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Chapter Text

The battle had ended. Voldemort was no more, and with his fall, so too did the grip of darkness that had plagued the wizarding world. Yet the scars remained in the hearts of the survivors.

Harry had felt it in every breath, the weight of loss, the burden of victory that had cost so much. However, a promise was made—a promise that the future would no longer be defined by power, but by love, peace, and the ties that bind.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luna and Neville decided to stay for a while at the Noble Black Family's house hoping it would provide them with a place to regroup, reflect, and heal. The place was rich with history and old magic. Once a house of secrets, dark alliances, and whispered betrayals, it was now a sanctuary for those who had fought to preserve everything it had once stood against.

Chapter Text

12 Grimmauld Place was the ancestral home of the Black family, located in the Borough of Islington, London, in a Muggle neighborhood. Yet, beneath the surface, Grimmauld Place was no ordinary home—it was steeped in centuries of dark magic, the ancestral seat of the Black family, whose members had been known for their obsession with blood purity and their connection to dark forces.

The house, protected by an ancient and powerful Fidelius Charm, was invisible to the outside world. To Muggles, the area seemed ordinary enough, with houses lined up like the rest. Most were none the wiser to the fact that Number 12 appeared to be a mere oversight in the numbering system. The oddity of the numbering—that Number 13 stood next to Number 11—had long been chalked up to an administrative error, a mistake no one had questioned, and the residents simply accepted it. They had no idea that behind this seemingly trivial mistake lay a place of great importance in the wizarding world.

The house had once belonged to the Black family, who had passed it down through generations, and with each new heir, the house seemed to absorb more of their dark legacy. However, its legacy became more complicated when it came into the hands of Sirius Black, the rebellious scion who had severed ties with his family and fought against the oppressive ideals they had espoused. When Sirius was murdered by his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange, during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, Grimmauld Place was left behind to Harry Potter—his godson, who was the last living heir to the Black family line. Though it had been the home of a family entrenched in darkness, Harry chose to carry on Sirius's legacy, offering Grimmauld Place as a sanctuary to the Order of the Phoenix, the resistance group formed to fight against the dark forces of Voldemort and his followers. Despite its dark history, the house became a beacon of hope, a safe haven where the Order could plan, regroup, and shelter from the storm.

For Harry, the house had taken on a new meaning. It was no longer a place tied to the cruelty of the Black family—it was a home, a place of solidarity, a refuge for those he loved. The house, like the people within it, was in need of healing.

Despite the passage of time and the changes that had come with the fall of the Dark Lord, Grimmauld Place remained largely unchanged. The house, with its heavy, dark stone façade and ancient woodwork, seemed frozen in another era, a stark reminder of the Black family's aristocratic past.

The kitchen, in particular, held an air of faded grandeur that whispered of generations gone by. Silver and brass tableware gleamed under the dim light, their polished surfaces reflecting the soft glow of the candlelit sconces on the walls. The intricate designs on the plates and cups, each one subtly bearing the Black family crest, spoke of wealth and old traditions— traditions that had long since been discarded by its current inhabitants. The kitchen smelled faintly of old spices, wood smoke, and something more elusive, like a faint trace of ancient magic that had seeped into the very walls of the house.

But it wasn’t just the kitchen that felt like a relic of another time. The entire house was filled with corners of history, and one such place was a room tucked at the far end of Grimmauld Place—a room that seemed to have been untouched by the years. It was a large, airy space, with a grand fireplace at each end, and large windows that looked out onto the quiet, empty street below. The room, once intended for the more refined tastes of the Black family, had now become a place of warmth and refuge for Harry and his friends. It served both as a music room and a sitting room, with ample space for comfortable armchairs and couches positioned in front of the roaring hearths. The center of the room was dominated by an enormous bookshelf, its shelves sagging under the weight of countless books. The towering structure stretched almost to the ceiling, its spines worn and curling with age. Some of the books, their pages yellowed with time, were likely first editions or rare volumes from long-forgotten magical eras. Others were filled with personal notes, annotations, and markings from previous owners—perhaps even from the Black family itself. The room was quiet save for the crackling of the two fires, the rustle of pages turning, and the soft sound of music drifting through the air.

It was here that Hermione and Luna often found their refuge. Hermione, her mind constantly searching for knowledge, would find herself lost in the pages of ancient texts or new magical discoveries, her brow furrowed in concentration. Luna, on the other hand, brought a sense of calm to the room, her gaze often distant, as if she were communing with the room itself or simply lost in her own world of thoughts. But it was in this space—surrounded by books, music, and the quiet warmth of the fires—that they found a peace they had not known in months.

On most afternoons, the two of them could be found there together, Hermione at the piano, her fingers gently pressing the keys as the haunting melody of a long-forgotten tune filled the air. The music, though somber, held a kind of beauty that seemed to calm the house’s more oppressive atmosphere. Luna, with her dreamy gaze, would settle into one of the armchairs by the fire, her legs tucked beneath her, a book open in her hands but her attention sometimes divided between the words and the music surrounding her.

However, Ron, though exhausted, couldn't sit still for long. He kept to the edges of the room, restlessly pacing, perhaps trying to find some sense of normalcy in a world that had been irrevocably changed. Ginny, ever the strong and steadfast one, quietly helped where she could, making tea and keeping the others company. Neville, with his quiet strength, spent hours tending to the house’s plants, finding peace in the act of nurturing life.

It wasn’t just the war they had to overcome—the horrors, the betrayals, the loss of innocence. They had all been shaped by the events that had brought them together. They had lived through too much, seen too many falls. And yet, as they sat in the Black family’s house, they knew they had to rise above it all.

The weight of the past didn’t disappear overnight, but in the house that had once been a symbol of division, they began to rebuild—together. They talked late into the night, sharing their grief, their dreams, their fears. And as Harry stood at the window, looking out over the moonlit streets of London, he found a fleeting moment of peace. The war was over, but their journey had only just begun. There would be work to do, reforms to make, and a world to rebuild. But they had each other. That was the promise they had made—they would love each other, care for each other, and stay together, no matter what the future held.

------

Harry lay on the old, worn couch in the sitting room, his body sinking into the familiar comfort of its cushions. He stared at the Golden Snitch resting in his palm, its wings delicately fluttering in the dim light, as if it were alive. It was Dumbledore’s gift to him, a token of encouragement, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, there was always hope. But now, it felt heavy in his hand—like a cricket sitting on his heart, a reminder of the weight of everything he had lost and everything he had yet to face. He hoped, desperately, that it would bring some kind of peace, but even after the victory, the scars of the war remained, visible and invisible alike.

The quiet in the room was only broken by the faint crackle of the fire burning at the other end, the flickering flames casting shadows against the walls. Harry’s thoughts were far away, lost in the memories of the battle, the faces of those he had lost, and the endless ache that lingered in his heart. He was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice Ginny entering the room until she spoke.

“How are you?” Ginny’s voice was soft, almost hesitant, as she stepped into the room, her eyes searching for him, taking in the tension in his posture.

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat making it harder to speak. He didn’t want to lie to her, but it was easier to keep things simple. “Fine,” he said, his voice strained, and he looked away, his eyes drifting down to the Snitch again as if it could provide him with some sort of answer.

Ginny didn’t push. She sighed, a gentle sound that carried a weight of its own, before moving toward the couch. Without thinking, he shifted so there was room for her beside him. He didn’t want her to feel like he was pushing her away, even though his emotions were tangled in knots he wasn’t sure how to untangle.

Ginny settled beside him, her warmth seeping into his side. She leaned her head onto his shoulder, her hair soft against his neck. The simple gesture made him feel both comforted and more broken, as if he were finally allowing himself to lean on someone after carrying the weight of the world for so long.

“What now?” Ginny asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, but it carried the depth of her own uncertainty. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze flicking up to meet his bright green eyes, which still held the exhaustion of everything they’d endured.

Harry let out a slow breath, his fingers still absentmindedly brushing the Snitch’s wings, the motion calming but also reminding him of the storm of emotions swirling within him. “We are going to recover this,” he murmured, the words almost like a mantra. “Slowly, but steadily.”

Ginny’s gaze softened, but her lips pressed together as if holding back something. She sat up slightly, lifting her head from his shoulder to meet his eyes more directly. “I know it’s all over, but…” Her voice trailed off, the sadness in her eyes making her words hang in the air. She paused, searching for the right way to express what had been sitting heavy in her chest since the final battle. “Harry, the feeling in my chest is still there.”

Harry’s heart clenched at the vulnerability in her voice. He could see it in her eyes—the same ache that had been gnawing at him since the end of the war. It was a kind of quiet grief, one that didn’t fade with the end of the fighting. It was the kind of sorrow that couldn’t be fixed by victory alone.

“I know,” Harry whispered, his thumb gently caressing her cheek as he kept his eyes locked with hers. The touch was tender, as if he could somehow convey all the understanding and empathy he felt through the simplest of gestures. “It won’t be easy.” His voice was low, a rasp of raw emotion. “But we’re together now.”

The words seemed to hang between them for a moment, lingering like a promise they both needed to hear, a promise of something more than just surviving. Together, they would find their way through the silence that had followed the chaos. Together, they would learn how to heal.

Harry leaned in, his breath mingling with hers as he closed the distance between them. His lips found hers in a kiss that was soft at first, tentative as if testing the waters of their emotions. But then, the kiss deepened, an unspoken connection between them, a silent affirmation that, despite the pain, despite the loss, they had each other now. The weight of the world seemed to melt away at that moment.

------

Hermione and Ron were peacefully curled up in the cozy bedroom that had been assigned to them at Grimmauld Place. The room was dim, the faint light of the dawn slipping through the cracks of the thick curtains. The air was cool, but the warmth between them provided all the comfort they needed. Ron lay on his side, his arm draped around Hermione, pulling her gently toward him as she slept.

Her soft, steady breathing was a comfort to him, and he rested his cheek against the top of her head, inhaling deeply. The scent of her hair filled his senses—something faintly floral, mixed with the freshness of the morning, and a comforting trace of lavender from the pillow. He kissed her hair lightly, brushing his lips against the soft strands. The quiet intimacy of the moment made him feel both grounded and at peace. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this safe, this content.

Hermione had yet to open her eyes, her face still peaceful with sleep, but she could feel Ron’s presence beside her, his warmth, his steady rhythm of breathing. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, and she felt the gentle pressure of his kisses on her hair. She didn’t want to break the calm silence, but she couldn’t help herself.

Ron’s voice was low and drowsy as he mumbled against her hair, his words slightly muffled. “It smells...”

Hermione, still half-asleep, smiled softly, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she turned slightly to rest her cheek against his arm. “It’s Luna again,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep but full of affection.

Ron’s grumble was the closest thing to a laugh, though it was muffled by the soft pillow and the sleepiness still clinging to him. “Well, it’s... nice.” He tightened his arms around her for a moment, pulling her a little closer as if reluctant to let go of the warmth and peace of the morning.

Hermione chuckled softly, her smile growing. She could tell from the gentle pressure of his arms around her that he wasn’t quite ready to face the day. “Come on,” she said, nudging him lightly. “We should get up. We can’t just stay here forever.”

Ron groaned in response, still half-asleep. With a playful grumble, he tightened his grip around her waist, pulling her gently against him so that she couldn’t move away. “Not yet,” he whispered into her ear, his voice soft but teasing, a small smirk evident even in his tone. “Just a little longer.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, though the affection in her gaze was unmistakable. She sighed, but there was a warmth in her voice when she responded. “You’re impossible,” she said fondly, though she didn’t make any effort to get up right away. She felt no rush, not at this moment.

Ron’s fingers lightly brushed against her back, the gesture tender and comforting. They both knew that after everything they’d endured, these small moments of peace—moments like this one—were the ones that truly mattered. For now, there was no war, no danger, just the quiet of the morning and the soothing presence of each other.

So, for a little while longer, they stayed wrapped up in each other’s arms, content to let the world outside wait.

------

“Mornin’ Luna!” Neville’s cheerful voice echoed through the kitchen as he walked in, grinning widely. The smell of pancakes and bacon wafted through the air, and he inhaled deeply, his face lighting up with genuine joy. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had this!”

Luna’s soft giggle filled the room, the sound light and airy, as if it carried with it the carefree nature she always seemed to have. She was standing at the stove, her hands busy flipping pancakes with practiced ease, a peaceful look on her face as she worked. “I know,” she replied, her voice warm and slightly dreamy. “I thought it was time for a proper breakfast.”

Neville, unable to contain his excitement, leaned over and kissed Luna’s cheek, a spontaneous gesture that made her smile even wider. He then ripped off a piece of pancake, popping it into his mouth. His eyes sparkled as he chewed. “That’s wicked!” he exclaimed, his voice full of delight. “Luna, you’re a genius!”

“Hey, Harry! Don’t you smell it?!” Neville called out suddenly, his words directed toward the hallway.

Ginny entered the kitchen just as Harry followed, and she gave Neville a small grin. “Of course we do. The whole house smells amazing!” she said, her voice filled with warmth. She took a seat at the table beside Harry, her eyes meeting him with a glance full of shared contentment. Harry nodded in agreement, and they both settled into their seats, a sense of ease between them now that they were all together, enjoying a quiet morning at last.

Neville looked around the table, his brows furrowing slightly as he suddenly noticed something. “Hey, where’s Ron and Hermione?” he asked, his voice a bit puzzled. “They usually don’t sleep this late, do they?”

Ginny muttered under her breath, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “They’re probably busy,” she said, her voice soft but tinged with something that none of them could quite place.

“Busy?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow as he added sugar into his tea, his tone casual but curious.

Ginny’s cheeks flushed slightly, her eyes falling to her lap as she fiddled with the edge of her napkin. “Never mind,” she murmured, as if she had already answered the question in her mind. She didn’t dare look up, feeling the warmth in her cheeks growing as the silence stretched on.

The others exchanged glances, the air thick with the awkwardness that had suddenly settled over the room. Finally, Ginny cleared her throat, her voice sounding much more assured as she broke the silence. “Everything is great, Luna!” she said, smiling brightly, eager to shift the focus away from her flustered state. “But why don’t you use magic when you cook?”

Luna, who had been carefully flipping another pancake, turned her head slightly to look at Ginny, her expression thoughtful. “It’s not only about food, Ginny,” she said, her voice serene and unhurried. “I love trying things by myself. I guess I understand why Muggles enjoy cooking now. It’s... it’s something I can feel connected to.”

Ginny blinked in surprise, clearly taken aback by Luna’s response. She smiled, the blush still lingering on her cheeks, but now a little less noticeable. “Good for you, Luna,” she said, her voice warmer, appreciating the simplicity and truth in Luna’s words. “And—well, we all enjoy the food a lot, so we appreciate it!”

Harry nodded in agreement, a soft, sincere smile stretching across his face as he looked at Luna. “It really is amazing,” he said, his voice full of gratitude.

Luna beamed at him, her eyes sparkling with happiness as she quietly muttered, “Thanks, everyone,” her voice soft but filled with the genuine warmth she always carried.

The door creaked open just as Ron and Hermione walked in, looking sleepy but content. “Did we miss breakfast?” Ron asked, his voice groggy but still laced with affection as he made his way to the table.

“No, not at all,” Harry replied, moving aside to make room for them. His eyes danced with a quiet amusement, and the easygoing atmosphere returned as the group settled into the comfortable rhythm they’d shared for so long.

Ron and Hermione sat down at the table, their smiles small but warm. Hermione caught sight of Ginny’s pinkish cheeks but didn’t comment, too absorbed in the delicious food in front of her. She poured herself a cup of coffee, the rich, dark liquid filling her cup with a soft hiss as the steam curled upward. She inhaled the scent, savoring it, before taking a sip and letting it settle in her chest.

The morning felt normal in a way that had almost become foreign to them all. For so long, they had lived in a world where every day was filled with uncertainty and fear. But now, here they were, sitting together—eating, talking, laughing. Hermione took a moment to simply appreciate the calm that had finally settled over them. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed just sitting around a table like this, having breakfast and talking about the future, about things that weren’t overshadowed by war or danger.

She looked around the table at her friends—Harry, Ginny, Neville, and Luna—and felt a deep, overwhelming sense of love and gratitude for the simple joy of being here with them. This, she realized, was everything they had fought for.

We all deserved this, she thought to herself, her heart swelling with emotion as she joined in the laughter and chatter, feeling the warmth of their connection more than ever before.

Chapter Text

Harry had never known silence like this.

It wasn't the peaceful kind. It was the kind that pressed against his chest and filled his throat, thick and choking.

It was time.

White tents stood side by side, veiled in silencing charms to give each family a sliver of privacy. But even so, the mourning spilled between them. Hundreds had come—friends, family, former classmates, shopkeepers from Diagon Alley. 

Harry stood between Ron and Hermione, just behind the front rows of chairs, his black robes hanging heavily from his shoulders. His wand felt useless in his pocket. He wished he could vanish, or maybe freeze time. He wasn’t ready for this. Not again.

Every Weasley was dressed in subdued black, though their vibrant hair made it impossible to pretend the day wasn’t soaked in color Fred would have loved. George stood at the front, jaw clenched, eyes hollow. Molly Weasley looked half-hollow as she took her seat, her face pale and streaked with tears. Percy had an arm around her, and even Charlie, usually the quiet one, had tears in his beard. His grave was simple. Too simple for someone like Fred. No glitter, no wild colors, no fireworks.

Ron stepped forward to speak. Harry saw his hands trembling. “He was… Fred. He made everything seem easier, even when it wasn’t. He made us laugh when laughing felt impossible. And now... he’s not here. And it’s not fair.”

George didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He simply laid one of their prototype joke boxes—bright purple and flashing softly—on the grave. It blinked once, then fizzled out. That was all.

Harry's throat burned. Fred had made the world lighter. Now everything felt heavier.

Another one.

Harry hadn’t realized how much he’d needed Remus until he was gone. The last link to his parents. The man who had taught him to fight off dementors. Who told him that he was enough, even with everything broken inside him.

He hadn’t planned to speak. He hadn’t prepared anything. But somehow, his feet moved forward.

He cleared his throat. His voice came out rough, but it carried.

“Remus Lupin was the best of us. A man who carried more burdens than anyone should, and still chose kindness, knowledge, and peace. And Tonks was bold and loved with her whole soul. Together, they gave everything to this world. And in their final act, left behind a son who will grow up knowing they died to make it better.”

Harry glanced down. His hands were clenched into fists. Ginny gently took one and held it.

Tonks’s mother, Andromeda walked forward with Teddy in her arms, swaddled and still. She laid a single white rose on each grave. “You will not be forgotten,” she whispered.

Victory didn’t feel like triumph. It felt hollow. Like something had been taken from them all, even in winning. Attending funeral after funeral, there was no returning to “normal.” The war had rewritten what that word meant.

Above them, the clouds broke slightly, and a shaft of golden sunlight fell across the graves—one last farewell from a world they had helped save.

------

Grieving never truly ended. It changed shape, became quieter, less visible—but it never stopped. It lived in the corners of their laughter, in the pauses between conversations, in the empty chairs at dinner tables. Still, life demanded movement, and eventually, they began to answer.

When Kingsley Shacklebolt summoned them to the newly stabilized Ministry of Magic, he offered them something they hadn’t expected: a choice. They could rest. They could return to their studies. Or—they could lead. The offer was generous, almost daunting. None of them felt ready. But they said yes—not because they were healed, but because they couldn’t bear the stillness. Stillness reminded them too much of silence after battle.

Harry and Ron joined the newly restructured Auror Office. Though they entered as trainees, their names alone carried weight. They could’ve bypassed the program entirely—but they refused. Both insisted on starting from the ground up, shoulder to shoulder with others who had also survived the war. They didn’t want exceptions.

Harry, still haunted by the faces of the fallen, devoted himself wholly to the idea of prevention. He wanted to stop dark magic before it ever reached another home, another child. Ron joined not just out of duty, but loyalty—to Harry, and to the cause they had shared. He never imagined himself in that role, but he surprised even the most seasoned Aurors.

Hermione, always pulled by justice, walked a different path. After weeks spent quietly restoring her parents’ memories and reintroducing herself to the life she had temporarily erased, she returned to England changed—more thoughtful, more grounded, but no less fierce. She accepted a position at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, driven by a mission that had long burned within her.

In the Ministry's vast, echoing chambers, she was unyielding—her voice clear, her gaze sharper than most of the men decades her senior. She fought to reform outdated laws, beginning with the rights of house-elves and centaurs, advocating for a magical world that didn’t define worth by blood or classification.

But even as they stepped into these new roles—of protectors, reformers, warriors—the war lingered.

The nights were the hardest.

Harry would jolt awake drenched in sweat, the screams from the forest still fresh in his ears, sometimes mistaking Ginny’s warm hand for a wand. Ron, in quieter moments, would glance at the door expecting Fred to walk through it, only to remember. Hermione could not stop checking things. The locks on the doors. The spells on the windows. The wards around the flat. She whispered protective enchantments in her sleep and flinched at the crack of Apparition.

They stayed close. With long, quiet evenings curled on worn couches, cups of tea between them, books forgotten in their laps. They learned how to comfort each other without pretending to be okay. Sometimes, it was just sitting in silence, letting grief breathe in the space between them. Sometimes it was a squeeze of a hand. A shared memory. A sad smile.

The world had moved on. And so had they. But inside, each of them carried something fractured. They were healing—but they weren’t whole. Not yet.

Chapter Text

The Burrow had never looked more beautiful.

Golden streamers floated mid-air, twisting softly in the warm breeze. Chairs arranged in wide semicircles surrounded a raised dais where the ceremony would take place, the aisle lined with floating lanterns that glowed like bottled starlight. A subtle enchantment carried the scent of honeysuckle and fresh-cut grass, and in the distance, enchanted butterflies shimmered among the rose bushes planted by Molly herself.

It was, unmistakably, a Weasley affair—organized chaos made beautiful by love.

Harry stood beneath a white trellis laced with ivy and silver threads, his palms slightly sweaty despite the cooling charms Hermione had insisted on applying to his dress robes. His midnight blue robes were elegant and simple, stitched with tiny constellations only visible under direct sunlight—a gift from Luna.

Ron stood at his side, straightening Harry’s collar for the fifth time.

“You look fine,” Ron muttered, even as he smoothed the edge again. “Stop fidgeting.”

“I’m not fidgeting.”

“Sure mate.”

Harry gave a small, nervous laugh.

The music started—soft strings and lilting flutes. Everyone stood. Heads turned.

And then Ginny appeared.

Harry’s breath left him.

She walked down the aisle slowly, her arm looped through Arthur’s. Her dress was simple and flowing, ivory with embroidered golden phoenix feathers along the hem. Her hair was pinned up with delicate wildflowers, and a sunbeam caught the edge of her smile.

Harry felt dizzy in the best way.

She reached him, cheeks flushed, eyes shining.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hey,” she whispered back.

Arthur gave her hand a soft squeeze before stepping back to join Molly in the front row. Molly dabbed her eyes with a lacy handkerchief—already crying, even though the ceremony had just begun.

The officiant cleared his throat, voice ringing magically across the field.

“We are gathered here to celebrate the union of two souls who have endured much, and found love not in ease, but in fire—and still chose each other.”

Harry barely heard the words.

All he could see was Ginny.

As the officiant spoke of courage, loyalty, laughter, and partnership, Harry thought of every moment they’d shared. She’d always been a force. He had simply been lucky enough to be caught in her gravity.

“Do you, Harry James Potter, take Ginevra Molly Weasley to be your wife, to stand beside her in peace and hardship, to share in joy and sorrow, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Harry said, his voice steady, sure.

“And do you, Ginevra Molly Weasley, take Harry James Potter to be your husband, to walk beside him in light and shadow, to love him fiercely, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Ginny said, her eyes never leaving him.

“Then by magic and witness, I pronounce you bound in love.”

The rings—a pair of golden bands inscribed with runes of protection and connection—slid onto their fingers with a soft glow. Magic shimmered in the air as the final enchantment sealed their vows.

“You may kiss your bride.”

Harry leaned in. The kiss was warm, certain, and full of promise.

------

Long tables were set up beneath floating lanterns. Plates piled high with roast chicken, roast potatoes, shepherd’s pie, and towering Weasley-style desserts filled the air with comfort and celebration.

Luna gave a speech first. “I always thought love was like a Nargle—you can’t see it, but it makes your ears buzz. But Ginny and Harry… you can feel it. Even if you don’t believe in Nargles.”

Ron gave a speech that was surprisingly heartfelt. “I used to think no one was good enough for my sister,” he said, standing, eyes a little glassy. “And I still mostly think that. But if anyone had to be part of this family, it’s Harry. He’s brave, he’s loyal, and I know he’ll never let her go into a fight alone.”

Then came the dancing. Their friends joined in soon after—Hermione dancing with Ron, Neville with Luna, even Andromeda dancing once with Kingsley while little Teddy ran circles around the tables.

As the night deepened, the music slowed.

Harry held Ginny close, resting his forehead against hers.

“Was it everything you wanted?” she asked softly.

He looked around—the golden glow, the happy faces, the peace that still felt new. He looked at her.

“It’s more.”

They kissed again. And again. The world went quiet.

------

Something had shifted between Ron and Hermione.

At first, it was hard to name it—just a faint awkwardness, a pause in their usual rhythm, like a piece of music they used to know by heart now playing out of tune. It became more apparent after Harry and Ginny’s wedding. The joy of the celebration only seemed to amplify what was absent between them. Watching Harry and Ginny—effortless, steady, deeply in sync—had stirred something uneasy in Hermione. She began to wonder whether love, real lasting love, was supposed to feel like this—strained, uncertain, quietly fading.

The emotional bond they had forged during the war—the shared pain, the desperation, the fierce protection of one another—had been born in fire. But now, in the quiet aftermath, that bond no longer holds.

They didn’t know how to comfort each other through the long, uneven grief. Ron buried his feelings behind jokes, Quidditch scores, and long shifts at the Auror Office. He was always moving, always somewhere else. Hermione tried to reach him with gentle questions, invitations to talk, but he slipped away from vulnerability like it burned. When things became too heavy, he shut down, and when she pressed, he would pick a fight—small, meaningless spats that masked the larger ache between them.

Hermione had been thinking about it for a while. The idea came slowly, then all at once—she loved Ron, but it wasn't the kind of love that could carry them forward. She needed space. They both did. Time to heal individually. To understand who they were now, outside the war, outside the survival.

But saying it aloud would be a frightening option. Like breaking something they had fought hard to preserve. It was hard and Ron didn’t want to admit what he already knew deep down. He wasn’t ready to let go. Letting go felt like losing her all over again—like losing one more thing the war had already taken pieces of. And yet, a part of him—the honest, quiet part—knew. They were holding on because they were afraid of falling apart.

Chapter Text

After the wedding, Ginny and Harry wanted to stay at Grimmauld Place with others a little longer, and the house had settled into a quiet routine of healing and rest.

But one crisp morning, as the sun barely began to climb above the horizon, an unexpected sound shattered the calm. A sharp, insistent tapping came from the bedroom window. The noise was piercing—like tiny, urgent knocks.

Ron groaned as he rolled over, squinting through the dim light to see what was causing the racket. “Who is it?” he muttered, furrowing his brows as the sharp beak of an owl continued to tap against the glass, demanding attention.

Hermione, still half-asleep beside him, blinked and sat up. She rubbed her eyes, her tiredness momentarily forgotten as she noticed the owl’s strange persistence. “I don’t know. Just take it,” she said, her voice hoarse from sleep but with an edge of curiosity.

Ron, though still groggy, climbed out of bed and opened the window. The owl immediately hopped inside, its sharp beak clinking against the glass before it held out a small envelope, its feathers ruffled from the journey. Ron reached for it, his fingers brushing the owl’s soft feathers before he took the letter and closed the window again.

As the owl flew off into the morning sky, Ron ripped open the envelope impatiently, eager to see who had sent it. But the moment his eyes scanned the first few lines, his face dropped. His expression faltered—something between disbelief and frustration.

Hermione, watching him closely now, could sense that something was wrong. “What is it?” she asked, her voice tinged with concern.

Ron didn’t answer right away. Instead, he handed the letter to her, his eyes narrowed in anger. His gaze was sharp, his jaw clenched tight as he glared at her, but he didn’t say anything. The silence between them stretched out, thick with unspoken tension.

Hermione’s heart started to race. She glanced down at the letter in her hands, confused by the intensity of Ron’s reaction. The handwriting on the envelope was unmistakable. Viktor Krum. Her breath caught in her throat.

Ron suddenly left and she scanned the words with increasing unease.

Dear Hermione,

It's been a while. Heard the news. Hope you and your friends are safe. Thank Potter for me. 

Please give me details about what happened and what is your condition. I would love to see you in person.

See you soon,

— Viktor Krum

Hermione’s hand shook slightly as she read the final lines. The letter felt cold in her grasp, and she could feel the weight of its contents press down on her chest. Her mind reeled, and for a moment, she couldn’t quite comprehend what had just happened. Viktor—Viktor Krum—had written to her. She hadn’t heard from him in so long, and now this unexpected letter, with its formal tone, seemed to pull her right back into a part of her past that she hadn’t fully processed.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, biting her lower lip. She could feel a mix of frustration, confusion, and guilt swirling inside her. The letter seemed innocent enough, but the timing was off, and Ron’s reaction… that was something else entirely. It was clear that something was bothering him, something beyond the letter itself.

She looked down at the book she had been reading earlier, a small stack of notes wedged between its pages. She tucked the letter carefully between the pages, trying to ignore the knot in her stomach as she quickly got out of bed and rushed out of the room, determined to find Ron and figure out what was really going on.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she navigated the dark hallways of the house, the flickering light from the fireplace in the sitting room casting long shadows along the walls. She could feel the tension in the air, her footsteps quickening as she approached the living room. She had to talk to him. They needed to figure this out—whatever this was.

The door to the sitting room was ajar, and she pushed it open without hesitation, finding Ron standing by the window, his back to her. He hadn’t heard her approach. His hands were clenched into fists, his shoulders rigid with frustration, but he didn’t turn around when she entered.

“Ron,” Hermione said softly, her voice calm but firm. She felt a knot tighten in her stomach, but she wasn’t going to let this silence stretch any longer. “We need to talk.”

Ron didn’t move at first, the air between them thick with unspoken tension. Finally, he turned to face her, his expression still sharp, though the anger had started to dull a little. “Hermione…” His voice was quiet, almost resigned. “I—” He broke off, clearly struggling to find the right words.

She stepped closer, her eyes searching his face. “Yes, talk to me. Tell me.”

Ron took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Viktor,” he muttered, his voice rough. “Are you still in touch?”

Hermione’s heart sank, she hadn’t expected this, hadn’t anticipated how Ron would react, but now that she was standing here, with the truth hanging in the air between them, she knew they needed to have this conversation. It was time to clear the air—not just about Viktor, but about everything.

“No. But we were writing. The last time we spoke was right before we went looking for the Horcruxes.”

Taking another deep breath, she opened her mouth to speak again, but Ron cut her off before she could get the words out.

“I’m not angry with you,” he said, his voice almost pleading. “I just don’t understand why it all affects me?”

Hermione met his gaze, her heart heavy. “We’re hurting.” Her voice trembled as she spoke, her words coming out in a rushed, desperate whisper. “I can help…”

“I don’t need help, Hermione.” He said it too quickly.

“You haven’t slept through a night in weeks.”

“And you have?” His voice was sharp now, bitter. “You think burying yourself in work and marching off to every bloody creature rights meeting is healing?”

She flinched. “I never said I was fine.”

“You act like it.” Ron’s voice was low, almost a growl. He stepped closer to her, and for a brief moment, the flicker of hope she saw in his eyes made her heart ache. But there was something more—something darker beneath it. The flame in his eyes, once warm, now burned with an intensity that made her stomach twist.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as she struggled to keep her composure. Her chest tightened with a mix of love and pain. She took a step closer to him, closing the distance between them. “This isn’t working,” she said.

Ron froze.

Her voice faltered as she paused, her eyes closing in frustration, her face flushed with the weight of what she said. She didn't know how to make him understand how much his anger was hurting her, how it felt like the very foundation of their love was slipping through her fingers.

Ron stood frozen, his face set in frustration. His brow furrowed deeper. He had expected a different conversation. Something lighter. But now, Hermione was laying bare everything she had been holding inside.

She looked up at him, the single tear that had fallen down her cheek like a silent testament to her pain. “I can’t,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. The tear was slow, almost reluctant, as it traveled down her cheek.

The weight of her words hit him like a brick. Ron took a deep breath, running a hand through his messy hair in frustration. He seemed lost, as if he couldn’t find the right words. “Hermione,” he murmured, looking at the floor before meeting her gaze again. “Everything’s changed.”

He took a step closer to her, and for a moment, his gaze softened. But it was a fleeting softness, like the shadows before a storm. “I’ve lost so much already. I’m scared I’ll wake up one day and find that—” He paused, swallowing hard, as though the words were burning his throat. “I feel hollow. And with you…” His voice faltered, as if he couldn’t even finish the sentence. His hands trembled slightly.

Hermione’s breath hitched as she stepped back, her mind racing. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice growing more forceful.

Ron’s eyes widened, his mouth slightly agape. “Hermione—” His words died in his throat as he struggled to understand. He took a step back, his jaw clenched tight. He seemed to gather his thoughts, but it was clear that he was struggling just as much. 

Then, out of nowhere, Ron’s voice dropped to a quiet, almost hoarse tone. “Pause,” he said, his words slow, deliberate, like a command to stop the madness that was swirling around them.

“What?” Hermione’s eyes darted to him in confusion.

“Let’s pause,” Ron repeated softly, though there was a weariness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “I don’t want it. Not today. Not like this.”

Hermione stared at him, unsure of what to make of it. She felt the tension in her own body, the anger and hurt slowly giving way to something more exhausting. “You’re making things even more complicated,” she said softly, her voice quieter now, the anger fading just a little.

Ron didn’t answer immediately. He stood still for a moment, and then, as if uncertain of what to do next, he took a slow step toward her. There was something in his eyes, something almost apologetic, but it wasn’t enough to bridge the gap between them. Yet, somehow, he closed the distance between them. His hands moved cautiously, almost as if he were afraid she would run away. Finally, with a deep breath, he wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace.

“Let’s go to our room,” he whispered, his voice muffled against her hair. “ I just need to think. We both do.”

Hermione stood still for a moment, her hands pressed against his chest, but instead of feeling comforted, she only felt more hollow. She clung to him longer than she expected to, her tears slipping freely now. She could feel his heartbeat against her own, but the truth was, it wasn’t enough. She could feel the distance between them, a yawning chasm that she couldn’t close. This hug, this moment of connection, was a false solace. It didn’t heal the ache in her heart. The truth settled heavily in her chest. And no matter how tightly Ron held her, no matter how much she wanted to believe it would get better, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were both drowning in their own pain.

Chapter Text

Hermione stood in front of the bathroom mirror, her hands absentmindedly twisting the strands of her unruly, fluffy hair into something resembling order. The damp curls clung to her fingers as she pulled them through, trying to make sense of the mess, but it only reminded her of how out of sorts she felt. She took a slow, steadying breath, hoping it would give her the strength to face the day. Her reflection stared back at her, eyes swollen and puffy from lack of sleep, the dark circles beneath them a constant reminder of the night spent tossing and turning, trying to escape her thoughts. She lifted her shoulders, trying to straighten herself up, but the weight of exhaustion pressed down heavily on her.

Another breath. She blinked, trying to push back the tears that were always just below the surface. It felt as though she’d been holding on for too long, and her heart ached under the pressure. She wiped away the sting of the tears threatening to spill and left the bathroom, taking one last glance at her reflection. There was no time to wallow, not now. She had to move forward, even if it felt like everything inside her was breaking apart.

------

“Good morning, Hermione,” Luna's gentle voice greeted her as soon as she stepped into the kitchen. Luna was sitting at the table, a soft smile on her face, her eyes bright despite the early hour. The sight of her always seemed to have a calming effect on Hermione. Harry and Neville were seated beside her, each holding a cup of steaming coffee.

Hermione smiled faintly as she made her way closer, grateful for Luna’s warmth. “Morning,” she replied quietly. She pulled out a chair and sat down beside them, feeling a little more grounded as she settled into the comfortable silence.

Luna, as always, was quick to offer. “Want some?” She slid the plate of warm, buttered toast toward Hermione, the golden crusts tempting her to take a bite.

“Thank you,” Hermione said, her voice soft but grateful. She took the toast and sipped the coffee that Luna had poured for her. The warmth of the drink seeped into her, offering a brief respite from the cold gnawing at her insides.

The silence lingered for a moment, before Hermione broke it with a quiet question. “Where is Ginny?” she asked, her eyes glancing up from her coffee.

Harry looked down at his hands, his fingers fiddling with the edge of his cup. He hesitated, “She doesn’t feel well this morning.”

Luna, who had been staring off into the distance, seemed to snap back to reality at Harry’s words. She put her hands thoughtfully under her chin, as if pondering something. “She feels nauseous,” she said, her voice soft and almost dreamy. Her eyes remained fixed on the table, but Hermione could see the concern hidden beneath her usually calm demeanor.

“Where’s Ron?” Harry asked, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were expecting an answer of his own.

Hermione’s chest tightened, the mention of Ron’s name stirring a new wave of frustration within her. “He just wanted to stay in bed a little longer.”

There was a brief pause before Harry spoke again, his tone casual as he tried to shift the mood. “So, what about you? Are you going somewhere?” He pointed at her crossbody bag. The strap rested heavily on her shoulder, reminding her that she had places to be, things to do—things she wasn’t sure she was ready to face.

Hermione’s smile faltered as she looked down at her bag. “Umm, yeah,” she said, taking a slow sip of her coffee to steady her nerves. “I’m going to visit my parents. I can’t get them off my mind these days.” The words sounded hollow even as she spoke them. The guilt weighed heavily on her chest, but it felt like the only thing she could do—returning to the comfort of her parents felt like the only place where things made sense.

“Oh,” Harry said, his expression softening with understanding. “How long?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione replied, shrugging lightly as she placed the coffee cup down. She wasn’t sure when she’d feel like returning. Part of her wanted to escape, to retreat into the normalcy of her childhood home.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, a slight frown creasing his forehead.

Hermione avoided his gaze, staring at the steam rising from her coffee. “I don’t have a plan,” she muttered, the weight of the words pressing on her tongue. She never went anywhere without a plan. But now… now, everything felt uncertain, and that unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Harry’s brow furrowed. “You always make plans,” he said, his voice trailing off in confusion.

Hermione bit her lip, glancing up at him. “Things are different now, Harry. I don’t know what’s going to happen, and I can’t pretend that I do.”

Before Harry could respond, Neville interjected, his voice casual but with an edge of curiosity. “Is it about the argument with Ron the other day?” His words were blunt, cutting through the air like a sharp knife. The room seemed to freeze for a moment as Hermione’s heart skipped a beat.

Hermione’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. “What do you—” Her words faltered as she turned toward Neville, her confusion evident.

“Heard you,” Neville said simply. It was clear he didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the walls in Grimmauld Place were thin, and it wasn’t hard to hear the muffled voices.

“I didn’t,” Harry shrugged, as though to deflect any blame for Neville’s comment.

Hermione felt her face flush with embarrassment. She hadn’t expected their conversation to reach the others. She opened her mouth to protest, but instead, she just rolled her eyes in resignation. “I’m going to say goodbye to Ginny,” she muttered, standing up abruptly from the table.

Without waiting for a response, Hermione walked out of the room, her movements quick and purposeful. The last thing she wanted was to continue the conversation that was starting to spiral out of control.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Harry turned to Neville, a curious look in his eyes. “Tell me everything,” he asked softly, his voice serious. His words hung in the air, a silent invitation for Neville to share whatever he knew.

------

“Ginny.” Hermione knocked softly on the door, her voice almost hesitant as it echoed in the quiet of the room. She waited for a moment before she slowly pushed the door open.

The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn tight against the morning light. Ginny was lying on the bed, the blanket pulled up to her chin, her face pale and drawn. She looked fragile, her body curled inward as if trying to shield herself from the world.

“Hey,” Ginny’s voice was faint, weak—just a whisper of its usual warmth.

Hermione’s heart clenched at the sight of her friend, but she pushed the worry aside for the moment. She sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb her. She reached over and gently touched Ginny's cheek, her fingers brushing against the cool skin. Ginny flinched slightly, and Hermione’s brow furrowed with concern.

“What happened to you?” Hermione asked, her voice soft, laced with concern. She could feel the coldness of Ginny’s skin under her fingertips, and it sent a chill through her.

“I’ve been vomiting since I woke up,” Ginny mumbled, her voice barely audible. She looked at Hermione with weary eyes. “It’s nothing, though. I’ll be fine after some rest.”

Hermione’s gaze softened, but the concern didn't leave her face. “How can I help you? Did you take any potion to help ease the nausea?”

“I already did,” Ginny replied, her words slow and unsteady. She seemed too tired to explain further. She shifted her position a little, pulling the blanket tighter around her, and then her gaze turned curious, studying Hermione with a faint furrow to her brow. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Just need to sleep it off.”

Hermione sighed, unable to shake the unease that gnawed at her. “Okay, but promise me that if you feel worse, you’ll let me know right away.”

Ginny didn’t respond at first. Instead, her gaze moved slowly from Hermione's face to her clothes, noting the bag she had and the way Hermione seemed so ready to leave. “I can’t.” Ginny’s expression softened, and her voice grew quiet as she spoke, tinged with a deep, knowing sadness. “Cause you’re leaving,” she said, her words more of a statement than a question.

Hermione’s heart sank, and she bit her lower lip, trying to steady her emotions. She couldn’t bear to say the words she knew were coming. The truth felt like a weight in her chest. But she couldn’t lie to Ginny, not now.

“Ginny…” Hermione began, her voice shaking slightly as she struggled to find the right words. “I’m sorry. Umm… we decided to take a break. It’s been hard, and we both need some time… to figure things out. To see where we are, and what we need.”

Ginny’s eyes widened slightly, and she sat up a little straighter, her hands clasping together tightly in her lap. Her fingers curled inward, and Hermione could see the way her friend tried to process the words, trying to hold back the disappointment that threatened to overtake her.

“Oh,” Ginny murmured, her voice low. She stared at her hands for a moment, her thoughts clearly distant, lost in the sudden weight of the news. After a long pause, her gaze lifted, and she met Hermione’s eyes, searching them for the truth. “Was that what you wanted?” she asked softly, a hint of vulnerability in her voice that she didn’t often show.

Hermione’s chest tightened at the question, and she swallowed hard as the tears she had been holding back finally slipped free. She bit her lip, but it didn’t help. The tears came anyway, flowing down her cheeks as she looked away, unable to meet Ginny’s eyes. Her voice broke as she spoke.

“Ginny I—,” she whispered, her throat tight with emotion. “I don’t know what I wanted, but I never thought it would be like this.” The words tumbled out in a rush, tangled with the heartbreak she was trying to hide. The lump in her throat felt like it would never go away. “I never wanted to hurt him. But I need to figure things out. I can’t pretend I have all the answers.”

Ginny’s hands gently reached out, wrapping around Hermione’s trembling ones with surprising strength. Her touch was steady, offering a quiet comfort despite the confusion that hung between them. She squeezed Hermione’s hands, silently offering support in the only way she knew how.

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione whispered again, her voice thick with emotion. She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her jumper, her heart aching with the rawness of the moment. “I didn’t mean any of this.”

Ginny’s expression softened, and she leaned forward, her forehead resting gently against Hermione’s. “Just come back whenever you’re ready, okay?” she said, her voice barely a whisper but full of understanding and unspoken affection. It was a simple request, but one that Hermione knew carried the weight of their shared history, their friendship.

“I will,” Hermione whispered, hugging her tightly, letting the warmth of Ginny’s embrace soak into her. She pulled back slightly to look at Ginny, her voice trembling as she said. “I promise.”

With one last lingering hug, Hermione let go, her heart heavy as she stood up from the bed.

She wiped the last of her tears away and gave Ginny a small, shaky smile before turning to leave. As the door closed softly behind her, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of the journey ahead, the road that was filled with questions and heartache. But for now, she just needed to take one step forward, and hope she could find a way back to herself.

Chapter Text

Hermione stood at the edge of Heathgate Street, her eyes sweeping across the familiar scene before her. It was a small, peaceful street that seemed to stretch on forever, a quiet crossroad tucked away from the chaos of the world. The road stretched in four directions, each lined with neat, ivy-clad houses, their brick façades softened by the creeping embrace of time. At the top of the street, a centuries-old church stood tall, its steeple rising against the clear blue sky, casting a gentle shadow over the cobblestone road. The steady chiming of the bells echoed softly through the air, almost like a lullaby for the soul. It was a place that had always felt safe, as though the very bricks and stones had wrapped themselves around her, protecting her from whatever storms the world had in store.

This was the place Hermione had called home for as long as she could remember—a place where every window, every tree, and every familiar face seemed etched in her memory. She had lived here with her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, and her pet cat, Crookshanks, for many years. Her family home stood on the corner of the street, its door always welcoming, its garden blooming with colorful flowers each spring. She could still recall the comforting smell of her mother’s cooking wafting through the house on lazy Sunday afternoons and the sound of her father’s laughter echoing in the living room.

But that was before. Before everything changed.

It felt like a lifetime ago that she had left this home, torn from the safety of the life she had known. It seemed so distant now, the memory of it almost faded, like a half-remembered dream. She had left in the dead of night, with little more than a rucksack, determination, and an unwavering sense of purpose. The weight of the world had been on her shoulders then, and still, it lingered. She had no idea when—or if—she would return. The thought of it had felt impossible at the time.

Her mission to hunt down and destroy Voldemort's Horcruxes had taken her far from this place, dragging her through the most dangerous and unpredictable corners of the world. The burden had been immense, and the losses along the way had scarred her in ways she was only now beginning to understand. Yet, in her heart, this street had always been a quiet refuge, a place where everything made sense before the darkness descended.

When Hermione had cast the memory charm on her parents, she had known it was the only way to keep them safe. The charm had erased their memories of her, ensuring they would be safe from the Death Eaters who were hunting anyone associated with Harry and the others.

She had sent them far away, to Australia, far from the reach of Voldemort's followers, and though she had told herself it was for the best, the ache of separation had been unbearable.

And now, after everything, after the destruction of Voldemort, the Granger family had returned. Hermione had restored their memories with the flick of her wand, and the flood of recollections had come rushing back to her parents, overwhelming them as they realized what their daughter had endured in their absence.

Even though everything had unfolded in Australia, it had taken them longer than expected to return home. The journey back had been slow, filled with delays, unspoken fears, and the weight of everything that had happened. For Hermione, the thought of stepping foot back in their house—back into the life she had left behind—felt suffocating.

But standing here now, with the quiet hum of the street around her, Hermione felt a strange sense of peace. It was as if she had come full circle, though she knew, deep down, that things would never be the same. The world had changed, and so had she. But this street, this home, would always hold a place in her heart, a reminder of the girl she used to be before the war, before the pain, before the burdens.

The breeze picked up, ruffling her hair, and for a moment, Hermione simply stood there, taking it all in—the stillness, the memories, the weight of everything that had led her back here. It was almost as though, after all the chaos and fear, this was her moment of stillness, her moment to breathe again, to find her place in the world that had somehow moved on without her.

“It’s been a while,” Hermione muttered to herself, her voice barely audible. The words hung in the air, but they couldn’t capture the depth of the pain in her chest. She stood in front of the house, her heart beating in her throat as she took in the familiar sight. She hesitated for a moment, as if unsure of what would happen once she crossed the threshold.

But the doubt was fleeting, and she took a deep, shaky breath. She raised her hand and knocked three times, each sound echoing in her chest like a soft thud of her pulse.

The silence that followed was brief but heavy, and then the familiar sound of her mother’s voice called out, filled with a worried tone. “Who is it?”

“Mum?” she replied, her voice a fragile whisper.

The door swung open without warning, and before Hermione could react, her mother rushed forward. There was no hesitation, no question—just warmth and a desperate longing to hold her daughter once more. Her mother’s arms wrapped around her in an embrace that felt like it could erase the years of absence.

“My dear girl, my lovely baby,” her mother’s voice trembled, filled with a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming joy. “Welcome back.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat, and suddenly, she couldn’t stop the tears. They flowed down her cheeks, unchecked, as if her heart had been holding back all the pain and love she had kept hidden for so long. She clung to her mother.

“I’m here, Mum. I wanted to see you. I missed you,” Hermione choked out, her words trembling as her body shook with emotion.

She closed her eyes tightly, trying to steady herself, but when she opened them again, she saw him—her father. He was standing just behind her mother, and his face, usually so steady and composed, was now streaked with tears. His eyes locked with hers, full of love and wonder.

“Hello, Dad,” Hermione managed to say, her voice cracking under the weight of the emotion she couldn’t quite control.

In an instant, her father stepped forward, his arms open wide, and with one swift motion, he enveloped them both in a tight embrace. The warmth of his touch, the steady rhythm of his heart beating against hers, was something Hermione had forgotten in the years of fighting, hiding, and surviving.

It was as though time had stood still, and for a moment, everything was right again. She was back home. Surrounded by the love of the people who had always been there for her.

------

Hermione’s bedroom was located on the first floor, tucked away in the corner of the house. As she stepped inside, the familiar scent of the room hit her like a wave. It was a mixture of roses and the soft, worn fabric of her old books. But the room felt so foreign now, so distant. The bed, once neatly made with soft quilts and bright sheets, now lay untouched, as if time had frozen. The desk, scattered with scribbled notes and half-finished projects, sat in the corner, just as she remembered. The two bookcases that lined the walls, packed with well-loved volumes, still stood like sentinels, guarding the stories she had poured over countless times. The nightstand, with its chipped wooden surface and the small, delicate lamp, seemed almost like a memory of the person she used to be. Even the noticeboard, still covered with postcards and photos of her friends, seemed like a relic from a past life.

But everything, despite being exactly as she had left it, felt eerily cold. So cold that the chill crept into her bones. The warmth of home had been replaced with an emptiness she couldn’t shake. She felt as though the room itself was no longer hers, that it had been abandoned by the person she had been before the war. She shivered as she crossed the threshold, her breath catching in her throat. The walls, once a comfort, now seemed to close in around her, as though reminding her of everything that had changed.

Hermione sighed deeply, the weight of everything pressing down on her chest. She slowly sank onto the edge of the bed, her fingers brushing the worn fabric of the sheets, which no longer felt familiar. Her heart ached, and she pulled her knees up to her chest, curling into herself as if trying to hold together the fragments of who she used to be. She closed her eyes tightly, shutting out the world, but Ron’s voice—the last words he had spoken to her before everything fell apart—echoed in her mind.

Everything’s changed.

His words repeated relentlessly, a cruel reminder of the truth she had tried to bury. The weight of their shared pain hung in the air, suffocating her. She had never wanted to admit it to herself, but now, in the quiet of her childhood room, the truth was undeniable. They had been torn apart—by the decisions they had made, by the things they had seen and done. And now, she was left to pick up the pieces, though she had no idea where to even begin.

Her heart felt hollow, drained of the warmth it had once held. The love she had clung to, the hope for a future, now felt so far away. She wanted to believe that time would heal the wounds, but with each passing day, it seemed more and more unlikely. The weight of her own uncertainty pressed down on her, and she felt as though she were sinking into the bed, into the very foundation of this place that was supposed to be home but now only reminded her of what had been lost.

“Hermione?” Her mother’s soft voice, tentative and concerned, broke through the fog of her thoughts. Hermione blinked, trying to focus as she sat up, wiping her eyes hastily. She hadn’t realized how long she had been sitting there, lost in the storm of her mind.

“Are you okay?” Her mother stepped closer, her gaze filled with a quiet concern that tugged at Hermione’s heart.

“Yeah, don’t worry,” Hermione murmured, offering her mother a faint, tired smile. For now, it was all Hermione could give.

Her mother, without another word, stepped into the room and held out her hand. “Come downstairs, my dear. I made you some tea.”

The warmth in her mother’s voice, the offer of comfort, was a balm to Hermione’s raw heart. She took her mother’s hand, feeling the steady, reassuring grip, and allowed herself to be led down the stairs. They walked arm in arm, a quiet solidarity between them, as they made their way into the living room. The familiar creak of the wooden stairs beneath her feet was strangely soothing, like a lullaby she hadn’t realized she missed.

In the living room, the fire crackled softly in the hearth, the flickering flames casting gentle shadows across the room. The smell of tea, sweet and earthy, filled the air. For a moment, it was enough. She didn’t have to talk, didn’t have to explain the turmoil inside her. The warmth of her mother’s presence, the familiar comfort of home, was a small solace in a world that had shifted beneath her feet.

Hermione sank into one of the armchairs by the fire, her fingers absently tracing the edges of her teacup. She wasn’t sure what would come next, but for now, at this moment, she was home.

Mrs. Granger sipped her tea, watching her daughter with calm eyes that had grown used to waiting for Hermione to speak when she was ready.

“Mum?” Hermione said quietly.

“Yes, love?”

She hesitated. “I’ve never really asked, not properly. About… after I restored your memories. About you and Dad. Are you… are you really okay?”

She set her mug down gently and reached across the table, resting her hand over Hermione’s. Her grip was warm and steady.

“We’re more than okay, sweetheart,” she said. “It was confusing at first, of course. But the moment we saw you—truly saw you—it all made sense again.”

Hermione’s throat tightened.

“We had a few months of feeling like strangers in our own home,” she continued. “But it wasn’t frightening. It was like… reading a book you'd loved as a child and slowly remembering all the best parts. Your father started gardening again. I went back to the clinic. And we found our rhythm. Together.”

Hermione blinked hard, biting the inside of her cheek.

“Again, I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Her mother’s brows furrowed. “You gave us back everything that mattered. Our memories. Our daughter. Our life.” She squeezed Hermione’s hand.

Hermione nodded slowly, her heart a little lighter.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re allowed to be our daughter again now, you know,” she said, teasing gently. “Not just the brightest witch of your age.”

Hermione smiled, eyes shining. “I think I’d like that.”

“Purr.”

The soft, familiar sound broke the conversation, drawing Hermione’s attention. She turned her head toward the source, her weary eyes landing on a small, shadowed corner of the room.

There, curled up with his tail flicking lazily, was Crookshanks.

A warmth spread through her chest at the sight of her loyal companion. Without thinking, she reached out and gently patted her lap, an unspoken invitation. “Come here, you grumpy thing.”

Crookshanks didn’t hesitate. With a graceful yet clumsy hop, he landed in her lap, his tail swishing as he settled in. Immediately, he began grooming himself, his rough tongue working through his long, messy fur, completely unbothered by the world around him.

Hermione let out a soft chuckle and ran her fingers down his arched back. His purring grew louder, a deep, rhythmic hum of contentment vibrating against her palm. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sound soothe her, grounding her in a rare moment of peace.

The moment she opened her eyes, they met her mother’s. Mrs. Granger was sitting across from her, her face a study of concern.

"Where are you staying these days?" her mother asked, her voice gentle but edged with an unspoken worry.

Hermione took another sip, letting the warmth comfort her as she tried to steady her breath. She licked her dry lips before speaking, as if the words themselves would be too hard to form without her careful preparation.

"Same safe house we stayed in during the war," she replied, her voice quieter than she intended.

Mrs. Granger nodded, though she looked like she was about to ask more, her lips parting slightly before she stopped herself. “How are the others?” she asked instead, her tone a little softer, though still tinged with concern.

Hermione exhaled, the weight of the question pulling her deeper into her own thoughts. She set the teacup down gently.

"Recovering," she said after a long pause, her voice strained with the effort of keeping it together. "Harry... Harry is still having trouble sleeping. It’s not just the nightmares about Voldemort anymore, but about the people we’ve lost. Our friends, our families…" Her voice wavered, and she quickly swallowed, unable to keep the tremor from her words. She cleared her throat, trying to push the tightness away.

She took a moment to steady herself, her heart beating in her throat. “Ron is…” She blinked rapidly, trying to push back the tears that were suddenly close to the surface. “He’s mourning Fred. He’s lost. We all are.” Her voice cracked, and she paused, struggling to find the strength to continue.

Her mother’s face softened with understanding, her eyes turning sympathetic, but there was a sadness there too. She sighed, the corners of her mouth turning downward, her expression pained yet full of empathy. "We will get through this too, my dear," she said, her voice rich with the quiet strength of someone who had endured their own struggles. "Just be with the ones you love. Anything is possible when you have the right people there to support you."

Hermione’s throat tightened at her mother’s words. She felt a rush of emotion swell inside her chest, but she quickly suppressed it, pushing it down as best she could. She pulled her sweater sleeves up to her fingers, the soft fabric an anchor she could cling to as she spoke again, her voice shaking slightly.

"I am with the ones I love," she said, her voice soft but firm, although her eyes betrayed the uncertainty she still felt. She met her mother’s gaze, a hint of hesitation in her own eyes.

"We’re just…" Her breath quickened as she searched for the right words, her chest tightening with each one she spoke. She closed her eyes briefly, struggling to find the strength to continue. "We needed some time apart, with Ron," she finally whispered, her voice barely more than a broken breath. The tears, so close to the surface, pressed against her eyelids, but she fought them back, too afraid of letting herself fully unravel in front of her mother. “I took a break from work. Just a few weeks. No meetings, no owls. I just… realized I’ve been so busy fixing everything else, I haven’t looked after myself. I needed to breathe.”

Her mother’s expression shifted. Her face softened, and for a moment, she said nothing, just watched Hermione with the gentle patience of someone who knew this was not a simple answer.

Then, Mrs. Granger leaned forward, her face filled with a tender understanding that made Hermione feel like a child again, needing comfort. She slowly stood, moving closer to Hermione, and placed both her hands on her daughter’s face, her touch warm and steady.

Without a word, she began to gently stroke Hermione’s hair, running her fingers through the strands, as if trying to soothe away the tension she could feel in every inch of Hermione’s being. Her touch was so calming, so familiar, that Hermione felt a small part of the heavy burden she had been carrying start to lighten. But even in the warmth of her mother’s embrace, the ache in her heart remained.

"I'm so sorry about that," her mother whispered, her voice barely audible. “Take some time. The world will wait.”

Chapter Text

"Wolfrey!" The name ripped through the air, a furious snarl from a man cloaked in shadow. His black robes billowed as he stepped forward, his voice laced with venom.

A pale gentleman stiffened, his entire body quivering as if caught in an icy wind. His wide, sunken eyes darted nervously, his breath shallow. "Y-Yes, s-sir?" he stammered, dread pooling in his stomach.

The cloaked man took a menacing step closer, his masked face mere inches away. "Haven't you found them yet?!" His voice was a razor, slicing through the tension with unrestrained fury.

Wolfrey swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "I—I know where the mudblood is, sir." His voice was barely above a whisper, fear gripping his throat.

The man’s eyes, burning with rage behind the mask, narrowed into slits. "Then what in hell are you waiting for?!" he roared, his words echoing through the dimly lit chamber. The sheer force of his anger sent a shudder through Wolfrey’s bones.

Without another word, Wolfrey vanished into the darkness.

------

Hermione lay curled up on the couch, lost in the depths of an uneasy sleep. Her fingers still clutched the book she had been reading, its worn pages slightly crumpled beneath her grip. Sleep has become a rare luxury these past few weeks. No matter how tired she felt, lying in her own bed left her restless, staring at the ceiling as if the darkness itself were whispering troubles into her ears. The couch, oddly enough, had become her only solace—though even here, peace was fleeting.

The house was silent, save for the soft rustle of wind outside. But then—

The doorknob twisted.

Slow. Deliberate.

Hermione’s subconscious stirred. A faint creak echoed through the dimly lit living room. Then another.

Five figures in flowing black robes slipped inside like shadows, their movements soundless, their faces obscured by masks.

"I can smell it," one of them murmured in a hushed voice.

A flicker of awareness pulled Hermione from her sleep. Something was wrong. The hair on her arms stood on end, her instincts screaming danger. For a split second, she remained still, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

Then, without hesitation, she pressed a trembling hand to her lips and whispered a concealing charm. A faint shimmer rippled through the air, masking her parents from sight.

She barely had time to reach beneath her pillow for her wand when—

"That's her," a voice whispered, a sinister edge to the words. A dark figure began closing in. "Petrificus Totalus!"

The incantation rang through the room like a crack of thunder.

A flash of light. A sudden, paralyzing force.

Hermione's body locked in place as though she had been encased in stone. She gasped silently, her chest tightening as a fiery sensation spread through her limbs. Panic gripped her.

She tried to move, to reach for her wand, to fight back—but her muscles refused to obey.

Her mind screamed. Her parents. Were they safe?

Her eyes were the only part of her body that still belonged to her. Her vision swam with dark figures, their cloaks shifting like living shadows as they prowled through the house.

"Let's get her," one of them muttered.

Rough hands seized her arms, yanking her up with effortless strength. The room spun as they dragged her toward the door, her legs dragging uselessly behind her.

Hermione wanted to fight. To thrash, to claw, to break free—but she was trapped in her own body, a prisoner within herself. Her lungs burned, her thoughts raced. There had to be a way out—there had to be—

A sudden whoosh of magic.

A sharp, cold force struck her skull, sending an explosion of darkness across her vision.

------

A sharp, shrill ringing filled Hermione’s ears, a relentless screech that seemed to shake her skull from the inside. A dull, pounding ache settled in the back of her head as she forced her heavy eyelids to open. The world swam before her in murky shadows, her vision blurred, disoriented.

The air smelled of damp stone and iron. It carried the scent of something far worse—something metallic and bitter. Blood.

As her senses gradually returned, she became aware of the tightness constricting her chest. Thick, rough ropes wrapped around her torso and stomach, pinning her to a hard wooden chair. Another set bound her wrists behind the backrest, the coarse fibers digging into her skin. She tested them, tugging slightly, but the knots only tightened.

Her heart pounded in her throat.

Then—the door creaked open.

The sound scraped through the silence like nails on glass. Footsteps followed, slow and deliberate, echoing against the stone walls. Hermione forced herself to raise her head, the weight of exhaustion dragging at her every movement. A tall silhouette stood before her, motionless, watching.

She swallowed, her throat dry and sore. “Who the hell are you?” Her voice came out hoarse, weaker than she would have liked.

The man let out a low, amused chuckle, the sound dripping with mockery. “All Gryffindors must be the same,” he mused. “I'm convinced.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “What do you want?”

“Oh.” He stepped forward, looming over her. “Now you have my attention, Mudblood.”

He reached out, fingers ghosting over her tangled curls, tucking a stray lock behind her ear with deliberate slowness. Hermione recoiled, her breath hitching.

“Or should I call you golden girl right now?” His voice dipped lower, breath fanning against her skin as he leaned in. “Huh? Would you like that?”

A sickening shiver ran down her spine. She squeezed her eyes shut, every muscle in her body tensing. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

Then, suddenly—

“Wolfrey!”

The man straightened immediately, turning toward the doorway. Hermione opened her eyes, blinking through the lingering haze. Another figure stood on the threshold, barely visible in the dim light.

Wolfrey stepped forward, his presence less imposing but still shrouded in the same black cloak. “Did you find it?” the second man asked, impatience crackling in his tone.

Wolfrey chuckled, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. “I just started.”

“We have no time, you arsehole. Leave it to me.” The second man shoved Wolfrey aside and strode into the room, his dark eyes locking onto Hermione’s.

She held her breath.

The man approached slowly, his shadow stretching over her like a creeping hand of darkness. He leaned forward, tilting his head slightly.

“Now, girl,” he murmured, his voice quiet but laced with menace. “Tell me where the book is.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed. “What book?”

“Don’t act like Potter doesn’t have it.” His tone hardened. “Now come on, tell me.”

Hermione clenched her jaw. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man’s lips curled upward, barely visible beneath the shadows of his mask. He exhaled slowly. “Now let’s try this again.”

He circled her chair, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor. “How many of you are staying at the Black Family’s house?”

Hermione’s stomach twisted.

Her pulse spiked, but she kept her face neutral. “How can you be so sure we stay there?” she asked carefully.

The man let out a low chuckle. “Oh, you Gryffindors,” he mused. “Always so predictable.” He leaned in slightly. “Don’t you?”

She lowered her gaze, staring at her lap. “I’m telling the truth. I don’t know what you’re looking for. But I know one thing. You’re never going to get what you want.”

He straightened with an exasperated sigh. “So tell me, girl,” he said, his voice suddenly lighthearted. “What should we do then?”

His boots scraped against the floor as he walked around her chair, slow and deliberate. “Oh, let’s have some fun, shall we?”

A violent shiver wracked her body.

“Answer me, Mudblood!” he roared.

Hermione gasped, her body flinching instinctively. She squeezed her eyes shut, her breath hitching.

“No?” The humor in his voice vanished.

“Okay then.”

His wand was out in an instant, its tip pressing sharply against her collarbone. His lips barely moved as he murmured—

"Crucio!"

The pain struck like a lightning bolt to her spine.

A searing heat flooded her veins, burning like molten lava beneath her skin. Her nerves ignited, each one an unbearable pulse of agony. The pain was relentless, spreading outward in waves, a tsunami of pure suffering. Her chest constricted, air escaping her lungs in a strangled, broken scream.

She barely had time to process the first wave before the next curse tore through her.

"Crucio!"

Her body convulsed violently, her limbs twitching against the restraints. Every muscle screamed in protest, her bones feeling as though they would shatter from the sheer force of the curse. The chair beneath her dug into her spine, unmoving, unforgiving.

No one was going to stop him. No one was coming to save her.

So the torture continued.

The screams had stopped at some point, replaced by ragged gasps and choked sobs.

Hermione barely registered the blood pooling beneath her, trickling from the corners of her mouth, dripping from her ears. The pain blurred into one endless, agonizing sensation, drowning her in its grip.

Her vision swam.

A sharp, stabbing pressure slammed into her chest.

His wand pressed harder, its tip digging into her sternum. A spell left his lips, unfamiliar and menacing. A crimson beam shot from his wand, searing into her heart like a branding iron.

A strangled moan tore from her lips, her body trembling violently.

"Sir?"

A distant, muffled voice.

The man stilled, wand still pressing against her chest. Hermione flinched at the sound of her own ragged breaths, her lungs struggling for air.

A heavy silence.

“Wolfrey,” the man murmured darkly. “If this isn’t urgent, you know I’m going to use the Killing Curse on you, right?”

Wolfrey hesitated. “It is indeed urgent, sir.”

The room froze.

The man’s grip on his wand faltered. His shoulders stiffened, his breath sharpening. Without another word, he turned and stormed out of the room, his cloak billowing behind him.

The door slammed shut.

Hermione let her head fall forward, her entire body wracked with pain. She gasped for breath, each inhale sharp and shallow, as if her lungs had forgotten how to work properly. The agony seared through her body, throbbing in every inch of her skin, her muscles aching with a relentless burn. A wave of nausea rolled over her, her stomach twisting violently, and for a brief moment, she wondered if her skull might crack open from the sheer force of the pain radiating inside her head.

Darkness tugged at the edges of her vision.

She slipped into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

When she came to her senses, they returned in jagged pieces—first the deafening, high-pitched ringing in her ears, then the distant, muted echoes of voices beyond the walls.

Her body felt disconnected, like it no longer belonged to her, but the dull ache in her limbs and the raw, stinging pain in her throat from screaming told her otherwise.

Her hands tingled—prickling with sharp pins and needles as blood rushed back into her fingers. She blinked against the haze clouding her vision, but her swollen eyelids barely parted. All she could make out was the sliver of dim, flickering light leaking in from the doorway.

She waited.

Seconds stretched into minutes.

Maybe someone would come. Maybe someone would find her.

But no one did.

A sickening realization settled in her chest like a stone. No one was coming.

She had to get out. She had to find her family. She had to warn Harry.

Hermione’s eyes darted around the room, searching desperately for something—anything—that could help. But there was nothing. Just her. Just the chair.

The chair.

She shifted her weight slightly, testing the strength of the wooden frame beneath her. It creaked faintly. Her bound hands twitched, fingers curling around the backrest, feeling the uneven texture of the aged wood.

This could work.

Bracing herself, she rocked her body forward, shifting her balance. The chair tilted with her, the legs groaning under the sudden pressure. She rocked again, harder this time. The ropes dug painfully into her arms and torso, but she gritted her teeth and ignored the sting.

Creak.

Again.

Creak.

She could feel it giving way.

Then—

Crack!

One of the legs splintered.

Before she could react, the chair buckled completely beneath her, the wooden frame shattering against the stone floor with a violent crash. Hermione hit the ground hard, pain lancing through her shoulder as she landed in the wreckage.

Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps.

She gritted her teeth, twisting against the broken remains of the chair. With a surge of adrenaline, she maneuvered herself onto her side, her fingers fumbling blindly against the jagged edges of the splintered wood. The ropes had loosened slightly in the fall, just enough to create some slack.

Ignoring the fire burning in her limbs, she pulled—tugged—wrenched.

The fibers tore.

Her wrists were free.

Heart hammering in her chest, Hermione pushed herself up, wincing at the stabbing pain shooting through her ribs. There was no time to dwell on it. She staggered toward the door, each step a struggle, her legs trembling beneath her.

The moment she stepped out, the sudden flood of light assaulted her senses. She squeezed her eyes shut, momentarily blinded, the world spinning around her.

She forced herself forward.

The corridor stretched ahead—long, lined with towering stone walls that felt oppressively close. The cold air bit at her skin as she leaned against the nearest wall for support. Her fingers pressed into the rough, uneven surface, smearing it with something warm and wet.

Blood. Her own. She was leaving a trail.

Panic clawed at her chest, but she shoved it down. She had to move. She had to keep going. Her head swam with dizziness, the pain screaming through every nerve in her body. But she didn’t stop.

Her fingers brushed against something. A handle.

She froze.

From the other side of the door, muffled voices filtered through.

“Why didn’t you just take Potter, you coward? I said bring Potter and we will get the book!”

Hermione held her breath.

“Sir, this is an easier and more precise option. Trust me.”

“Trusting you?” The voice was sharp, venomous. “And who are you?”

A low, strangled sound filled the air—a choked gasp of pain.

Hermione clenched her jaw. She forced herself to step back, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths.

She had to keep moving.

The hallway stretched before her, endless and unfamiliar. But then—she saw it.

The exit.

A set of massive double doors loomed at the far end of the corridor, framed by tall, ornate columns. The sight sent a fresh wave of determination coursing through her.

She forced her legs to move faster, ignoring the stabbing pain that shot through her bones with every step. Each movement was agony, but she pushed through, her breath ragged.

She kept running.

The doors loomed closer.

That was it. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

Free.

As soon as Hermione stumbled outside, the warm air brushed against her bruised skin, a stark contrast to the icy, suffocating darkness of the prison she had just escaped. The fresh scent of damp earth and leaves filled her aching lungs, but breathing was still a struggle.

Every gasp came sharp and ragged, like knives slicing through her throat.

Her legs trembled beneath her, muscles screaming in agony with every movement, but she forced herself to run. She had no choice. The pain no longer mattered—she had to keep going.

She plunged into the thick forest ahead, branches clawing at her skin, the ground uneven and treacherous beneath her battered feet. Shadows stretched and twisted between the trees, and though the blood dripping her head obscured her path, she didn’t dare slow down. The only sound was the frantic pounding of her heartbeat and the rustling leaves in her wake.

The air was heavy, thick with moisture, and an eerie fog curled low to the ground, swallowing the undergrowth. Hermione’s steps faltered as she slowed, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession. She turned her head, trying to make sense of where she was, but the landscape was unfamiliar. Everything looked the same—endless trees, thick mist, pressing in from all sides.

Then she heard a sound.

A sharp squeak.

Fear shot through her like lightning, electrifying her blood. Her body froze, her breath caught in her throat.

Silence.

Then, another noise—a slow, grating creak.

Her heart pounded violently against her ribcage. Someone was here.

Hermione didn’t wait to find out who. She turned sharply and bolted to the left, her body acting on pure survival instinct. Her vision blurred as she ran blindly, branches tearing at her arms, her own pulse roaring in her ears. She had no idea where she was going—all that mattered was getting away.

However, her foot caught on something solid. A jagged rock.

Her body pitched forward, and before she could brace for impact, she hit the forest floor hard. The ground was damp and unforgiving, and the sharp sting of freshly torn skin on her knees and palms barely registered. A searing pain shot through her ankle, but the warmth of blood pooling around her feet was merely a distant sensation—her body had already endured so much agony that it barely felt real anymore.

“Who is that?” She heard a male voice from afar. Hermione’s blood ran cold.

Footsteps. Getting closer.

Panic exploded in her chest, and she slapped a trembling hand over her mouth, forcing herself to suppress her ragged breathing. She pressed herself against the earth, barely daring to blink.

The footsteps stopped.

Hermione shut her eyes firmly, her entire body rigid. Praying it to go away.

A long moment passed. Then the footsteps receded.

She exhaled shakily, her lungs burning. Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim light seeping through the fog. Relief barely had time to settle before something cold and solid pressed against the center of her back.

A wand.

"Get up."

Hermione's breath caught. That voice—It couldn’t be.

“…Malfoy?”

The pressure of the wand lifted slightly.

"Granger?"

Her body trembled as she slowly turned over onto her side, her wide, tear-streaked eyes locking onto his.

Draco Malfoy stood before her, his expression rigid with disbelief. He was dressed in a black matte cloak, but beneath it, she could see a fitted gray and black suit, the fabric pristine and elegant. The muted gray matched the stormy color of his sharp, watchful eyes, which flickered with something unreadable. His hair was slightly darker than before, though still carrying that distinct silver-blond hue. His features were as sharp as ever—angular, refined, unreadable.

He stared at her, his brow furrowed in surprise, confusion tightening his posture.

“What the hell happened to you?” His voice was lower than usual, hesitant. “And what in Merlin’s name are you doing here?”

Hermione's eyes welled with tears, the weight of everything crashing down on her all at once. Her entire body shook, but she forced herself to reach out, her weak fingers clutching the fabric of his cloak as if he were the last solid thing keeping her tethered to reality.

“Malfoy, wait—” Her voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. She swallowed, desperate to steady herself. “My parents. I need to see them—I need to—” Her words broke off into a ragged gasp. “They’re in danger.”

Draco's mouth parted slightly, as if he had a dozen questions, but before he could speak— Hermione's body gave out.

Her knees buckled, her vision swam, and the world around her dissolved into a spinning blur.

"Granger!"

Draco caught her just before her head hit the ground, his arms wrapping around her limp form.

His pulse pounded beneath his skin.

Footsteps approached swiftly.

"Draco?"

Narcissa Malfoy emerged from the fog, her wand still gripped tightly in one hand, the other balancing a small woven basket filled with freshly gathered herbs. Her eyes widened in alarm as they landed on the unconscious girl in Draco’s arms.

“What’s happening here?” Her voice was edged with unease, her gaze flicking between Draco and the girl with wary suspicion. When she recognised it was Granger who her son was holding, Narcissa pressed a hand to her mouth, the color draining from her face. “Is she—”

She hesitated. “Is she—dead?”

Draco barely heard her. He was already lowering himself to the ground, cradling Hermione’s fragile body, checking her pulse with careful precision. His jaw tightened.

“She’s alive,” he muttered, his tone grim. “But she’s weak.”

Narcissa stood still, her elegant features shadowed with worry. “What are we going to do?”

Draco didn’t answer right away. His eyes narrowed as he examined her battered face. Then, with a sharp inhale, he stood, lifting her effortlessly into his arms.

“We take her.” His voice was steady, certain.

Narcissa let out a shaky breath only for a second before nodding in agreement.

With a loud crack, they vanished.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy stood motionless before the Grangers’ front door, his breath curling into the cold air. He never imagined himself standing here, of all places, seeking out the parents of Hermione Granger—the very girl he once belittled.

"I guess things change," he murmured under his breath, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to shake off the unease curling in his stomach.

Taking a deep breath, he rapped his knuckles against the door. The sound echoed into the stillness of the place. Nothing.

Frowning, he leaned in, pressing his ear against the wooden surface. There were hurried movements inside. He knocked again, this time louder, just to make sure they heard him.

Again silence.

Draco sighed. “Mr. and Mrs. Granger?” His voice was firm but not forceful.

A long pause. Then, the door creaked open just a fraction—just enough for Draco to see the gleam of metal aimed at his chest.

“Don’t you dare take another step, boy,” Mr. Granger warned, his grip steady on the gun.

Draco instinctively stepped back, hands slowly raising in surrender.

“Whoa, okay,” he said cautiously. “You misunderstood. I—I’m not here to hurt you.”

Mr. Granger’s finger hovered over the trigger. “Then why are you here?”

Draco hesitated. He hadn’t prepared for this. How did he explain? What words would make them trust him?

“I…” His mouth felt dry. He had never been good at this. He had to say something. “I’m her friend.”

Mr. Granger narrowed his eyes. “Friend?”

Draco swallowed hard. He also didn't believe what he had just said but kept going, “I’m Draco.”

“Draco…?”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second before deciding that lying wouldn’t help. “Draco Malfoy.”

The shift in the air was immediate. Mr. Granger’s grip on the gun tightened, his stance rigid.

“A Malfoy?” His voice was laced with distrust. The door creaked open just a little more, enough for Draco to see his face—a face twisted with wary anger. The gun was now directly aimed at his heart.

“Hey, hey,” Draco said, lifting his hands higher. “Look, I get it. You have every reason not to trust me, but I swear, I’m not here for any trouble.”

“Stop,” a voice called from behind Mr. Granger.

Mrs. Granger stepped forward, her expression softer but filled with concern. She studied Draco’s face intently, and to his surprise, she didn’t look as distrustful as her husband. “He’s harmless,” she said quietly.

Her gaze flickered between them before she gently reached for the gun, easing it from her husband’s grasp.

Draco let out a slow breath, his heart still pounding. He wasn’t sure how she knew of him, or why she chose to believe him, but he wasn’t about to question it.

“Where is Hermione? Is she okay?” Mr. Granger demanded, stepping forward.

“She’s safe,” Draco said, his voice firm. “But we don’t have time for this. You both might be in danger. You need to come with me to a safe house. Gather only what you need.”

Mrs. Granger didn’t hesitate, immediately turning to grab a bag and stuff essentials into it.

Mr. Granger, however, stood still, his eyes locked onto Draco.

“Where exactly is she?” he asked, suspicion still lacing his voice.

Draco exhaled through his nose. “She’s hurt. She is fine, but she needs rest. You’ll see her soon, I promise.”

The older man’s lips thinned, as if weighing his options, before finally giving a curt nod.

Without another word, he turned to help his wife pack.

------

After the war, Draco Malfoy disappeared from the eyes that had watched him with pity and hatred.

There was a place. A house tucked far away from here, where even owls would hesitate before flying. It was enchanted and almost forgotten—a small stone cottage warded with layers of silent protection magic that only two people in the world knew about: Draco and his mother.

It wasn’t luxurious like Malfoy Manor. The floors creaked. The fireplace smoked if you didn’t stoke it properly. The kitchen was little more than a hearth and a battered wooden table. But it was quiet. A place to disappear and listen to himself breathe.

Some nights he sat in the armchair, wrapped in silence, letting the wind beat against the windows like an old friend. He read. He wrote long letters he never sent. He let the guilt come in quiet waves, instead of the crushing avalanche it usually was.

Some mornings he woke before sunrise, barefoot on the cold floor, and watched the mist roll over the hills. There were no portraits judging him, no house-elves peeking in, no family legacy pressing against his spine like a spine of steel. Just the smell of earth and rain.

He wasn’t healing, exactly. He didn’t even know what that meant yet.

But in that hidden house, for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy wasn’t performing for anyone. He wasn’t defending himself. He just was.

And that was enough.

The moment they stepped inside, he motioned to the space around them.

“You have everything you need here. Food, water, protective charms. Stay inside and don’t open the door for anyone—not until you see me.”

Mrs. Granger, still holding her bag, gave him a searching look. “And what about you?”

Draco hesitated at the door, fingers gripping the handle. He didn’t have time to stay. “I’ll check in,” he said.

Draco hesitated for a moment, his mind was racing with everything that had happened in the past few hours. He had already done more than he ever thought he would, but there was still one more thing he needed to know.

He turned back toward Mrs. Granger, his expression unreadable. “And Mrs. Granger?”

She looked up from where she was adjusting a few things on the table. “Yes?”

“Do you know where Potter is staying?”

Mrs. Granger’s brows knitted together in concern, her fingers stilling on the fabric of a scarf she had been folding. Her gaze flickered to her husband briefly before she turned back to Draco.

“Hermione mentioned something before,” she said carefully, as if choosing her words. “She said they were using the same safe house they stayed in during the war.”

Draco processed her words, nodding slightly.

"Mrow."

Draco froze. His brows furrowed as he turned his head toward the unexpected sound. "What was that?" he asked, his voice laced with both curiosity and mild suspicion.

Hermione’s mother, who had been tidying up nearby, barely spared him a glance. "Oh, that’s Crookshanks."

Draco blinked. "What?"

Another muffled noise came from a closed box in the corner. A faint rustling followed, along with a distinct thump against the side.

"The cat," Mrs. Granger clarified, nodding toward the box. "Can you let him out?"

Draco sighed dramatically but stepped forward, unlatching the box. As soon as he lifted the flap, a blur of ginger fur leapt out. Crookshanks landed gracefully on the floor, shook himself vigorously, and then sat down—his bottle-brush tail curling neatly around his paws.

Beady yellow eyes locked onto Draco.

Draco narrowed his own eyes in response.

"Ugly thing," he muttered.

Crookshanks let out a low, unimpressed "Hrrmph" and continued staring at him, clearly unbothered.

As he turned to leave, Mrs. Granger suddenly reached for his arm, stopping him. “Wait.”

He glanced back, surprised by the urgency in her tone.

She held out a wand. “Take this to her, actually the cat found it,” she said softly.

Draco took it carefully, he curled his fingers around it and nodded. “I will.”

Mrs. Granger’s lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say more, but instead, she simply whispered, “Thank you boy.”

As he disappeared, the weight of everything he had done—everything he was doing—settled in his chest. He still didn’t know why the hell he was helping after all the years of hatred but it was happening anyway.

Chapter Text

“Draco?” Narcissa’s voice was soft but laced with worry as she heard his footsteps returning. “What did you do?”

“I got it all under control, mother. Don’t worry.” Draco’s tone was composed, but there was an underlying exhaustion in his voice.

Narcissa exhaled a long breath, relief flooding her features.

“How is she?”

“She’s recovering. I reached out to one of our previous healers to check her injuries.”

“Can I see her?”

“She’s still sleeping.” Narcissa’s voice lowered slightly, as if unwilling to disturb the peace that had settled over the house.

Draco nodded, and without another word, turned and made his way toward the guest room. The door was slightly ajar, and he hesitated for a moment before pushing it open just enough to take a peek inside.

The room was dimly lit, the glow from a single candle casting flickering shadows against the walls. Hermione lay motionless on the bed, her chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. A few healing potions sat on the nightstand beside her. A soft, thick blanket covered her from neck to toe, shielding her from the chill air.

Draco stepped inside, his movements careful and silent. He sat on the chair beside the bed and sank into it, letting his gaze wander over her face.

Granger… she looked different like this. Peaceful. Vulnerable.

Her wild curls spilled across the pillow, framing her face in golden-brown waves. The soft candlelight accentuated the gentle curve of her cheekbones, the delicate bridge of her nose, and the fullness of her lips. He never really noticed before, but she had long lashes—longer than he would have expected.

His eyes traveled downward as Hermione shifted slightly, pulling the blanket down from her neck to her chest in her sleep. For a brief moment, Draco thought she had woken up, and he held his breath, waiting. But she remained still, lost in unconsciousness.

Then his gaze landed on her chest.

A dark bruise, deep purple and ominous, marred her skin just above her heart. It was unlike any ordinary injury—jagged at the edges, as if something had burned through her flesh.

Draco frowned, leaning in slightly for a closer look. His fingers twitched at his side, itching to pull the blanket down just a little more to examine the bruise properly.

The moment his hand brushed the fabric, Hermione’s eyes snapped open.

She gasped, jolting upright, her entire body stiff with panic.

Draco didn’t flinch. He held her gaze, expression unreadable. “What is that?” he asked, nodding toward the mark on her chest.

Hermione, still shaken, quickly pulled the blanket up over herself. “What? What were you doing? Are you out of your mind?”

“I am, yeah.” He wasn’t even fazed by her outrage. His focus remained on the injury.

Hermione huffed, clearly frustrated. “Did you find my parents?”

“Yes.” He leaned back in his chair, arms folding over his chest. “They’re safe. I took them to a temporary safe house.”

“Safe house?” she repeated, brows knitting together.

Draco hesitated for only a second before answering. “It’s my house, Granger.”

She took a deep breath, trying to collect herself. “How did you find them? I never got the chance to tell you where they were.”

“My mother knew,” Draco said simply.

“How?”

“Don’t underestimate her, Granger.”

Hermione let out a small breath as if overwhelmed by everything. She sat up properly this time, scanning the room before her eyes met his again. Her voice was softer when she spoke. “Thank you.”

A brief silence stretched between them.

Draco shifted in his seat, clearing his throat. “What happened?”

Hermione hesitated, then muttered, “Cruciatus.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. But that wasn’t the answer he was looking for.

“No,” he said sharply. “This one.” He pointed to the bruise over her heart.

Hermione’s breath hitched. She lowered her gaze to the blanket, gripping the fabric tightly.

“I-I don’t know,” she admitted. Her voice was quieter now, almost unsure.

Draco’s fingers tapped against his arm as he studied the mark again.

“It must be nothing, right?” she said, forcing a weak chuckle. “Just… a powerful spell.”

“Yeah,” he said, though his tone was anything but convincing.

Hermione swallowed. She didn’t want to dwell on it—not now. “How did you find me?” she asked, trying to change the subject.

Draco scoffed. “Excuse me? You found us.”

Her brows furrowed. “What—wait, what were you even doing there? Where were we?”

Draco leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “We were near our house. My mother was collecting herbs—it helps her feel better, and I was keeping her company.” He gave her a pointed look. “You’re the suspicious one here. How did you get there?”

Hermione drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as she tried to make sense of it all. “I don’t know how to explain it,” she admitted. “Listen…” She took a steadying breath. “I ran away from a huge manor. There were a lot of Death Eaters. They tortured me.”

Draco’s face darkened. “Death Eaters?” His voice was skeptical. “Are you sure? They all either fled, went into hiding, or ended up in Azkaban after the war.”

“I know what I saw.” Hermione’s voice was firm.

Draco exhaled through his nose, contemplating her words. “Granger… there is no manor anywhere near our house.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. “No. There is.”

“I even checked everywhere after we brought you here. Actually there is nothing but herbs and trees.”

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She knew what she had seen—what she had escaped from. “I swear it was there,” she whispered. “I swear.”

Draco rubbed a hand down his face. “Okay, umm… what did they want?”

“I couldn’t exactly understand but.. a book.”

His expression tightened. “A book?”

Hermione ran a shaky hand through her curls. “They said Harry has it..” She exhaled. “Listen, we need to tell Harry. We need to tell the Ministry.” She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, trying to stand.

Draco immediately pushed her back down. “You can’t get up like that,”

“I can.”

“Listen, I’m going to send him a letter, okay?”

“Please.”

“You can’t help Potter like this,” he insisted. “Get some rest, or I won’t help at all.”

Hermione groaned but sank back into the mattress, arms crossed. “Just send the letter.”

Draco rolled his eyes, reaching into his cloak. He pulled out a wand and held it toward her.

“Here. Your mother gave me this.”

Hermione took the wand carefully, gripping it tightly.

Draco stepped back toward the door. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

She smirked tiredly. “You must have confused me with yourself.”

He let out a quiet scoff. He shook his head, stepping into the hallway. “I’ll be back soon. Just rest.”

------

Lucius paced back and forth across the lavish sitting room, his polished boots clicking sharply against the marble floor. His face was tight with irritation, his platinum-blond hair slightly disheveled from the stress of the conversation. He turned sharply toward his wife, eyes narrowed.

“Did we really have to take the Mudblood into our own home?” His voice was a low hiss, dripping with disdain. “Isn’t it risky enough that we’re already under scrutiny? This could bring trouble—trouble we don’t need.”

Narcissa, who had been lounging gracefully on the velvet-upholstered couch, stood with a slow, deliberate elegance. She was a woman of composed strength, and though her voice remained calm, her words carried weight.

“Yes, we had to, Lucius,” she said firmly. “She is Potter’s friend.”

Lucius scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You and your insufferable admiration for that boy.”

Narcissa lifted her chin slightly, her eyes sharpening. “If it weren’t for Harry Potter’s mercy, you wouldn’t be walking free right now.” Her tone was as cold as the winter air. “So, perhaps it’s time you at least started respecting him.”

Lucius bristled. “Respecting?” he repeated, his lips curling in distaste.

Before he could argue further, the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted them.

Draco entered the room. His father turned immediately, his frustration now redirected.

“My son.” Lucius stepped forward, his piercing gaze locking onto Draco’s. “Listen to me. We made a promise—to stay far away from all of this madness. That girl could get us into trouble. If the wrong people find out she’s here—”

“I know,” Draco cut him off, his tone flat but unyielding. “But nothing is going to happen. She’s recovering, and once she’s well enough, I’ll take her to Potter.”

Lucius let out a slow breath, rubbing his temple. “Just like your mother,” he muttered under his breath.

Draco ignored it. His father’s words no longer carried the same weight they once did. “I actually came to say that I’m leaving,” he said, adjusting his coat. “Astoria is waiting for me.”

At the mention of her name, Narcissa’s expression softened. “Oh, Draco,” she murmured, stepping forward to embrace her son. “Send my love to Astoria, will you? Tell her I miss her… and I hope she’s feeling better.”

“I will,” Draco promised. He leaned down, pressing a brief but affectionate kiss to his mother’s head.

Then, without sparing his father another glance, he turned and strode out of the room, his mind already elsewhere.

Chapter Text

Hermione couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, flashes of what happened at the manor haunted her—cold stone floors and the searing pain of the Cruciatus Curse. Her body ached, and her mind felt heavy with exhaustion, but sleep wouldn’t come.

The sky outside was beginning to lighten, the first hints of dawn creeping through the curtains. With a sigh, she pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed, careful not to move too suddenly. Every part of her body protested, but she ignored the pain and forced herself to stand.

Moving slowly, she made her way to the small adjoining bathroom. The tiles were cool beneath her bare feet as she stepped inside. She flicked on the light, squinting against the sudden brightness, and took a hesitant look in the mirror.

She barely recognized herself.

Her skin was pale, her features drawn with fatigue. Dark circles bruised the delicate skin beneath her eyes, and her hair was a tangled mess from restless tossing and turning.

Swallowing down her discomfort, she hesitated before gripping the hem of her top and slowly pulling it over her head.

Her breath hitched.

There, just above her heart, was the bruise Draco had mentioned.

It was deep purple, the size of her fist, with veins of darker blue spreading outward like cracks in broken glass. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably at the sight of it. Slowly, she raised a trembling hand and pressed her fingertips lightly against it.

The pain was instant and searing.

She let out a sharp, strangled gasp and recoiled.

“That’s not good at all,” she whispered under her breath, her voice barely audible.

Shaking slightly, she pulled her top back down, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She ran her fingers through her tangled curls before twisting them into a loose bun, securing them on top of her head. Then she turned the faucet on, splashing cool water onto her face in an attempt to wash away some of the exhaustion weighing her down. But no amount of water could erase the bruises—on her body or in her mind.

She stepped back into the bedroom and sank onto the edge of the bed, glancing around. The house was eerily silent. They weren’t staying at Malfoy Manor, but the estate they were in was still grand, with its high ceilings and expensive furnishings. Yet, unlike the manor, this place felt… empty. No house-elves scurrying about, no distant voices echoing through the halls. Just silence.

She wondered where Draco had gone.

Something about the quiet unsettled her.

With a quick spell to mute her footsteps, she crept toward the door, slipping out into the dimly lit hallway. There were four doors upstairs—none of which would open when she tried the handles. With a frustrated huff, she gave up and headed downstairs instead.

As she descended the grand staircase, she spotted Narcissa Malfoy sitting in the parlor, a delicate teacup resting in her gloved hands.

Narcissa noticed her immediately and set her cup down gently on the tray beside her.

“Good morning,” she said smoothly, her voice calm but observant. “It’s nice to see you up and moving.”

Hermione hesitated. She wasn’t sure how to interact with Narcissa. The woman had once been an enemy—one of Voldemort’s most trusted allies. And yet… she had saved Harry’s life in the Forbidden Forest. And now, she had taken Hermione in.

“Umm… Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione replied, her voice careful.

Narcissa smiled slightly. “Would you like some tea, dear?”

Hermione hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Sure.”

“Then join me.” Narcissa gestured toward the armchair opposite her.

Hermione stepped forward, settling into the armchair as Narcissa flicked her wand. From the kitchen, an empty teacup floated gracefully toward them, landing gently beside Narcissa’s own. Hermione reached for the teapot, pouring herself a cup.

“I am truly sorry for what you’ve been through,” Narcissa said after a moment, watching her closely. “Do you remember who it was or what it was?”

Hermione’s grip on her teacup tightened. “I… I don’t know their names.”

Narcissa’s expression didn’t change, but her gaze sharpened slightly. “Them?” she repeated.

Hermione nodded slowly, her brows knitting together as she searched for the right words. "It was all blurry…" Her voice wavered, the weight of the memories pressing against her chest.

“I’m sorry for being this curious,” Narcissa interjected gently, her voice softer now. “You don’t have to speak about it if you’re not ready.” There was no pressure in her tone, only quiet understanding, as though she knew all too well what it meant to carry wounds that words could never fully explain.

Before Hermione could respond, the front door swung open.

“Ladies.”

Draco stepped inside, his silver eyes scanned the room, landing on Hermione.

“Good morning,” Narcissa greeted with a small smile.

Draco’s gaze lingered on Hermione. “You seem better, Granger.”

Hermione sat up straighter. “Yeah. Did you send Harry a letter?”

Draco smirked. “I did, Granger. Be patient.”

She exhaled in relief. “And my parents?”

“They’re fine. I checked in on them.”

She placed her teacup back onto the tray and stood abruptly. “Then let’s go.” Hermione said, her voice steady but urgent.

Draco scoffed. “Not yet.”

She frowned. “I have to go. I’ve been gone too long already—”

“I said not yet,” he repeated, more firmly this time, his eyes locked on hers.

Hermione’s arms crossed defensively. “I’m fine, Malfoy. You don’t need to—”

“I know,” he interrupted, quieter now. “I know you are. But I…I spoke to Potter earlier.”

Hermione’s stance faltered slightly. “What did he say?”

Draco hesitated, dragging a hand through his hair before meeting her gaze again. “He’s trying to convince the Ministry that you weren’t taken against your will.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“They think there is a possibility that I took you.”

“That’s—what? That’s nonsense!” she exclaimed, her voice rising slightly.

“Tell that to the Ministry,” he said sharply.

Hermione opened her mouth, then shut it again, thinking. Slowly, she sat back down. “And Harry’s... handling it?”

Draco nodded. “He’s pushing them to back off. We’re waiting for him to send word. Until then, going anywhere—especially with you—will just make things worse.”

A beat of silence passed between them.

“Alright then. We wait,” Hermione murmured finally, shoulders slumping a little.

She turned to Narcissa, offering a tight nod. “Thank you for the tea.”

Narcissa smiled and sipped her tea, watching Hermione’s retreating form before glancing back at her son.

“What exactly is wrong with the Ministry?” she asked, her tone light but curious.

Draco scoffed. “This is our new life.”

Narcissa hummed knowingly.

Draco cleared his throat, straightening his coat. “If Potter can handle it, I will take her tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes. It’s safest to leave at the earliest time.”

A new voice interrupted them.

“Draco, such wonderful news!”

Lucius Malfoy strode into the room, his usual air of superiority surrounding him, though this time, there was something almost pleased in his expression. “See? I was right again! Do be careful, son. She isn’t worth the risk.”

Draco’s expression darkened, but his voice remained coldly indifferent.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You won’t be seeing her again.”

Lucius’s lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He studied his son with sharp, assessing eyes, as though searching for weakness. Draco held his ground, his posture rigid.

“Good,” Lucius finally murmured, his voice smooth as silk yet laced with something darker.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sharp raps against the heavy oak door echoed through the quiet house, breaking the fragile peace. Narcissa rose from her armchair in a hurry, her silk robe billowing slightly as she exchanged a concerned glance with her husband.

Lucius and Draco instinctively stiffened. Their gazes met.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Get back,” Lucius ordered, his voice low and firm, reaching for his wand.

Draco silently slipped into position behind a column, out of sight but close enough to act. His fingers tightened around his wand, his pulse steady but alert.

Lucius reached the door, pausing for the briefest moment before unlatching it. The heavy wood creaked as it swung open, revealing a familiar yet unwelcome face.

“Wolfrey.”

A man with dark hair and a cruel smirk stood before him. His long coat was tattered at the edges, and a faint, feral gleam flickered in his eyes.

"Lucius," Wolfrey drawled, his tone light yet edged with something menacing. "How good to see you." His gaze flicked past Lucius, peering inside, his nostrils flaring slightly as if scenting the air. "Tell me, old friend... have you seen a mudblood girl pass through here?"

Lucius kept his expression unreadable, his grip firm around his wand. "We’ve seen no one," he said, his tone clipped and cold.

Wolfrey’s smirk widened as he took a step closer. "Come now, Lucius, I know that she’s close.”

Lucius didn’t flinch. “Do not make me repeat.” His voice, though even, carried the unmistakable warning of a snake coiling to strike.

From behind, Narcissa’s voice rang out, cool and controlled.

"Why are you searching for a girl?"

Wolfrey turned his head slightly, his gaze shifting to her. "She has something of mine," he said vaguely.

Lucius arched his brow. "And what, exactly, would that be?"

Wolfrey let out a low chuckle. "That’s none of your concern, Lucius." His smile turned into a sneer. "Enjoy your retirement. Stay out of things that don’t involve you."

Lucius let out a short, dry laugh. "You must be confused, Wolfrey," he said, his voice dropping into something darker. "I think you came here to die—not to search for a girl."

Wolfrey’s face twisted in annoyance. "You don’t hold power over me anymore, Malfoy.”

Lucius tilted his head slightly. “Try me.”

The two men stood frozen, wands clenched, eyes locked. The air between them was thick with unspoken threats.

Then, before it could escalate further, Narcissa took a decisive step forward. "Enough," she snapped, her voice sharp as steel. "Get out. Now!"

Without waiting for a reply, she slammed the door shut in Wolfrey’s face.

“Jealous pricks,” Lucius muttered under his breath.

Draco finally exhaled, lowering his wand. However, his hands curled into fists at his sides, frustration flickering in his stormy gray eyes. “Why did you do that, Mother? We could have had him!” His voice was sharp, edged with impatience.

Narcissa met his gaze with unwavering composure, her expression calm yet firm. “It’s too dangerous, Draco.” Her tone was measured, but there was an unmistakable weight behind her words. “Didn’t you see? He was too confident to be alone. It was obvious he wasn’t acting on his own.”

She took a slow breath, eyes scanning her son’s tense posture. “Rushing in without knowing who else is lurking in the shadows would have been reckless. And we cannot afford to be reckless.”

“Was he—?” Draco’s voice trailed off, his expression caught between suspicion and realization.

Lucius exhaled sharply. His lip curled in disdain. “Yeah. My old friend.” He sneered at the word. “He was always a coward.”

Draco frowned. “I thought he went into hiding after the war.”

“So did I. Yet here he is, sniffing around like a stray dog. I wonder what’s emboldened him.” Lucius’s voice was low, laced with irritation and something else—unease.

Before Draco could respond, a faint sound made him turn.

At the top of the grand staircase, Hermione stood frozen, her hands gripping the wooden railing. The dim light of the hall cast soft shadows across her pale face, her wide, fearful eyes fixed on them. She was trembling.

Draco sighed, straightening his posture. “He’s gone,” he said, his voice firm but calm. He watched as she blinked rapidly, then lifted a hand to wipe a stray tear from her cheek.

A moment of silence stretched between them before she spoke.

“It was him,” Hermione whispered, her voice trembling despite how tightly she held herself together.

Draco’s expression hardened instantly. “Are you certain?” he asked, though he could already tell the answer by the way her hands trembled.

She nodded slowly, once, her lips barely moving. “I saw his eyes. I’d know them anywhere.”

Draco exhaled. “I’m sorry, Granger. If it was him… we’ll find him. We know how he moves. What he’s capable of.”

“I hope,” she murmured, eyes narrowing now.

“He’s not acting alone.”

Hermione looked up sharply, and their eyes met.

“Someone’s helping him,” Draco continued. “Or using him.”

She swallowed hard, her jaw tightening. “Then we don’t have time to waste.”

“No,” he said, quietly resolute. “It’s only a matter of time before Potter reaches us.”

Hermione hesitated for just a moment, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Without another word, she turned and went back to her room, leaving Draco watching after her, an odd weight settling in his chest.

Chapter Text

Hours later, Harry finally reached Draco.

With a loud crack, Draco and Hermione landed in front of 12 Grimmauld Place. The world spun slightly around Hermione, the side effects of Apparition mixing with her exhaustion.

She staggered but steadied herself before Draco could reach out to help. The house loomed before them, its old magic pressing against the air.

They barely made it to the front step before Hermione turned, looking at Draco one last time. He stood there, expression unreadable.

She exhaled shakily, turned back to the door, and knocked firmly.

For a second, there was silence. Then, hurried footsteps approached from the other side.

“Hermione?” Harry’s voice rang out, followed by the sound of the door unlocking. The moment it opened, he barely had time to take in her face before pulling her into a tight embrace.

“You’re finally here,” he murmured, relief washing over him.

“Yeah.” Hermione melted into the hug, closing her eyes briefly.

His gaze landed on Draco. His grip on Hermione loosened, though he didn’t let go completely. The two men locked eyes—one cautious, the other indifferent.

Before anyone could say anything, a new voice broke the tension.

“Oh, Hermione!”

Ginny rushed forward, pulling Hermione into another embrace before Harry had even fully let go. Draco, standing at the doorstep, shifted uncomfortably.

Harry turned back to him, extending his hand. “Welcome.”

Draco hesitated just a fraction too long, his fingers twitching. Then, with a quick glance at Hermione—who was watching him expectantly—he reached out and shook Harry’s hand. It was brief and over before either of them had time to second-guess it.

“Come in, please,” Harry said, stepping aside.

Draco lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, I can’t, Potter.”

“Don’t reject an invitation so quickly,” Harry said, an amused smirk playing on his lips. “Aren’t you technically a part of the Black family?”

Draco scoffed. "Honestly?"

“Just come inside.”

“Alright.” Draco exhaled, stepping in. The moment he crossed the threshold, a strange sensation filled him. His chest tightened, a wave of something unfamiliar creeping up his spine.

He didn’t say a thing.

Harry caught the shift in his expression. “Why don’t you sit?” He gestured toward the worn-out sofa opposite of the one that Hermione and Ginny had already settled.

Draco sat without protest, more out of distraction than obedience. His sharp eyes scanned the room, taking in the peeling wallpaper, the dim light from the chandelier.

Harry sat beside him.

Across from them, Ginny was holding Hermione’s hands, her brows furrowed in concern.

“Where’s Ron?” Hermione asked, looking around the room.

“Oh, he left after you,” Ginny said, exchanging a glance with Harry.

“What? Is he okay?”

“Yes, he’s with Mum and Dad. I saw them this morning, don’t worry.”

Hermione let out a relieved sigh. “Oh, thank Merlin.”

Draco smirked. “So, your ginger Weasel isn’t here?”

Hermione shot him a glare. “He’s not my ginger.” She looked away, pretending to be interested in the fraying edge of a cushion.

Ginny narrowed her eyes at Draco. “You’re still the same.”

Draco leaned back, smirking. “Come on, it was just a joke, I’m sure he likes his nickname.”

Harry let out a short laugh, shaking his head.

“See? Potter approves.” Draco gestured toward him.

Ginny rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Alright, enough of that. What happened? How did you find Hermione?”

“Me?” Draco’s smirk faded. “She found us.”

Hermione huffed. “I didn’t! It was a coincidence.”

Harry leaned forward, brows furrowing. “Who was it?”

Hermione turned to Harry, her gaze searching his face as if looking for reassurance, for something solid to hold on to. Her brown eyes, still shadowed with exhaustion, carried an unspoken weight—fear, frustration, and something deeper that she couldn’t quite name. Her fingers fidgeted slightly in her lap, betraying the unease she was trying to suppress.

“A group of Death Eaters,” Hermione said at last, her voice quieter than she’d intended—barely above a whisper. The words seemed to hang in the air between them, heavy and sharp, as if speaking them aloud gave them power again.

Draco flinched almost imperceptibly. Her words hit harder than they should have. He looked away, jaw tightening, and his hand drifted almost unconsciously to his left forearm. His fingers pressed against the fabric of his sleeve, as if through it he could feel the faded mark that still lingered beneath his skin—a reminder that no matter how far he’d come, some stains never truly washed away.

Hermione saw the motion and hesitated. Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to keep going.

“There was this… manor,” she said slowly, as though assembling the memory piece by piece. “Huge. Ancient. I don’t even know where it was—no familiar landmarks, no sense of direction. The magic there felt old. Suffocating. Like it had soaked into the very stones.”

She paused to swallow the rising lump in her throat.

“They found me when I wasn’t expecting it. I was… tired, distracted. I wasn’t thinking clearly.” Her eyes darted downward. “They took advantage of that. Dragged me through a forest. I only saw glimpses—cold corridors and rooms that swallowed sound.”

Draco’s expression darkened. His voice was cold, certain. “It was Wolfrey.”

Harry’s forehead creased. “Who? I’ve never heard that name before.”

Draco scoffed. “Of course you haven’t. He was a nobody—a coward who worked under my father. Never made a name for himself.”

“It wasn’t just him,” Hermione added. “It was an entire group. They—” She swallowed. “They wanted a book. They said you have it.”

Harry tensed. “A book? What kind of book?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said quickly. “They didn’t say a thing. They acted like I knew everything.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “That’s nonsense.” He turned to her fully. “Hermione, I—I should have come after you. I should have never let you go alone. I—”

“Harry,” Hermione interrupted, her voice soft but resolute. “This wasn’t your fault. I needed time—to think. Whatever happened… happened. There’s no undoing it. The question now is—what do we do next?”

Harry looked at her, eyes still clouded with guilt, but he gave a small nod. She was always the one to push them forward.

Ginny let out a long breath and crossed her arms. “We start taking extra precautions,” she said sharply. “No more solo outings. No gaps in communication. And—and we find out what they want,” she added, her tone laced with fire.

Harry smiled faintly at that. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll inform the Ministry about it all.”

Draco, who had been sitting quietly for the better part of the conversation, suddenly shifted. He straightened with a sigh, smoothing invisible creases from his coat as he rose to his feet.

“Well,” he said, brushing a bit of lint from his sleeve that wasn’t there, “I think I’ve heard enough for today. Time to be somewhere else.”

As he turned, Ginny’s eyes caught a flash of silver on his hand—a sleek, understated band glinting softly in the low light.

“Shiny one,” she remarked, tilting her head with a curious edge. “Are you married?”

Draco paused mid-step, glancing down at his hand as though only just remembering the ring was there. For a moment, something flickered across his face—something almost private—before he spoke.

“Not yet,” he said quietly. “It’s more of a… commitment symbol, I suppose.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Who’s the lucky witch?”

Draco cleared his throat and looked back toward the door, as if preparing to make a quick exit. “Astoria,” he answered simply.

Ginny’s expression turned knowing. Her lips twitched. “Greengrass sisters, huh? Not entirely shocking.”

Draco offered a slight, guarded smile.

“Well, congrats,” Harry said, offering a nod that was both sincere and slightly surprised. “I hope it works out.”

“Thanks,” Draco replied. His voice was polite, but distant.

Ginny leaned forward just a touch. “So? When’s the wedding?”

Draco’s mouth opened, but the answer came slowly, carefully. “Haven’t decided yet.”

There was weight in those words. More than he intended to reveal.

“Hm,” Ginny said softly, the teasing now gone from her tone. She studied him for a moment, then gave a small nod.

No one said anything more for a beat.

Draco adjusted his coat again, more out of habit than necessity. “Alright, I really need to go,” he said, his eyes briefly meeting Hermione’s before flicking to the others.

Hermione got up in a hurry, her voice catching in her throat. “Malfoy, thank you for helping.”

Draco’s expression softened—just slightly. “You’re welcome, Granger.”

Draco gave a final nod to Harry, then, with a sharp crack, he was gone.

Hermione stared at the empty space where he had been.

But something felt odd.

A sudden, searing pain exploded in her chest, sharp and relentless, as if invisible flames were licking at her skin. She gasped, her breath hitching, and then a strangled moan escaped her lips before she could stop it. Her knees buckled beneath her, and she swayed unsteadily.

“Hermione!” Ginny’s voice was alarmed as she rushed forward, grabbing Hermione’s arm to steady her.

Harry was at her side in an instant, his hands firm on her shoulders. “What’s wrong? Hermione, talk to me!” His voice was edged with panic, his eyes wide with worry.

But Hermione couldn’t answer. The pain was unbearable, radiating from the dark bruise over her heart, pulsing like it had a life of its own. Her vision blurred, and she struggled to draw in air, her hands trembling as she instinctively clutched at her chest.

Her legs gave out completely.

“Hermione!” Ginny cried, tightening her grip, but it was too late.

Chapter Text

Astoria was paler than usual, her already delicate features drained of color, making her dark eyes look even more sunken, more haunted. A thin trail of blood dripped down from the corner of her mouth, staining her chin, but she didn’t seem to care. Instead, she glared at Draco with defiance, her body tense, her breath ragged.

“Fuck you!” she spat, her voice hoarse but still sharp as a blade. “You pity me because I’m sick! Don’t you? We would’ve ended it by now if I were fine, and you damn well know it! You would’ve taken off that fucking ring without a second thought!”

Draco flinched, but only slightly. He forced himself to hold her gaze, to stand firm against the storm raging inside of her. “I know you don’t mean that,” he said, his voice quiet but unwavering.

“Oh, really?” She let out a bitter laugh, eyes flashing. “Mr. I-Know-Everything thinks he knows me better than I know myself.”

“I don’t want to talk about this again,” Draco said firmly, jaw tightening.

“Alright.” She crossed her arms, but her voice remained venomous. “Then answer this—where the hell were you, Draco?”

“I told you,” he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I was with my mother. She needed me.”

Astoria scoffed. “Right. And leaving me alone—again—wasn’t a problem for you?”

“You’re exaggerating, Tori,” he said, his patience wearing thin. “I’m just an hour late.”

Astoria exhaled sharply, as if she wanted to yell at him but no longer had the strength to do so. Instead, she lifted a trembling hand and wiped the blood from her lips with the back of her sleeve, her fingers stained red.

Draco’s frustration melted away in an instant. His face softened, and without another word, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. She tensed for a moment but then gave in, resting her forehead against his chest.

“Come on,” he murmured, his hand running gently down her back. “Let’s go to bed. You need to rest.”

“I want to end it.”

“I know.”

Astoria didn’t argue this time. She let out a tired breath, and when he lifted her effortlessly into his arms, she didn’t protest. She just leaned into him, her fingers curling weakly into the fabric of his shirt.

Draco carried her to their bedroom in silence, his heart heavy, knowing that no matter how tightly he held her, he couldn’t stop what was coming.

Chapter Text

The center of the drawing room in Grimmauld Place was a disaster, a chaotic maze of open books, scattered parchment, and hastily scribbled notes. Hermione sat in the middle of it all, cross-legged on the floor, utterly consumed by her research. Around her, the books were separated into three distinct piles—ones she had already read and deemed useless, ones that were unrelated to her current predicament, and the few she hadn’t yet explored. The methodical organization was unmistakably Hermione’s, yet to anyone else, it looked like a hurricane had torn through the place.

Neville and Luna stood frozen in the doorway, exchanging silent looks of shock at the scene before them. It wasn’t just the mess—it was Hermione herself. The dark circles under her eyes, the almost feverish way she flipped through the pages, the single-minded determination that bordered on obsession.

Ginny, however, was unfazed. She had been here before, sitting beside Hermione from time to time, sifting through pages at her request. Now, she sat on the couch with an open book in her lap, watching her friend closely. The silence stretched on until Ginny finally broke it.

"Feeling any better?" she asked softly.

Hermione let out a deep breath, closed the book she had been reading, and tossed it onto the "useless" pile. “Yeah,” she said, though the exhaustion in her voice betrayed her words. “I’m holding up.”

Ginny frowned, glancing at the piles of books around them. “So… this might be a curse?” she asked carefully.

Hermione pressed her fingers to her temples before nodding. “It looks like it.”

Ginny reached over and took Hermione’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll figure it out,” she promised. “And with any luck, the Ministry will track down those responsible before we even have to.”

Before Hermione could respond, the door creaked open, and Harry stepped inside. His presence immediately shifted the energy in the room.

Ginny stood and crossed the room to him, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. Harry gave her a brief but firm hug before turning his attention back to Hermione.

“Well, your parents are home,” he told her. “I reported everything to the Ministry, and they’ve assigned Aurors to watch over them, also here. And, like you asked, I didn’t tell them about…”

He gestured vaguely to the bruise on her chest. “They don’t know.”

Relief washed over Hermione’s face. “Thank you, Harry.”

Harry hesitated. “But… there’s something else.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “What is it?”

Harry ran a hand through his already messy hair, looking guilty. “You’re going to be mad.”

“Just say it, Harry.”

He exhaled sharply. “I had to tell Ron that something bad happened to you.”

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. “What?”

“He’s coming here.”

Hermione closed her eyes for a long moment, then sighed. “Oh, Harry…”

“I’m sorry,” he said, raising his hands as if in surrender. “But he deserved to know, Hermione. You know he did.”

She opened her eyes again, searching his face. “Did you… tell him about the curse?”

Harry shook his head quickly. “No, no. You should tell him instead.”

For the first time that day, a small, genuine smile flickered across Hermione’s lips. “Thanks, Harry,” she murmured.

Harry grinned in response. “So… I’m forgiven?”

She let out a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. “I suppose so. I have to face him eventually.”

------

Despite everything that had happened, that evening, the girls decided to take a break from the chaos and join Luna in the kitchen to prepare dinner. The warm, inviting scent of roasted vegetables and simmering soup filled Grimmauld Place, making the house feel a little less like a stronghold and more like a home.

Luna hummed softly as she stirred a pot on the stove, her movements graceful and unhurried, a stark contrast to Hermione and Ginny, who were fighting for their lives to get everything ready before Ron arrived.

"Merlin's beard, how do you chop so fast?" Ginny huffed, struggling to keep up with Luna’s effortless knife work.

"It’s all about the rhythm," Luna said dreamily, flipping her long blonde hair over her shoulder.

Hermione, on the other hand, was wrestling with a particularly stubborn ladle, trying to pour soup into bowls without making a mess. Frustration was written all over her face.

At that moment, Neville entered the kitchen, a book tucked under his arm. His expression brightened when he saw Hermione. "How was the herb I gave you? You seem better."

Hermione set down the ladle, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist. “It helped a lot. Thanks, Neville.”

Neville nodded, pleased. “That particular herb has protective properties against biological damage. I just wish its effects lasted longer.”

“Even this is more than enough,” Hermione assured him. “It gave me some relief, which is more than I could ask for.”

“You’re welcome,” he said with a small, proud smile. “And it’s nice to see you girls together again.”

Just then, Hermione winced as a splash of hot soup landed on her wrist. "Bloody hell," she muttered, shaking her hand to cool it off. She turned to Luna with pleading eyes. "Please, can I use magic? I’m burning myself here."

Luna giggled. “Of course.”

“Thank Merlin,” Ginny sighed, grabbing her wand without a second thought.

“Ginny! She said yes to me,” Hermione protested, pointing the ladle at her like a weapon.

“Oh, shut it,” Ginny teased, flicking her wand with a smug smile.

The kitchen erupted into laughter, the tension of the past few days momentarily forgotten.

But their lighthearted moment was cut short when Neville suddenly straightened, tilting his head towards the door. "I think Ron just got here," he announced.

The girls immediately abandoned their tasks, following Neville into the hallway. They arrived just in time to see Harry pulling Ron into a tight, brotherly hug. Ron hugged him back with equal force, as if grounding himself after being away.

Ginny was next, launching herself into her brother’s arms. “Took you long enough,” she murmured against his shoulder.

He chuckled. "Yeah, well, I had to make a dramatic entrance, didn't I?"

Luna and Neville greeted him warmly, but Hermione stayed back, watching the reunion with a quiet smile. She wasn’t sure how to approach this moment—after all, the last time she and Ron had spoken, things had been… tense.

Then Ron’s eyes met hers.

For a moment, neither of them moved. He looked her over, as if taking in every detail—the paleness of her skin, the dark circles beneath her eyes, the way she held herself, slightly tense yet trying to appear strong.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice softer than she expected.

She shook her head. “Don’t be.”

That was all it took. Ron closed the distance between them and pulled her into a firm, familiar embrace. Hermione sank into it, her arms wrapping around his back, her fingers gripping his shirt just a little tighter than she meant to.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I was worried sick.”

“I know,” she whispered.

Ginny clapped her hands, breaking the moment. "Alright, enough of the emotional reunion. Let’s eat before all that effort in the kitchen goes to waste."

Ron pulled back, his arm lingering around Hermione for just a second longer before he finally let go.

Dinner had been beautiful, laughter and conversation had filled the air.

After they had finished, Ron had noticed the mess of books sprawled across the floor, their pages marked and scribbled in. Raising a brow, he had asked about it.

Hermione and Ginny had exchanged a quick glance before answering in unison, “Just for organising.”

He hadn’t questioned it further, too caught up in being around Hermione again. He had spent most of the evening near her, as if making up for lost time.

As the night deepened and the house settled into a quiet hum, Hermione prepared to go to bed. She had just changed into her nightclothes when a soft knock at her door made her pause.

“Can we talk?” Ron’s voice was muffled but unmistakable.

Hermione hesitated for just a second before answering, “Of course. Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Ron stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over their room. Or at least, the room that had been theirs before she left. The room he couldn't stay in. The bed, the worn-out books scattered on the nightstand, the familiar scent—it was all the same, yet something between them had shifted irrevocably.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. He just looked around, then finally turned to face her.

“I don’t know how to say sorry,” he admitted, voice laced with guilt.

Hermione frowned. “For what?”

“For letting you go.”

She sighed, folding her arms. “Ron, I wanted to leave, okay? It wasn’t your fault.”

“But I started that stupid fight,” he said, frustration edging into his tone. “Maybe—”

“Hey,” she cut him off gently. “Stop overthinking about it. Please.”

He ran a hand through his hair and let out a slow breath.

Hermione gave him a small, reassuring smile. “I’m here now.”

“I’m going to kill whoever did this to you,” Ron said through clenched teeth, his fists balled at his sides. His voice shook with fury—not just at the people responsible, but at himself. “I didn’t even know they still had the bloody brains to crawl out of whatever pit they’ve been hiding in. I swear—”

“Ron,” Hermione said firmly, stepping in front of him before his anger could spiral further. Her hand touched his arm, steadying. “We will find them. But we do it right. We think first. We don’t charge in blind.”

Her calm steadiness anchored him, just like it always had. He took a deep breath, shoulders rising and falling as he tried to push the rage back down.

There was a beat of silence before he spoke again—quieter this time, eyes on the floor. “Listen… I’m sorry I left.”

Hermione’s expression softened.

She didn’t say anything for a moment, her eyes searching his.

“I’ll stay,” he added, finally meeting her gaze. “If you want me to. Just say the word.”

Hermione’s throat tightened, emotions flickering behind her eyes.

“Why did you leave?”

“Oh, actually…” He shifted on his feet, his expression changing. “I, um—I started Quidditch training again.”

Hermione’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Quidditch? Not an Auror anymore?”

Ron nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. The Chudley Cannons reached out, and I figured… Why not give it another try? After the war, I barely even touched a broomstick, but—I dunno, it felt right.”

Hermione’s lips twitched. “So, the Keeper again?”

A proud grin broke across Ron’s face. “Yeah.”

She smiled back, but as she did, her hair shifted slightly, revealing the purple bruise on her chest. She quickly adjusted it, covering the mark, before Ron’s eyes caught it.

“Hermione.” His voice was low.

She looked away, pretending to be interested in the loose thread on her sleeve. But Ron stepped closer, lifting a hand to gently tilt her face back toward him. His fingers were warm.

“Listen,” he said, his eyes searching hers. “If you want it, I’ll leave everything behind. I’ll stay with you.”

Hermione’s breath hitched slightly.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment as if steadying himself, then opened them again, determination hardening his gaze.

“Ron,” she whispered.

His grip on her face tightened ever so slightly. “Yes?”

Hermione hesitated. She wanted to say something—anything—but the words felt tangled in her throat.

After a pause, she swallowed and forced a small, reassuring smile. “Just go. I’m okay, don’t worry. The Ministry will find them. They just wanted to send a message to Harry—to let him know they’re still out there. But I’m sure they’ll be in Azkaban soon.”

Ron’s jaw clenched. “Hermione—”

“I’m excited for you,” she interrupted softly.

The anger in his eyes flickered, giving way to something more vulnerable. He exhaled and pulled her into a tight hug. She hesitated for only a second before leaning into him, pressing her face against his chest.

“We’ll visit each other, right?” he murmured.

Hermione felt a lump form in her throat.

“Of course,” she whispered.

Chapter Text

After the war, Draco had severed nearly all ties with his former Hogwarts acquaintances. The people he once considered friends were either locked away, living in exile, or desperately clinging to the old ideals of blood purity that had brought their families to ruin. He wanted no part of it.

The only exception was Theodore Nott.

Theo had never been like the others. Though he, too, had been raised in a family steeped in dark ideology, he had always been more of an observer than a participant. After his mother’s death, his father had become his only family—a man whose allegiances to the Dark Lord ran deep. Theo had spent most of his youth navigating that world, but unlike others, he had never sought power or prestige. He preferred solitude. He was clever and cautious.

It was that same cautious nature that had led him and Draco to a silent agreement in the aftermath of the war: they would not be their fathers.

They had spent years living under their families' expectations, molded into something they were never meant to be. Now, with everything shattered, they chose distance—both from their past and the people who still clung to it. Draco avoided the remnants of the old Death Eater circles, while Theo distanced himself from his father’s legacy.

Every so often, Draco would visit Theo’s home—a quiet, secluded estate far from the watchful eyes of the Ministry and the judgment of the wizarding world. There, over glasses of aged whiskey and the crackling of a low-burning fire, they would talk. Sometimes, about nothing at all. Other times, about the things no one else would understand—the weight of their family names and the scars left behind.

They weren’t the same boys they had been at Hogwarts. But, in a world that still saw them as their fathers' sons, they were the only ones who knew the truth about each other.

The fire crackled softly in Theo’s dimly lit sitting room, casting flickering shadows along the mahogany-paneled walls. A decanter of fine whiskey sat on the tray between them, half-empty, evidence of their long conversation. Theo leaned back in his armchair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as he studied Draco with quiet curiosity.

“So… you found her out of nowhere.” His voice was casual, but there was an unmistakable edge of intrigue.

Draco exhaled, tilting his head against the back of his chair. “Yes.”

Theo took a slow sip of his drink before continuing. “She wanted your help?”

Draco’s eyes flickered toward him, his expression unreadable. “Yes.”

“And you took her to your house.”

“Technically, Mother’s house,” Draco corrected, stretching his legs out in front of him. “But yes.”

Theo smirked, setting his glass down. “Uh-huh. And then you saved her parents… and that furball.”

Draco scoffed, rolling his eyes at the mention of Crookshanks. “It was messy.”

“Sure it was,” Theo mused, the amusement in his voice clear. “And after all that, you took her to Potter.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Theo. I did all of that.”

Theo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze sharp. “Do you think it was just a coincidence?”

Draco blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, how the hell did this even happen? You’ve spent all your time trying to stay out of Potter’s business, out of their world. And yet, somehow, you’re right back in it.”

Draco huffed, running a hand through his platinum-blond hair. “Believe me, I have no bloody idea.”

Theo chuckled, shaking his head. “Whatever, mate.”

Theo poured himself another drink, the whiskey glistening under the low light. He glanced at Draco over the rim of his glass. “I just wonder one thing.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Theo tapped his fingers against the glass. “Do you believe her? Could there really be a place like that near here?”

Draco’s jaw tensed slightly. “Maybe.” His voice was lower now, thoughtful. “I didn’t have the chance to ask her for details.”

Theo studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Must’ve been weird… seeing her.”

Draco stared into his glass, watching the whiskey swirl. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “It was.”

“Maybe it’s a sign,” Theo said, frustratingly calm. “A nudge from the universe telling you to talk to her.”

Draco’s head snapped up. His expression twisted into something sharp—half a glare, half a warning. His jaw clenched as he stared at Theo like he’d just crossed an unspoken line.

“You think this is the time for that?” Draco hissed.

Theo didn’t flinch. “I think it’s already been too long.”

Draco looked away, his hand curling into a fist at his side, his silence louder than any retort.

------

Draco pushed the bedroom door open with deliberate care, making sure not to wake Astoria. However, to his surprise, she was already awake, standing by the dresser, brushing out her long, dark hair as she prepared for bed.

She turned toward him, her lips curving into a gentle smile. “How is Theo?”

Draco shrugged off his coat and set it aside before answering, “He’s doing great.”

Astoria’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Take me with you next time.”

Draco smirked as he walked toward her. “Of course, I will.”

He leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to her cheek. Astoria’s smile widened at the affectionate gesture, and before he could move away, she wrapped her arms around him. Draco instinctively pulled her closer, lifting her effortlessly into his arms as he sat down on the edge of the bed, letting her settle beside. She draped her arms over his shoulders, her forehead resting against his cheek.

“How was your day with Mother?” he murmured, his fingers tracing gentle circles along her back.

Astoria sighed, tilting her head to look at him. “She was lovely, as always. But she didn’t stop talking about planning our wedding.”

Draco chuckled, already expecting that answer. “She really wants me out.”

“She’s done with you,” Astoria teased, but then her expression softened, and something unreadable flickered in her gaze.

She swallowed hard, her smile fading. “Draco… we can’t run away from your mother forever.”

His hold on her tightened slightly. “Tori…”

She searched his face as if trying to find the right words. “We can’t keep pretending everything is normal. The wedding, the future—”

“Astoria, don’t start again,” Draco interrupted, his voice quiet but firm.

“Draco.” Her hands came up to cradle his face, her thumbs tracing along his sharp cheekbones. She gazed into his silver eyes, seeing the vulnerability he tried so hard to mask.

“Thank you—for being with me, for supporting me, for making me happy. You are truly the best. If only…”

She hesitated, the weight of unspoken words pressing between them, and instead of finishing her sentence, she buried her face in his shoulder, holding onto him tightly.

Draco remained still for a moment before exhaling. “Whatever I say, you won’t change your mind, will you?”

Astoria didn’t answer right away, just nestled closer. “You know me,” she finally whispered.

His eyes flickered toward the bedside table, where a letter lay, its parchment slightly crumpled as though handled multiple times. The sight of it immediately caught his attention.

“Who sent that?” he asked.

Astoria pulled back slightly, following his gaze. “Oh, that’s.. from Potter,” she reached out and picked it up. “Are you talking to him?” she asked vaguely, unfolding the parchment and handing it to him.

Draco’s brows furrowed. “Not exactly.”

The letter was brief, written in a hurried scrawl.

We have to talk in person. Tomorrow, same place. 

I wouldn’t bother you if it weren’t urgent.

— Harry Potter

Draco read it twice, his jaw tightening.

His gaze snapped back to Astoria’s, suspicion laced in her voice. “So… you have been talking to him. Tell me what’s going on.”

Draco sighed, “Alright.”

Chapter Text

Draco crossed his arms, leaning against the wall with a skeptical glare. "Why did you call me here, Potter?"

Harry, standing a few feet away with a tense expression, didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“Malfoy, I wouldn't be here if it wasn’t urgent.”

Draco sighed, rolling his eyes. “Of course. It’s always urgent with you. What’s the matter this time?”

Harry exhaled sharply. “It’s Hermione.”

Something in Draco’s chest tightened at the name, but he kept his expression neutral. “What about her?”

“She’s sick,” Harry stated bluntly. “But we have no idea what caused it.”

Draco arched a brow, unimpressed. “So? What does that have to do with me?”

Harry’s jaw tensed. “The library in your manor.”

Draco’s posture stiffened instantly, his expression darkening. “Hell no, Potter. We’re not allowed anywhere near the manor anymore. You know that.”

“I know,” Harry admitted. “But I’ll find a way in.”

Draco let out a short, bitter laugh. “You really think I’m going to get involved in this? Look, I’m done helping you. We’re even, okay? I want nothing to do with any of this anymore. Just leave me alone.”

Harry took a step closer, his green eyes flashing with determination. “You’re not helping me, Malfoy. You’re helping Hermione.”

Draco scoffed. “Oh, so now I’m supposed to drop everything because Granger needs something?”

“You know that,” Harry added, his voice firm, “you owe her an apology.”

Draco frowned. “An apology?”

“For the past,” Harry said sharply.

Draco let out a disbelieving laugh. “Are you serious? I can’t change the past. What happened, happened. How about we all just move the fuck on? I’m sure Granger doesn’t even care.”

Harry held his gaze, unwavering. “Oh, she does.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. “Come on.”

“Look, after the war, you apologized to almost everyone, except… I know you want to change things and fix it.”

“Fixing.” Draco shrugged his shoulders.

Harry took another step forward. “So? Are you helping or not?”

Draco clenched his jaw. “No.”

Harry studied him for a moment, then said coolly, “So you don’t care about her at all?”

Draco’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “Why would I care?”

“Then why did you help her in the forest? Last time you said you didn't want to do anything with us anymore.”

Draco was silent.

Harry’s expression hardened. “So it’s true—you’re more like your father.”

Draco stilled. The words struck him, cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “Why the fuck you say that?” he hissed.

Harry didn’t flinch. “Prove me wrong.”

Draco inhaled sharply, glaring at him. For a long moment, silence hung between them, thick with tension. Then, with a frustrated growl, he turned away, running a hand over his face.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath. “This is the last time.”

Harry’s shoulders eased slightly. “Thank you.”

Draco didn’t respond. He turned on his heel and stalked away, disappearing without another word.

------

Luna knocked gently on Hermione’s bedroom door, her usual dreamy expression softened with concern.

“Come in,” Hermione called, her voice hoarse.

Luna pushed the door open quietly and stepped inside, her light footsteps barely making a sound. Hermione was curled up in bed, her face pale against the pillow. Her brown eyes, usually sharp with determination, looked weary and dull.

Luna sat carefully on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temple. “I don’t want to get out of bed.”

Luna nodded, her voice gentle. “I know you’re anxious.”

Hermione swallowed, her throat tightening. “How can I not be? I don’t want to see that manor.”

Luna reached out and placed a reassuring hand over Hermione’s. “I understand. But there is hope.”

“Look at me,” she gestured weakly at herself.

Before Luna could respond, the door creaked open again, and Ginny stepped inside, her red hair pulled into a loose ponytail, worry etched across her freckled face.

“Hey,” she said firmly. “Don’t be like that.”

Hermione looked at her, guilt flickering in her expression. “Ginny…”

Without hesitation, Ginny walked over and wrapped her arms around Hermione, pulling her into a tight embrace. Hermione melted into it, her body tense at first, then relaxing as she held onto her friend.

“We’re going to be okay,” Luna added, shifting closer and wrapping her arms around both of them.

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in their warmth, their comfort. “I’m so thankful to have you both,” she murmured.

Ginny’s expression softened. “You’re going to be okay, Hermione. You have to be.” She pulled back slightly, whispering, “And we’ll be fighting right there with you.”

Hermione exhaled shakily, “Thank you.”

Ginny pulled her into another hug, biting her lip. “You have to be okay because… Girls, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Luna blinked at her, confusion flickering across her face. “Say it.”

Ginny’s eyes were bright with excitement. “I don’t know how to start.”

Hermione’s brows raised in curiosity. “Come on, say it!”

------

Luna came downstairs and sat beside Neville, who was absorbed in the worn pages of an old book, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“How is she doing?” Neville asked, not looking up.

Luna sighed, tucking a stray blonde strand behind her ear. “The herb isn’t working the way it used to.”

Neville finally glanced up, concern flickering in his eyes. “So, it must have built immunity… I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Neither have I,” Luna admitted, her voice softer than usual.

Neville shut the book with a quiet thud. “Why just Malfoy? Why can’t we all go to the manor? Wouldn’t that be easier? Faster?”

Luna shook her head. “Because he knows that place well, he has lived there since he was born. You heard Harry—the Ministry is only allowing him, Hermione, and Malfoy inside, it is only for certain hours and restricted areas. They’re being watched.”

Neville scoffed. “Ridiculous. It’s her life we’re talking about.”

“I’m sure they have their reasons,” Luna said, though even she sounded doubtful. “Besides, the Ministry doesn’t know Hermione’s condition. They think we’re searching for ‘the book’”

“But why?”

A sudden rush of emerald flames filled the room as Harry stepped through the Floo.

Neville and Luna quickly rose from the couch.

“Is she ready?” Harry asked, his voice tight with worry.

“She’ll be here,” Luna reassured him. “You should sit—you look like you haven’t slept.”

Harry hesitated before sinking into the couch, rubbing his temples. “I’m just worried about her.”

“She’s strong, Harry,” Neville reminded him.

“I know… I just—”

“Time to go.”

Hermione’s voice cut through the tension as she stepped into the room, her arm looped through Ginny’s for support. She looked pale, her exhaustion barely hidden beneath a brave expression.

Harry immediately stood, reaching into his robes and pulling out a small vial. “Take this,” he said, pressing the calming draught into her hands.

Hermione turned the vial between her fingers before nodding. “Hope it works.”

“Hope you won’t need it,” Ginny murmured, forcing a small smile.

Without hesitation, she pulled Hermione into a tight hug, her arms lingering as if she could shield her from what was coming.

Harry extended his hand. “Ready?”

Hermione hesitated for only a second before placing her hand in his. Her gaze swept over the faces of her friends, as if memorizing them—just in case.

Harry gave her a small, reassuring nod.

And with a sharp crack, they were gone.

------

Malfoy Manor loomed in the distance, its grand silhouette standing stark against the gray sky. The elaborate gardens stretched out before them though there was an eerie stillness in the air. A stone fountain sat in the middle of the courtyard, its water not trickling anymore.

As Harry and Hermione Apparated onto the gravel path leading to the entrance, the weight of the place pressed down on them. The manor was more than just a house—it was a graveyard of ghosts, of memories too painful to relive.

Draco stood at the entrance, dressed in head-to-toe black, his longer cloak billowing slightly with the breeze. His expression was unreadable, his posture stiff.

Harry tightened his grip on Hermione’s hand, sensing her unease, and began walking toward Draco.

“Hey,” Harry greeted quietly.

Draco gave a small nod, his gaze flickering between them.

“This is going to be hard for all of us,” Harry continued, glancing up at the towering manor. “Being here again.”

Draco said nothing. Instead, he turned and stepped toward the heavy front doors, reaching for the handle.

Hermione stood still for a moment, the crisp air catching in her throat. The last time she’d seen this place, she’d been on the marble floor, screaming, writhing under Bellatrix Lestrange’s wand while Draco stood off to the side—silent and pale.

Now, she was walking in willingly.

Her boots crunched softly on the gravel, each step toward the manor dragging old ghosts up from the earth beneath her feet. Her hands were clenched at her sides before she realized it, nails pressing crescents into her palms.

“You don’t have to do this,” Harry said gently, walking beside her. His green eyes were steady, watching her without pity—just care. “We can try the archives at the Ministry instead. There’s still a chance—”

“No,” Hermione interrupted, her voice quiet but firm. “This library holds documents even the Ministry doesn’t. I need it.”

From behind them, Draco’s voice cut in, quiet and unusually cautious. “That wing is empty. No portraits, no relics. I had it cleared after the war. I didn’t want… echoes.”

Hermione swallowed hard but nodded. Her steps slowed as they crossed the threshold into the grand entrance hall.

The air was colder inside. Still. Too still.

Everything looked polished and perfect—the black marble floors, the towering archways, the delicate golden trim—but none of it could erase what her body remembered. Her chest tightened.

The room was just off to the right. She glanced toward it involuntarily. The memory struck like lightning.

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment. In her mind, she heard Bellatrix’s laugh. She felt the ghost of the blade against her skin. The way her own voice broke against the walls.

Harry hesitated, his focus shifting. “Hermione?”

At the sound of her name, Draco turned back instantly.

She opened her eyes.

And she saw Harry—the boy who had always stayed with her and helped her.

And beside him, Draco. Watching her with something like quiet regret, and his shoulders tense as if he carried the weight of the house itself.

She took a breath. It shook on the way in, but she exhaled with a little more control.

“I can do this,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.

“Let’s do it,” Harry agreed, standing and offering Hermione a hand.

She took it, steadying herself.

Draco stepped forward and quietly gestured toward the corridor. “The library’s this way.”

They walked together and as they passed the drawing room doors, she kept her eyes straight ahead.

She didn’t look in. She didn’t have to.

She was here. On her feet. Moving forward.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

The Malfoy Manor Library was a masterpiece of both architectural grandeur and dark, arcane history. It was a vast, cavernous chamber hidden deep within the manor, its entrance guarded by an intricately carved ebony door. As the heavy door creaked open, the scent of aged parchment, polished wood, and faint traces of old magic filled the air.

The ceiling was impossibly high, stretching up into shadowy rafters where enchanted chandeliers cast a dim, flickering golden light. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves, each carved from dark mahogany and reaching all the way to the ceiling, their shelves groaning under the weight of ancient tomes, grimoires, and meticulously preserved scrolls.

Hermione stood frozen for a moment, her wide eyes sweeping over the vast, dimly lit expanse before her. The library was more magnificent than she had ever imagined.

“There are more books than I expected,” she murmured, almost to herself, her voice barely audible in the hushed atmosphere.

Harry stepped forward, scanning the endless rows of books, his expression tense. “How are we supposed to search all of this? It’ll take forever.”

Draco scoffed, crossing his arms. “Relax, Potter. That’s why I’m here.”

Before either of them could say another word, Hermione had already wandered off, her fingertips ghosting over the spines of old, weathered volumes as she drank in the sight. The dim glow from enchanted chandeliers above flickered against her curls as she moved deeper into the library, entranced.

Harry sighed, watching her disappear between the towering shelves. He turned to Draco. “It’s odd—I wasn’t even sure this place actually existed.”

Draco didn’t respond immediately. His gaze swept over the room with a quiet familiarity, memories stirring like dust in the air. This place had always been real to him. He had spent countless hours here as a child, sitting beside his mother as she pulled elegant tomes from the shelves, guiding his hand as he traced the gilded lettering on their covers. Later, he and Theo had made a game of sneaking in, trying to steal books from the Restricted Section before his mother caught them.

But now, standing here again under different circumstances, it felt heavier—like the library itself was watching.

Hermione wasted no time, already pulling books off shelves while Harry and Draco exchanged a look.

Draco exhaled sharply and straightened his cloak. “Better get going.”

They split up—Hermione and Harry scoured the darker sections filled with ancient texts, and Draco focused on restricted family records.

By midnight, Hermione’s eyes burned, Harry had dozed off on an open book, and muttered, “At this rate, we’ll be here till next year.”

------

The first week, they resumed their search, though exhaustion was catching up. Hermione was relentless, flipping through tomes at an impossible speed. Draco grew irritated with the lack of progress, slamming a book shut.

“This is bloody useless,” he muttered.

Harry sighed, rubbing his temples. “We don’t have another choice.”

However, Hermione ignored them, determined.

------

Second week, stacks of books surrounded them, some hovering midair as Hermione frantically flipped through pages, her frustration growing with each dead end. Harry’s patience thinned, exhaustion evident in his furrowed brows. Draco, despite his usual sarcasm, worked tirelessly, his sharp eyes scanning ancient texts filled with forbidden magic.

Hermione shut the thick, leather-bound book with a quiet thud, sending a small cloud of dust into the air. She turned toward Harry, who was seated at the opposite end of the long table, brows furrowed over a faded document.

“Harry,” she said softly.

He didn’t look up at first—still scanning the page—but his head snapped up the moment her voice reached that familiar tone. “What is it?”

“You need to go back,” she said gently. “To the Ministry.”

Harry blinked. “Where did that come from?”

She offered a faint smile. “Because the Ministry needs you. You know it.”

He closed the document in front of him and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. The tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. “The Ministry needs you too, Hermione. Probably more than it needs me. We all need you.”

She reached across the table and took his hand briefly—warm, reassuring. “I’m not saying to leave everything on our shoulders. I just think... someone needs to be there. You can get updates, learn where the investigation’s heading—about the Death Eaters, the manor, all of it.”

“Maybe we should tell the Ministry.”

“No. I am going to recover and be back there without anyone talking about me, or this. But you need to go now.”

Harry was quiet for a moment. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, then looked across the room toward Draco, who was flipping lazily through an old spellbook, seated near a shelf.

“What is it, Potter?” Draco asked without looking up.

Harry narrowed his eyes slightly. “Will you be decent to her?”

Hermione let out a short laugh, unable to hide the smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

Draco finally looked up, catching the expression on her face. He rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, Potter. I’m not interested in making this any more miserable than it has to be.”

“Not exactly reassuring,” Harry muttered.

Hermione straightened. “I’ll be fine,” she said firmly, squeezing Harry’s hand once before letting go. “It’s just a few hours. I can handle Malfoy.”

“Hey,” Draco interjected. “Still in the room, you know.”

Hermione and Harry glanced at each other, shared a knowing smile, and said nothing.

After a long pause, Harry finally sighed in defeat and grabbed his satchel. “Fine. But send me a word if anything changes. Anything.”

“I will,” Hermione promised.

“Honestly,” Draco muttered under his breath as Harry made his way to the door, “Bloody Gryffindors.”

Harry didn’t respond—just raised his hand in farewell and walked out.

The door shut behind him with a quiet click, and Hermione turned back to the open books.

Draco remained still for a moment, then looked over at her. “Let’s get this over with.”

She exhaled, eyes scanning the ancient text in front of her.

------

Third week, relentless searching had drained them, but Hermione’s discovery reignited a small spark of hope.

Hermione’s breath hitched as her eyes moved quickly across the brittle parchment. The tome in her hands was ancient, its leather cover cracked with age, its title long faded. Dust clung to her fingers as she turned the page with the care of someone handling something sacred. The scent of old magic clung to the text.

“This could be it,” she whispered, almost to herself—her voice hoarse from disuse.

The words echoed softly in the vaulted chamber. They hadn’t spoken in hours—maybe longer. Just the sound of pages turning, quills scratching, and footsteps on marble until now.

Draco looked up from across the long table, surprised. She hadn’t spoken to him directly in what felt like an age. They’d existed in parallel—breathing the same dust-heavy air and sharing glances, that’s all.

He stood slowly, brows knitting as he crossed the space toward her.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice low, tentative.

Hermione didn’t look at him at first. Her fingers were still lightly brushing over the inked script, the runes glowing faintly under her touch as if recognizing her magic.

“I think I found something,” she murmured, steadier now. “The ritual. A trace of it. Or maybe its countermeasure. It’s hidden beneath old blood magic and... it’s complex. But it’s here.”

She finally looked up at him.

For the first time in days, he saw the fire in her eyes again.

They stood in silence for a beat, the space between them still laced with all the words they hadn’t said.

Draco exhaled, slow and quiet, and nodded once.

Draco leaned over her shoulder, his sharp eyes scanning the text. "Great. And how long will it take you to figure out what it says?"

Hermione bit her lip. "Yeah, translating it will take time."

Draco ran a hand through his hair. "We can’t waste time going back and forth. You have to take the book with you."

Hermione hesitated. The Ministry had only granted them limited access to the manor, strict hours, and not taking a thing from there. "The Ministry is not going to like that."

Draco scoffed. "Since when do you care about what the Ministry likes?"

Hermione shot him a look but pulled out her wand. "Fine. I’ll send a message to Harry. If we can convince them this is urgent, maybe they’ll approve it."

Minutes later, a glowing patronus in the form of an otter vanished through the high windows.

They waited in silence, tension thick in the air. Hermione absentmindedly traced the edges of the book, worry etched into her features.

“Relax,” Draco said smoothly, leaning against the edge of the table with his usual air of confidence. “I’m sure they are going to approve it.”

Hermione looked up from the scroll in her hands, narrowing her eyes at him. “You’re so sure, aren't you?”

He gave a small shrug, unbothered. “I am.”

Her expression didn’t soften. “If you know everything, then tell me—why are you helping me?”

The question cut through the air sharper than she intended. Draco stilled, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly before his usual composure returned.

Hermione arched a brow, watching him.

He looked away for half a second, then cleared his throat. “I, uh… I owe Potter.”

She blinked. “You owe Harry?”

“Yeah,” he said, and this time a small smirk curved his lips.

Hermione stared at him, searching his face. His tone was too casual, the answer too practiced. She watched his eyes—cool, unreadable—and knew at once he was Occluding. Blocking her out.

She leaned forward just a little. “Is that all?”

Draco held her gaze a moment too long. Then he gave the barest nod. “That’s all.”

Her eyes lingered on his, a beat longer—because even if he was Occluding, something in his expression had flickered when she asked the question.

They didn’t speak after that. The air between them was taut with unspoken thoughts, but neither reached to break it. Hermione returned her gaze to the book. Draco had shifted back into his usual silence—arms crossed, leaning against the bookcase, his expression unreadable.

Moments later, footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, and Harry stepped into the room.

He took one look at the two of them, noting the tension but not commenting on it. Wordlessly, he joined them, settling into the chair beside Hermione. He didn’t mind the quiet between the two, he was used to it.

“Kingsley gave permission, Hermione.”

Harry’s words hung in the air for a breath.

Hermione exhaled, her shoulders sagging with the weight of held-in tension finally released.

Draco glanced at her from the corner of the room, arms still folded. He said nothing, but the tilt of his head and faint arch of his brow made one thing clear.

He hadn’t been wrong.

Hermione shot him a sideways look, her jaw tightening slightly.