since Luna had started speaking. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice almost lost beneath the distant hum of the inferi. “I’m just—I… I’ve gone about it in the wrong tone. I’m scared.”

   Luna’s gaze softened, but her words didn’t waver. “We’re all scared, Hermione. Every day. And we all react differently, but it’s time to set the bitterness aside.” She tilted her head toward the glass cages, where Astoria floated lifelessly among the cursed. “He’s going to be here, possibly when you’re here. If you truly feel your feelings toward him will stay the same, then you’ll need to think twice before coming. We have a job to do.” Her voice cracked, just barely, but she steadied it. “We’re quite literally trying to save the world… and everyone still surviving in it.”

  Hermione swallowed hard, her eyes stinging in a way that had nothing to do with grief for Astoria. Because Luna was right. Their hatred, their past grudges, none of it mattered anymore. Not when every day felt like the world was one breath away from dying. Luna’s words lingered in the air, heavy as the silence between the cages.

  Hermione’s eyes drifted back to the text spread out before her, the cracked leather binding groaning as if it, too, was tired of holding secrets. She wasn’t even reading, not really—not until a phrase snagged on her like barbed wire:

“Maleficium Vivens: a parasitic enchantment that devours its host, reanimating flesh long after life has fled.”

  Her breath caught, the rest of Luna’s words slipping into a muffled blur. The inked letters seemed to writhe on the page, whispering that they knew more than they dared reveal. For the first time in weeks, Hermione felt a flicker of something sharp and cold thread through her fear: Hope. Or horror. She couldn’t tell which yet.

   Luna leaned over Hermione’s shoulder, her breath soft and warm against the chill of the Unspeakables’ chamber. The page seemed almost alive, the ink glistening wetly under the dim torchlight, letters shifting as if trying to escape their own meaning.

   Hermione’s hand trembled as she traced a line beneath the title: Maleficium Vivens. The words swam, blurring at the edges before settling into jagged clarity.

“…a parasitic enchantment that devours its host, reanimating flesh long after life has fled…”

  But below that, the parchment was ruined—blackened, charred as though someone had pressed a flame to it in desperate haste. Only scraps of the following sentence remained, scattered like bones across the page.

…only the original tether… sever… blood-bound… irreversible beyond—”

  Her stomach turned cold. Whoever had handled this before hadn’t just been careless; someone had deliberately tried to destroy it. And yet, there was more. The faintest sliver of writing at the page’s edge, ink bleeding like it was trying to crawl away:

“…beware—the parasite does not die alone.”

  The air shifted, a faint hiss of magic raising the hairs on Hermione’s arms. The book pulsed once under her fingertips, as if a heartbeat lingered in its pages, and a sting shot through her hand. She jerked back, eyes wide.

  “Careful,” Luna whispered, eyes fixed on the page. “Some magic doesn’t like being remembered.”

  Hermione swallowed hard, forcing her voice low. “Luna, this isn’t just necromancy. This… this feels older. Intentional. Almost as if it was made to last.”

  Luna’s eyes darted toward the glass cages, where the Inferi floated and clawed soundlessly against invisible walls. “And to spread,” she murmured.

  Before Hermione could answer, footsteps echoed from down the corridor. She snapped the book shut, sliding it beneath a stack of innocuous tomes just as a robed Unspeakable passed, their eyes sweeping the room.

  Hermione forced her face into a mask of neutrality, her heart hammering. She didn’t know what was worse. That this magic existed… or that someone had tried to erase how to stop it.

Chapter Text

The Hallowing

  Theo had learned grief young…too young. It carved something jagged and ugly into him long before he understood what it really was; Long before he knew it would become a companion he could never shake.

  He could still remember the way his mother tried to pretend she wasn’t dying. She smiled through every cough, tucked blood-stained handkerchiefs deep into the cushions before he could see, as though hiding them would make the truth vanish. But he knew.

  Even as a boy, he could see death moving through her veins like a slow, deliberate curse.
  The glamours fooled everyone else, maybe even his father, when he bothered to look, but Theo saw the dark smudges under her eyes, the way her strength slipped away no matter how many medicinal potions she swallowed daily.

  And yet, she was beautiful. Merlin, she was lovely. She had soft brown hair that smelled of chamomile and a voice that could hush the darkest nightmare. She had bright green eyes that looked at him like he was her whole world, and he clung to that look as everything else withered around them.

  The morning it happened, snow fell outside his window. He remembered that—how the roses in the garden had frosted over, dark red beneath the ice like blood trapped under glass. He found her lying there, so still, so quiet. The kind of still that made his chest burn. He climbed onto the bed beside her, his little hands shaking as he brushed her hair back from her face. It was soft, still warm, and he could pretend she was just sleeping for a moment.

  He begged. Over and over. “Mum, wake up… please… please, I’ll be good, I swear.” His voice cracked, breaking on every plea. He didn’t even know what he was promising, only that it felt like a trade he’d give anything to make. But she didn’t move. Didn’t open those green eyes again.

  At some point, the begging turned to whispering, to tears pressed into her nightdress, to a little boy saying the hardest thing he’d ever said: “It’s okay, Mum. I understand… You can go now. You can feel better.”

  And even now, years later, with blood on his own hands and a world burning around him, Theo swore he’d never hated magic more than he did that night. All the spells in the world, all the brilliance of healers, alchemists, and warlocks…and still, magic couldn’t save her. It had left her small and fragile, taken from him one breath at a time, and there wasn’t a single thing he could do to stop it.

  He remembered shutting his mother’s bedroom door, straightening his wrinkled clothes like it would somehow hold him together, and walking down that long, endless hallway with his eyes fixed on his shoes. When he reached his own room, he didn’t expect anyone to be there.

  But Draco was.

   Draco wrapped his arms around him hard, like he could shield Theo from the world falling apart. He didn’t say a word, didn’t ask what had happened, just held on while Theo buried his face in his friend’s neck and sobbed until his throat burned and his chest ached.

  Draco stayed there, silent and unshaken, until the tears finally ran dry. After that, they went into Theo’s room together and packed a suitcase for an elongated stay at Malfoy Manor, the kind where no one had to ask why.

  Years later, Theo stood outside Draco’s tent, that same grief gnawing inside him. A grief he still felt wasn’t his to show. He pushed the flap open slowly.

  Inside, Narcissa sat in a chair, rocking Scorpius with a soft rhythm that tried to quiet the storm outside. She looked up, met Theo’s eyes, and gave him a slight, solemn nod toward where Draco was waiting.

  Theo stepped through the dimly lit space, catching sight of blood smeared across a nearby wall…Stains that no amount of magic could erase from memory. Lucius brushed past him on his way out, giving Theo a brief pat on the shoulder. A wordless handoff.

  Theo braced himself, straightened his posture, forced his face into something strong, something unbreakable, before he moved closer. He reached out and caught Draco’s arm.

  Draco jerked away sharply, his fist half-raised like a man ready to lash out. Theo stood firm, shoulders squared, unflinching.

  “If you need to,” Theo said quietly, his voice steady despite the tightness in his throat. I’ve got you.”

  And just like that, Draco shattered. His knees hit the floor first, his hands coming up too late to catch himself as everything he’d been holding back tore free.

  Theo went down with him, pulled him into his chest, cupped the back of his head like he had all those years ago, and held on tight while his best friend finally, completely, fell apart.

  They realized time had slipped away. The evening sun had long since vanished, no longer spilling through the greying clouds, and now only the pale wash of a full moon lingered in its wake.

  The fire had burned low, embers crackling softly, and both men sat on the floor, backs slouched against the wall, a half-empty bottle of firewhisky between them. Neither had the strength to break the silence, yet neither wanted to leave it.

  The quiet fractured when Blaise’s deep, roughened voice cut through the heavy air.

  “Room for one more?”

   They both looked up to find him leaning in the doorway, still limping, his face drawn but carrying a flicker of humor that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Without waiting for a reply, he crossed the room and lowered himself beside them with a wince.

  Draco conjured another glass, poured him a drink, and passed it wordlessly. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?” It came out more like a statement than a question.

  Blaise gave a slow shrug, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Figured my best mates needed me more than I needed the three pretty witches fussing over me.”

  Theo huffed a quiet snort. Draco’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, but it faded as quickly as it came.

  The silence settled again, thick and unrelenting, broken only by the occasional clink of glass or pop from the fire. None of them spoke of grief or loss, but it lived in the room with them, breathing just as they did.

  For tonight, that was enough—to simply exist side by side, letting the weight of everything press down without words.

  Outside the wards, the world was still dying, and tomorrow would come with its demands, pain, and next move. But tonight, the three of them stayed on the floor, letting the fire burn low, quietly holding on to the last scraps of something that felt like friendship.

Chapter Text

The Hallowing 

   Normalcy would’ve been better if she were able to apparate onto The Weasley’s property and not be thrown back from the wards.

  Normalcy would’ve been dredging up the walk without feeling the disturbance creeping at her back, without the need to clutch her wand so tightly it left half-moons in her palm. But all of that went away long ago.

  Normalcy was nothing but a myth buried in the ruins of history.

  The gravel crunched beneath her boots as she made the climb toward the Burrow, the long hill stretching like a punishment.

  The clouds were bruised and low, another storm gathering on the horizon. It always stormed these days, as if the sky refused to heal.

  There was no birdsong, no flutter of wings, and no fox darting across the treeline.

   The world had grown too quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed on her ears until she swore she could hear the blood moving in her veins.

   Normalcy would’ve been an owl hooting in the distance, cicadas humming loudly and lazily, frogs bellowing their muddy chorus.

  Where were the cicadas? She hadn’t realized until now how much she missed their endless droning.

  The cold didn’t even feel cold anymore.

  It felt empty. A reminder that this wasn’t really life. Not anymore.

  She looked upward at the creaking old house, swaying, but never falling. Beyond it, the line of tents stretched across the hill, silent, no movement yet. Morning dew clung to the grass, glistening on the curved tops of the tents, while a foggy mist lingered low, coiling around the earth like it didn’t want to let go. The sun was only just breaking over the mountains, its orange and pink hues bleeding weakly through the heavy grey clouds. A low roll of thunder followed, deep enough to rattle the air, a reminder that storms never really left anymore. They always circled back.

  A dim light flickered to life in the topmost window: The Weasleys’ room. Another followed beneath it, Harry and Ginny’s, a glow cutting through the murk of early morning.

  Hermione drew a steady breath and forced one boot before the other. One step closer to home. One step closer to telling them what she’d learned. Something had to come of this. It has to.

  The toe of her boot hit the bottom step just as the front door swung open, spilling warm light onto the porch. Harry stepped out, rubbing a hand across his face before his eyes caught hers.

  “Harry,” Hermione breathed out, a sudden ache rising in her chest. She surged forward, throwing her arms around his neck, clinging to him like the last tether to something that wasn’t crumbling. “Oh, Harry.”

“Mione,” he murmured, hugging her back firmly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head before pulling her away to look at her face. His green eyes searched hers, shadowed with worry. “What is it?”

  “I—” Her throat tightened, words tangling with everything she hadn’t said in days. She swallowed hard, nodding once, desperate to make sense of it all. “I’m just glad to see you. And—I don’t know if it’s anything yet, but I think…” She glanced toward the house, then back to him, voice lowering to a whisper, “I think we might have found something.”

  Harry was just about to ask her what when the door opened again, and her husband stepped out.

  “Hey,” Ron greeted, voice rough with sleep. He looked worn down, the kind of tired that didn’t come from a single sleepless night but weeks of it. Stacked and unrelenting. His hands shoved deep into his pockets, his eyes flicked from Harry to Hermione and back again, like he wasn’t sure if he’d walked into something he shouldn’t have.

   Hermione swallowed hard and crossed the space, kissing his cheek. “How’s Rosie?”

  “Uh—she’s good, yeah,” Ron said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Had a bit of a night, didn’t want to sleep. Mum came and got her, and… I haven’t heard from them since.”

  Hermione bit down on the urge to remind him that Molly already carried the weight of the world on her back without raising their daughter for them, too. Once upon a time, she would’ve said it aloud, even in front of Harry, but now she just pressed her lips together and nodded. The silence said everything Harry needed to know.

  “We’ll talk later,” Harry said quietly, eyes flicking between them before turning to Ron. “Come on, we’ve got to meet Neville. He’s waiting by the wards with a messenger—someone just came in from another camp.”

  Something in Harry’s voice made Hermione pause. Grim, low. She recognized it: the tone he only used when news wasn’t good.

  The wards hummed low as they approached, a faint vibration under Hermione’s skin, warning of the outside world beyond the safety of the Burrow. Mist clung to the long grass, and the sky was still heavy with thunderclouds, the coming storm painting everything in a bruised grey.

  Neville Longbottom stood just beyond the boundary line, crossbow slung over his shoulder, one hand curled loosely around the shaft of a blade strapped to his thigh. He didn’t bother looking up as they approached—not until they were close enough for Hermione to see how his eyes moved, calculating, scanning every shadow like an old predator waiting for teeth in the dark.

  The boy who used to stammer and blush under pressure was long gone. This Neville was built of hard lines and heavier choices.

  The man standing beside him, the messenger—looked worse. Thin, gaunt, a torn cloak hanging off his frame, mud and blood drying in the seams. He shifted nervously, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds like he expected Inferi to come tearing through the mist after him.

  “Took you long enough,” Neville said, not unkindly, but with the clipped tone of someone whose patience had been worn down to the bone. He nodded to Hermione, and for a second, warmth surfaced in his eyes… relief that she was home. Alive. But, it passed quickly. Survival didn’t leave time for softness.

  “What’s going on?” Harry asked, his voice jagged, already bracing for the answer.

  The messenger licked his lips, he spoke roughly and low. “Camp Haversham’s gone. Burned out. We held out as long as we could, but the wards failed. There were too many. They just kept coming, didn’t stop… didn’t stop.” His hands shook, clutching the ragged strap of his satchel like it might anchor him to reality. “There weren’t survivors. Not many, anyway. Maybe a dozen of us escaped.”

  Neville’s jaw tightened, the muscles twitching like he was grinding down his teeth. He spat to the side, not in disgust, but in a quiet, bitter acknowledgment of the truth he’d been expecting. “That’s the fourth camp in two weeks,” he muttered. “And no one’s doing a bloody thing to stop it.”

  Harry’s fists clenched at his sides. Ron glanced at Hermione, eyes widening, the weight of the words settling in like a stone between them.

  They’d heard bad news before, but something in Neville’s expression: the cold, unflinching certainty— made this different.

  Neville finally looked at them all, his eyes dark under the shadow of his hood. “You think we’re safe here? We’re not. It’s only a matter of time before this place burns too.”

  The messenger nodded, voice breaking. “We barely made it here. If you’ve got a plan… if you’ve got anything… we need to start moving before the world finishes eating itself.”

  And in the silence that followed, thunder cracked overhead, rolling long and low, like the earth was warning them they were running out of time.

Chapter Text

The Hallowing

 
  As he drew in a long drag from his home-rolled cigarette, he wondered what it would feel like to sit outside Florean Fortescue’s Ice-Cream Parlour again. Maybe he’d order a butterbeer-flavored cone with caramel drizzle and let it melt sticky down his fingers. In contrast, he watched little ones shriek with laughter, darting between their parents’ legs. Cheeks flushed, smiles too big for their faces, pure joy spilling out of them like magic had never gone wrong.

  A heaviness lodged in his chest as a mother passed nearby, her hand clasped tightly around her toddler’s. The boy whinged, dragging his feet, insisting he wanted to play a little longer. She chuckled tiredly, tugging him along, murmuring something about lunch and naps as they disappeared down the path toward their tent.

  Theo exhaled smoke through his nose, watching the trail vanish into the mist. It burned going down, bitter and not enough. He didn’t notice the faint shadow that drifted beside him until a voice broke the quiet.

  “I hope that when Scorp’s that age,” Lucius Malfoy said, leaning on his cane, gaze fixed on nothing in particular, “all this will be different.”

  Theo tipped his chin up, eyes meeting pale, tired ones. He gave a slow nod, clearing his throat. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice rough.

  The pause stretched long enough to feel uncomfortable before Lucius spoke again. “What do we know? Did they take her in, or did you have to…”

  Theo didn’t need the rest of that sentence to understand. Before he’d gone to the Ministry with Charity Evermore to deliver Astoria, Lucius had pulled him aside and made it clear: if the Unspeakables refused to admit her, Theo was to handle it himself.

  “They took her,” Theo said plainly, his voice flat as ash. “She’s in the chamber now. Another study.”

  Relief flickered over Lucius’s face, gone just as fast, like he was ashamed to feel it. “Did you tell Draco?”

  “Not yet. But…” Theo rubbed his thumb over the cigarette filter. “Clearance could be made for him to go in, if he wants to… be part of it.”

  Lucius’s mouth curled faintly, distaste twisting the lines of his face. “Morbid.”

  Theo gave a humorless laugh, low and cutting. “You’re telling me. It was worse than I imagined in there.”

  “Who took her in? Who did you speak to?”

  Theo hesitated, wondering if saying the names would light a fuse, but lying would only burn him faster. “Luna Lovegood—or Scamander now, I think. And Hermione Granger… well, Weasley—”

  “It’s Granger.”

  Both men turned at the sound of Draco’s voice. He stepped out of the tent, rolling his sleeves to his forearms, freshly changed but looking no less wrecked than yesterday. His eyes were hard, silver, and stormy.

  “She didn’t take the Weasel’s name,” Draco said, his tone dry and edged.

  Lucius and Theo were curious about how or why Draco knew that information, but neither commented.

  “What did you find out while you were there?” Draco asked, ignoring their questioning looks.

  Theo inhaled one last drag of his cigarette, then stamped it out with the toe of his boot. “The sleeping draught— it was tampered with. Granger said whatever was in that phial wasn’t just a medicinal potion. She believes someone laced it on purpose… made Astoria feel good with earlier doses, then slipped in the one that ended it all.”

  Lucius’s gaze sharpened. “And Miss Granger reached this conclusion just by examining the phial?”

  “Yes,” Theo said, glancing at Draco. “So it was smart you sent it with me.”

  Draco’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding.

  “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” Lucius inquired.

  “I thought it was a trick of light,” Draco admitted, voice low. “We’d just gotten back. I was exhausted. But when I saw it again… after… Something told me to send it.”

   Lucius’s expression hardened. “We need to ensure no more phials circulate in camp. Gather everything. From now on, if anyone needs a potion, they see the healer.”

   “You realize that’s half the camp, all hours of the day,” Draco muttered, frustration biting into every word.

  “Half the camp queueing for safe medicine,” Lucius said, “or people dying in their sleep. Which do you prefer?”

  The weight in Draco’s chest built, boiling under his ribs. He wanted to scream, to throw something, to burn the whole bloody world down. Instead, he stared at the ground, fingers flexing uselessly. “I just keep the camp running,” Draco ground out. “I’m not in charge.”

  “They’ve practically placed Ashmere in your hands, son,” Lucius replied coolly. “People look to you. Whether you wanted it or not, you’re leading them. I’ve explained this to you already.”

  Theo lit another cigarette, smoke curling between them. “He’s not wrong, Draco. We’ve got gatherers going out every other day for supplies anyway—we can add potion hunting to their missions. Everything they bring in gets logged, then delivered straight to the healer’s tent. We stop relying on strangers and shady trades.”

  Lucius nodded. “Exactly. Crate up every phial and take it to the Ministry for testing. Anything new goes through a healer before it touches another hand.”

  Draco dragged a palm down his face, exhaling hard. “Fine. We do it. But some people need their potions daily. What do we tell them in the meantime?”

  “We sort the list,” Lucius said firmly. “Find out who needs what. The gatherers get the ingredients, and you—” he met Draco’s glare levelly, “you make it yourself.”

  It was nightfall by the time every last phial was crated and stacked in front of the healer’s tent. Each box bore scrawled labels detailing its contents, waiting to be inventoried later—broken down into lists of ingredients to forage, doses to remake, and formulas to lay the groundwork for an eventual apothecary tent.

  It had been a long day. A long, bitter day filled with frustration, arguments that scraped nerves raw, muttered thanks, and stiff-voiced condolences that no one really knew how to mean anymore.

  “We need to get these to the Ministry as soon as possible,” Lucius said, his voice cutting through the tense silence.

  Only one crate had been filled with sleeping draught, which made the risk all the more unsettling. Nothing could be trusted if even a fraction of it had been tampered with. Lucius wouldn’t gamble the camp’s name—or its survival. Everything would be sent.

  Exhaustion pressed on heavy shoulders when it was all shrunk and sealed into a single charmed satchel.

   “You ready to go?” Theo asked, flicking his cigarette butt aside. “We can send someone else.”

  “No.” Draco’s reply was flat. “If this ends up on the black market and more people die, they’ll come for us. Might as well say we handed out poison ourselves. We take it, no one else.”

  Theo just nodded, the gravity of his friend’s words settling over him like ash.

  Stepping past the boundary of Ashmere’s wards was like crossing into another world. The air shifted: thin, eerie, laden with the scent of damp rot and old earth. The forest beyond creaked under its age, branches groaning in the restless wind.

   Draco caught the glint of eyes in the dark. A centaur emerged first, then another, then a third. Silent sentinels standing watch over what remained of their home.

  “Amazing, huh?” Theo murmured.

  “In what way?” Draco didn’t take his eyes off the figures.

  “This plague. It’s touched everything. Every living thing.”

  “And you find that amazing?” Draco’s voice held an edge of disbelief.

  Theo tilted his head, something unreadable in his expression. “I find it… curious. Like the world’s unraveling thread by thread, and no one knows where it ends.”

  Draco flipped a coin between them, and they vanished the instant it hit the ground and they landed in the ruins of Diagon Alley.

  “Shit,” Draco muttered under his breath. The cobblestones were fractured and uneven. Windows hung jagged and broken. Storefront signs swung on single chains, shrieking softly in the constant wind.

  Theo’s gaze lifted toward Florean Fortescue’s old shop. The overturned tables. The hollow quiet where laughter once lived. His stomach knotted.

  They pushed forward, boots scraping over debris, until the Ministry’s looming structure appeared. Stepping inside was like walking into a mausoleum. The grand fountain stood dry and lifeless. There was no echo of footsteps, no bustling crowd, just a cavernous darkness, cold enough to settle in their bones.

  They reached the lift and stepped inside. The enchanted voice startled them both as it echoed too loudly in the silence: PLEASE CHOOSE YOUR FLOOR.

  Theo jabbed the button marked 9. “Level Nine, Department of Mysteries,” the voice said, quieter now, the lift shuddering to life.

  When the doors opened, they were met with a long corridor of black-tiled walls that swallowed light. Only the pale flicker of blue-white torches lit their path.

  “Medieval,” Theo muttered, attempting humor. It fell flat.

  Draco’s skin prickled with unease. “Where do we go?”

  Theo tilted his chin toward the black door at the end of the hallway. “There.”

  Their footsteps were not alone. Whispers seemed to crawl along the walls, like the building itself was keeping secrets.

  The door opened without a touch, and they stepped inside. The room was split into two. One side looked like an office, dark wood tables littered with parchment, quills suspended mid-air, enchanted lamps casting a faint glow. But the other side was lined with glass chambers.

  Inferi.

   Dozens of them. Standing unnaturally still, faces slack, eyes clouded white. Draco’s stomach turned. His boots carried him closer without conscious thought, a horrified pull dragging him toward the glass.

  They were monsters, yet human once.

  Hopeless.

  Soulless.

  A future he couldn’t stop imagining every time he closed his eyes.

  “Malfoy.”

   Draco spun, heart kicking hard against his ribs. His gaze landed on the man stepping out of the shadows.

  “Potter.”

Chapter Text

The Hallowing

  “I didn’t realize you had clearance here yet,” Harry said, glancing between the two men.

  “We don’t,” Theo replied before Draco could deliver the sharp retort sitting on his tongue. He set the large bag on the table with a solid thud. “We brought gifts.”

  Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What is that?”

  “Granger believes she’s found a lead on Astoria’s death,” Theo said evenly. “Inside that bag is every last phial of medicinal potions from our camp.” He paused, then added, “Speaking of Granger… is she not here?”

  Harry’s brows drew together, his mind flicking briefly to his conversation with Hermione that morning after Neville had left, taking Ron with him. “No, she’s not here. She only comes in once a week now. She’s doing what she can to help our—” he caught himself, “—she’s not here.”

   At the mention of her name again, Draco’s gaze flicked briefly to the far wall, not to hide a reaction, but to keep from showing it. His jaw shifted once before he spoke.

  “Shouldn’t that change?” His voice was low, measured.

  Harry turned back to him. “She was here every day at one point, but she has a baby at home. It’s not up to her to save the world.”

   Theodore and Draco shared the same look: Irritation masked as restraint. “That is quite literally her job title in all of this,” Draco said, the words clipped but steady.

  A sudden screech echoed down the corridor, followed by another, and then another. None of the men startled, but curiosity pricked the air between them.

  If anyone noticed Draco’s eyes lift, just for a heartbeat, toward the shadowed row of glass containment rooms, they didn’t comment. And if he was looking for a face among the captives, he gave no sign.

   But Harry did notice. It didn’t take much to notice anything these days. His nerves were strung tight, his senses tuned to every flicker and shift, always searching for something off, something that might give him a moment’s warning before the next blow landed.

  “Well, since I’m here,” Harry said at last, his tone steady but quieter than before, “I can give you the clearance to come whenever you want or need to. I understand the loss of a loved one… and I do give you my respect and condolences for the loss of your wife.” His gaze dropped to the floor, voice dipping lower still. “I couldn’t imagine losing Gin—”

  “Shut up, Potter.” Draco’s voice cut through the space between them, calm and unflinching. “I don’t need your niceties.” His eyes lowered briefly, not in deference but in dismissal, before he added, “I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t have the time for it. Can you get Granger here?”

  Harry bit back the retort that rose instantly to his tongue, forcing it down and answering evenly, “No. She’s at home resting.”

  “Potter, do you want the fucking world to wait?”

  “Malfoy,” Harry replied, his voice hardening, “with all due respect… the world has already been waiting for over a year.”

  The screech came again. Closer this time. Not just one voice, but many, layered in a jagged chorus that scraped along the walls.

  Harry’s head turned sharply toward the containment wing. “That’s not the usual shift-change noise,” he said, his voice low.

  Draco’s gaze followed the sound, unreadable. Still, his posture shifted; tension coiling through him like he was readying for a fight.

   The whispering along the corridor swelled, as if the walls themselves were murmuring warnings they couldn’t quite understand. Somewhere beyond the glass, a shadow moved, not the slow, unthinking lurch of an Inferius, but something quicker. Purposeful.

  Theo exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around his words. “Tell me that’s not coming from inside the cages.”

  Harry didn’t answer. He was already moving. “If you want to see, follow me. And don’t touch anything.”

  Draco’s gaze flicked, just for a moment, down the opposite hall—the one he knew led to Astoria. Harry’s route took them the other way.

  Theo caught the glance but said nothing, falling into step behind Harry. The corridor narrowed into a row of towering glass panels, each backlit with a sterile blue-white glow that made the creatures inside look even more wrong. Most drifted in slow, awkward loops—shuffling feet, heads lolling, fingers scraping without purpose.

  But one wasn’t moving.

  It stood at the far end, pressed close to the glass. Skin the color of frost-burnt parchment. Eyes milk-clouded and unblinking, fixed on the men as they approached. It didn’t reach, didn’t moan. Just watched.

  As Draco came closer, details emerged through the glare of the light: the fall of long brown hair, tangled but still recognizably human; the frayed edges of clothes it had died in, once fine enough to be chosen for something important. And on its left hand, dull in the cold light, a wedding band clung stubbornly to a thin, stiff finger.

  It wasn’t just a monster. It had been someone’s spouse. Someone’s world.

  Something was deliberate in its stillness, in how its head tilted ever so slightly when Draco stopped a few feet away.

   Theo’s eyes flicked between Draco and the glass, catching the almost imperceptible shift in his friend’s expression—too quick for most to see. He said nothing, but the observation stayed with him.

  Harry noticed too. It wasn’t much—just the faintest pause, the weight in Draco’s stance—but small tells meant something in a place like this. He didn’t call attention to it, though. Not yet.

  “Their eyes don’t usually track,” Harry murmured, more to himself than to them. “Not like that.”

  Theo’s voice was low. “How long’s it been like this?”

  Harry didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the thing in the glass, as if waiting for it to blink, or speak.

  Draco’s jaw tightened. “It’s aware,” he said at last, voice flat.

  The Inferius’s lips twitched, just the barest ghost of a movement, as if shaping something no one could hear, before it turned and melted into the shadows at the back of the cell.

Chapter Text

The Hallowing

  Hermione felt wrung out, as though the last ten hours had drained every last bit of strength.

  It wasn’t just the endless stream of work at the Ministry… Neville’s news still lodged in her chest like a stone. The image of his grim face, the messenger’s grim voice describing the fall of Camp Haversham… it replayed on a loop in her mind. The numbers, the names, the unspoken truth that the Burrow might be next clung to her like damp clothes: heavy and cold.

  She didn’t know how to come home, set everything down, walk through the front door, and pretend she could leave it behind.

  A soft coo carried in from the living room. Then a bubbly giggle.

  Rose. Rosie. 

  The sound went straight to her chest, heavy and aching. She loved that little girl more than anything in the world. Loved her fiercely, but it felt like she was always handing her off to someone else. A grandparent here, a Weasley there. And they always said it the same way: You’re off saving the world, she’ll be fine… she won’t remember any of this when she’s older.

   But Hermione would remember. She would remember missing her daughter’s first crawl. She was bracing herself to miss her first steps. Her first words. Her throat tightened. She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly, forcing the emotion back down. She would not cry. Couldn’t.

  Setting her bag on the floor, she walked toward the living area. Molly and her mother, Jean, sat in matching armchairs, still in their pajamas, steaming cups of tea in hand. The fire cracked in the hearth, throwing a warm greeting across the room. A snapshot of normalcy in a world without none.

  “Good morning, darling,” Jean said brightly, her smile softening when she saw her daughter’s face.

  “Well, hello, dear. Long night?” Molly asked, glancing over her shoulder with a grin that didn’t hide her concern.

  Hermione gave a nod. She didn’t have to answer; the truth was written in the lines under her eyes.

  “Go on, get some rest,” Jean urged, still smiling, though her gaze lingered on her daughter as if trying to measure how close she was to breaking.

  Hermione’s eyes drifted to the play mat where Rose sat, babbling happily to herself. The baby looked up, her two tiny teeth showing in a broad smile, and her blue eyes alighted with delight.

  Hermione sank to her knees and held out her arms. “Come here, my love.”

  Rose let out a high, pleased coo and reached for her, chubby fingers flapping. Hermione scooped her up and pressed kisses to her cheeks, breathing in her hair's warm, faintly sweet scent. She hugged her daughter close, her eyes closing against the wave that rose up and threatened to swallow her whole.

  The giggles came easily from Rose, her little hands tangling in her mother’s hair.

If only…

  The thought was enough to break the dam. The sob that escaped was quiet but sharp, and she felt it tremble through her shoulders.

  Molly and Jean shared a glance but said nothing. They knew better than to press. They simply sat with their tea, letting Hermione have this moment, their expressions a blend of quiet concern and the unspoken understanding of mothers who had been there before.

  Hermione set Rose gently back on the mat. The baby immediately resumed her happy babble, crawling toward a brightly colored toy and gnawing on it with the determination only an infant could muster.

  Hermione’s gaze dropped to her own hands. She had never been one for nail polish, but now her nails were short and uneven, her skin dry and worn. They looked like hands that had worked too hard for too long.

  She drew slow, deliberate breaths, but each exhale shuddered in her chest. Her nose felt raw, her eyes swollen, and there was a deep ache beneath her ribs. She tried to steady herself and find some even footing before speaking.

  “I—” her voice cracked, and she had to start again. “I don’t feel well.” It was all she could manage.

  Jean and Molly exchanged glances before Jean leaned forward slightly, her voice gentle but certain. “Lovey, go take yourself a shower and get some sleep. We’ve got things handled here. You know that.”

  “Yes, but…” Hermione’s eyes darted between them, desperation flickering through. “What about everything else? Everyone else?”

  “We’ve harvested everything for now. I sent Charlie out there first thing this morning. It’s taken care of,” Molly said, her tone steady and resolute. “Home is taken care of. The Burrow is taken care of.”

  It wasn’t unkind, but it carried the weight of tough love, the voice of someone who knew exhaustion when she saw it and refused to let it deplete her further.

  Hermione hesitated, glancing back at Rose, who was now happily smacking her toy against the floor. It was the sound of innocence, of a world far removed from the one she carried on her shoulders.

  “Go,” Jean urged gently.

  And for once, Hermione didn’t argue. She slipped down the hall to her small bedroom, trading her clothes for something soft and pulling the quilt up to her chin. She thought she might cry again, but the moment her head met the pillow, sleep claimed her.

   When Hermione woke again, the bedroom was steeped in a warmth; a glow from the lamp on the nightstand. Faint embers crackled in the hearth downstairs, their sound threading through the old floorboards. The muted clink of teacups and Molly’s steady voice carried with it the comfort of a house still moving. Somewhere in the mix, a kettle whistled briefly before being lifted from the flame.

  The air held the scent of tea leaves and something faintly floral, lingering like a whisper of earlier conversation.

  Rose’s breathing was steady in the crib, that deep, even rhythm of a child untouched by the weight pressing on everyone else.

   Beneath that peace, Hermione could make out the occasional creak of a shifting floorboard and the soft snap of wood as the fire below settled.

  Her body was leaden, her mind fogged from the kind of sleep that drags you under. She stretched her legs until her toes found the cool edge of the sheets, the quilt rustling softly against her skin.

  The guilt hadn’t lifted… it had sunk deeper, crouching in the shadows, waiting for her eyes to open again. She rubbed at the grit of dried tears when a sharp knock split the quiet.

  She stilled.

  The second knock was firmer, rattling faintly in the frame. Then came the muffled voice.

  “Hermione? It’s me.”

  She wiped the dry corners of her mouth, pushing the quilt aside. The floorboards groaned under her as she crossed to the door. When she opened it, Harry stood there, shoulders squared like he was bracing for something. The sconce light haloed him in gold, casting deep shadows over the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. He didn’t smile.

  Her pulse quickened. She felt it radiating through every inch of her body. Bad news.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Malfoy and Nott came by the office tonight,” he remarked,“they brought potions from their camp… said you’d asked for them.”

  “I mean—sort of. Do we need to find a potioneer to take the role? I can look at contacts, but I can’t guarantee—”

  “Mione…” His voice softened, but there was a flicker in his eyes. Hesitation. Like he was stepping carefully. His gaze slid briefly down the hallway before coming back to her. “I think Malfoy might fit that description.”

  She blinked, taken aback, the image of school-day Malfoy flashing through her mind: the precision, the perfect scores, the quiet confidence. She’d heard rumors about him opening an apothecary once. But if that had been true, why hadn’t he been able to help Astoria? Maybe running a camp had taken everything from him. Still, if he took this on, who would lead Ashmere? Not that it was her concern.

  “Did he offer?” she asked.

   “No.” Harry’s jaw shifted slightly, a tell she knew well. “Not at all. But I overheard him and Nott saying they needed to return to their camp so he could start brewing for everyone.”

  “Then he wouldn’t have the time, Harry. We have plenty—”

  “Hermione…” His gaze locked with hers, steady but guarded. “I think he needs to do it.”

  “Why?”

  “It could be healing for him,” he said without hesitation…too quick, too prepared.

  Her brows drew together. “Since when do you care about Malfoy’s need for healing?”

  His lips pressed together, just briefly. “I…have my reasons.”

  She could pry, but she knew that look,  he’d dig in before he’d tell her.

  “Alright,” she said, tucking a curl behind her ear. “I’m assuming you gave him the clearance he needed tonight. Have you spoken to him about this offer yet?”

  “No. I thought… perhaps you could ask him.”

  She huffed a humorless laugh. “No. Absolutely not. You want him, you ask him. Or better yet, let Kingsley know so he can give a direct order.”

  “You’re right,” he said, starting to turn away.

  “Harry—what aren’t you telling me?”

  He paused, but only for a beat. “You’ll need to be in the office more as well. Get some rest. Be there first thing tomorrow morning.”

Chapter Text

The Hallowing

  Hermione hadn’t slept.

  All night, she kept herself moving — the only way to keep the guilt from closing in. She tended Rose with every ounce of devotion she could muster: rocking, changing, humming, bathing, reading until her throat ached. Each time Rose woke fussing, Hermione answered without hesitation, as if sheer attentiveness could balance the scales of her failings elsewhere. No one had seen her since Harry’s quiet visit the night before; she’d folded herself into the nursery and stayed there.

  Now, morning crept in muffled and gray. Voices stirred below— Molly moving about the kitchen, a kettle hissing, the shuffle of boots by the door as more survivors were taken in. The air smelled faintly of smoke, damp wool, and tea. Rose slept again in her crib, small fists curled tight, her chest rising in that steady rhythm Hermione almost envied. She cast a charm across the window, dimming the light. Watching her daughter, she wondered briefly what it would be to sleep with such innocence, to dream untouched by the weight of the world.

  And then the front door opened below. A rush of cold air carried in with it new footsteps, weary voices, and the dull scrape of trunks and satchels being set down. Hermione’s heart squeezed. She knew that rhythm, that heaviness. Ron.

  For the first time all night, she felt something like longing... for his scent, his smile, his presence beside her. But when she pressed her hand to her chest, she found no comfort in the thought. Loving him had begun to feel like another task on an endless list. She quietly cleared her throat, buttoned her blue jeans, and pulled a long-sleeved shirt over her head. A black-and-white plaid went on top, something warm and easy. She laced her shoes with fingers that felt heavier than they should, checked the magicked baby monitor, and finally forced herself down the stairs.

  The kitchen was alive with subdued noise. New faces huddled at the table alongside Neville and Ron, their eyes hollow, movements stiff. The smell of porridge and woodsmoke clung to everything. Arthur Weasley was the first to notice her. His brows rose with concern, but he smiled anyway, holding an arm open. Hermione eased into his chest, and he kissed her temple. “Morning, Mione,” he whispered. The warmth in his embrace was threaded with grief. She managed only a small, thin grin in return before he let her go.

  At the table, conversation ebbed and flowed around her, none of it directed her way. Hermione slipped into the seat beside Ron. She leaned her shoulder gently against his, a quiet gesture of closeness.
“Hey,” she murmured.

  He gave her a tired, tight smile. “Hi.”

  Her eyes flicked to the strangers at the table. “Who are these people?”

  Ron leaned forward, his voice lowered for her alone. “Leaders from Haversham. What’s left of them. Some of their people are out back... tents, makeshift fires. We brought as many as we could.”

  Hermione raised her chin in acknowledgment, her mind already racing through needs and logistics. “We’ll have to get them organized. The gardens can only stretch so far through winter. Magic helps, but there are limits.”

  Ron nodded absently, then frowned. “Wait — are you going somewhere? You usually have all of that handled, you and our mums...”

  Something in her chest twisted, not quite resentment but near enough. “Well… I’ve been asked for.”

  His head tilted. “By whom?”

  “Harry. The Ministry.” She exhaled, already bracing for his reaction. “They say I’m needed… more… now.”

  Ron’s face hardened, his jaw flexing. “That’s bollocks. You had to stop going in, remember? You were running yourself into the ground. Like third year all over again: sparks flying off you if anyone so much as breathed wrong.”

  Hermione’s nostrils flared. The words stung. Not because they weren’t true, but because they came laced with that same old dismissal, that weary judgment she no longer had strength to challenge. She wanted to roll her eyes, wanted to argue. But not here. Not with the weight of refugees and family listening close enough to hear the fracture in their marriage.

  So she swallowed it whole and let the silence settle between them.

  Ron’s hand scrubbed across his face, dragging down the weariness there. He leaned closer, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. “You didn’t see it, Hermione.” His throat bobbed, the words heavy. “Camp Haversham wasn’t just attacked…it was emptied. Half the people we brought here… they don’t have anyone left. Not a cousin, not a neighbor. Just—” He broke off, jaw working, as though the shape of the memory itself threatened to undo him.

  Hermione kept her eyes on him, her spine stiff, but her heart hammered against her ribs.

  “They were already burning bodies when Neville and I got there,” Ron went on, softer now, as though ashamed to say it aloud. “Some didn’t have time to turn before… you know. But others did. It was chaos. Kids screaming, people trying to hex shadows— like they couldn’t tell who was alive anymore.”

  The image struck her like a blow. She pressed her palm flat against the table, grounding herself in the scarred wood.

  Ron shook his head. “We only managed to pull out a few dozen. That’s it. The rest…” He trailed off again, and this time didn’t finish.

  For a long moment, the hum of voices around them filled the space. Survivors at the far end of the table murmured in low, broken cadences. The sound of grief trying not to be heard.

  Hermione’s lips parted, then closed again. She wanted to reach for him, wanted to fold the horror he’d carried back into herself so he wouldn’t have to. But the distance between them felt wider than ever, stretched taut by silence and unspoken things.

  So she simply said, “I’m sorry,” and the words tasted useless on her tongue.

  Ron gave a stiff nod, eyes on his hands. “Yeah. Me too.”

  Hermione reached for the pitcher of juice — regrettably, because the motion drew eyes she hadn’t wanted.

“Oi, you’re Hermione Granger! You know everything about this damned life. What of it? You have any answers yet?”

  The words cracked through the kitchen like a whip. Hermione froze, the handle heavy in her hand. It wasn’t just the man’s voice; it was the silence that followed. She felt the weight of every gaze that turned toward her, the unspoken question written across each face. For a moment, she wasn’t a mother, or a wife, or even a survivor. She was Hermione Granger, the girl with all the answers. She had none.

  Something hot and unsettled rose inside her, but she swallowed it back down. Was that who she was now? Someone who reeled in every protest, every edge of herself, until nothing was left.

  “I— we—” Hermione stammered, caught completely off guard. She was grateful, painfully so, when Harry’s voice cut in, steady and firm.

  “She’s working diligently alongside the Unspeakables, as all of us are who hold those positions. If she had an answer for you, she would have one for all of us.”

  Hermione’s face burned scarlet. Across the table, Ginny’s eyes softened on her husband with open admiration, and the sight made Hermione’s heart lurch. She mouthed a silent "thank you" to Harry, then rose from the table, breakfast forgotten.

  “I am actually late. Um, Ron?”

  Ron sighed, pushing back from his chair. Together they walked out of the dining area, whispers following them— “Why couldn’t she answer on her own?” “What good is she, then?”—each word clinging like burrs to Hermione’s skin. She needn't worry much about it though, as Molly scolded every last one of them.

  “I was up all night with Rosie,” Hermione said once they were alone. Her gaze darted anywhere but his: the hearth, the warped mantle, the cat perched there flicking its tail. “She was up and down constantly. I read in this parenting book… um, I picked it up at—”

  Ron reached for her shoulders. His hands were warm, too heavy, pinning her in place until she met his tired blue eyes.

  “I’ll do better with her,” he said. “I’ve been failing as a dad. And I’m sorry. I’ve just been so tired I’ve lost sight of the good we do have left. I’ve been selfish.”

  Hermione’s breath caught. How many times had she written this very scene in the margins of old journals. Ron saying the right thing at the right time, making it easier for her to let go of the ache. But the words rang shallow now, not because they weren’t true, but because they weren’t enough. Still, she forced a steady tone.

  “She’s in this phase called a ‘leap.’ It won’t be much longer. Maybe a few days, a week at most. She should be back to her normal schedule.”

  Ron nodded, not seeming to notice that she hadn’t accepted his apology at all. His thumbs brushed gently across her arms. “Do you want to take a moment to—”

  “To...” she asked, though her stomach already dropped.

  “Have some… time together?” His meaning was clear in the pause.

  A rush of cold dread crawled through her veins. The idea of closeness... of pretending at love while she was splintering inside made her throat tighten. His touch no longer steadied her. It only made her want to shrink away.

  She didn’t say no. She couldn’t. The word stuck behind her teeth, heavy and final. But in the center of her chest, she felt it all the same. No. Not now. Not like this.

  Hermione didn’t answer Ron. Couldn’t. Instead, she eased his hands from her shoulders, offered a tight smile that wasn’t really a smile, and stepped back. “As I said, I’m already late,” she murmured, grabbing her coat from the peg by the door. Her voice carried no room for argument, though she heard him exhale behind her like a man who wanted to try.

  Outside, the Burrow’s garden was heavy with smoke and frost. Survivors huddled close to makeshift fires, their faces gray with exhaustion, children clinging silently to parents’ legs. Hermione drew her scarf tight and disapparated before the ache in her chest could stop her.

  When she landed in the Ministry atrium, the familiar press of bodies and echo of footsteps closed in around her. She’d only been here days ago, but it felt as though weeks had passed in between. Time at the Burrow stretched differently, blurred by loss, fractured by sleepless nights. She moved with the light current toward the lifts. Harry’s words from two nights ago still circling in her mind: You’re needed more now. Needed. The word hadn’t stopped gnawing at her since he’d said it.

  The descent to the Department of Mysteries rattled her bones as much as her nerves. She braced against the rail, the echo of quiet conversations filling the lift: whispers of Haversham, inferi, families erased in a single night. She forced herself to keep her expression still, to carry herself like someone who belonged here. The doors opened. Cold stone. Endless shadows. Scrolls, charts, half-brewed potions waiting on cluttered desks. Hermione dropped her bag onto a chair and squared her shoulders. 

  The ceiling lights burned with a bluish hue, so bright they made the shadows in the laboratory seem darker, sharper, like a place cut in half between sterile light and crawling black. Desks stood cluttered in the glow: lamps tipped sideways, books splayed open, parchment curling at the edges. Empty ink pots stacked in corners, remnants of someone’s sleepless work. She wondered if Luna was here. 

  Hermione had been home less than forty-eight hours. She hadn’t even had the chance to properly sit with the tome she’d smuggled. The leather cover still heavy in her bag. No one was here to stop her now. She slipped it onto the desk in the far corner, fingertips brushing the spine as though it might whisper its secrets if she touched it long enough.

  BOOM.

  BOOM. BOOM.

  Hermione jolted, heart leaping. The sound came from across the room, from the glass enclosures. One figure stood pressed close, watching her. Her hand flew to her chest, breath ragged. She braced herself against the desk, fingers digging into the grain, grounding, steadying—but her feet betrayed her, carrying her toward the containment walls. Face to face, only glass between them, she stared into the cold, clouded eyes fixed unerringly on hers. She hadn’t meant to lift her hand, but she did, pressing her palm lightly against the barrier. The creature tilted its head, milky eyes tracking the movement, aligning its hand with hers on the other side. Hermione’s breath stuttered. She dropped her hand, fear prickling her skin cold.

  And then—

  A scream.

  The inferius threw its head back, unleashing a guttural shriek that splintered the silence. Cracks spidered across the surface of the glass, radiating outward like veins. Hermione stumbled backward, legs giving out beneath her. She hit the floor hard, hands clamping over her ears as the shriek reverberated inside her skull. Her knees curled tight to her chest, waiting for the inevitable shatter, for the rush of death to meet her head-on. But it didn’t come. instead, arms hooked under her and pulled her back—fast, urgent, away from the cages and into the deep shadows at the far end of the laboratory. Her body trembled uncontrollably, but she clung to the strength that held her, anchoring herself in the dark. Whoever it was said nothing. No words, no reassurance, only the surety of motion and the press of safety around her as the creature’s screams faded into echoes and the glass, somehow, held.

Chapter Text

The Hallowing

  Harry Potter and Kingsley Shacklebolt stood outside the wards of Camp Ashmere, the faint shimmer of its protections bending the air before them. The camp wasn’t loud, not the way the Burrow’s temporary settlement was. Here: silence carried like discipline. Watchful silence.

  Harry pressed his palm lightly against the invisible barrier. The wards rippled in response, white and blue currents flaring outward like veins of lightning across glass.

  From a nearby tent, a man emerged, wand already in hand. Another followed swiftly after, their eyes sharp and movements purposeful. They didn’t lower their wands until they were within speaking distance, suspicion etched into every line of their faces. “What can we do for you, sir?” the first asked, his words directed at the Minister, not Harry. His tone wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t welcoming either.

  Kingsley’s voice carried the weight of command, low and steady. “I am here to speak with Mr. Draco Malfoy. Is he available?”

  The two men exchanged a glance— One of those quick, silent conversations trained soldiers had perfected— then gave matching nods. “Of course, Minister. This way.”

  Each touched their wand to the wards, carving a brief opening of pale light that shimmered like water before it sealed itself again behind the visitors. One man led them deeper into camp while the other shadowed at their backs, watchful.

  Harry’s eyes flicked around as they walked. Ashmere wasn’t like the Burrow’s ragged sprawl. It was ordered, controlled. Tents were aligned in neat rows, fires banked low, supplies stacked methodically. A soldier’s camp, not a refuge. He felt Kingsley’s faint glance at him, a reminder to keep his thoughts behind his teeth.

  They stopped outside the largest tent— the healer’s quarters, judging by the sharp smell of herbs and the faint clatter of glass within. The man holding point slipped inside.

  A moment later, the flap parted, and Theodore Nott stepped out. “Gentlemen,” Theo greeted, a tired smile flickering across his face. “What can Camp Ashmere do for you?”

  “Do families live here?” Kingsley asked evenly. His expression gave nothing away.

  Theo leaned back on his heels, arms folding across his chest. “Yes, sir. Families do reside here. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve been to many camps,” Kingsley said. “None as uniformed as this one. I suppose it keeps the inferius away.”

   Theo gave a curt nod. “I’d like to think so. Most of us grew up together, have ties in some way or another… not always the closest, but it’s how we are. Uniformed.”

   Kingsley’s eyes stayed on him, calculating. “I understand. We are here to see Mr. Malfoy.”

  Theo nodded. “He’ll be out momentarily. He’s finishing up a potion. We’ve been at it all night. Ever since we turned everything into the Ministry, we’ve had to make do with what ingredients we have and sent out foragers for more.”

  “Yes, explain this to me…” Kingsley said, not unkindly.

   “Well, sir, as you may know, we lost Astoria Malfoy— likely to a damaged potion. We’re no longer taking outside supplies. We’d rather brew in-house. That way, if anything goes wrong, we can trace it back to someone within these wards.”

  “That is smart,” Kingsley said with a faint nod. “Brilliant. I hadn’t realized you or Mr. Malfoy were potioneers.”

   Harry spoke up before Theo could. “Both Nott and Malfoy were top of our class in Potions, Minister. Malfoy was about to open an apothecary before all this, right?”

  Theo blinked, surprised Harry knew that—surprised he’d acknowledge it at all. “That is correct, Potter.”

   The tent flap rustled again. Draco stepped out, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, skin faintly sheened with steam. Behind him, the low hiss of bubbling cauldrons and the soft clink of glass vials carried into the cold air. A faint curl of smoke drifted out before the flap fell shut, leaving only the tang of herbs and metallic potion fumes clinging to his clothes. He looked exhausted, grey eyes shadowed, but his voice was steady when it cut through the quiet. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Potter.” His gaze shifted to Kingsley, level and unreadable. “What can I do for you?”

  Kingsley didn’t hesitate. “We would like to formally invite you into service at the Ministry. To work alongside the witches and wizards devoting themselves to finding a cure for what’s overtaken our world. You’re one of the few left who has the skill we need.”

   “I have a camp to run. People to take care of,” Draco stated without missing a beat.

  “Yes,” Kingsley countered, his voice measured, calm but iron-clad, “but you also have many others within your ranks capable of keeping this camp running while you are away.”

Draco’s jaw flexed sharply, teeth grinding together in open frustration. He didn’t like the wording—while you are away. It told him plainly this wasn’t a request. This was a summons. A command.

  His eyes flicked sideways to Theodore. Theo didn’t argue, didn’t say a word, only gave a short, understanding nod before stepping away. Draco exhaled slowly through his nose, his stomach knotting as silence stretched between himself, the Minister, and Potter.

   It wasn’t long before Theo returned. He wasn’t alone. Lucius Malfoy walked beside him, white hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck, his movements precise, practiced. The elder Malfoy inclined his head politely as he drew near.

  “Minister. Mr. Potter.” His voice was smooth, deceptively calm. “I will gladly take over so my son can assist you.”

  Draco’s head snapped toward his father, the words catching him off guard. For once, the faintest crack appeared in his carefully constructed composure.

  Lucius met his son’s stare with a look that was neither warm nor cold, but resolute. This was not up for debate.

  You don’t get that luxury.

  His father’s words wouldn’t leave him. They carved themselves into the quiet between every breath, ringing sharper than the bubbling cauldrons behind him. Lucius hadn’t said it with malice, not even cruelty. He’d said it the way he said everything these days— as fact. Cold. Absolute.

  Draco had wanted to yell when he’d heard it. Grief was supposed to tear you apart, wasn’t it? To make you useless, to crush you into the floor until all you could do was sob and bleed and hope someone carried you through it. But not him. Not anymore. Not in this world.

  His jaw tightened, teeth grinding as Kingsley’s steady voice rolled over him, Potter watching, measuring. And Lucius, who had been so quick to step in, to say he would handle Ashmere, that Draco could go. As if his grief, his rage, his very life weren’t his own to carry.

  But the words still burned, circling in his mind.

You don’t get that luxury.

  And Draco knew, with a sick weight in his chest, that his father had been right.

  “And Scorpius?” Draco asked, voice tight.

   “You know very well your mother will tend to him,” Lucius replied smoothly, every word deliberate. “You’re not going to be gone forever, son. You will have duties, and you will return. But take this for what it is— a compliment, and a lesson: life continues, even when you would rather it stop.”

  The words fell like stone. Harry’s jaw shifted, but he said nothing. He understood— Lucius Malfoy wasn’t just speaking about now, about Astoria. He spoke with the weight of history, of survival pressed into his son’s skin long before this war.

  “Who will see to the potions while I’m gone?” Draco asked.

  “Blaise and I—” Theo began, stepping forward.

   “No.” Draco’s tone cut sharply through the tent. His eyes moved to the Minister. “He’s needed with me. He’s just as good as I am. Better, in some ways.”

  Kingsley’s head inclined, thoughtful. “Good. I’ll take both of you, then. Blaise… who are we speaking of?”

  “Zabini,” Lucius answered, without hesitation. “The potions here will be in good hands.”

  Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, teeth clenched. He was so goddamn tired of being told what to do.

Fuck! He wanted to scream it, to tear the canvas walls down with the sound alone. Instead, his voice came out low and clipped.

  “I have to gather a few things. I’ll— we’ll be there shortly.”

   Kingsley gave a single nod, turning toward Harry. Harry’s eyes lingered a beat longer on Draco, searching, but said only, “Thank you.” And then they were gone, the wards sealing behind them with a ripple of light.

  The silence left in their wake pressed harder than their presence had.

   Draco moved with tight precision, crossing the tent to the trunk at the foot of his cot. He lifted the lid and drew out a leather-bound case, its surface worn smooth with years of use. Inside, nestled in lined compartments, were the tools that mattered— the implements of someone who made things, not just destroyed them. His fingers hovered briefly over the mortar and pestle his mother had given him on his fifteenth birthday. Onyx, heavy, veined with pale streaks that caught the light.

  Theo leaned against the tent pole, cigarette smoldering low between his fingers, watching in silence as Draco packed. “You’re really going to do this?” Theo asked at last. His voice wasn’t mocking, wasn’t questioning Draco’s ability— just the inevitability of it.

  Draco clicked the case shut, and the sound was sharp in the dim tent. “I don’t have a choice,” he muttered.

  Theo exhaled a thin line of smoke, eyes narrowing through the haze. “You never do.”

  The shadows in the far corner of the laboratory suited them. The bluish ceiling lights left whole swaths of the room drowned in half-dark, the edges blurred, as if the world had yet to finish drawing them in. Theo leaned back, an unlit cigarette loose in his fingers, his sharp profile carved in shadow. Draco sat forward, elbows on his knees, the case pressed against his boot.

  They said nothing. They only listened to the hum of glass cells, the faint scrape of movement inside, the low rattle of chains that seemed to echo from nowhere.

  Then the door opened.

  Hermione Granger stepped through, her bag slung at her side, her posture steady, though the hesitation in her step betrayed her fatigue. The light hit her first— washing over her hair, then her shoulders, before the darkness swallowed her again.

  Draco’s gaze followed her, automatic, unwanted. He told himself it was vigilance, the way any man might watch a variable enter a battlefield. But something in his chest shifted all the same. He should’ve looked away, but didn’t.

  Theo noticed— of course, he noticed— but didn’t say a word.

  So they sat in silence, shadows wrapped around them, watching her move into the room as though the weight of the world was pressing her forward.

Chapter Text

The Hallowing

  The Burrow’s shed smelled like oil and damp wood. Rain had started again—soft, steady, the kind that turned the world to a grey hush. Tools lined the walls in a hopeful sort of chaos: Arthur’s old contraptions half-disassembled, jars of screws that never quite matched, coils of copper wire looped over pegs. In the center, a workbench sagged under the weight of a lantern’s open belly.

   Jean sat on an overturned crate, nursing a cooling mug of tea. Henry stood at the bench, sleeves shoved past his elbows, peering into the lantern’s guts like it had talked back. A thin copper armature, a small glass capsule seated in a brass ring, a cluster of scavenged gears—Muggle and magical had gone and married each other out of necessity.

  “You’re grinding your teeth again,” Jean murmured.

   Henry didn’t look up. He adjusted a screw, tested a switch, and sighed under his breath. “Hard to stop, love, when I am onto something.”

  “You’re always onto something.” She smiled, but it didn’t stay long. “I’m worried about her winding herself up again.”

  This time, he glanced over. “Hermione?”

  “She’ll push until she falls over. Like right before she cut back last time, remember?”

  Henry’s mouth went soft. He nudged the capsule into place, then cranked the side knob. The lantern’s inner crystal glowed a pale, wavering blue, then guttered. He clicked his tongue. “It’ll hold a charge for about four minutes like this. Maybe five, if the wind’s with us.”

  “It needs to be longer.”

  “I know.” He tapped the housing. “Arthur said the wards run like a lattice—pulses and counter-pulses. If I can get this to sync with that rhythm, we can make a beacon that sips instead of gulps. Low draw, low magic.” His fingers found the brass ring again, gentler now. “Let the witches and wizards save their strength for the hard things.”

  Jean set her mug aside, slid off the crate, and came to stand beside him. She kissed his shoulder through his shirt. “That’s my clever man.”

   He snorted softly. “Clever enough to know I’m in over my head.”

  A shadow crossed the shed window. The latch rattled. Henry wiped his hands on a rag and pulled the door open.

  Ron stood there, rain in his hair and mud to his ankles, a crate balanced on his hip. He tried for a grin but only managed tiredness. Behind him, another shape hovered in the wet morning—the unmistakable silhouette of Harry, cloak beaded with rain.

  “Sorry,” Ron said. “Mum’s kitchen’s bursting. Thought I’d stash this here—the bolts and nails from Haversham’s stores. Harry said—well, he said you might be the ones to ask about… fixing things.”

   “Bring it in,” Henry said, already clearing a spot on the bench with the back of his arm.

   Jean took the crate from Ron, set it where Henry pointed, then drew both young men in with that mothering look she’d always had. “You’re soaked. Tea?”

  “Yes, please,” Ron said, sounding like a boy just for a second.

   Harry shook his head, water sliding off the ends of his fringe. “I can’t stay,” Harry said, stepping inside anyway. The shed seemed to fold around them, warmer for the bodies, louder for the soft patter on the roof. “Just passing through. Kingsley and I… we went to Ashmere.”

  Jean’s brows lifted. “And?”

  “Malfoy’s coming in,” Harry said. “Nott too.”

  Ron shifted his weight, eyes on his boots.

  “Blaise stays to brew at camp. Theo goes with Draco to the Ministry.” He glanced up at Jean. “Kingsley asked. They said yes.”

  Jean didn’t look relieved so much as resigned. “Then it’s a start.”

  Henry gestured at the lantern’s insides. “We’re trying for one too.”

  Harry leaned in, the corner of his mouth twitching. “What am I looking at?”

  “An arc-beacon,” Henry said, like that should mean something. When it didn’t, he added, “Hand-cranked power tied to a low-draw crystal. If we can sync it with the ward rhythm, we make a steady ‘heartbeat’—a visible pulse that tells us when the wards are faltering before they fail. The idea is to use as little magic as possible to do it.”

   Harry’s expression honed. “A heartbeat for the wards.”

  “Yes,” Henry said, relieved at the phrase. “Exactly.”

  “We’ll need placement along the inner ring,” Jean said, as though she’d been thinking the logistics for a week. “Not the outer—it’ll attract attention. Here, here, and here.” She pointed to an imaginary map only she could see. “Arthur can run the mounts. I can wrangle volunteers.”

  Harry’s gaze went thoughtful. “I can get you a handful of spent runestones from the Atrium stores. Useless in a duel, but stable enough as capacitors. Might buy you minutes when you need seconds.”

  Henry lit up in a way Jean hadn’t seen in days. “That would do it.”

  Harry’s eyes flicked from Henry to Jean, then to Ron, who’d found a rag and was wiping water off the crate. It was awkwardly quiet. He grimaced. “I’ll keep her anchored,” he said. “At the Ministry.”

  Jean held his gaze. “Make sure she eats. And sleeps. Please.”

  “I will.”

  Ron cleared his throat, the sound small in the clink of tools and the soft rain. “I, uh… I haven’t helped much,” he said, voice low. “With Rose. Mum has. You all have… And I… I shouldn’t have let it be like that. I told Hermione I’d do better.”

  Jean didn’t soften; she didn’t harden either. “Don’t tell us,” she said gently. “Tell her. And then do it.”

  Ron nodded, sheepish and earnest all at once. He picked up the lantern housing and turned it in his hands. “How can I help right now?”

   “Hold this steady,” Henry said, grateful for the distraction. He placed the brass ring and crystal, then the copper armature, and showed Ron where to anchor the screws. Their heads bent together—father and son-in-law in the soft work of making something simple do something brave.

  Harry checked the door. The rain had eased to a mist. Voices carried from the field—new tents going up, children’s chatter dulled by caution. He set a folded packet of papers on the bench—a rudimentary map of the Burrow’s current ward pattern, penciled updates scrawled by Moody’s old hand and then amended by Kingsley. “Placement marks,” he said. “Don’t deviate without telling me.”

  Jean tapped the paper. “I won’t.”

  Another minute of concentrated turning, and Henry exhaled. “Right,” he said. “Let’s see.”

  He cranked the side handle. The inner gears caught, the tiny dynamo hummed, and the crystal flared to life—not bright but steady. A pale pulse bloomed, paused, and bloomed again—a soft, regular thrum. The air seemed to answer, the wards beyond the walls flickering in distant sympathy.

  “It’s not much,” Henry said, almost apologetic.

   “It’s a heartbeat,” Jean said, and her voice did something Harry would be thinking about for the rest of the day.

  They carried the lantern out together—Henry with the base, Ron with the mount, Jean with the coil of wire. Harry followed, holding the door open with his shoulder, rain misting his glasses again. Outside, the hill rolled away in wet green. The tents beyond the house looked like mushrooms after a storm—new ones sprouting where space allowed.

  Arthur was already waiting near the inner ring, a spanner in his belt like a knight’s sword, a proud smile he couldn’t hide. “What have we got then?”

  Henry briefed him in a stream of quick details; Arthur nodded along, half-listening, half already seeing where the brackets would go. They seated the mount into the posthole between them, tightened the bolts, and fed the wire along the inner fence to the next brace. Harry reached inside his cloak, drew out a small pouch, and pressed it into Henry’s hand.

  “Runestones,” he said. “Three live, two spent. Use the spent first. Save the live for a night when it’s close.”

  Henry took the pouch as if it might bite. “Thank you.”

  Arthur checked the final bracket, wiped his hands on his trousers, and stepped back. “All yours,” he said.

  Henry cranked the handle. The lantern warmed, then woke. The crystal gave that same soft pulse—on, pause, on—like a quiet breath. Farther out, the wards answered with a barely visible ripple, concentric lines moving like rings on a pond.

  Jean watched the light, her arms wrapped around herself under her jumper. The pulse settled into her bones, into the place where worry had started to gnaw. “One down,” she said. “Three to go.”

  “I’ll get a crew,” Arthur said, already turning. “We’ll have them up before dark.”

  Harry stepped away, scanning the ridge, the path, the line where the Burrow ended and the world began. When he looked back at Jean, his expression had shifted into that careful thing he wore when he had bad news dressed as a favor.

  “Kingsley will be at the Ministry all day,” he said. “He’ll want to brief Hermione as soon as Draco and Nott report in.”

  Jean nodded, not trusting her mouth. Behind her, the lantern pulsed. On. Pause. On.

   Ron cleared his throat again, more certain this time. “I’ll take Rose tonight,” he said to Jean and Henry both. “All night. You have my word.”

  Henry studied him like a man assessing a joint before he put weight on it. Then he clapped Ron’s shoulder. “Anchor her,” he said quietly. “Not by fixing things. By being there when there’s nothing to fix.”

  Ron swallowed and nodded.

  Harry started back toward the house. At the shed door, he paused. “I’ll send a runner for those other runestones,” he said to Henry without turning. “And I’ll see her eat something. You have my word on that, too.”

  “Thank you,” Jean said, and meant it.

  They dispersed as people did now: not lingering too long in one place in case the ground shifted under their feet. Arthur peeled off toward the far side of the field, calling for George and a pair of teenagers waiting for orders. Ron took the empty crate and headed for the kitchen, already rehearsing the sound of his promise in his head. Harry lifted his hood and vanished toward the lane.

  Jean stayed with Henry. They stood shoulder to shoulder, neither speaking nor watching the small light do its patient work. The rain eased further, hanging fine and silver in the air, and on some silent cue, the wind turned so the smell of woodsmoke and potatoes drifted up from the main house.

  “Do you remember,” Henry said, “when she was seven, and she tried to build a weather vane out of spoons?”

  Jean’s laugh came out wet. “It looked like a bouquet that had lost an argument.”

  “She cried when it wobbled.”

  “You held the pole while she hammered.”

  “I thought she’d never stop.”

  “She only stopped when it worked.”

  Henry’s hand found hers. “She hasn’t changed.”

  “No,” Jean said. “She hasn’t.” They stood until the damp got into their sleeves and the cold into their wrists. When they finally returned to the shed, Jean paused and looked over her shoulder at the lantern—that small, stubborn pulse. “Heartbeat,” she said again, under her breath, as if naming it a second time would make it stay.

  Henry squeezed her fingers. “We’ll keep it going.”

  “For as long as it takes,” she said.

  Behind them, the light went: On. Paused. On.