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Chapter Text

The late–autumn light filtering through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall glowed a cold, muted gold—beautiful, distant, and utterly indifferent. It poured over tables full of laughter, gossip, and clattering cutlery… yet the brightness made Hermione Granger’s headache spike.

She pressed her fingertips to her temples, trying to ignore the hollow humming under her skin. The feeling had become strangely familiar over the past weeks, as though someone was tugging threads inside her chest—threads she never consented to have touched.

Across from her, Ron Weasley was smiling too brightly.

“Hermione, you should have the stew,” he said, nudging a bowl closer, voice coated in a forced warmth. “You haven’t eaten properly in days.”

“I’m fine, Ron,” she murmured, though her hand twitched toward the bowl before she could stop it.

No.
She curled her fingers into a fist.

Her own will felt… muffled. Not crushed, not overridden, just damped—like trying to think through fog.

Harry watched her carefully from beside her, his green eyes sharper than most gave him credit for. He didn’t voice the question in his gaze. He didn’t need to. Hermione gave him the faintest, tight nod.

Something was wrong.

And Ron—Ron had never been so attentive, so persistent, so oddly insistent that she sit by him, eat what he offered, follow what he suggested. He’d always been moody, jealous, immature… but never this.

This was different.

Hermione lifted her goblet to sip water, and the moment the rim touched her lip a wave of dizziness spun through her skull. Her vision blurred. She grabbed the table to keep from slumping sideways.

Ron’s hand shot out instantly.

“See? You’re exhausted. You need looking after.”

Hermione jerked her arm out of his grip, breath fast and shallow.

Harry frowned. “Mate, she said she’s fine.”

Ron’s ears went red—not the sheepish kind. The defensive kind. “I’m only helping. She needs help.”

Hermione swallowed bile.

Something was trying to push inside her mind again, a whispering pull telling her to agree, to relax, to listen to Ron.

No. Absolutely not.

She clenched her jaw and stood abruptly from the bench.

“I’m going to the library.”

Ron stood too. “I’ll walk you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“But you need—”

“Sit down, Ronald.”

The voice that cut through the air was crisp, cold, and authoritative—the kind of tone that could slice stone.

Professor Minerva McGonagall stood a few feet away, wearing her emerald tartan robes, spectacles gleaming sharply. Her lips were drawn in a tight line.

Ron froze mid-step.

Harry exhaled in relief.

But Hermione… Hermione saw the flicker in McGonagall’s eyes. Worry. Steeled concern. And something else—something dark, furious.

“Miss Granger, with me,” McGonagall said.

It wasn’t a request.

Hermione nodded and left the hall with her head high despite the trembling in her hands. The cold corridors felt soothing as they walked, the quiet a balm.

Once they rounded a corner, McGonagall raised her wand.

“Homenum Revelio.”

Hermione blinked. “Professor?”

McGonagall muttered another charm—one Hermione recognized with a chill.

A potion-detection spell.

The faint shimmer that rose from Hermione’s skin was unmistakable.

McGonagall’s face went white. Then thunderous.

“Just as I suspected.”

Hermione froze. “Professor… what is it?”

“You, my girl,” McGonagall whispered, voice trembling with fury she was barely containing, “are under the influence of multiple controlling potions.”

Hermione staggered back, breath ripping out of her. “Wh—what? No, I—no one—”

Harry burst out from behind a nearby suit of armour. “I knew she was acting strange! I knew something was wrong!”

McGonagall didn’t even reprimand him for following.

Instead, her wand flared softly as she examined Hermione again.

“Miss Granger, these are not mild or accidental exposures. These are layered, cumulative, targeted potions… brewed to influence behaviour. There is compulsion, mood dampening, emotional guidance…” She inhaled sharply. “And a variant of a fidelity infusion.”

Harry swore loudly.

Hermione’s knees buckled. McGonagall caught her before she hit the floor.

“No,” Hermione whispered. “No, no, no—who would—”

But she already knew.

She knew.

Ron’s new attentiveness. His sudden insistence. The food and drinks he’d pushed on her. The strange fog in her own mind.

Her stomach churned violently.

McGonagall’s voice was a razor.
“Ronald Weasley.”

Harry slammed his fist into the stone wall. “I’m going to kill him.”

“No, you are not,” McGonagall snapped. “Not yet.” She tightened her hold on Hermione’s shoulders. “We do this properly. Lawfully. Safely. And quietly—for now.”

Hermione forced herself to breathe.

“Professor… what do we do?”

McGonagall looked at her for a long, long moment.

Then something softened. Something old and tender and fiercely protective.

“Hermione,” she murmured, “your parents… I have attempted to contact them repeatedly regarding your welfare.”

Hermione stiffened. This again. “They’re busy, Professor.”

“No, child.” McGonagall’s voice lowered. “They have not responded because they do not care.”

Hermione’s throat closed.

Harry put a hand on her back.

McGonagall continued, quietly:

“The potioning has merely stripped the veil from my eyes. You have been neglected by your biological parents for years. You have been endangered repeatedly at this school while under my care. And now…” Her jaw clenched. “Now someone has violated your autonomy. I will not stand idle.”

Hermione wiped her eyes. “Wh-what are you saying?”

Minerva McGonagall, sternest witch in Britain, leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper thick with centuries of ancestral magic.

“There is an ancient rite,” she said. “A full blood adoption. A ritual older than the Ministry itself. It protects heirs. And it safeguards magical children. ”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

Harry stared.

McGonagall’s next words were soft but unyielding.

“Hermione Granger… I am offering to adopt you.”

Time stopped.

Hermione swayed.

Harry whispered, “Hermione…”

But she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Her chest ached—with hope, with fear, with a desperate longing she didn’t realise she’d been carrying.

McGonagall gently cupped her cheek.

“You deserve protection. You deserve family. You deserve a name that shields you instead of leaving you exposed.”
Her voice deepened with magic, power thrumming beneath every syllable.
“And I would be honoured to call you my daughter.”

Hermione broke.

The sob burst out before she could stop it. She collapsed into McGonagall’s arms, trembling, fists clutching tartan robes.

Harry stepped closer, wiping at his eyes. “You deserve this, ‘Mione.”

McGonagall held her for a long moment, hands steady, heart breaking for the child she’d failed to protect soon enough.

When Hermione finally pulled back, red-eyed and breathless, she whispered:

“Yes. Please. Yes—Mum.”

McGonagall’s eyes shone as she pressed a kiss to Hermione’s forehead.

“Then we begin tonight.”

______________________

The ancient stone chamber smelled of heather, silver magic, and the electric crackle of old wards. Sigils glowed on the floor, shaped like intertwined thistles and starlight.

Hermione stood barefoot at the centre, trembling but resolute.

Harry stood beside Sirius—who had been summoned immediately after his exoneration by McGonagall’s urgent Floo call. He looked pale with rage when he heard about the potions, but now he watched with quiet awe.

McGonagall stepped into the circle opposite Hermione, her tartan robes replaced by ceremonial black and emerald. Her eyes were warm, unwavering.

“Child of my heart,” she began.

“Mother of my choosing,” Hermione whispered back.

Ancient magic hummed in approval.

McGonagall sliced her palm with a ritual silver blade.

Hermione did the same.

Their blood droplets met the glowing sigils, and the chamber erupted with emerald fire.

Power surged up Hermione’s spine, hot and wild. She gasped as her hair lightened into rich, warm brown with auburn streaks—The Ross lineage. Her cheekbones sharpened. Her magic roared awake, brilliant, old, unbound.

She felt every thread of her being reorder itself.

McGonagall staggered forward as the final line of the ancient vow echoed around them:

“By thistle and star, by oath and blood, I claim you.
By heart and magic, by right and rite, I name you.
Rise, my daughter—
Hermione Isobel McGonagall, Heiress of Ross.”

The explosion of magic shook the entire chamber.

Hermione collapsed to her knees—and McGonagall caught her, holding her close as glowing sigils faded.

“Mum,” Hermione whispered, voice shaking.

“Yes, my darling girl,” McGonagall murmured, stroking her hair. “It is done.”

Harry grinned at her through tears. “You look… brilliant, ‘Mione.”

Sirius laughed wetly. “Heiress Ross. Merlin, Snape’s going to have a stroke.”

Hermione huffed a half-laugh, half-sob.

And then—

A pulse of magic thrummed from deep within her chest.

An instinct.

A shape.

A form.

Her animagus was awakening.

McGonagall stiffened. “Already? Good heavens—Hermione!”

Hermione gasped as her bones tingled, magic swirling—but the shift didn’t complete.

Not yet.

It hovered, waiting. Choosing its moment.

Harry’s jaw dropped. “You’re an animagus?”

McGonagall exhaled shakily. “She will be.”

Hermione trembled, overwhelmed by power, belonging, and the fierce new warmth in her chest.

She had a mother.
A family.
A name.
A legacy…

And far away in Bulgaria, Viktor Krum—Heir Krumov—felt a sudden ripple of magic through an ancestral ward that connected him to the girl he’d been writing letters to since the Triwizard Tournament.

He sat upright in his chair.

“Hermione,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

The fire in Minerva McGonagall’s office crackled quietly, but the air was anything but calm.

Hermione sat on a tartan-upholstered armchair, wrapped in a soft shawl her mother had conjured for her. Her hair—now touched with warm auburn streaks—fell in thick waves past her shoulders. Her posture was straight, but exhaustion clung to her bones.

Harry stood behind her chair like a guard.

Sirius lounged against the opposite wall, deceptively relaxed, though his eyes burned with a feral edge. Freedom suited him, but fury suited him far more.

McGonagall paced behind her desk with a predator’s grace.

Hermione’s fingers twitched. She felt different—lighter yet anchored, powerful yet steady—and underneath everything, the sharp ache of betrayal still simmering beneath her ribs.

Ron Weasley had potion-dosed her.

She still couldn’t understand it.
Didn’t want to understand it.

The office door swung open.

Albus Dumbledore stepped inside, blue robes swishing, beard gleaming in the low firelight.

His eyes moved over the room—Harry, Sirius, McGonagall—and stopped on Hermione. There was something calculating behind the grandfatherly softness.

“Good evening,” he began. “I was told there was an—”

“Sit,” McGonagall said curtly.

Dumbledore’s brows rose. “Minerva—”

“Sit, Albus.”

He sat.

Hermione didn’t miss the way Harry smirked or Sirius murmured, “Bloody finally.”

McGonagall placed both palms on her desk and said, with no ornamentation whatsoever:

“Hermione Isobel McGonagall, Heiress of Ross, has been potion-dosed by Ronald Bilius Weasley.”

Dumbledore went very still.

Hermione’s breath hitched.

He didn’t look shocked.
He looked annoyed.

Not at Ron.

At McGonagall.

Something cold and bitter curled in Hermione’s stomach.

Harry saw her expression and clenched his fists.

Sirius let out a low whistle. “Not even pretending, are we, Albus?”

Dumbledore folded his hands. “Minerva, surely there has been a misunderstanding—”

“No,” McGonagall snapped. “There is no misunderstanding.” She turned to Hermione. “Show him.”

Hermione swallowed. She raised her wand—her pulse steady in her newly strengthened magic—and cast:

“Revelio Potionem.”

A soft golden aura shimmered around her body. Threads of sickly dull red and muddy brown pulsed through it, coiling like trapped vines.

Compulsion.
Emotional guidance.
Fidelity infusion.
Attraction-binding.
Dependency layering.

Dumbledore stared at the evidence.

He still said nothing.

Hermione felt sick.

“You knew,” McGonagall whispered, voice breaking like cracking ice. “You knew something was wrong with her this term. And you did nothing.”

Dumbledore sighed, leaning back. “Minerva, my dear—these things are delicate. Hogwarts politics, the Weasley family’s influence, Ron is at a sensitive age—”

Harry exploded.
“SENSITIVE AGE?! He drugged her!”

Dumbledore didn’t flinch. “Harry, my boy—”

“I’m not your boy,” Harry snapped. “I’m Lord Potter-Black, in case you forgot.”

Sirius smirked with savage pride.

Dumbledore’s eyes flickered in irritation.

McGonagall spoke before the Headmaster could recover. “Ronald Weasley is suspended. Effective immediately. And Ginny Weasley will be investigated as well.”

Dumbledore froze. “Ginny?”

“Yes,” McGonagall said coolly. “Because Hermione was not the only student influenced this term.”

Harry stiffened.

Dumbledore’s face went briefly blank.

Hermione looked up sharply at her brother. “Harry?”

He swallowed. “It’s true. I haven’t been myself. Sometimes I feel like I’m… drifting. Forgetting things. Agreeing to things I would never agree to.”

McGonagall’s jaw tightened. “Precisely. And Miss Ginevra Weasley has shown excessive attention toward Harry in the weeks surrounding these symptoms.”

Sirius barked a dark laugh. “She tried line theft, didn’t she? Bloody hell. James and Lily would hex her from the grave.”

Hermione clenched her fists. “We have to prove it.”

“We will,” McGonagall promised. “And the dverger will help us verify the potion traces. They recognise Harry and Hermione as Friends of the Dverger Nation. Their testimony is irrefutable.”

Dumbledore’s expression tightened.
That struck a nerve.

Hermione’s voice finally cracked from strain. “Headmaster… why didn’t you stop Ron? Why didn’t you help me?”

Dumbledore looked at her as though she were very young and very foolish.

“Because, my dear girl,” he said gently, “you and Ronald were supposed to grow close. Your bond would have united your values, kept you here at Hogwarts, and—”

Harry slammed a hand on McGonagall’s desk.

“Kept her under your control.”

Dumbledore exhaled. “Harry—”

Sirius stepped forward, voice like a cold curse.
“You wanted Hermione tied to the Weasleys so you could keep her compliant. You wanted Harry bound to Ginny so you could keep him contained. Two powerful heirs tethered to a family that depends on you.”

Dumbledore didn’t respond.

His silence was answer enough.

Hermione felt as if the floor tilted.
McGonagall reached her side immediately.

“My girl,” she whispered, placing a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “You are safe now.”

Hermione nodded, eyes burning.

She had a mother.
She had a family.
And she had political protection that Ron or Ginny could never breach.

Sirius leaned against the desk. “So. The Weasleys. What’s our next move?”

McGonagall straightened. “We prepare for a formal inquiry. The potioning is a criminal offence. The Dverger Nation will conduct the evaluations and present the findings to the Wizengamot.”

Dumbledore stiffened. “Minerva, involving Gringotts—”

“—is precisely what we will do,” McGonagall said icily. “Ragnok respects Hermione and Harry far more than this Ministry ever did.”

Hermione wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “When do we go?”

McGonagall’s eyes glinted.
“Tonight.”

Harry grinned fiercely. “Brilliant.”

Sirius cracked his knuckles. “Let’s ruin some careers.”

Dumbledore stood abruptly. “I forbid this—”

“You are no longer the most powerful voice in this room, Albus,” McGonagall said softly, dangerously.
“Sit down and be silent.”

Dumbledore sat.

Hermione felt shock flicker through her, followed by something warm and sharp. Pride.

Her mother was terrifying.

And Hermione… was starting to feel like she might become just as formidable.

The night was cold and sharp as McGonagall led Hermione, Harry, and Sirius through Diagon Alley. Shop lights flickered against the cobblestone streets. Hermione walked between Harry and her mother, wrapped in a conjured cloak of emerald and black.

She felt steady.
Bone-weary, but steady.

Harry nudged her lightly. “You okay?”

Hermione nodded. “Better now.”

Sirius walked ahead, ever the protective guardian. “Once the dverger sees the potion traces, it’ll be undeniable.”

Hermione bit her lip. “Do you really think Ron—”

“Yes,” Harry said instantly.

Hermione swallowed. “And Ginny?”

Harry’s voice cracked. “Yeah.”

They reached the towering silver-and-black gates of Gringotts. Two dverger guards—tall, sharp-featured, powerful—bowed as they approached. Not deeply. But respectfully.

“Hermione Isobel McGonagall,” one said, voice resonant. “Lord Potter, Friends of the Dverger Nation. Lord Black. Lady Ross.” He nodded. “The Chieftain awaits.”

Hermione exhaled.

Harry grinned. “Ready?”

Hermione squared her shoulders.

“Yes.”

The gates opened.

Ancient magic thrummed through the walls, singing along her new bloodline, rippling through the very core of her.

And somewhere deep beneath the halls, in the ritual chambers of the dverger— Ragnok, Chieftain of Gringotts, waited.

Chapter Text

Gringotts at night was an entirely different kingdom.

Most witches and wizards only ever saw the bank—the polished floors, the counters, the carefully civil mask the dverger wore.

But past the marble foyer, beyond the golden archways and guarded corridors, lay the true heart of the Dverger Nation:

Karn Thul.
The subterranean citadel.
Seat of their sovereign law.
Birthplace of ancient magic.

Hermione had never been allowed this deep before.

Tonight, the torches lining the walls burned with blue fire, casting tall shadows that twisted and breathed like living things. The air smelled of metal, stone, and raw magic—old, potent, unbound.

Harry walked beside her, shoulders square.

Sirius strolled just ahead, a swagger in his step, though Hermione could see the gleam of barely leashed fury in his eyes.

Minerva McGonagall walked like a queen returning to a realm that owed her respect. The dverger bowed to her—not deeply, but consistently. Not for Hogwarts.

For Ross.

Hermione felt the magic stir in her blood each time they spoke her mother’s title.

Her surname.
Her inheritance.

Hermione Isobel McGonagall, Heiress of Ross.

She still wasn’t used to it.

But as they descended deeper, she began to feel… connected. As if the ancient stone recognised her.

The corridor widened until it opened into a massive circular chamber carved entirely from obsidian. In the centre, a raised platform glowed with runes—each one pulsing in rhythm with the heartbeat of the citadel.

Atop it stood Ragnok.

Tall for a dverger, lean and sharp-eyed, his silver braids fell over his shoulders like threads of starlight. His presence filled the room—calm, calculating, unwavering.

McGonagall inclined her head respectfully.
“Chieftain.”

Ragnok returned the gesture. “Lady Ross.”

His gaze slid to Hermione, piercing but not unkind.

“And the newly named Heiress.”

Hermione bowed, the way she had seen Narcissa Malfoy do—elegant, measured, acknowledging strength without subservience.

“Chieftain Ragnok,” she said softly.

A flicker of approval crossed his face.

Harry stepped forward. “Thank you for seeing us this late.”

Ragnok’s eyes softened briefly. “For you, Lord Potter, and for the Heiress Ross… I would open the gates at midnight.”

Sirius whistled. “Wish the Ministry respected us half as much as you do.”

“That institution respects little other than its own corruption,” Ragnok replied without hesitation.

Hermione hid a smile.

The Chieftain gestured them toward the runic platform. “We will begin the evaluation. It will not hurt… much.”

Harry shot Hermione a look.
She swallowed.

Sirius patted her shoulder. “If it hurts, yell. I’ll hex him.”

Ragnok lifted a brow. “You may try.”

McGonagall elbowed Sirius. Hard.

Hermione stepped onto the platform.

The blue runes immediately blazed white.

She gasped as magic surged around her, warm and cold all at once, like rising and falling tides crashing against her skin. The hum was melodic, ancient—Dverger magic did not feel like wands or rituals.

It felt alive.

Ragnok raised his hands and spoke:

“By the law of my ancestors—
Reveal what has been hidden.
Expose what has been done.”

The runes flared.

Hermione cried out softly as the sickly red-and-brown threads of potion magic were dragged from her skin—visible, writhing, snarling as they tried to cling to her.

Ragnok’s expression darkened.

“This is deliberate,” he said coldly. “Purposeful. Layered. And performed over time.”

McGonagall’s knuckles whitened.

Harry’s breath hitched.

Sirius swore under his breath.

Ragnok spoke again, voice like sharpened steel.
“There is blood in these spells.”

Hermione froze. “B-blood?”

The Chieftain nodded grimly. “Someone added a component of personal intent—marking you, trying to guide your emotions on a deeper path.”

Harry nearly choked. “Ron tried to soul-bond her?!”

Hermione felt nauseated.

Ragnok extended his hand. “Be calm, Heiress. The potions are vile but primitive. They could not override your core magic.”

“And now?” Hermione whispered.

“Now,” Ragnok said, “they are gone.”

He clenched his fist.

The potion threads dissolved into ash.

Hermione sagged with relief.

McGonagall was at her side instantly. “My girl, are you steady?”

Hermione nodded, voice trembling. “Yes… Mum.”

Harry hugged her fiercely.

Ragnok gave a shallow bow. “The evaluation is complete. The evidence,” he gestured, and a crystal vial floated forward, glowing with captured magic, “is irrefutable. Ronald Bilius Weasley is guilty of attempted compulsion, behavioral manipulation, and blood-marked emotional interference.”

Sirius grinned savagely. “Brilliant. Can’t wait to watch Molly explode.”

Harry looked mournful but firm. “Ron chose this.”

Ragnok’s eyes narrowed. “Hermione was not the only target. Now we test the second.”

Harry stepped onto the platform before anyone else could speak.

“Do it.”

Hermione squeezed his hand.

The runes lit again—this time flaring gold and green. Harry hissed softly under his breath. Not pain—resonance.

Ragnok’s eyes widened slightly. “Ah. Your coven awakening has begun. It seems Glan Neidr has accepted you.”

Hermione blinked. “Coven?”

Harry shrugged shyly. “Sirius was going to tell you soon.”

Sirius elbowed him. “Spoilers, pup.”

Ragnok lifted his hands again.

“Reveal.”

The potion threads dragged from Harry’s skin were different—rose-pink, shimmering, sticky as syrup. A love potion. A compulsion enchantment. And—Ragnok’s lip curled—a line-binding spell meant to tether Harry to the Weasley family.

Ginny.

Hermione inhaled sharply.

Sirius growled. “She actually tried to trap him into a magical marriage.”

Ragnok nodded. “With poor craftsmanship. But yes.”

Harry’s face twisted in betrayal. “Why… why would she do that?”

Sirius put a hand on his godson’s shoulder. “Because you’re valuable, kid. Your name. Your House. Your magic. People like Molly and Ginny chase power the way others chase fame.”

Hermione stepped forward, gripping Harry’s other hand. “We’ll expose all of it. Together.”

Harry nodded, eyes shining with hurt but also clarity.

Ragnok sealed the second vial. “The evidence for Ginevra Weasley is also conclusive.”

McGonagall breathed out slowly, controlled fury radiating from her.

“Thank you, Chieftain.”

Ragnok inclined his head. “You showed our people respect in the Dark year. You and Lord Potter risked your lives to protect Lady magic. We repay our debts.”

Hermione bowed again, more deeply this time. “You honour us.”

Ragnok’s eyes gleamed. “This is only the beginning.”

Hermione blinked. “Of what?”

“The return of the old alliances,” he said simply.
“Magic is shifting. Bloodlines are stirring. Coven legacies are awakening. Dark times have ended—and the ancient world rises again.”

McGonagall straightened beside Hermione. “Indeed.”

Sirius arched a brow. “Cryptic, as always.”

Ragnok smirked. “We prefer ‘mysterious.’”

Then his gaze hardened.

“And there is one more matter.”

Hermione felt her breath catch.
Ragnok extended his hand, conjuring a shimmering image above his palm—

Viktor Krumov.

Not as the world knew him—Quidditch star, Bulgarian Seeker—but dressed in ceremonial robes, standing in a snow-covered temple circle, hands raised in ritual. His magic glowed black-gold, powerful and ancient.

Harry blinked. “That’s Viktor?”

Ragnok nodded. “Heir Krumov. High Priest of the Bulgarian coven. One of the most magically disciplined young wizards in Europe.”

Hermione’s heart leapt to her throat.

Ragnok’s eyes bored into her.

“When your adoption ritual completed, Heiress Ross, your magic surged across the continent.”

Hermione froze.

Ragnok continued.
“And Viktor Krumov felt it.”

Harry grinned. “Well, that explains why he hasn’t stopped writing Hermione.”

Sirius raised a brow. “High Priest, hmm? Fancy.”

McGonagall hid a knowing smile. “Hermione’s magic has always been… compatible with a certain someone.”

Hermione turned pink. “Mum—!”

Ragnok dismissed the image. “He will seek you out. Soon.”

Hermione’s stomach flipped.

Not with fear.

With something warm. And bright. And terrifying in a good way.

McGonagall placed a hand on her daughter’s back. “We have much to prepare.”

Ragnok nodded once more. “Go. The evidence is yours. The Weasley children will face judgment. And the world will learn that an Heiress has risen.”

Hermione took a steady breath. She wasn’t just Hermione Granger anymore.

She was Hermione Isobel McGonagall, Heiress of Ross.
Member of a rising coven.
Friend of the Dverger Nation.

Chapter Text

Snow fell softly over Durmstrang’s eastern training grounds, each flake shimmering with faint magical resonance. The wards around the Bulgarian coven temple were older than the Ministry itself—woven from dragonbone pillars, ancient runes, and generations of Krumov priesthood.

Inside the ritual hall, Viktor Krumov stood shirtless, breath steaming in the cold air, palms pressed against the obsidian altar as golden-black magic swirled beneath his skin.

His coven brothers watched silently—stern, broad-shouldered men trained in both battle and ritual, men who rarely showed emotion.

But all of them felt the pulse.

A surge of magic.
Soft, ancient, powerful.
Cutting across Europe like a thread pulling at their own wards.

One of the elder priests, Deyan, stepped forward. His beard was silver, his eyes sharp. “It has happened.”

Viktor opened his eyes—dark, molten, unsettled. “Yes.”

Deyan clasped his hands tightly. “A birthright awakened. A bloodline reclaimed. Someone of great magic has risen.”

Viktor swallowed hard. His heart pounded like a drum against his ribs.

“It is her,” he murmured.

The coven fell silent.

Deyan studied him quietly. “You feel her magic that clearly, boy?”

Viktor’s jaw flexed. “I have felt her magic since the Tournament. It is… clean. Bright. Sharp. Like early dawn over snow.” A pause. “But tonight—tonight it roared.”

He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, right over his heart.
“It found me.”

The elders exchanged looks.

Bond magic was rare. Not marriage magic—not yet. But magical compatibility, recognition between two powerful lines… that was something else entirely.

Deyan nodded slowly. “Then the girl has come into her inheritance.”

“She is not a girl anymore,” Viktor said quietly, eyes softening. “She is a witch. A powerful one.”

A flare of magic behind him made the torches sputter.

“Who is she?” another priest asked.

Viktor breathed out her name like a vow.

“Hermione.”

Breakfast the next morning began like any other—

Until Ron Weasley walked into the Great Hall.

Or rather—was escorted in by Auror Thaddeus Hale and a stern-faced Amelia Bones.

Every student in the room froze.

Ron looked terrible.
Grey. Sweaty. Panicked.

He kept glancing toward Hermione’s usual seat, but Hermione—thankfully—wasn’t there yet. Harry sat alone, back rigid, jaw tight. Draco Malfoy sat across from him, calmly sipping tea, watching the scene with aristocratic satisfaction.

Murmurs exploded across the hall.

“What did Ron do?”
“Why are Aurors here?”
“He potion-dosed someone—my cousin said so—”
“No—Ron? He’s harmless!”
“Look at him. He’s guilty.”

Ginny arrived moments later, hair perfect, uniform immaculate—until she saw the Aurors.

She went pale.

Paler than Ron.

“Ginevra Weasley,” Amelia Bones said loudly, “you are summoned for formal evaluation at the Dverger Kingdom regarding allegations of magical coercion—”

Ginny screamed.
Actually screamed.

“NO! HARRY LOVES ME—”

A wave of whispers rippled through the Great Hall.

Draco choked on his tea. “Merlin’s saggy—Weasley, show some dignity.”

Ginny pointed at Harry with a shaking finger. “Tell them, Harry! Tell them you want to marry me!”

Harry blinked. Then said, very loudly:

“I would rather duel a Hungarian Horntail blindfolded.”

The Slytherin table erupted in applause.

Ginny burst into tears.

Ron tried lunging toward Hermione’s empty seat, shouting, “Where is she?! Let me talk to her—she’ll forgive me!”

Amelia Bones flicked her wand and bound him in glowing restraints.

“You will speak only in front of the Wizengamot and the Dverger tribunal.”

The Great Hall buzzed like a hive of hysterical bees.

And then—

The door opened again.

Hermione entered with Minerva McGonagall beside her.

Silence dropped like a stone.

She walked with unshakable poise.
Her hair glowed with auburn streaks.
Her uniform had been subtly altered—deep emerald accents marking Ross heritage.
Her magic pulsed gently around her like starlight.

Every noble-born student recognized the marks immediately.

Draco stood up.

“Lady Ross.”

Hermione flushed. “Oh. Please—Hermione is fine.”

Draco smirked, bowing slightly. “Not when you look like you could topple the Ministry.”

Blaise Zabini murmured to Theo Nott, “She’s glowing. Literally glowing.”

Theo’s quill snapped in half.

Padma and Parvati stared at her, eyes soft with awe.

Hannah Abbott whispered, “She looks… beautiful.”

Hermione pretended not to hear.

But she did hear Ron screaming:

“HERMIONE! SWEETHEART! YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU—THE POTIONS WERE JUST TO HELP US GET CLOSER—”

Harry threw a fork at him.

Minerva spoke in a tone that made even the ghosts freeze.

“Mr. Weasley, you will remain silent.”

Ron didn’t.

“WE WERE MEANT TO BE TOGETHER! DUMBLEDORE SAID—”

The entire Great Hall gasped.

Hermione’s blood ran cold.

McGonagall turned on Dumbledore with murder in her eyes.

Dumbledore rose slowly from the staff table, gaze weary. “Ronald—enough. We will discuss—”

“No,” Hermione said softly.

Every eye turned to her.

She walked toward Ron until she stood only a few feet from him.

Her voice was quiet.

Controlled.

Deadly.

“Ronald, you assaulted my mind with potions. You tried to bend my choices. You poisoned me.”

Ron sobbed. “I love you, Hermione—”

“You don’t love me,” she said. “You loved the idea of owning me.”

Gasps echoed.

Harry stood behind her like a wall of fire.

Draco crossed his arms, sneering with aristocratic disdain.

Ginny cried harder.

Hermione looked at Amelia Bones. “I’m ready to testify.”

Ron collapsed to his knees.

Ginny fainted.

Dumbledore’s face turned the color of curdled milk.

McGonagall placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder, proud and fierce. “My daughter speaks with the authority of House Ross.”

Hermione felt the weight of her new title settle on her shoulders—heavy, but right.

The Aurors began escorting Ron and Ginny out.

Ron screamed her name until the doors closed behind him.

Hermione inhaled.

Shaky.
Quiet.
But strong.

Harry hugged shoulders from the side.

“You’re free now.”

Hermione’s eyes burned.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Finally.”

Viktor stormed into his family estate, magic crackling like a brewing storm.

His mother, Lady Kalina Krumova—gravity in silk—looked up from her writing desk.

“Your magic is shaking the walls, Viktor.”

He bowed stiffly. “Mother. I must go to Britain.”

Her eyebrows arched. “Is this about the girl?”

Viktor swallowed. “Hermione. Hermione McGonagall. The Heiress of Ross.”

Kalina’s quill snapped in half.
“Ross?” she whispered. “The Scottish bloodline has finally awakened after two centuries?”

“It seems so.”

Kalina stood. “Then she is valuable. Politically. Magically. Covens will make offers.”

Viktor’s magic surged protectively.

“She is not a bargaining chip.”

Kalina smirked. “Then what is she to you, my son?”

Viktor hesitated.

Everything he felt—admiration, respect, affection, the way her letters had become the best part of his weeks, the way her magic called to his now—

“It does not matter,” he said stiffly. “She is in danger. She was potion-dosed. I felt her distress.”

Kalina went still.

“Oh,” she whispered, eyes widening. “Oh, you are bound.”

Viktor froze.

“No—”

“Yes,” she said, stepping forward, cupping his face. “Magic does not lie. Bloodlines do not lie. Your magic recognized hers.”

Viktor swallowed harshly.

“Go,” Kalina said. “Bring honor to our family. Protect her.”

Viktor nodded once, fiercely.

“I will.”

As Hermione sat in her dorm, brushing her newly freer hair, an owl landed on her bed. A sleek Bulgarian owl, feathers dark as midnight.

Her heart flipped.

She opened the letter with trembling hands.

Hermione,
I felt your distress, your magic.
I know you are hurt.
I know someone tried to bind you.
I am coming.
—Viktor

Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Warm.
Steady.
Hopeful.

“Of course you are,” she whispered.

She folded the letter close to her heart.

Mum’s voice echoed from the doorway. “Who is that from, darling?”

Hermione went crimson. “No one important!”

McGonagall smiled like a cat. “Mm-hm.”

Chapter Text

Hogwarts had seen aristocrats, foreign dignitaries, and even the Minister of Magic himself.

But it had never seen Viktor Krumov like this.

Not as the teenage Triwizard Champion. Not in Quidditch robes, broom in hand.

But as Heir Krumov—High Priest of the Bulgarian Coven, scion of one of Europe’s oldest magical bloodlines, walking with the cold grace of a man who commanded ancient magic and had been raised to rule.

The castle wards quivered when he arrived.

Students felt it before they saw him—
A shift in the air.
A tremor in the magic.
A pulse of power.

Even the ghosts paused mid-flight.

And then the doors of the Great Hall opened.

Viktor stepped inside wearing deep black ceremonial robes embroidered with gold runes that glowed faintly with coven magic. A heavy mantle rested across his broad shoulders, clasped with the crest of Krumov House—a dragon coiled around a sun.

He was older.
Sharper.
More dangerous.
A man built from discipline, ritual, and strength.

A hush swept the hall.

Draco blinked, mouth dropping. “Oh. Bloody hell.”

Theo whispered, “Is that… illegal? Looking like that at twenty?”

Pansy fanned herself dramatically. “Mother Meridian, I need to sit down.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Calm down, he’s just Viktor.”

“Harry,” Draco hissed, “he looks like a dark prince who walked out of a rune circle…and I mean that respectfully.”

Sirius snorted into his pumpkin juice.

McGonagall stepped forward from the staff table, expression composed—but Hermione saw the smirk hiding in her mother’s eyes.

“Welcome to Hogwarts, Heir Krumov.”

Viktor bowed deeply, perfectly. “Lady Ross.”

The title hit the room like a silent explosion.

Hermione, sitting quietly beside Harry, wanted to die.

Her cheeks went crimson, and her spoon slipped from her fingers.

Viktor’s dark gaze found her instantly.

And softened.

Visibly.

Painfully.

Completely.

Draco whispered to Blaise, “He’s gone for her. Absolutely done.”

Blaise nodded. “She could ask him to kneel and he’d do it.”

Narcissa Malfoy, elegantly sipping her tea at the staff table as Guest Instructor of Magical Conduct, murmured, “Minerva, your daughter has excellent taste.”

McGonagall sniffed. “Obviously.”

_________

Hermione stood slowly, her heart pounding in her chest. She smoothed her emerald-accented robes, suddenly hyperaware of the auburn streaks in her hair and the soft glow of her magic.

Viktor stepped toward her, each footfall echoing with quiet authority.

When he reached her, he bowed—not to the hall, not to McGonagall—

To her.

“Hermione,” he said, voice low and warm, “you are… different.”

Hermione swallowed. “So are you.”

“I felt your ritual,” Viktor murmured. “Your adoption. Your magic. It called to mine.”

Harry made a gagging noise.

Hermione elbowed him hard.

Viktor smiled—only for a second—but enough to make the hall swoon.

“I came as soon as I could.”

Hermione’s cheeks warmed. “Thank you.”

Viktor reached out slightly—as if wanting to touch her but respecting every boundary. Hermione startled at the gentle restraint.

After Ron, restraint felt like a kindness she didn’t know she needed.

McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence.

“Let us move to my office. We have much to discuss.”

____________________

The moment the door shut, Viktor dropped the formal rigidity and stepped closer to Hermione, his voice low and urgent.

“Are you truly unharmed? I swear, if someone—”

“I’m okay,” Hermione said softly. “Thanks to Mum.”

McGonagall pretended not to preen at the word Mum.

Sirius sprawled on the sofa. “Sit, lad. Breathe. Hermione’s safe.”

Viktor didn’t sit. Not until Hermione tugged lightly at his sleeve.

He froze.

And then sat beside her immediately.

McGonagall arched a brow but said nothing.

Amelia Bones joined them, placing two glowing vials on the table.

Ron’s potion traces.
Ginny’s potion traces.

Harry’s jaw clenched.

Viktor’s expression turned murderous.

Amelia spoke briskly. “Formal hearings will begin tomorrow. The Dverger evidence is unchallengeable. Both Weasley children face expulsion and criminal charges.”

Hermione swallowed. “I didn’t want any of this.”

McGonagall took her hand. “My girl, this is justice, not vengeance.”

Viktor murmured, “You showed mercy. They did not.”

Hermione looked at him.

He held her gaze with quiet sincerity.

“You deserved better than suffering in silence.”

Hermione’s eyes burned.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Harry smiled softly. “Told you he was decent.”

Sirius winked. “Decent? The boy looks like he could conquer Bulgaria.”

Viktor looked confused. “Why would I conquer Bulgaria? It is already mine by inheritance.”

Sirius laughed so hard he choked.

_________________

Later that afternoon, Hermione found herself in a private salon in the east wing, curtains drawn, candles floating in precise patterns. Narcissa Malfoy stood before her, poised like a sculpted blade of elegance.

“Sit straight, shoulders soft, chin high,” Narcissa commanded. “You are Heiress Ross. Your presence must enter the room before your words do.”

Hermione straightened.

Viktor peeked through the doorway.

Narcissa didn’t look. “Heir Krumov, if you intend to hover like a lovesick Kneazle, you may as well come inside.”

Viktor flushed.
Hermione flushed harder.
McGonagall smothered a laugh behind her hand.

Narcissa continued mercilessly.

“Lesson one: Poise. Lesson two: Defensive charm-weaving while maintaining noble posture. Lesson three: How to eviscerate a political enemy using only polite wording.”

Hermione whispered, “Doesn’t everyone already know I’m terrible at posture?”

Viktor murmured, “You are perfect.”

Narcissa whipped her head around. “Flatter her again and I’ll make you stand in the corner until we finish etiquette drills.”

Viktor straightened. “Yes, Lady Malfoy.”

McGonagall smirked. “Good boy.”

Hermione covered her face.

In the lower dungeons, Ron sat pale and shaking as dverger enforcers questioned him. His wand had been confiscated. His hands trembled.

“Why did you potion her?” the enforcer asked.

Ron hiccupped. “I loved her.”

“No,” the dverger said coldly. “You wanted to possess her.”

Ginny, in the next chamber, was screaming at the top of her lungs:

“Harry needs me! Don’t you understand? He’s meant to marry me! Dumbledore promised!”

Amelia rubbed her temples. “Merlin, save us.”

Dumbledore, bound by McGonagall’s suspension order, could only watch from the doorway as his carefully arranged plans disintegrated into ash.

His eyes fell on Hermione across the hall—Hermione standing tall beside Viktor, her hair glowing in torchlight, surrounded by the rising power of ancient magic.

A dangerous combination.

A powerful heir.

A bonded pair.

He had lost control of her.

He had lost control of Harry.

And the world would feel it.

When night fell, Hermione sneaked into the Astronomy Tower for a quiet breath of air. She needed space—to process, to think, to simply exist without someone asking if she was okay.

She didn’t expect Viktor to already be there.

He stood at the edge of the balcony, snowflakes drifting gently onto his dark hair.

He didn’t turn when she approached.
But he felt her magic.

“You should rest,” he murmured.

Hermione stepped beside him. “I could say the same about you.”

His lips lifted. “Touché.”

Silence settled—comfortable, warm despite the cold wind.

Finally, Hermione spoke. “You said you felt my ritual.”

Viktor nodded slowly. “I did. Through my coven wards.”

“Why?”

Viktor inhaled deeply. “Because magic recognises magic. You awakened an ancestral line. A powerful one.” He glanced at her. “And my magic… it is compatible with yours.”

Hermione’s breath caught.

“Compatible?”

“Yes,” Viktor said softly. “Like two halves of a rune circle. Two ends of a wand. Two stars aligned in an old chart.”

Her heart raced painfully.

“I don’t know what that means,” she whispered.

“It means,” Viktor said gently, “that if you want it… we could be very powerful together.”

Hermione looked at him—the boy she’d met at fourteen, now a man shaped by discipline and ancient training.

Warm. Steady. Quietly protective.

Her voice trembled.

“And if I don’t want anything?”

He smiled—small, soft, sincere. “Then I am still here. As your friend. Your ally. Always.”

Hermione’s chest tightened.

Viktor looked away, jaw tense. “But when I heard you were hurt… when I felt your magic break—Hermione, I nearly tore down the wards to come faster.”

Her eyes widened. “Viktor—”

He swallowed. “No one should ever control you. You shine too brightly.”

The wind whispered between them.

Hermione felt her animagus stir beneath her skin—warm, protective, ancient.

And Viktor’s magic hummed in response.

Two stars.
Two bloodlines.
Two coven-bound heirs.

Not yet together.

But undeniably connected.

Hermione whispered, “I’m glad you came.”

Viktor looked at her then—fully, deeply.

“And I am not leaving.”

Chapter Text

The Wizengamot chamber had always been an imposing place—circular tiers of cold stone, high arches, enchanted flames flickering violet-blue. But today it felt suffocating.

Packed.
Buzzing.
Electric.

Everyone wanted to be here for the fall of two Weasleys.

The galleries overflowed with reporters, nobles, ambassadors, and wide-eyed Ministry clerks who had skipped their entire morning duties just to watch.

Hermione entered with her head high, Viktor walking at her right like a silent fortress, Harry and Sirius at her left, McGonagall just behind her in full Ross formal robes.

It should have been terrifying.

It wasn’t.

Hermione felt steady. Rooted.
Her new bloodline pulsed beneath her skin like calm fire.
Her wand hummed.
Her magic flowed easily.

Whispers followed her like a tide.

“Is that her?”
“The Heiress Ross…”
“She looks older—stronger—beautiful.”
“That aura—Merlin, that’s ancient magic.”
“Krumov is with her? This is political dynamite.”

Viktor heard every whisper.

His jaw flexed, his shoulders rolling back as he placed himself half a step closer to Hermione, almost unconsciously shielding her from prying eyes.

Hermione nudged him. “You’re doing it again.”

“What?” Viktor asked, eyes straight ahead.

“Hovering.”

His lips twitched. “It is not hovering. It is guarding.”

“Same thing.”

“Da,” he said softly, “and I will continue.”

Hermione turned red.

Harry snickered.

Sirius muttered, “At this rate, they’ll be married by winter.”

McGonagall hushed him sharply while hiding a pleased smile.

___________

The atmosphere shifted abruptly.

Aurors marched in with Ron and Ginny Weasley bound in enchanted restraints. Their wands had been confiscated, their uniforms stripped of house colors.

Ron looked worse than before—hollow-eyed, shaking, muttering under his breath.

Ginny kept jerking in her seat, whispering Harry’s name like a mantra.

The public murmured in horror.

Molly Weasley, red-faced and furious, barreled toward the front row until Amelia Bones raised a hand.

“Mrs. Weasley, if you disrupt these proceedings, you will be escorted out.”

Molly sputtered, “They’re just children! They’re traumatized! They need me—”

“No,” Sirius said smoothly from his seat. “What they need is accountability.”

Molly turned to him with venom. “You mangy—”

Narcissa Malfoy, seated elegantly nearby, murmured, “Do shut up. Your shrieking is upsetting the carpet.”

Molly nearly passed out with indignation.

The high podium lit with a soft glow as the presiding members took their seats.

Lady Augusta Longbottom.
Lord Cyrus Greengrass.
Madam Amelia Bones.
Lord Black.
Lady Ross.

And—much to Dumbledore’s humiliation—

He was not presiding.
Not even allowed to vote.

McGonagall had forced through a suspension pending inquiry into his role in the potion cover-up.

He sat lower in the gallery, stiff and furious, robes immaculate but authority shattered.

Hermione met his eyes once.

He looked away first.

_______________

Amelia Bones stepped forward, voice sharp and clear.

“This inquiry investigates the use of illegal potions administered to Hermione Isobel McGonagall and Harry James Potter-Black.”

Murmurs.

“Gringotts has provided evidence verified by the Dverger Nation.”

A shimmering projection flared to life above the chamber—the glowing potion threads extracted from Hermione and Harry.

The entire Wizengamot recoiled.

“This,” Amelia continued, “is the result of deliberate, repeated potioning by Ronald Bilius Weasley and Ginevra Molly Weasley.”

Gasps.
Whispers.
Shock.

Even Molly froze.

Ginny began sobbing. “This is a mistake—Harry LOVES me—”

Harry stood, voice ringing.

“No. I do not.”

Ginny wailed, collapsing to her knees.

Amelia’s wand flicked sharply. Ginny was silenced.

Ron looked up, trembling. “Hermione… sweetheart… I didn’t hurt you… I helped—”

Hermione inhaled, exhaled, stepped forward.

And the entire chamber quieted.

She walked to the center platform, robes trailing instinctively behind her, posture perfect from Narcissa’s relentless coaching.

Her voice was calm.

“I did not consent to any of the potions used on me.”

Ron whimpered.

Hermione continued, words cutting like polished blades.

“I began feeling confused. Foggy. As if my own choices were distant echoes. I thought I was ill. I thought I was stressed. I blamed myself.”

She looked at Ron directly.

“I never imagined someone I trusted would drug me.”

The silence was painful.

Hermione’s eyes glistened—but no tears fell.

“Ron forced food and drink on me. He insisted on being near me. He pushed my friends away. And whenever I resisted… the potions pulled.”

Minerva’s hands clenched on the podium.

“And when the compulsion grew stronger,” Hermione said, voice barely wavering, “I thought I was losing my mind.”

Gasps.
Shock.
Horror.

Ron sobbed. “I loved you…”

“No,” Hermione said. “You loved control.”

The room froze.

“My magic screamed for help. And when my mother found me—when the adoption ritual awakened my bloodline—the potions were revealed for what they were.”

Her voice softened.

“I survived because people who loved me intervened. Because I was saved.”

Her gaze drifted—first to Harry. Then to McGonagall.
And then—

To Viktor.

He inhaled sharply as their eyes met.

Hermione stepped down from the platform, heartbeat steady.

She had spoken.
She had been heard.

She felt lighter.

Stronger.

Free.

Harry walked to the centre next, hands steady, green eyes blazing.

“This is simple,” he said bluntly. “Ginny Weasley dosed me with love potions, compulsion potions, and a line-binding spell meant to force me into marrying her.”

Ginny screamed behind the silencing charm.

Harry ignored her.

“I would rather marry a Hungarian Horntail.”

Sirius applauded loudly until Amelia glared at him.

Harry continued:

“I’m Lord Potter, Heir Black. My life matters. My magic matters. And I refuse to let anyone manipulate me for their ambition.”

He turned and stared Ginny dead in the eyes.

“I don’t love you. I never will.”

Ginny collapsed again.

Dumbledore Is Cornered

Amelia Bones straightened. “We now address the matter of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.”

The room crackled.

Dumbledore stood, face tight.

“Albus Dumbledore,” Amelia said sharply, “Ronald Weasley admitted that you encouraged him to pursue Hermione romantically.”

Gasps.

Hermione’s stomach twisted.

Dumbledore swallowed. “I merely suggested—”

“You knew she was being potion-dosed,” Amelia cut in. “And you did nothing.”

McGonagall’s voice sliced the air.

“You endangered my child.”

Dumbledore froze.

Minerva Mcgonagall-Ross was not a witch to anger.

Her eyes burned with centuries of ancestral fury.

“Albus Dumbledore,” she said softly, “your era of control ends now.”

The chamber erupted.

Hours later, after heated discourse, the Wizengamot returned.

Ron Weasley — Guilty

Potioning

Attempted magical coercion

Behavioral interference

Emotional compulsion

Endangerment of a minor witch
Sentenced to:

Expulsion

Magic-binding probation

Mandatory treatment

House Weasley fined 10,000 Galleons to House Ross

Ron sobbed until his voice broke.

Ginny Weasley — Guilty

Love potioning

Attempted line-binding

Coercive magic against a noble heir

Repeated attempts at magical marriage entrapment
Sentenced to:

Expulsion

Stripped of a wand license until age 25

5 years of magical supervision

House Weasley fined 15,000 Galleons to the Potter-Black House

Ginny fainted.

Dumbledore — Suspended pending full investigation.

Molly screamed until her voice cracked.

Arthur wept quietly.

Percy left the room without looking back.

_____________

When the chamber emptied, Hermione walked into the atrium feeling… strange.

Not triumphant.

Not vengeful.

Just relieved.

Viktor approached first—silent, steady, offering no words, only presence.

She looked up.

He cupped her cheek gently, thumb brushing once along her skin—a soft, reverent touch asking permission.

Hermione leaned into it.

Just a little.

“I am proud of you,” Viktor whispered.

Hermione’s eyes burned. “I didn’t feel brave.”

“You were.”
His voice deepened. “You are.”

Sirius whooped loudly behind them. “Look at you two! Like a pair of royal ravens!”

McGonagall sighed. “Sirius, please.”

Harry grinned. “I’m telling you—wedding by winter.”

Hermione groaned. Viktor blushed.

But Viktor did not step away from her.

He only moved slightly closer.

Quiet. Protective.
Steady as a mountain.

Hermione whispered, voice barely audible:

“Thank you for being here.”

Viktor’s answer was immediate.

“I always will be.”

Chapter Text

Hogwarts had always been steeped in magic.

But tonight—
Tonight, the castle pulsed with something older.
Deeper.
Wilder.

The war was over, the trials concluded, and yet it felt as though the world itself had taken a breath and held it.

And the center of that shift…Was Hermione.

Hermione had barely stepped into her room when it happened.

A jolt of heat shot through her chest.
Her knees buckled.
The world blurred.

Her hands hit the bedpost—
Her vision flickered—
And her bones—

Oh Merlin—

Her bones began to hum.

“Hermione?”

It was Viktor’s voice through the crack in the door—deep, steady, grounding. He’d walked her back with Harry after the trial, refusing to leave until she was safely inside.

He heard the sharp gasp.

“Hermione!”

He was inside in seconds, moving faster than thought, catching her just before she collapsed.

Hermione gripped his sleeves, breath stuttering. “It’s happening—Viktor—my animagus—something is—”

He lowered her carefully to the floor, voice calm despite the flicker of concern in his dark eyes.

“Breathe. I am here.”

Her magic surged under her skin—
Not gently.
Wildly.

Her spine arched, fire licking through her veins, runes flashing behind her eyelids.

Viktor pressed his forehead to hers.

“Do not fight it. Let it come.”

Hermione shuddered.

“I can’t—I feel like I’m splitting—”

“You are becoming,” Viktor murmured.

And then—

A burst of silver-light exploded from her chest.

Hermione’s scream turned into something else—
A soft, melodic trill that vibrated through the stones of the castle.

Her fingers elongated—
Her hair shimmered—
Her skin glowed—
Her shape blurred—

And then she collapsed forward into Viktor’s arms as the magic snapped back in place.

Not transformed.
Not yet.
But awakened.

Viktor held her carefully, reverently, stroking her hair as she trembled.

“It is all right,” he whispered. “The first stirrings are always overwhelming.”

Hermione clung to him, breath uneven.
“What… what am I?”

Viktor smiled softly, brushing a curl from her cheek.

“A creature of light,” he murmured. “A guardian. A guide. Something rare.”

Hermione blinked through tears. “You know?”

He touched her sternum lightly, where her magic thrummed.

“It sings like a phoenix.”

Hermione gasped. “A—?

“No,” Viktor corrected gently. “Not a phoenix. Something older. Wilder. A celestial.”

Hermione stared.

Viktor held her steady.

“You are not meant to be caged,” he whispered. “Your magic was always too bright.”

Her eyes softened. “Viktor…”

He swallowed.

“Hermione, you scared me.”

She leaned into him, forehead pressed to his collarbone.

“You came back for me.”

“I always will,” he whispered.

Hermione regained her strength an hour later, wrapped in Viktor’s cloak. Harry escorted her to McGonagall’s office, Viktor refusing to leave her side.

When they arrived, the door opened on its own.

Inside sat:

Minerva McGonagall 
Narcissa Malfoy 
Andromeda Tonks 
Helena Selwyn 
Rowena Baddock 
Morgana Flint 

The Rowan Circle.
A coven older than the Ministry.
A sisterhood forged in ancestral fire.

All of them turned when Hermione entered.

Minerva smiled, pride shining in her eyes. “My girl.”

Narcissa rose in a sweep of silks. “You came.”

Hermione blinked. “What… is this?”

Morgana Flint’s voice was low and lyrical.

“This is your calling.”

Rowena Baddock stepped forward, place a stone bowl in Hermione’s hands.

“The ancient blood that woke inside you seeks guidance. Seeks anchoring. Seeks sisters.”

Andromeda’s voice was soft. “Magic like yours burns if left alone.”

Hermione swallowed. “You mean—?”

Minerva nodded.

Her voice glowed with pride.
“You are a witch of old blood. A ritual-born heir. And the Rowan Circle accepts you.”

Silence.
Heat.
Magic.

Hermione felt something inside her shift— As if an invisible door had unlocked.

She stepped into the center of the circle.

The witches formed a ring around her, hands raised.

Minerva’s voice deepened with ritual power.

“Hermione Isobel McGonagall— Daughter of Ross, Child of ancient lines, Bearer of celestial fire— Do you choose us?”

Hermione inhaled.

She thought of:

The potions.
The betrayal.
The fear.
The loneliness.

Then she thought of:

Her new mother.
Harry.
Sirius.
Viktor.
Her freedom.
Her strength.
Her name.

“I choose you,” Hermione whispered.

Magic exploded upward like silver flame.

The witches’ chants harmonized.

Narcissa’s voice threaded through the spell with crisp precision:

“We teach you grace.”
Andromeda’s voice followed.
“We teach you healing.”
Morgana’s voice deepened.
“We teach you wildness.”

Minerva placed a hand over Hermione’s heart.

“And I teach you power.”

Hermione gasped as the coven magic flooded her—
Warm
Brilliant
Ancient

She didn’t fall.
She rose.

The Rowan Circle bowed as the magic settled.

“Hermione,” Minerva whispered, pulling her into a hug. “Welcome home.”

Viktor watched from the doorway, eyes shining, chest tight with awe.

Harry punched the air. “YES!”

Sirius sniffed dramatically. “My niece is a witch-princess!”

Narcissa arched an elegant brow. “Technically, more a magical duchess.”

Sirius waved her off. “Close enough!”

Hermione laughed through her tears.

Her first laugh in weeks.

________________

Back in the shadows of the room, Viktor remained quiet until Hermione looked at him.

“You haven’t spoken,” she said softly.

He stepped forward, slowly.

“You joined your coven,” Viktor whispered. “Now… I must tell you the truth of mine.”

Hermione blinked.

Viktor inhaled.

“The Krumov line descends from the Drakony—an ancient order of dragon-blooded witches and wizards.”

Hermione’s breath caught.
“Dragon—?”

“Yes,” Viktor said quietly. “We carry fire magic older than Bulgaria. My coven—the High Circle of Vrahil—keeps those bloodlines alive. Keeps them guarded.”

Hermione stared at him with wonder.

Viktor looked down, suddenly shy.

“My magic has recognized yours,” he said. “Long ago. But now it is… louder.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed. “Mine too.”

Harry groaned loudly. “Can you two stop flirting and finally kiss already?”

Hermione turned crimson. Viktor sputtered.

McGonagall said mildly: “Not before Viktor survives my vetting.”

Viktor blanched.

Sirius cackled.

_______________

Later that evening, Draco found Hermione alone in the corridor outside her new coven chambers.

His face was uncharacteristically serious.

“Hermione.”

Hermione paused. “Draco?”

He took a breath. Long, controlled.

“I want to… formally offer an alliance between House Malfoy and House Ross.”

Hermione blinked.

Harry, leaning against a wall, perked up. “This sounds fun.”

Draco rolled his eyes but continued.

“Hermione—you are now one of the most politically powerful witches of our generation. The old families will come for you. They will want your influence. Your name. Your coven allegiance. And you need allies who understand this world.”

Hermione frowned. “Draco, you don’t have to—”

“I do,” he said firmly. “You saved my mother during the war. You helped free my father from a corrupt Ministry trial. You treated me like a person before anyone else did.”

Hermione softened.

Draco extended his hand. Formal. Elegant.

“Lady Ross,” he said with sincerity rare for him, “stand with me. And I will stand with you.”

Hermione took his hand.

And magic sealed the pact.

Harry grinned. “You realize you just adopted him as the annoying older cousin, right?”

Draco groaned. “Merlin help me.”

______________________

Later that night, Hermione returned to her dorm.

Viktor waited outside her door.

“You should sleep,” he murmured.

“So should you.”

Instead, neither moved.

Hermione finally spoke. “Viktor… I’m scared.”

He stepped closer—slow, deliberate, giving her every second to pull away.

“What scares you?”

She swallowed. “Everything feels so big. So heavy. Coven. Heirship. Animagus. Trials. Politics. My magic—”

Viktor raised a hand and brushed his knuckles along her cheek.

“Hermione,” he whispered, “you do not need to carry it alone.”

She leaned into the touch, breath hitching.

And then—

A burst of silver feathers shimmered behind her, ethereal wings flickering into existence for only a heartbeat.

Viktor inhaled sharply.

“Celestial,” he murmured. “Definitely.”

Hermione whispered, “I don’t know how to be something that rare.”

Viktor smiled softly.

“You already are.”

Their foreheads touched.

And her magic wrapped around his like a ribbon of starlight.

Not a bond.
Not yet.

But the beginning of something powerful.

Ancient.
Protective.
Destined.

Hermione whispered, “Goodnight, Viktor.”

His voice was warm against her skin.

“Goodnight, Hermione.”

Chapter Text

There were many kinds of magic in the world—
Wild magic, wand magic, elemental magic, ritual magic.

But celestial magic…
It was different.

Older.
Rarer.
A whisper of starlight woven into mortal form.

And it chose Hermione.

_____________

The sky was black velvet strewn with stars, each one shimmering with strange brightness as if reacting to the magic swelling inside Hermione’s chest.

She stood barefoot on the frost-tipped grass behind the Quidditch pitch, cloak wrapped tight around her.

Viktor stood with her, only a few inches away, but close enough that she could feel the heat of his presence.

And her magic—

It didn’t just hum.

It sang.

A low, melodic vibration pulsed through her bones.

“Hermione?” Viktor’s voice was soft but steady. “It is beginning again.”

Hermione nodded, breath shallow. “I know.”

She wasn’t afraid this time.

Not with him there.

Not with her coven resonating in the back of her magic like a warm pulse. Not with her new bloodline grounding her. Not with Harry and Sirius waiting a short distance away, protective as always.

Viktor gently lifted her hands.

“Remember,” he murmured, “your animagus form is not a curse. It is a truth.”

Hermione exhaled shakily. “A truth?”

“Yes,” Viktor whispered. “It is who you are when everything unnecessary falls away.”

Her chest tightened.

She whispered, “Then… I hope she’s strong.”

Viktor held her gaze.

“She is.”

The Awakening

The magic hit her like a tidal wave.

Hermione gasped as her knees buckled—
Viktor caught her instantly—

But then he stepped back when he saw her glow intensify.

He knew.
He understood.
He felt it.

Harry and Sirius gasped behind them.

Hermione’s back arched—
Her fingertips crackled with silver fire—
The wind howled around her—

Her hair lifted in weightless waves, glowing like molten gold braided with starlight.

Her pulse accelerated—

Then slowed—
Slowed—
Until it matched the rhythm of the stars above.

Her eyes flew open—

And they weren’t brown.

They were luminous gold.

Harry whispered, awestruck, “She looks like the night sky.”

Sirius breathed, “No—like dawn breaking.”

A ring of silver feathers burst from Hermione’s shoulder blades—
Not wings—
Not fully—

Shapes of light.
Celestial echo.

Then—

Her whole body shifted.

Not painfully—
Wonderfully.
Like stepping into a skin she had always meant to wear.

Light condensed around her form, swirling fast, bright—

And then—

Where Hermione had stood, there now rose a creature of breathtaking beauty.

_________________

Soft silver feathers shimmered under moonlight, each one edged with delicate gold.

Her wings were vast—longer than Viktor was tall—
Not built for battle.

Built for ascension.

Her eyes glowed like twin stars.
Her talons were sharp, elegant.
Her body was sleek, curved, radiant.

A night-lark.
A bird of celestial magic.
A symbol of guidance and guardianship in ancient Druidic lore.

Harry said softly, reverently:

“She’s a night-lark…

Sirius whispered, “Your mum would be so proud, Hermione.”

The lark blinked—
And moved toward Viktor.

Viktor, awed, softening every line of his face, bowed his head.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered.

Hermione’s feathers fluffed slightly.

And Viktor… smiled.

______________

The magic ebbed.

Feathers collapsed into light—
Light collapsed into shape—
And Hermione knelt on the grass, gasping, trembling, exhausted—

Viktor was at her side instantly.

He wrapped his coat around her, strong arms supporting her weight.

Hermione leaned into him, breathless. “Did… did I do it?”

Harry laughed through tears. “You did more than that.”

Sirius sniffed loudly. “I should’ve brought a camera.”

Hermione flushed red.

Viktor tucked a loose curl behind her ear.
“You were magnificent.”

She shivered, overwhelmed, vulnerable, newly reborn.

He held her tighter.

“We will train,” Viktor murmured. “Your form is powerful—but raw.”

Hermione nodded against his shoulder. “You’ll help me?”

“Always.”

The Weasleys’ Consequences Deepen

While Hermione rested, the news exploded across Britain and Europe.

Daily Prophet Headline:
POTION SCANDAL SHAKES HOGWARTS — HEIRESS ROSS AWAKENS ANCIENT MAGIC

Rita Skeeter tried to break into Hogwarts to interview Hermione. McGonagall made sure she regretted it.

Meanwhile—

Ron was transferred to a high-security magical ward for potion offenders.

Ginny was taken under tightly monitored supervision, stripped of privileges, and magic was heavily restricted.

Molly tried to storm the Ministry.

Arthur wept quietly in the atrium.

Percy resigned from his department in shame.

Dumbledore’s influence shrivelled.
His supporters grew silent.
His enemies sharpened knives.

He sat alone in his office, staring at the castle walls.

Hermione’s glowing form haunted him.

Harry’s defiance cut him.

McGonagall’s wrath frightened him.

He was losing everything.

And the world was shifting.

_______________

Across Europe, magical houses whispered:

Ross has risen again.
The McGonagall heiress wields celestial power.
The Krumov heir stands beside her.
A new alliance is forming.

Betrothal offers flooded McGonagall’s desk.

Minerva burned them all.

Viktor saw the ashes and smirked.
“Good.”

Hermione laughed. “Jealous, Viktor?”

He blushed.
“…No.”

Harry snorted. “You’re as subtle as a rampaging troll.”

Viktor glared. “I am subtle.”

Hermione smiled softly. “You’re honest. It’s better.”

Viktor’s blush deepened.

_________________

Minerva gathered Hermione, Viktor, Harry, Draco, Narcissa, and Andromeda in her office.

“The International Magical Summit begins in two weeks,” McGonagall said, voice firm. “Every major House will attend. Every coven. Every political faction.”

Hermione blinked. “Why is this important now?”

Narcissa’s eyes gleamed.
“Because you, Hermione, are no longer a schoolgirl.”

Andromeda completed the thought.

“You are an heiress with awakened magic.”

Draco crossed his arms. “Which means the sharks are circling.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Let them try.”

Viktor’s magic flared protectively.

“No one will touch her.”

Hermione looked between all of them.

Her coven.
Her family.
Her allies.
Her protector.

And herself—
strong, powerful, reborn.

She inhaled.

“Then we prepare.”

Viktor nodded.

“Yes. Together.”

Chapter Text

The International Magical Summit was held only once every decade.

It was the gathering of the powerful, the old, the dangerous.
A place where alliances were forged, bloodlines measured, secrets traded, and political destinies shaped.

Even during the war, the summit had been held—though sparsely, tensely.

But now?

With the fall of Voldemort…
The exposure of potion crimes…
The rise of ancient covens…
The awakening of dormant bloodlines…

The world was watching. And at the centre of every whisper—

Hermione Isobel McGonagall, Heiress of Ross.

The Ross ancestral estate looked like something out of a legend— Castle walls carved from enchanted basalt, glowing with runic veins. Gardens shaped like spirals of wild heather and thistle. A private lake that glittered like liquid silver.

Hermione had seen pictures from archives.
But seeing her family’s ancestral home in person made her breath catch.

“Mum,” she whispered. “It’s… beautiful.”

McGonagall’s expression softened.
“The Ross bloodline has guarded this land for nine hundred years. Now it is yours.”

Hermione felt the magic in the air—a quiet thrum, like a heartbeat syncing with hers.

Viktor walked behind them, eyes scanning every ward, every sigil, every shifting shadow.

Sirius whistled. “Bloody hell, Minnie, you didn’t mention your house looks like Merlin’s summer cottage.”

Narcissa glided forward gracefully. “Focus, Black. We have work to do.”

Draco smirked. “Hermione needs to be introduced properly. Every noble house will judge her clothing, stance, hair, wand, allies, magical signature—”

Harry groaned. “Draco, stop giving her anxiety.”

Hermione inhaled slowly. “No, he’s right. This is important.”

Viktor stepped up beside her, offering his hand.
“You will walk into that summit as who you are.”

Hermione blinked. “Who am I?”

He squeezed her fingers gently.

“Strength.
Wisdom.
Magic.
Light.”

Her breath stuttered.

Narcissa clapped her hands sharply. “Enough romance. We begin.”

The Rowan Circle assembled in the central hall, all in ceremonial colours.

Narcissa — white and gold
Andromeda — soft blue
Morgana Flint — obsidian black
Helena Selwyn — green
Rowena Baddock — violet

Minerva — deep forest green with silver

Hermione stood in the centre as thirteen rings of runes circled her.

“Hermione,” Minerva said softly, “the summit is not just political. Covens will be watching. Some will judge. Some will seek membership. Some will want to recruit you.”

“And some,” Narcissa added, “will want to test you.”

Hermione swallowed. “Test?”

Morgana smiled faintly. “Your celestial animagus alone will unsettle many.”

“Good,” Viktor muttered darkly.

Narcissa ignored him. “Etiquette first.”

She snapped her fingers, and robes appeared on Hermione— Flowing deep emerald silk embroidered in silver constellations. Sleeves that fluttered like wings. A high collar shaped like a crescent moon. Ross sigils stitched near her heart.

Hermione’s hair curled in shimmering waves, glowing auburn in the light.

Viktor’s breath hitched audibly.

Sirius elbowed Harry. “Your sister looks like Titania.”

Harry grinned. “Don’t let Ron see. He’ll faint.”

Hermione blushed violently.

Narcissa smoothed the fabric. “Perfect.”

_______

Lucius Malfoy arrived then, robes immaculate, cane polished to a dangerous gleam. He bowed respectfully to McGonagall, then to Hermione.

“Lady Ross,” he said, and his tone held genuine weight. “The summit will be… lively.”

Hermione nodded nervously. “What should I expect?”

Lucius steepled his fingers.

“Old bloodlines looking to bind you. Coven leaders want to assess your mastery. European houses test your political sense. The ICW measures your influence. Foreign nobles hoping to court you.”

Hermione choked. “C-court me?”

Lucius smirked. “You are beautiful, brilliant, and immensely powerful. It is inevitable.”

Viktor growled.

Lucius arched a brow. “And there is Krumov.”

Viktor stiffened.

“Sir?” Hermione asked.

Lucius looked Viktor in the eyes.
“You think the world will let the Krumov heir stand beside a celestial-born witch without question?”

Viktor’s jaw clenched. “Let them question.”

Lucius smiled thinly. “Exactly.”

Narcissa sighed. “Boys.”

McGonagall smirked quietly. “Children.”

Hermione groaned. “This is going to be a disaster.”

Harry patted her head. “You’ll be fine.”

Draco added, “If not, panic loudly and we will all set something on fire.”

Hermione laughed.

She felt loved.
Protected.
Strengthened.

She could do this.

___________

The Ross estate gates opened with a thunderous groan as caravans, magical coaches, floo carriages, and portkey escorts began to arrive.

Nobles stepped out with grandeur—robes shimmering, crests gleaming, entourages bustling.

The French Delacroix family arrived first— Regal blues, floating lilies, silver-tipped wands.

The Scandinavian Frostborn entered next— Runic armour, frost-wolves, disciplined formation.

The Italian Bellastri came with rose-gold glamour.

The Bulgarian delegation arrived last— Dressed in black and gold. Crest of dragons. Power thrumming.

Viktor stepped forward, flanked by his coven brothers.

The moment his eyes met Hermione across the courtyard— The wind shifted. Magic tightened.

A golden thread of unseen power hummed between them.

Several nobles gasped.

A French witch whispered, “Bonded magic—?”

A German heir muttered, “No—too early—”

A Scandinavian seer hissed, “Not bonded. But resonant.”

Hermione walked forward, calm as moonlight.

Viktor stopped only when they stood a breath apart.

“Hermione,” he said softly.

“Viktor.”

The world watched.

And for a moment, all Hermione saw was him.

_____________

The ballroom was filled with hundreds of witches and wizards. Banners of every nation hung from enchanted rafters. Floating lights glimmered like tethered stars.

Hermione walked down the centre aisle—

And everyone turned.

Whispers swelled.

“She glows—”
“That aura—merlin—”
“She’s so young—”
“Ross magic hasn’t appeared in a century—”
“Krumov is beside her—”
“They look like a prophecy—”

Hermione ignored it, chin high, steps steady.

Viktor walked at her right.
Harry at her left.
Draco a step behind.
Narcissa and McGonagall follow like silent storms.

As they reached the dais, Minerva tapped her wand.

“Presenting,” she announced, voice ringing through the hall:

“Hermione Isobel McGonagall, Heiress of Ross, Witch of the Rowan Circle, Bearer of Celestial Magic.”

The room bowed.

Even the Bulgarian coven.

Even Lucius Malfoy.

Even the French delegation.

Everyone—
Except Dumbledore.

Who stood stiffly, jaw clenched, eyes cold.

He had come as an observer.
Not a leader.
Not today.

The fall of Albus Dumbledore had begun.

______________

A tall witch in icy blue robes stepped forward—Lady Signe Frostborn.

“Lady Ross,” she said coolly, “what are your views on ancient magical alliances?”

Whispers flickered through the room.

Hermione inhaled.

Narcissa’s training steadied her spine. Her coven’s warmth steadied her heart. Viktor’s quiet gaze steadied her magic. She answered with calm precision:

“I believe in alliances built on respect, not fear.
On strength, not coercion.
On shared vision, not manipulation.”

Every pureblood house knew exactly which “manipulation” she meant.

Dumbledore’s face paled.

Lady Signe tilted her head. “And your stance on potions used for coercion?”

Hermione’s voice turned cold, sharp, unforgiving:

“An unforgivable abuse of trust. And I will oppose anyone who uses such methods—whether student or statesman.”

Half the room looked at Dumbledore.

His jaw tightened.

Viktor stepped slightly closer to Hermione.

Lucius smirked. “She’s magnificent.”

______________

A ripple of ancient magic moved through the hall.

The Rowan Circle stood.

The Bulgarian Vrahil Circle stood.

The Scandinavian Rune-Sisters stood.

And together— For the first time in centuries— The three most ancient covens bowed to the same witch.

Hermione.

Her magic ignited— Silver aura blazing— Marking her as something the magical world hadn’t seen in generations.

A celestial-born coven witch with awakening bloodline magic.

Viktor touched her elbow gently, grounding her.

“You are doing beautifully,” he whispered.

Hermione exhaled shakily. “I’m terrified.”

“I know. I am too.”

Hermione laughed breathlessly. “Really?”

Viktor nodded solemnly. “Very much.”

Harry leaned in. “Adorable.”

Draco muttered, “This is somehow romantic and politically explosive.”

Narcissa sighed. “Welcome to adulthood.”

_____________

Across the hall, foreign ambassadors whispered:

“Ross and Krumov…”
“A celestial and a priest…”
“If they unite, Europe’s magic will shift.”
“They could change coven politics entirely—”

Hermione heard none of it.

She only felt Viktor’s warm presence beside her.

He leaned closer. “Hermione…”

“Yes?”

“If the world insists on watching us…”
His eyes softened.
“…then let them see our strength.”

Hermione swallowed. “You’re not afraid?”

Viktor smiled—small, genuine.

“Only of losing you.”

Her heart skipped.

She whispered, “You won’t.”

He took her hand.

Softly.
Reverently.
Openly.

The entire hall gasped.

And the Summit of a Decade shifted in a single heartbeat.

Hermione squeezed his hand back— And her celestial sparks danced across her fingers.

Chapter Text

The world had expected a quiet summit.
A polite exchange of treaties.
A formality.

Instead, It got Hermione and Viktor.

A celestial-born heiress with starlight in her veins.
A dragon-priest heir with ancient fire in his bones.

Standing side-by-side.

Holding hands.

Awakening ancient alliances no one had expected.

And shaking the entire magical world.

____________

As Hermione and Viktor stood together at the front, the leaders of each assembled nation stepped forward to formally greet the new generation of heirs.

It was tradition. A simple formality.

Except… nothing was simple anymore.

Lady Vivienne Delacroix approached first—a Veela-descended enchantress with silver hair and soft blue robes.

Her eyes glittered when she saw Hermione.

“Celestial magic…”
She bowed.
“You honour us with your presence, Heiress Ross.”

Hermione dipped her head politely.
“Thank you, Lady Delacroix.”

Vivienne’s gaze flickered to Viktor.

“And you, Heir Krumov. Your coven rarely leaves Bulgaria.”

Viktor bowed stiffly. “Some people,” he said quietly, “are worth traveling for.”

Hermione choked.

Vivienne’s lips curved. “Ah. So that is how it is.”

Viktor flushed. Hermione flushed harder.

The French delegation giggled.

_______________

Next came the Frostborn.

Tall. Pale. Runes carved into their coats. Their leader, Lady Signe, studied Hermione as if reading a prophecy.

“Celestial magic in Britain…” Her voice was icy. “It has been centuries.”

Hermione swallowed. “I’m honoured—though unprepared.”

Signe nodded. “Honesty. Good.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Tell me, child. Do you understand what you are?”

Hermione blinked. “Not yet.”

Viktor tensed.

Signe didn’t smile, but her eyes softened.

“You are a guide-light. A witch meant to lead covens and settle magic storms. Dangerous. Rare. Revered.”

Hermione’s breath hitched. “I… I didn’t know.”

Viktor squeezed her hand subtly.

Signe leaned in, voice low. “We will watch you closely. Not to hinder. To protect.”

Hermione bowed instinctively. “Thank you.”

Signe bowed back— A sign no one expected.

Draco whispered, “Merlin, Hermione, you just got adopted by the North.”

The Eisenwald delegation approached—armour tamed into robes, each embroidered with iron-thread sigils.

The eldest, Lord Gunther Eisenwald, circled Hermione like she was a sword he wished to test.

“Hm.” He prodded the air near her aura. “Celestial. Powerful. Untamed.”

Viktor stepped forward, jaw tight.
“Mind yourself.”

Gunther snorted. “Dragonling. Quiet.”

Viktor bristled.

Hermione placed a hand on Viktor’s forearm.
“Thank you,” she murmured to Gunther. “I am still learning.”

Gunther paused.

Then grinned. “A witch who admits imperfection? Rare. I approve.”

Viktor muttered in Bulgarian, “I do not.”

Hermione stifled a laugh.

The hall quieted when the Vrahil Circle approached.

These were Viktor’s people.

Dragon-blooded. Coven-trained. Fire in their eyes.

Deyan, the elder priest from Durmstrang, bowed and murmured,

“Priest Krumov. You stand strong.”

Viktor bowed respectfully.
“I stand where I am needed.”

Deyan’s gaze slid to Hermione.

“Celestial-born.” He bowed low. “You shine bright. The coven feels it.”

Hermione flushed. “Your people have been very kind.”

Deyan smiled.
“We honour strength. And yours calls to ours.”

The coven murmured approvingly.

Dumbledore—watching from the shadows—went rigid with dismay.

This was not how he wanted things to unfold.

Silence swept the hall as Albus Dumbledore rose from the back row.

His robes were pristine. His beard groomed. His expression gentle.

But his eyes— Cold. Calculating.

He walked directly toward Hermione.

Viktor stepped in front of her instantly.

Dumbledore paused.
His twinkling smile was back.

“Ah, Viktor Krumov. I see young love makes one confident.”

Viktor didn’t move.
“Stay where you are.”

Hermione placed a firm hand on Viktor’s back.
“I can handle this.”

Viktor reluctantly let her step forward—but kept himself within striking distance.

Dumbledore smiled warmly.

“Hermione, my dear—”

Hermione stiffened.

A low, dangerous hum rippled through her magic.

“I was hoping to speak with you. Privately.”

Hermione’s voice was cold steel.
“No.”

Dumbledore blinked. “No?”

Hermione lifted her chin.

“No, Professor. You do not get private conversations with me anymore. Not after you knowingly let me be potion-dosed.”

Whispers swelled like a wave.

Dumbledore pressed a hand to his chest. “Hermione, you misunderstand—”

“I understand perfectly.”

She stepped closer, eyes blazing gold with celestial light.

“You tried to control me. You tried to control Harry. You manipulated the Weasleys. You endangered students. And you expected obedience.”

Dumbledore’s facade cracked.

The French delegation murmured.
The German delegation frowned.
The Scandinavians stared with interest.

Viktor’s hand hovered near his wand.

Harry moved to Hermione’s other side.

Dumbledore tried to recover.
“My child, you must know—”

“I’m not your child,” Hermione said flatly.

Gasps.

McGonagall’s expression turned lethal.

Dumbledore inhaled sharply.

“You are young. Emotional. You don’t understand the greater good—”

And Hermione snapped.

Her aura flared— Silver wings flashing behind her for a heartbeat.

“The Greater Good,” she said softly, “is a phrase tyrants use.”

Silence.
Deadly.
Absolute.

Even the torches flickered.

Dumbledore opened his mouth— But Lucius Malfoy stepped forward.

“Headmaster,” he drawled dangerously. “Perhaps you should retire to your seat before you embarrass yourself further.”

Dumbledore turned scarlet.

The Bulgarian coven glared.
The Rowan Circle tensed.
Narcissa flicked her wand and sent a gentle but firm ward-wall between Hermione and Dumbledore.

Dumbledore had no choice but to retreat.

He had been dismissed.

By the world.

__________

Later in the night, once the political greetings concluded, the coven leaders requested a demonstration of Hermione’s magic.

Narcissa smirked. “Show them.”

Minerva nodded. “My girl, be steady.”

Hermione stepped into the centre of the hall.

Viktor murmured, “I am right here.”

Harry whispered, “You’ve got this.”

Hermione inhaled—and called her magic.

Silver light erupted around her— Feathers, starlight, echoes of wings— Her hair shimmered— Her eyes glowed— And then she shifted.

Her celestial form rose high into the air, wings of pure magic unfurling across the ceiling.

A soft, melodic trill echoed.

The hall went silent.

Awestruck.

Reverent.

The Scandinavian seers bowed.
The French enchantresses gasped.
The German dignitaries whispered of prophecy.
The Bulgarians murmured blessings.

Hermione landed gracefully— Light collapsing softly into human form.

Hair glowing.
Eyes bright.
Chest rising with uneven breaths.

Viktor stepped forward, awe in every line of his face.

“Hermione…” He lifted her hand gently. “You are extraordinary.”

She flushed.

“You’re biased.”

He smiled.

“I am honest.”

___________________

At the height of the evening, Deyan—the Bulgarian elder—requested the floor.

The hall quieted.

“There is an ancient prophecy,” Deyan said gravely, “spoken long ago by the Star-Seers and the Dragon Priests.”

He looked at Viktor.
Then at Hermione.

“One born from celestial fire,
And one shaped by dragon flame,
Together shall shift the magic of Europe.
Their bond shall awaken the old powers.
Their union shall restore the balance.”

The hall erupted in whispers.

Hermione froze.

Viktor’s breath hitched.

Draco muttered, “Oh bloody hell.”

Harry grinned. “Called it.”

Narcissa smirked. “Destiny is neat when it behaves.”

McGonagall looked like she had known all along.

Dumbledore looked like he might faint.

Hermione’s voice was small but steady.

“A… union?”

Deyan smiled kindly.
“Not necessarily marriage. Not a curse. Not a chain.”

Viktor exhaled.

The elder continued, eyes warm:

“A magical union. A bond of purpose.
A harmony of power.
Two bloodlines meant to rise together.”

Hermione blinked.

Viktor stepped closer, voice soft.

“It does not mean romance—unless we choose it.”

Hermione’s heart thudded.

“And if we don’t?”

“Then,” Viktor said softly, “nothing is forced.”

Her breath stuttered.

“But,” he whispered, “I would be honoured to walk beside your magic. Any way you allow.”

Hermione’s cheeks turned pink. Her wings fluttered faintly behind her.

The hall watched—

Breathless.
Silent.
Awed.

Hermione whispered:

“Then walk with me.”

Viktor’s smile was slow and warm.

“Always.”

Chapter Text

The summit changed after the prophecy.

Before, nobles had been cautious.
Politely curious.
Strategically distant.

But now?

Now Hermione was no longer merely the Heiress of Ross.
She was a celestial-born heir,
coven witch,
prophecy-bearer,
political cornerstone,
and—if half the room had their way—
a potential bride.

Viktor felt that shift instantly.

The moment Deyan finished speaking, every ambitious heir in the hall turned toward Hermione with a single, unified thought:

Acquire.

Viktor’s jaw flexed dangerously.

Hermione didn’t see it.
But the world did.

Hermione had barely stepped down from the dais when the first one approached.

Cassius Delacroix of France

Silver-haired, blue-eyed, enchanted smile.
He bowed low—too low—to Hermione.

“Lady Ross,” he purred, “France extends admiration… and interest.”

Viktor didn’t even try to hide his glare.

Cassius smirked. “I see you travel with an escort.”

Viktor took one step forward.

“I am not an escort. I am—”

Hermione placed a hand on Viktor’s arm. “Viktor.”

His posture went rigid.

Cassius raised a brow. “Ah. I see.”

Harry leaned in from behind Hermione. “See what? Viktor hasn’t hexed anyone yet.”

Draco added dryly, “Yet.”

Cassius laughed and bowed again to Hermione.
“I look forward to a private conversation.”

Viktor’s magic flared sharply.

Hermione quickly murmured, “We’ll see.”

Cassius winked and walked off.

Viktor muttered, “No, we will not.”

Hermione’s cheeks warmed. “Viktor—”

“I do not like him.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I know enough.”

Harry whispered to Draco, “He’s smitten.”

Draco nodded. “Completely doomed.”

Lord Sigmund Eisenwald of Germany

Tall. Broad. Steel-eyed.

He approached like he was inspecting a rare weapon.

“Lady Ross,” he said bluntly, “you will consider a political merger.”

Hermione blinked. “A what?”

“Marriage alliance,” he clarified. “You are strong. I am strong. It is logical.”

Viktor made a noise like a dragon choking on a stone.

Sigmund turned to him. “You disapprove?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you have the charm of a brick.”

Harry snorted. Draco choked on wine.

Sigmund frowned. “I like bricks.”

Hermione bit her lip to keep from laughing.

“Thank you, Lord Sigmund, but I’m not considering marriage.”

Sigmund nodded slowly.

“Then we will spar later.”

He walked away.

Hermione blinked. “Wait—was that flirting?”

Draco nodded. “A German courting ritual. Very common.”

Hermione groaned. “I’m doomed.”

Prince Leandro Bellastri of Italy

All gold and glamour. Perfumed, elegant, dazzling.

He strode forward with a rose. A sparkly rose.

“Bella stella,” he declared, voice dripping with charm, “your radiance humbles the night.”

Narcissa muttered, “Oh, Merlin help us.”

Leandro kissed Hermione’s hand.

Viktor’s face went blank.

Blank, dangerous silence.

Leandro smirked.
“Might I escort you for a dance?”

Hermione opened her mouth—

But Viktor stepped forward.

“No.”

Hermione blinked. “I—”

Viktor didn’t look at her. He stared at Leandro like a wolf stares at a target.

Leandro laughed. “Possessive, are we?”

Viktor’s accent thickened dangerously.
“I am patient. I am calm. But touch her again, and I will not stay either.”

Harry whispered to Draco, “They’re going to fight. This is going to be amazing.”

Draco nodded. “Finally, entertainment.”

Hermione tugged Viktor’s sleeve gently.
“Viktor, please.”

He blinked.
Then looked at her.

The tension melted instantly.

Leandro rolled his eyes. “Oh, romance.”

Hermione glared. “Leandro, thank you, but no.”

The prince bowed with theatrical flair. “Another day, Bella Stella.”

He swirled away dramatically.

Viktor muttered something Bulgarian and violent.

Hermione elbowed him lightly. “He’s harmless.”

“Harmless people are often annoying.”

Hermione laughed softly. “You’re jealous.”

Viktor went very still.

“…I am,” he admitted quietly.

Hermione’s breath caught.

Far at the back of the hall, Albus Dumbledore watched with nearly trembling rage.

Hermione— The girl he once manipulated easily—

Now commanded the world’s attention.
Nations bowed to her.
Covens recognised her.
Power shaped itself around her.

And Viktor Krumov—
A foreign heir—
Had formed a magical resonance with her.

This ruined his plans.

His carefully built schemes.
His influence over Harry.
His control over Hogwarts’ heirs.

He muttered, “She must be brought back under guidance.”

He took a step forward—

And a wand tip pressed against his ribs.

Narcissa.
Graceful.
Cold.
Deadly.

“Move again,” she breathed, “and I will end your career. Perhaps your life.”

Dumbledore paled.

Narcissa smiled thinly. “Minerva is watching. And unlike you, she protects her children.”

Halfway through the evening, Hermione found herself mobbed by nobles.

Some offering courtship.
Some offering alliances.
Some trying to probe her power.
Some testing her knowledge.
Some simply curious.

Hermione felt dizzy.

Viktor watched from a short distance, waiting for her signal.

Harry muttered, “She’s seconds away from snapping.”

Draco nodded. “We need extraction.”

Narcissa approached the crowd. “CLEAR A PATH!”

Everyone froze.

Narcissa took Hermione’s arm.
“Come, darling. You’re needed elsewhere.”

Hermione exhaled in relief.

Viktor joined them instantly.

Narcissa gave him a look.
“Stay close, Krumov. She reacts to you.”

Viktor blinked.
“I… she does?”

Hermione blushed. “Narcissa!”

Narcissa smirked.
“Oh, I’m only stating the obvious.”

Hermione slipped away to the outer balcony for air.

The night was cold and crisp.
Stars glittered above like scattered runes.

She leaned on the stone railing, trying to steady herself.

“Too much?” Viktor asked softly from behind her.

Hermione startled.
But relaxed when she saw him.

“A little,” she admitted.

He stepped closer—not touching, but near.

Enough.

“You were extraordinary,” Viktor murmured.

“I felt overwhelmed.”

“You carried the night.”

Hermione ducked her head.

Viktor hesitated.

Then, very gently, he brushed a curl from her cheek.

Hermione’s breath hitched.

“You face this with grace,” Viktor whispered. “With courage. With warmth. They see your magic. I see your heart.”

Hermione’s pulse tripped.

“Viktor…”

He leaned in slightly—
Not enough to touch—
Enough to ask.

“May I?”

Hermione nodded.
Barely.

Viktor cupped her cheek softly—
Slow
Careful
Reverent

And Hermione leaned into his palm like it was the safest place in the world.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For being here.”

His voice trembled.
“I would walk through fire for you.”

She swallowed.

“Viktor…”

He leaned in—

But didn’t kiss her.

Instead, he touched his forehead to hers, breath warm against her lips.

Intimate.
Tender.
Respectful.

She closed her eyes.

Viktor whispered, “Whenever you are ready… so am I.”

Hermione exhaled shakily.
“…I think I’m getting closer.”

Viktor’s breath caught.

“Then take your time,” he murmured. “I am not going anywhere.”

Meanwhile—

Nobles whispered.
Covens debated.
Seers scribbled frantically.

“Prophecy pair—”
“Dragon priest and celestial witch—”
“Ross-Krumov alliance would shift power—”
“They could reshape coven law—”
“Dumbledore is finished—”
“The ICW will intervene—”

And so it began:

The storm of politics that would reshape Europe.

And at its centre—

A girl born of starlight.
A boy born of fire.
A magic older than nations.
A bond forming slowly, carefully, beautifully.

Hermione wasn’t ready for everything.

But she wasn’t alone.

Viktor wasn’t leaving.

Harry wasn’t abandoning her.

Minerva wasn’t letting anyone harm her.

And her coven was awakening around her.

The world had changed.

And Hermione Isobel McGonagall was no longer a footnote.

She was becoming a legend.

Chapter Text

The second day of the International Magical Summit dawned with violet light bleeding through the heather fields of the Ross estate. But despite the beauty, everyone arrived at the grand hall tense.

Because today was the Celestial Trial.

A ritual test so ancient that most witches and wizards barely remembered its purpose—
Only whispered stories remained.
Stories of witches born once every few centuries with magic shaped by the stars themselves.

But no one had seen such a witch in generations.

Until Hermione.

A Celestial Trial?

Hermione stood in her private dressing chamber while Narcissa and Andromeda adjusted her ceremonial robes—silver now, not green. Embroidered with constellations. Light fabric that glowed like moonlit water.

Hermione swallowed. “What does the trial… actually do?”

Andromeda answered gently, her hands warm on Hermione’s shoulders. “It measures your control. Your resonance. Your balance.”

Narcissa added, “It is not hostile. But it is not gentle either.”

Hermione exhaled shakily. “Can I fail?”

Narcissa paused.

“Only if your celestial magic rejects you.”

Hermione’s stomach flipped. “That’s not comforting.”

Narcissa smiled faintly. “Sweetheart, the magic chose you. You will be fine.”

Then her expression turned sharp. “But what concerns me is not the trial itself.”

Hermione blinked. “Then what is?”

Narcissa fixed a jewel at Hermione’s collarbone—a star-shaped silver sigil.

“The people watching.”

Hermione went pale.

And suddenly— Harry burst into the room.

“Hermione!” He skidded dramatically, panting. “Okay—so—this is bad. Really bad. Almost hilariously bad.”

Narcissa pinched the bridge of her nose. “Potter, stop dramatising and speak.”

Harry flailed. “Dumbledore petitioned the ICW to let him oversee part of the trial.”

Hermione choked. “No—”

Narcissa hissed, “Over my dead body.”

Andromeda cursed under her breath. “The ICW wants Dumbledore’s influence back—this is a power play.”

Harry nodded vigorously. “He’s framing it as ‘guidance for a young witch with dangerous magic.’”

Hermione felt sick. “He wants to steer the trial. To control me again.”

Narcissa placed a hand on her cheek. “You will not let him.”

Andromeda squeezed her shoulder.
“We will be outside the circle. Watching.”

Harry grinned. “And Viktor is already threatening to bite someone.”

Hermione blinked. “Bite—?”

“Dragon heritage,” Harry said happily. “It’s adorable.”

Hermione flushed bright red. “Oh Merlin!”

Narcissa smirked. “Go now. And shine.”

The hall was packed.

Nobles from every nation.
Coven leaders in ceremonial robes.
Ambassadors.
Wizengamot observers.
The ICW High Council.

And Dumbledore.
Standing smugly at the edge of the ritual platform.

Hermione stepped inside the centre circle—
A ring of ancient runes, glowing pale silver.

The crowd quieted.

Dumbledore stepped forward, voice dripping condescension.

“Hermione, my dear girl—”

Viktor growled audibly.

Draco muttered, “If he says ‘greater good,’ I’m hexing him.”

Dumbledore continued, eyes fixed on Hermione:

“This ritual can be dangerous. Allow me to guide you.”

Hermione stared.

Then said, very softly: “I will guide myself.”

Gasps.

Harry shouted, “YEAH, ‘MIONE!”

Draco added, “Humiliate him!”

Narcissa cleared her throat pointedly. “Boys. Inside voices.”

Viktor stepped closer to the edge of the circle, eyes burning with protective fire.

Hermione inhaled deeply.

“I choose my own magic,” she said. Her voice strengthened. “And my own path.”

Dumbledore froze.

The ICW murmured approvingly.

Hermione stepped back— And the runes ignited.

A hum filled the air.

Soft.
Deep.
Old magic awakening.

Hermione closed her eyes.

And felt.

The stars above aligned— Their light threading downward, Into her chest, Into her bones.

Her wings flickered into existence— Not fully formed, But glowing arcs of silver behind her.

The hall gasped.

Dumbledore’s face twisted.

The runes around Hermione blazed— And her body lifted slowly from the ground.

She hovered.

Weightless.

Starlit.

Her robes flowed like liquid moonlight.

Her hair turned gold-white.

Her eyes glowed.

And then—

A celestial circle opened above her, shimmering with ancient constellations.

Hermione breathed in—

And the air crackled with starlight.

The hall could barely look at her.

Viktor whispered, voice reverent:

“She’s magnificent.”

Test One — Control

A wave of magic slammed toward her— A violent storm of raw celestial energy.

Hermione lifted her hands— Silver wings arcing— And she redirected it upward.

The storm broke harmlessly into stars.

The French delegation gasped.

The German delegation applauded.

Dumbledore’s jaw clenched.

Test Two — Balance

The runes shifted.

Two opposing forces burst from the circle— Dark gravity pressing down. Light ascension pulling up.

Hermione trembled— Then centred herself.

Grounded her magic.
Balanced her breath.
Aligned her heart.

The forces equalised.

The circle glowed.

The ICW murmured approval.

Test Three — Resonance

A third force emerged—A tether of ancient celestial energy reaching for her magic.

Hermione hesitated.

This test required trust.

Faith.

Connection.

She whispered, “Show me who I am.”

The tether wrapped around her— Soft, warm, luminous— And Hermione’s wings unfurled completely.

Silver.
Feathered.
Majestic.
Radiant.

A pure celestial shift.

A lark of starlight.

She floated six feet above the platform— Wings spread wide— Magic rippling through the hall like a rising sun.

Every witch and wizard felt their own magic bow.

Not submit. But acknowledge. Reverence.

Dumbledore staggered back. His eyes were full of fear.

But Then—Sabotage

A flash of red energy shot toward Hermione— A lightning curse disguised within a spectator’s wand.

Aimed to break her concentration.
Break her form.
Break her.

Half the hall screamed.

But Viktor was already moving.

He jumped into the circle— Ignoring the rules— Breaking every convention— And shielding Hermione with a burst of golden fire.

Dragon magic.

The curse shattered against him harmlessly.

Hermione flared— Wings curling fiercely around him— Her celestial form protecting him in return.

Gasps rippled.

“Bond magic—”
“Resonance—”
“No, stronger—”
“Are they… merging—?”

The ICW murmured urgently.

Dumbledore’s face went chalk white.

The attacker was seized by the dverger guards.

Hermione and Viktor remained at the centre— Her celestial wings wrapped around his fire aura. Light and flame intertwined.

Harry whispered, “Oh. Oh, WOW.”

Draco crossed his arms. “That… is not normal.”

Narcissa smiled proudly. “It is ancient magic. Rare. Beautiful.”

McGonagall whispered, trembling: “My girl…”

The circle recognised their combined power.

Hermione’s feet touched the ground. Her wings dissolved into silver mist. Viktor steadied her with shaking hands.

She looked up at him—

He looked at her—

And the world kept watching.

“Hermione,” he whispered, voice raw. “You were—”

Her hand pressed to his chest. “You saved me.”

“You saved me,” he whispered back.

She swallowed. “Viktor—are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded. “I feel… stronger.”

Hermione blinked.

“Dragon blood reacts to celestial resonance,” Deyan murmured. “It enhances. Empowers.”

Harry grinned. “You two are like magical caffeine for each other.”

Draco corrected, “No. They’re a magical nuclear reactor.”

Hermione blushed bright red.

Viktor looked ready to melt.

The ICW Speaker raised her wand.

“By the authority of the International Council of Wizards, we declare—
Hermione Isobel McGonagall
Heiress of Ross
Witch of the Rowan Circle
and Celestial-born— has passed the Celestial Trial with extraordinary mastery.”

The hall erupted in applause.

Narcissa smirked.
McGonagall wiped a tear.
The covens bowed.
The nobles murmured in awe.

Dumbledore fled the room in anger.

Hermione turned to Viktor.

“You stayed with me.”

He lifted her hand and kissed her fingers—
Soft
Slow
Without rushing anything.

“I will always stay with you.”

Hermione’s heart stuttered.

She whispered,
“Viktor… I think I’m falling for you.”

Viktor inhaled sharply, eyes burning.

“I am already yours.”

Chapter Text

Starlight still clung to Hermione’s skin when she returned to her private suite.
She felt weightless— Like her feet barely touched the ground, like the echo of her wings still hummed along her spine.

Celestial magic did not fade quietly.
It shimmered.
It lingered.
It remembered.

And Viktor…

He remembered too.

He walked beside her down the moonlit corridor, staying close but not crowding. His steps silent, his presence steady. Ever so often, their arms brushed, sending sparks racing beneath Hermione’s skin.

Not painful.
Not overwhelming.
Just warm.

Comforting.

Alive.

They reached the door to Hermione’s suite.

She stopped.

He stopped.

Silence stretched—soft, warm, full of questions neither had dared ask.

In the Quiet There Was Truth

Hermione breathed in.

“I… didn’t expect you to jump into the circle.”

Viktor’s eyes softened. “I didn’t think. I reacted.”

His voice lowered, deep and sincere.

“When someone I— When someone important to me is in danger, I move. Instinct.”

Hermione turned impossibly red. “Someone you…?”

Viktor swallowed hard. “You know.”

“No,” she whispered, “I want to hear you say it.”

Viktor’s breath caught.

A beat passed. Two. Then—

“I care for you, Hermione,” he said simply. “More than I have cared for anyone.”

Hermione’s heart fluttered painfully.

She didn’t run.
She didn’t panic.

She stepped closer.

“You make me feel…” She searched for the right word. “Safe.”

Viktor blinked, startled.

Hermione wasn’t done. “…seen.”

His expression melted.

“And,” she whispered, cheeks burning, “loved.”

Viktor inhaled sharply, his jaw flexing, eyes growing bright and warm in the candlelight.

“Hermione,” he murmured, “I do not love lightly.”

Her heart stuttered. “I know.”

“I have been trained all my life to guard power without being consumed by it. To carry ancient magic with discipline. To choose carefully. Purposefully.”

He leaned down slightly, as if every part of him moved to her without thought.

“And I choose you.”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

“You don’t even know all of me yet,” she whispered.

Viktor shook his head softly. “I know enough.”

His fingers brushed hers— hesitant, asking.

Hermione didn’t hesitate.

She laced her fingers with his.

The bond of fire and starlight pulsed.

A sudden flash of gold-silver light circled their joined hands.

Hermione gasped.

Viktor froze. “Did you feel that?”

“Yes,” Hermione whispered. “What was it?”

Viktor murmured, voice reverent, almost dazed: “A resonance spike.”

Hermione blinked. “Is that… good?”

Viktor huffed a laugh. “For us? Yes.”

Hermione frowned softly. “And for others?”

He shrugged. “They can be jealous.”

Hermione laughed—quiet, soft, real.

Viktor’s answering smile was slow and devastating.

Then—

The resonance pulsed again, stronger this time—
Glowing ribbon-light curling between their hands like starlit smoke.

Hermione’s breath caught.

“Viktor—”

“It is only an echo,” he whispered, awe in his voice. “A beginning.”

Hermione shivered.

The magic felt like warmth pooling in her chest—
Not overwhelming,
Not consuming,
But blooming.

A promise.

A question.

A path.

The door burst open.

Draco stumbled in first, hair askew, followed by Harry, out of breath.

“Hermione—oh. Oh.”

Draco stared at the glowing bond-light.
“That is either romantic or deeply illegal.”

Harry gasped happily. “You’re bonding! Already?!”

Hermione jumped away from Viktor so fast she nearly tripped.

Viktor caught her elbow lightly, steadying her.

“We are not bonding,” she sputtered. “We—this—we don’t know what this is!”

Draco pointed at the glowing ribbon still faintly connecting them.
“That is definitely something.”

Harry beamed. “My sister’s in love.”

Hermione choked. “Harry!”

Viktor went pink.
“I—I do not—this is—”

Draco smirked. “Relax, Krumov. We all saw this coming.”

Harry nodded. “Literally since the Tournament.”

Hermione buried her face in her hands.

“I hate you both.”

Harry slung an arm around her shoulders.
“You adore us.”

“Unfortunately,” she muttered.

Draco clapped Viktor on the back. “Welcome to the family.”

Viktor winced. “Is this what I am marrying into?”

Hermione: “MARRYING—?!”

Draco: “Too soon?”

Harry: “Way too soon.”

Viktor took Hermione’s hand again.
Quiet. Steady. Unshaken.

“No rush,” he murmured softly. “But when you want—”

“Viktor,” she squeaked, “stop talking.”

Harry cackled.

Draco snorted.

Viktor smirked proudly.

Hermione groaned.

While Hermione tried to calm her racing heart, the Rowan Circle gathered in Minerva’s private solar.

Narcissa paced. “She is resonating with Krumov. Strongly.”

Andromeda nodded. “That’s rare. Celestials almost never resonate with dragon magic.”

Helena Selwyn added softly, “When they do, their magic merges into something entirely new.”

Minerva leaned on her chair, eyes soft with knowing. “My daughter is walking into a destiny neither of them yet understands.”

Morgana Flint smirked. “A celestial witch and a dragon priest? The prophecy is practically humming.”

The coven murmured in agreement.

Minerva looked toward Hermione’s room.

Her voice was quiet. Proud. “She is becoming something the world has not seen in centuries.”

Far away in a dim alcove near the Ross estate,
Dumbledore lit a single candle.

His face gaunt.
His eyes cold.

He spoke into an enchanted mirror.

“The girl is slipping out of control.
She trusts the Krumov boy.
She is too powerful.
Too independent.”

The figure in the mirror hissed,
“What do you propose?”

Dumbledore’s voice hardened.

“She must be isolated.
Before she fulfils that prophecy.
Before she chooses him.
Before she outgrows me.”

The figure smirked.
“And how will you do that, old man?”

Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed.

“By reminding the girl what fear feels like.”

Hermione finally slipped into her bed after Draco and Harry left, her mind whirling.

But when she closed her eyes—

Her magic…
Pulled.

Softly.
Warmly.
A thread tugging gently toward Viktor’s direction.

She sat up sharply.

“What—?”

Her magic pulsed again.
Insistent.
Gentle.
Seeking.

Hermione pressed a hand to her chest.

“Oh… oh Merlin.”

She wasn’t frightened.

She was—

Calm.

Drawn.

Connected.

She whispered into the quiet:

“Viktor…”

A soft knock sounded at her door.

Her breath caught.

She opened it.

Viktor stood there, hair messy, eyes uncertain.

“I—” He swallowed. “I felt you.”

Hermione stared.
“You felt me?”

He nodded, stepping closer. “Yes. Your magic… it called.”

Hermione whispered, “Mine pulled too.”

A long silence.

Then Viktor breathed: “Hermione… this is the beginning of a bond.”

Not a full soul bond.
Not forced.
Not dangerous.

But a magical resonance link—
Forming naturally
Because their magics recognised each other
Deeply
Instinctively
Beautifully.

Hermione felt tears prick her eyes.

“Viktor… what do we do?”

He hesitated.

Then offered his hand— soft, steady.

“We walk it together.”

Hermione took it.

And the bond pulsed again—
Warm
Bright
Alive.

Fire and starlight intertwined.

Chapter Text

They sat on her bed, cross-legged, facing each other.

The dim candlelight made everything intimate.

Viktor rubbed the back of his neck nervously.
“This bond is reacting quickly. Too quickly.”

Hermione nodded. “I read the coven texts. Celestial magic doesn’t bond fast. It bonds… deep.”

Viktor swallowed. “Yes. And dragon blood responds instinctively.”

Hermione smiled softly.
“You’re not afraid?”

Viktor leaned closer.
“Terrified,” he admitted quietly. “But more afraid of losing the chance to know you.”

Hermione’s breath caught.

She reached forward— hesitant— and brushed her fingers along his jaw.

Viktor froze, eyes fluttering shut at her touch. “Hermione…” he whispered. “Я горя заради теб.” (I burn for you.)

Hermione flushed violently. She didn't understand what he said, but the feeling with which he said it, she understood quite well.

She leaned in—
He mirrored her—
Foreheads touching—
Breaths mixing—

Not a kiss.

But close.

So close.

Their bond pulsed once— Twice— Warm and golden— Like fire cupping starlight.

Hermione whispered, trembling, “I think… I’m falling for you.”

Viktor’s voice broke.

“I have already fallen.”

Hermione’s chest tightened.

And then— The entire estate shook.

Hermione jerked back. “What—?!”

Viktor was already on his feet, wand drawn, eyes burning with dragon-fire.

A shockwave rippled through the ancient walls— Lights flickered— Wards pulsed— A faint scream echoed from somewhere down the hall.

Narcissa’s magic flared.
Andromeda’s shield sigils blazed.
Minerva’s ancestral wards snapped awake like sleeping beasts.

Viktor grabbed Hermione’s hand.

“Stay close.”

“Always,” she whispered without thinking.

They sprinted into the corridor—
Their bond glowed faintly between their fingers.

Harry came racing from the opposite end. “HERMIONE! VIKTOR! Something’s happening—”

Draco stumbled behind him, cursing. “My hair was almost perfect—what is this?!”

A violent blast echoed from the lower level.

The floor trembled.

Walls rattled.

Silver wards flashed around them.

Hermione’s celestial instincts screamed warnings.

Then— A cold, familiar voice slithered through the hall.

“Such a powerful girl,” Albus Dumbledore murmured.
“What a shame she is surrounded by the wrong people.”

Hermione froze.

Viktor moved in front of her instantly, wand raised.

Harry snarled.
“Dumbledore, what the hell are you doing here?”

Dumbledore stepped out of the shadows—
robes pristine,
eyes sharp,
a twisted smile curving his lips.

“A necessary correction,” he said calmly.

Draco hissed, “Oh, this is going to be messy. Brilliant.”

Dumbledore raised his wand.

Hermione’s instincts screamed.

Viktor’s magic roared.

Harry lunged forward. “DON’T—”

But Dumbledore had already begun chanting— low, ancient words Hermione didn’t recognise.

And the magic he conjured— was wrong.

Cold.
Suffocating.
Clawing.

A forbidden spell. Dumbledore aimed it at Hermione—

“No—!!” Viktor shouted—

And then everything exploded into chaos.

With a roar of collective fury, the Rowan Circle stormed into the corridor.

Minerva was first— her eyes blazing like molten silver, her wand a streak of ancient Ross power.

“ALBUS!”

The walls trembled under her voice.

Behind her:

Narcissa Malfoy
Andromeda Tonks
Rowena Baddock
Morgana Flint
and Helena Selwyn

—all radiating heavy, dangerous coven magic.

Dumbledore raised his wand again—

But the Bulgarian Vrahil Circle appeared behind him—
silent
predatory
dragon-eyed.

Deyan snarled.
“You dare cast that spell at a celestial witch?”

Dumbledore’s face twisted. “She must be contained—!”

Minerva stepped forward, voice shaking with fury. “She is my daughter.”

Hermione felt tears burn her eyes. “Mum…”

Minerva didn’t look away from Dumbledore. “If you touch her, Albus— I will tear you from the history books.”

Narcissa lifted her wand, smiling coldly. “I will assist.”

Dumbledore shouted something unintelligible and cast a second forbidden incantation—

The corridor shook violently.

A crackle of black-violet energy shot toward Hermione—

And Viktor moved.

He didn’t think.
He didn’t hesitate.
He didn’t fear.

He placed himself between Hermione and the spell.

“HERMIONE!” Harry screamed.

“No—!” Hermione cried.

The spell hit Viktor— But did not harm him.

It shattered.

Exploded.

Reversed.

Celestial starlight rippled out from Hermione, slamming into the forbidden magic and dissolving it to dust.

Viktor stood tall, unharmed, eyes blazing with dragon-fire.

Hermione felt her knees weaken.

“Viktor,” she whispered, voice trembling.

He turned to her— not injured, not shaken— but furious.

“Do not EVER aim at her again,” he told Dumbledore, voice trembling with rage.

Hermione’s Celestial Instincts Ignite

And then Hermione felt it— The celestial instinct.

Ancient.

Primordial.

Protective.

Her magic surged like a supernova.

Her wings erupted behind her— full, radiant, fierce.

The hall filled with blinding silver light.

Dumbledore staggered back, blinded.

Hermione floated an inch off the floor— eyes gold-white, hair blazing with starlight, voice echoing in celestial resonance.

“You will not touch my family again.”

Her magic crackled like the roar of a thousand stars.

Even the covens stepped back.

Viktor stared at her, awestruck.

“Hermione…” he whispered, reverent. “You are… breathtaking.”

Hermione lifted her hand— and the spell fragments dissolved like dust in a sunbeam.

Her wings folded.

Her feet touched the floor.

And she wavered.

Viktor caught her instantly.

Hermione pressed her forehead to his chest.

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “I’m okay.”

Viktor cupped the back of her head gently. “I am here.”

Dumbledore was on the ground, stunned by celestial backlash.

Minerva strode forward—
Regal,
Furious,
Unforgiving.

“Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,” she said, voice ringing with authority, “By the power invested in me as Lady Ross, Head of the Rowan Circle, Deputy Supreme Witch of Scotland— I hereby strip you of all magical authority in this domain.”

Her magic flared. The covens echoed it.

Dumbledore whimpered.

Minerva continued:

“You have endangered a celestial witch.
You have broken ancient coven law.
You have attacked my child.”

She raised her wand.

“The Dverger will decide your fate.”

Dumbledore was dragged away by Dverger guards, screaming.

Hermione shuddered in Viktor’s arms.

As the corridor began to settle, Deyan approached Minerva.

“Lady Ross,” he said quietly, “we withheld a second part of the prophecy.”

Minerva’s eyes narrowed. “Speak.”

Deyan looked at Hermione— then at Viktor.

“The prophecy says:
When starlight chooses fire,
and fire shields starlight,
their bond shall birth a new age of magic—
and awaken forces long asleep.”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

Viktor’s hand tightened around hers.

Draco whispered, “Oh, fantastic. Another prophecy.”

Harry groaned. “These two are going to change the world, aren’t they?”

Narcissa smirked. “Obviously.”

Minerva looked between her daughter and Viktor.

And her expression softened with quiet, overwhelming pride.

Hermione whispered, voice trembling,

“Viktor… does this scare you?”

He leaned his forehead to hers.

“No,” he whispered.
“Because it is you.”

Chapter Text

The sky over the Ross Estate was unusually clear the next morning— clearer than it had been in years, according to the keepers of the grounds.

No fog.
No storm clouds.
No magical interference.

As if the land itself was breathing easier, now that Dumbledore had been dragged out of it.

Hermione certainly was.

But the peace didn’t calm her. Not fully.

Because her magic was awake now— truly awake after the night before.

Fluttering beneath her skin.
Humming at the base of her spine.
Soft wings of starlight threatening to shimmer into being at every deep breath.

And Viktor’s magic—

It pulsed at the edges of hers, like warm firelight.

Not intrusive.
Not overwhelming.

Just… there.
Constant.
Matching her.
Calming her.

A presence she didn’t know she’d needed.

Hermione stepped outside into the morning chill, wrapping her cloak around herself.

Viktor stood a few feet away.

Waiting.

Of course he was.

He turned at the sound of her footsteps— and froze.

Not with shock.

With awe.

“You glow,” he murmured.

Hermione flushed, looking down. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“You cannot help it,” Viktor said softly. “You awakened your full celestial aura last night. It will take time to settle.”

Hermione wrung her hands. “It feels like too much. Like I can’t contain it.”

Viktor stepped closer. “You do not have to contain it. You must learn to guide it.”

“And who will teach me?” Hermione asked, half joking. “Celestials are almost extinct.”

Viktor reached out— slow, gentle— and took her hand.

“I will help you,” he said simply.

Hermione blinked. “But Viktor… dragon magic and celestial magic aren’t the same.”

“They do not need to be,” he murmured.
“They only need to resonate.”

Her breath hitched.

“Resonate?”

Viktor simply nodded.

Then he led her into the training grounds.

The training field behind the Ross castle was a massive circle carved into stone. Runes glowed faintly around its edges. The scent of heather drifted through the air.

Harry and Draco sat on the sidelines with warm butterbeer, ready for “spectator commentary.”

Narcissa and Minerva watched from a veranda, warding the perimeter in case Hermione’s magic flared.

Viktor stepped into the centre, turning toward Hermione.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

Hermione did.

And froze.

Because Viktor had unbuttoned the top of his training robes— just a little— revealing the runic tattoos spiralling down from his collarbone.

Each one glowed faintly with embers.

“Those are—” she breathed.

“Dragon priest markings,” Viktor said. “They ignite when I call my magic.”

Hermione’s chest fluttered. “They’re beautiful.”

Viktor blinked. Then he blushed.

Hard.

Hermione smiled shyly.

Harry whispered to Draco, “They’re disgustingly cute.”

Draco nodded. “Revoltingly, painfully adorable.”

Viktor held out his hand.

“Let your magic rise.”

Hermione nodded— closed her eyes— and exhaled.

Her celestial aura glimmered under her skin— silver light swirling around her wrists, sparking at her fingertips.

“Good,” Viktor murmured. “Now listen.”

She opened her eyes.

“To what?”

“To my magic.”

Viktor inhaled deeply— and a soft ember glow ignited around him.

Not harsh.
Not scorching.

Warm.
Protective.
Ancient.

Hermione felt it instantly— a tug in her chest toward him.

She gasped.

“Viktor—”

“That is resonance,” he whispered. “Do not fight it.”

Hermione’s hands trembled.

“It feels… like I’m being pulled to you.”

Viktor stepped closer.

“You are.”

Hermione swallowed.

“And you?”

Viktor’s voice went low, intimate.

“I am pulled to you as well.”

Their magic sparked— silver threads curling into gold— fire twining with starlight.

Hermione reached toward it— but her fingertips shook.

Viktor took her hand slowly.
Guided it toward his chest.
Let her feel his heartbeat through the warm ember glow.

“This is control,” he said softly.
“Not power over magic.
But harmony with it.”

Hermione’s breath trembled.

“I’ve never felt anything like this.”

Viktor smiled —soft, reverent, gentle.

“Neither have I.”

They took one more step closer— and the magic surged.

Hermione gasped. White-silver light erupted from her palms. Viktor’s tattoos flared gold-red.

Their magics connected— not violently.

Not explosively.

But beautifully.

A spiral of fire and starlight rose between them, twisting together like celestial vines.

Harry dropped his butterbeer.

Draco whispered, “That is not normal.”

Narcissa murmured, “That is destiny.”

Minerva’s eyes glistened. “They are becoming what they were meant to be.”

The light flickered— expanded— and then—

Hermione’s wings burst forth.

Full.
Radiant.
Majestic.

Viktor’s fire aura flared in harmony.

And for a moment, they stood as equals.
Matched by ancient magic.
Fire and starlight entwined.

Hermione felt tears burn her eyes.

“Viktor…”

Viktor stepped forward,
voice raw with wonder.

“Hermione… you are extraordinary.”

Her wings pulsed.

She stepped into him— slow, hesitant— and brushed her forehead against his chest.

“I feel like I’m becoming someone I don’t recognise.”

Viktor lifted her chin gently.

“You are becoming who you were always meant to be.”

In the war rooms and ancestral halls across Europe, chaos erupted.

Daily Prophet (Bulgarian edition):
“Krumov Heir Resonates With Celestial Witch—Ancient Alliance Rekindled?”

French tabloids:
“Heiress Ross & Dragon Priest: Romance or Magical Merger?”

German magical periodicals:
“Bond of Starlight: Should Europe Fear the Rising Duo?”

Scandinavian runecasters:
“Prophecy Stirs—The Constellation Pair Awakens”

Betrothal offers doubled overnight.
Political proposals flooded Minerva’s desk.
Coven leaders demanded consultations.
ICW observers scrambled to adjust protocols.

And Dumbledore, locked in magical chains within a dverger detention chamber, heard the news and shattered a teacup in rage.

That night, when Hermione finally slept— exhausted, happy, safe—

She dreamed.

Silver fields beneath a night sky. Constellations swirling like living creatures. A towering tree with branches that reached the stars.

And beneath it—

A tall figure of light.

Not threatening.
Not frightening.

Warm.
Ancient.
Radiant.

The figure spoke without words:

“Two forces rise.
Fire that protects.
Starlight that guides.
Together, they will wake the Old Magic.
And return balance to the world.”

Hermione reached out.

The figure touched her hand— and she jolted awake.

Heart racing.

Magic glowing beneath her skin.

And Viktor— standing at her door like he knew something was wrong.

“Hermione?” he whispered. “Are you alright? I felt—”

She opened the door— And fell into his arms.

“Stay,” she whispered, voice shaking.

Viktor held her close.

“As long as you want me,” he said softly, “I am here.”

Chapter Text

The Ross Estate had never been this alive.

Not in centuries. Not since the last celestial-born heir walked its halls.

Tonight, the ancestral magic shifted again— stirred by Hermione’s awakening and Viktor’s fire-laced resonance.

Something old and sacred was waking. And the land itself felt it.

Hermione woke in Viktor’s arms.

Not improperly.
Not intimately.
Just… safe.

Her head rested on his shoulder, his arm around her waist, their breaths synced… their magics curled around each other like threads of gold and silver.

Viktor woke slowly, blinking himself into awareness.
When he realised she was still there, his face softened in a way Hermione had never seen.

“Good morning,” he whispered, voice rough with sleep.

Hermione’s heart fluttered. “Morning.”

They didn’t move.

Their fingers were still intertwined.

And when Hermione shifted even slightly, the bond thrummed— a warm pulse of shared power.

Viktor inhaled sharply. “You felt that?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes. It’s getting… stronger.”

A hesitant, hopeful smile crossed Viktor’s face.

“Do you want it to?”

Hermione bit her lip.

She could lie.
Pretend she didn’t know.
Pretend she wasn’t aware of the way she gravitated to him like a planet to a star.

But she didn’t.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Viktor exhaled shakily, forehead falling to hers.

“Good,” he murmured.

Barely an hour later— Knock. Knock. Knock.

Hermione nearly leapt away from Viktor as Narcissa Malfoy swept into the suite like a silk storm.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” Narcissa said without blinking. “Come, darling. Your first ritual awaits.”

Hermione squeaked.
Viktor turned red.
Narcissa did not care.

She adjusted Hermione’s collar, gave Viktor a look that said Behave, and ushered her out the door.

The Rowan Circle gathered on the highest balcony of the Ross estate.

The air hummed.

Silver runes floated in spirals around a large ceremonial bowl filled with starlit water. Moonlight shimmered. Soft chanting filled the air.

Minerva stepped forward, proud and calm.

“Hermione,” she said, “you are ready for your first celestial rite.”

Hermione swallowed. “What does it do?”

Rowena Baddock smiled. “It attunes your magic to the night sky.”

Morgana Flint added, “It reveals the star that governs your path.”

Narcissa smirked. “And gives you ridiculous magical authority. Try not to faint.”

Hermione shivered. “Okay. No pressure.”

Minerva lifted her wand. “Our ancestors performed this rite during awakenings. You stand where many powerful witches stood before you.”

Hermione stepped forward.
Nervous.
Excited.
Terrified.

The bowl of water glowed brighter.

Minerva’s voice echoed ancient syllables.

Hermione dipped her fingers into the water—

And the universe exploded.

Stars whirled around her. Constellations spiralled. Her wings burst forth in shimmering arcs. A soft celestial hum filled the air.

A single star shone brighter than all the others.

Bright.
Gold.
Unwavering.

Minerva whispered, breathless:

“The Guidestar.”

Narcissa gasped.
“Impossible.”

Andromeda covered her heart. “A celestial witch chosen by the Guidestar? That hasn’t happened in a thousand years.”

Hermione trembled. “What does that mean?”

Minerva placed a hand over Hermione’s glowing one.

“It means, my girl…you are destined to lead.”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

She had never wanted power.
Just fairness.
Safety.
Knowledge.

But destiny didn’t ask what she wanted.

It chose her anyway.

Down below, on the opposite side of the training grounds,
the Bulgarian coven prepared something just as ancient.

Deyan approached Viktor with a carved obsidian bowl filled with glowing ember-dust.

“Priest Krumov,” he said solemnly, “your magic has begun merging with the celestial heir.”

Viktor nodded, grounding himself. “Yes.”

“Then you must undergo the Dragonfire Trial. Your power must be strong enough to match hers.”

Viktor’s jaw tightened. “I will not fail.”

Deyan’s eyes glowed. “Then step into the circle.”

Viktor walked into the centre. Runes flared beneath his feet.

The priests began chanting.

Fire erupted around him— not burning, but testing.

The flames pressed against his chest, his hands, his blood.

Viktor grit his teeth as the embers rose higher.

His tattoos glowed red-hot. Sweat dripped down his temples. His breath came in heavy bursts.

Deyan shouted:

“WHO DO YOU PROTECT?”

Viktor roared,
“HERMIONE!”

The fire tightened.

Searing.
Demanding.
Relentless.

“WHO DO YOU SERVE?”

Viktor’s answer was instinct, not thought. “I SERVE THE BALANCE!”

The flames intensified—

Magic clawing at him. “WHO DO YOU STAND WITH?”

And Viktor roared: “WITH HER!”

The fire burst upward— And Viktor’s aura exploded.

Red-gold flames spiralled around him, shaping into the silhouette of a dragon’s wings, wrapping him in ancient power.

The ground trembled.

Deyan whispered: “He passed.”

Smoke curled as the flames faded.

Viktor collapsed to his knees, panting— but alive. Empowered. Burning with new strength.

And his first word was: “Hermione.”

Hermione’s rite concluded moments later.

Breathless.
Dazzling.
Shining with star-borne magic.

And she felt it.
Deep in her chest.

A pull.
A warmth.
A calling.

“Viktor…” she whispered.

Minerva smiled knowingly.
“Go to him.”

Hermione ran.

Down the spiral steps.
Through the courtyard.
Across the enchanted field—

Her feet barely touched the ground.

When she reached the training circle, Viktor was standing unsteadily, new dragonfire aura still flickering faintly around him.

Their eyes met.

And their magics snapped toward each other— like gravity taking hold.

Hermione rushed to him—
hands cupping his face,
breath trembling.

“Viktor—are you hurt?”

“No,” he whispered. “I am… more.”

Hermione’s eyes widened.
Her hands trembled as she touched the glowing tattoos along his throat.

“Dragonfire,” she whispered. “This is… new.”

He nodded. “For you.”

Hermione’s breath caught.

“Viktor—”

Her wings flared.
His aura flamed.
The bond pulsed—

And without thinking,
Hermione stepped into him.

He caught her,
holding her tight,
forehead pressed to hers.

Fire and Starlight merged again.

Electric.
Warm.
Beautiful.

Hermione whispered: “Are you sure this path doesn’t frighten you?”

Viktor’s voice softened to a whisper against her skin.

“Hermione…
I would walk through fire for you.
I would face prophecy.
I would face the world.”

He lifted her chin gently.

“But most of all…I will face whatever you become— because I choose you.”

Hermione’s heart nearly broke open.

She didn’t kiss him.

Not yet.

But she leaned into him, letting their magic braid gently, carefully, beautifully.

And Viktor held her like she was something sacred.

Because she was.

Later, as Viktor and Hermione walked back toward the castle— still glowing faintly, still linked at the fingertips—

Draco, observing from a balcony with Harry, narrowed his eyes.

“Potter.”

Harry sighed. “What now?”

Draco pointed at the magical threads curling between Hermione and Viktor.

“Do you see it?”

Harry squinted.
“…Is that…?”

Draco nodded slowly, expression alarmed.

“Yes. That’s a forming Higher Bond.
Not a soul bond.
Not a marriage bond.
Something older.”

Harry blinked. “…Older?”

Draco whispered:

“The kind of bond that shapes nations.”

Harry nearly dropped his wand.

“Oh Merlin.”

That night, deep in the Ross family vault beneath the estate, something stirred.

A silver circlet encrusted with starlight gemstones— forgotten, buried for centuries— glowed faintly.

It pulsed.

Twice.

As if answering a call.

Then the ancient protective enchantments whispered:

THE CELESTIAL HEIR HAS BEEN FOUND.
THE CROWN OF ASTRAYA AWAKENS.

Chapter Text

Magic hummed beneath the Ross Estate that night.

Not the sharp hum of battle. Not the heavy hum of wards.

But something older—
Somber.
Certain.
Awakening.

Hermione didn’t know it yet. Viktor didn’t know it yet.

But somewhere deep below their feet, the ground whispered her name.

Astraya.
Astraya.
Astraya…

A name forgotten for centuries, the name of the last celestial sovereign, the witch who shaped covens and calmed magic storms.

And now, the echoes reached for Hermione.

And Hermione— starlit, newly awakened, newly bonded to a dragon priest— was ready to hear them.

Hermione woke with her magic still warm from the Constellation Rite.

Her wings—not visible, but present as soft energy— pressed lightly against her back.

And Viktor— Viktor was sitting near her window, hair tousled, holding two cups of tea.

She blinked, dazed.
“V-Viktor?”

He stood and walked toward her.

“I made tea. It helps settle post-ritual magic.”

Hermione flushed. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

He handed her the cup gently, fingers brushing hers, and the bond hummed.

Hermione nearly dropped the tea.

Viktor laughed softly. “Magic likes when we touch.”

“It really does,” Hermione whispered, cheeks warm.

He sat on the edge of her bed. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes. I—” Hermione hesitated. “My dream last night… it was strange.”

“Strange how?”

Hermione toyed with the rim of her cup. “There was a tree—massive, old—branches covered in constellations. And a figure made of stars. They said… they said starlight and fire were waking something ancient.”

Viktor’s expression sharpened. “That is not a dream. That is celestial communion.”

Hermione stared.
“You think my magic is… talking to me?”

He nodded.
“Celestials are guided by the stars. They do not dream—they converse.”

Hermione swallowed.

Nervous.
Awed.
Terrified.

“What are they guiding me toward?”

Viktor didn’t look away.

“You already know.”

Hermione’s stomach fluttered.

She whispered, barely audible:

“You.”

Viktor’s breath caught.

And then— KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Draco’s voice ripped through the door.

“HERMIONE! EMERGENCY! HORRIFYING EMERGENCY!”

Harry added, “Not life-threatening, just socially catastrophic!”

Viktor groaned.
Hermione sighed. “I’m coming.”

Draco practically burst into Hermione’s room, robes askew.

He pointed at Viktor and Hermione’s linked hands.

“I KNEW IT!”

Hermione squeaked and pulled away. Viktor did not.

Harry arrived behind Draco, panting.
“It’s happening. It’s really happening.”

Hermione blinked. “What is—”

Draco shoved a glowing parchment in her face.

“THIS.”

Hermione read the headline aloud:

“Bond of Fire and Starlight — Heir Krumov and Heiress Ross: Higher Bond Forming?”

Hermione sputtered. “What—?! This is ridiculous—who leaked—who even knows—?!”

Harry raised a hand. “When you two lit up the sky with combined celestial-dragon fire, every scrying mirror in Europe short-circuited.”

Draco added, very seriously:

“You two broke France.”

Hermione stared. “They’re exaggerating—this isn’t—this can’t be—”

Draco shook his head. “No. I’ve studied pureblood bond theory. That glow wasn’t ordinary resonance.”

Hermione’s heartbeat quickened. “Then what was it?”

Draco exhaled. “A beginning.”

Hermione stilled.

“A beginning of what…?”

Viktor’s voice—low, certain—answered first. “A Higher Bond.”

Hermione swallowed. “The kind that—”

“Shapes political alliances,” Draco said.
“Merges coven magic,” Harry added.
“Links power and destiny,” Viktor finished.

Draco’s gaze softened. “This isn’t forced. But your magics are choosing each other. That’s rare. And ancient.”

Hermione’s stomach flipped. “Are you saying Viktor and I are… destined?”

Viktor stepped closer to her, eyes warm.

“I am saying,” he murmured, “that your magic recognises mine. And mine answers yours.”

Hermione’s breath trembled. “Does that scare you?”

Viktor shook his head. “No. It feels… right.”

Harry whispered to Draco, “They’re adorable.”

Draco nodded. “And terrifying.”

An hour later, Hermione was summoned to her mother’s private study.

Minerva stood by the window, looking out at the heather fields, her posture regal and tense.

“Hermione,” she began, “I sensed your magic flare with Viktor’s last night.”

Hermione flinched. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“I am not scolding you,” Minerva said, turning to her.
Her voice softened. “I am just concerned.”

Hermione swallowed. “A bond is forming.”

“Yes.” Minerva exhaled. “And a Higher Bond cannot be taken lightly.”

Hermione looked down. “I didn’t choose it.”

Minerva took her hands gently. “That’s the point. Your magic chose. His magic responded.”

Hermione’s eyes burned. “Am I doing something wrong?”

Minerva cupped her cheek.

“No, my girl. You are doing something ancient.”

Hermione blinked. “What does that mean?”

Minerva’s voice dropped.

“It means the old prophecies are waking. And you and Viktor are at the centre.”

Hermione’s head spun. “Why me?”

“Because you are my daughter,” Minerva whispered. “And because the stars chose you long before I did.”

Hermione’s throat closed.

Minerva pulled her into a hug— tight, warm, steady.

“You are not alone,” she murmured. “No matter what magic demands of you, you will never walk this path without us.”

Hermione nodded into her mother’s shoulder, tears spilling silently.

That evening, Hermione wandered the corridors alone, needing air and space.

But her magic pulled.

A faint tug.

A shimmering thread tugging her toward the lower levels of the estate.

She followed it— down spiralling staircases, past thick stone walls, into a hall lit only by floating blue flames.

And then— A door appeared.

Not suddenly.
Not magically.

It simply revealed itself as though acknowledging her presence.

Hermione touched the metal surface.

It glowed.

Runes lit up like constellations— old Scottish symbols of magic, lineage, sovereignty.

Hermione whispered: “Open.”

The door obeyed.

Inside was a vault room carved from moonstone.

And at its centre on a pedestal of ancient silver rested:

The Crown of Astraya.

Hermione stepped forward, breath shaking.

The circlet shimmered— silver metal shaped like interwoven wings and stars, glowing faintly with celestial light.

A small inscription was carved into the pedestal:

“For the Celestial Heir whose wings awaken the night.”

Hermione’s heart pounded.

“This… was hers,” she whispered. “Astraya.”

A soft hum answered her.

Then—

The crown lifted from the pedestal— moved toward her— and hovered inches from her forehead.

Hermione froze.

“W-wait—I’m not—”

The crown pulsed.

Warm.
Ancient.
Calling her name.

Hermione whispered, terrified:

“I’m not ready.”

The crown glowed brighter.

And a soft, ancient voice whispered:

“You will be.”

Hermione’s knees buckled.

She nearly fell—but arms caught her. Strong, warm, familiar.

Viktor.

“Hermione!” He pressed her against his chest, steadying her. “Are you—by the gods, what is that—?”

Hermione leaned into him, shaking.

“It’s… It’s the Crown of Astraya.”

Viktor stared at it, awestruck. “It is choosing you.”

Hermione swallowed.

“Why?”

Viktor cupped her cheek gently.

“Because the stars want their queen back.”

Hermione trembled.

“Viktor… I don’t think I can do this.”

He leaned his forehead to hers, voice steady.

“You do not need to. Not alone. Not today.”

He took her hands in his.

“I walk beside you.
Through fire.
Through fate.
Through prophecy.”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

“Together?” she whispered.

Viktor nodded.

“Always.”

The crown glowed— bright, warm, approving.

And the vault whispered:

Fire and starlight shall rise together.

Chapter Text

The Crown of Astraya hovered above Hermione’s palms— light, delicate, beautiful— yet radiating a power so ancient the air itself trembled.

Viktor held her steady, one hand at her waist, the other around her trembling fingers.

“Hermione,” he murmured, “breathe.”

But she couldn’t.

Because nothing— not the trials, not her adoption, not the prophecy— felt as heavy as this crown floating before her.

She whispered, “I’m not ready. I can’t—”

Viktor gently lifted her chin.

“You can,” he murmured. “Not because you are perfect. Not because you are fearless. But because you are you.”

Hermione’s heartbeat stuttered. “I don’t want to rule anything.”

“Then you won’t rule,” Viktor said softly. “You will guide. Like starlight.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “Then… what does that make you?”

Viktor brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “A dragon who chose his star.”

Her breath shattered.

Their bond hummed— silver and gold intertwining— as the crown glowed brighter.

Hermione exhaled shakily. “I’m scared,” she admitted.

Viktor’s arm curved more firmly around her waist. “I am with you.”

The crown pulsed. And descended.

As the circlet touched Hermione’s brow— A blinding silver light burst outward.

Runes spiraled in the air. The vault’s walls glowed. The floor trembled.

Hermione gasped as visions flooded her mind:

— a woman with wings of night holding a newborn star
— covens kneeling
— dragons circling the skies
— a celestial sovereign calming a magical storm
— a pair of intertwined lights—one fire, one starlight—guiding a fractured world

Hermione staggered.

Viktor caught her instantly.

“Hermione!”

She clutched his robes, chest heaving.

The visions faded.

The light dimmed.

And when she opened her eyes—

The crown sat perfectly on her head.

Not heavy.
Not cold.

Just right.

As if it had been waiting.

Viktor stared at her— not with awe, but reverence.

“Hermione…” he whispered. “You look—”

She grabbed his arm, blushing. “Don’t say ‘queen.’ I will die.”

He smiled. “No. You look like you’re becoming yourself.”

Hermione’s heart twisted.

She hugged him without thinking.
Tight.
Soft.
Scared.

Viktor wrapped his arms around her, holding her through it.

She needed that.

More than she’d ever admit.

When Hermione emerged from the vault, the Rowan Circle was waiting.

Minerva froze.

Narcissa gasped.

Andromeda covered her mouth.

Helena’s eyes filled with tears.

Morgana whispered, “The Prophecy is waking.”

Minerva approached slowly, pride and disbelief etched across her face.

“Hermione,” she whispered, voice cracking, “let me see.”

Hermione lifted her chin, terrified and trembling.

Minerva reached out— and the crown glowed under her touch, acknowledging her as Hermione’s true mother.

Minerva swallowed hard.

“As Lady Ross,” she declared, “I recognise the rise of the Celestial Heir.”

Narcissa stepped forward.

“Cast it,” she said softly.

Hermione blinked. “Cast what?”

“The crown’s first light,” Narcissa explained. “Your magic with the crown must be introduced to the world.”

Hermione stiffened. “I—I don’t know how.”

Viktor stepped behind her, resting a warm hand between her shoulder blades.

“You do,” he said quietly. “Let your wings answer.”

Hermione closed her eyes—

And called her magic.

Silver light rippled.
Her wings unfurled behind her.
The crown shimmered like a falling star.

And then— a beam of starlight shot upward from the crown, piercing the sky.

The air hummed. The ground pulsed.

All across Scotland— and in magical homes across Europe— witches and wizards looked up in shock.

The Celestial Heir had claimed her crown.

News Travels Fast and within hours:

French Enchanters’ Council
“The Guidestar Heir has awakened!”

Bulgarian Coven Dispatch
“A celestial sovereign returns—with our dragon priest by her side.”

German Eisenmag Gazette
“The Fire-Starlight Bond Deepens.”

Scandinavian Rune-Singers
“Balance shifts. Old magic stirs.”

And in the Dverger Kingdom:

Ragnok bared his steel teeth in a grin. “At last.”

While in Dumbledore’s subterranean cell— lamplit, damp, cold— the old man whispered through clenched teeth:

“No… no, she cannot rise… Not without my guidance…”

He pressed his palm against a faintly glowing rune on his wall.

“Bring me the mirror,” he hissed.

A shadowed figure slid a small enchanted mirror through the bars.

Dumbledore lifted it with shaking hands.

“Hermione,” he murmured. “Come to me.”

The mirror shimmered.

Hermione’s sleeping reflection appeared on its surface— the crown faintly glowing on her nightstand.

Dumbledore whispered a forbidden incantation.

“I call you to me— your mind, your heart, your magic—”

But then— A burst of gold filled the mirror.

A dragon’s roar shook the cell.

And Viktor Krumov’s face snapped into view— eyes blazing with fire.

“Stay away from her,” Viktor growled. “Your magic cannot touch her anymore.”

Dumbledore recoiled.

“You—! How—?!”

Viktor leaned close. “Her bond shields her. And I shield her.”

Dumbledore’s face twisted with fury. “You cannot stop fate—”

Viktor smirked. “I am fate.”

The mirror shattered.

Dumbledore screamed.

Hermione jolted awake.

Her magic flared— Viktor’s aura pulsed in response— and within seconds, he was at her door.

“Hermione!”

She opened it—

And the moment their eyes met, the bond seized.

Silver light.
Gold fire.
A rush of heat.
A pull toward each other.

Hermione gasped. “Viktor—”

He cupped her face, breathing hard.

“Did you feel him?”

Hermione whispered, trembling,
“Yes.”

Viktor’s jaw clenched.

“Dumbledore tried to reach you. Through dream-magic.”

Hermione’s skin went cold.

“But the bond stopped him,” Viktor continued.

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Our bond… protected me?”

Viktor nodded.

“Hermione, this bond is becoming more than resonance. More than compatibility. It is turning into something ancient.”

Hermione’s heart pounded.

“What… what do we do?”

Viktor brushed a thumb across her cheek.

“We walk it together.
Like we said.”

Hermione leaned into his touch.

And whispered, voice fragile:

“Stay with me tonight?”

Viktor swallowed hard.

“Yes.”

Later, they sat on her balcony, wrapped in a blanket, watching stars swirl above the Ross Estate.

Hermione leaned against Viktor’s shoulder.

Viktor rested his cheek on her hair.

Their fingers twined.

Their magics pulsed in rhythm.

Hermione whispered:

“Viktor… does any of this frighten you?”

“Only one thing,” he murmured.

She stiffened.
“What?”

“That you will walk too far into the stars… and I will not be able to follow.”

Hermione turned to him— eyes glowing faintly.

“Then follow me,” she whispered. “I want you beside me.”

Viktor inhaled sharply.

“Hermione—”

She leaned closer.

Not kissing.
Not rushing.

Just…letting her forehead touch his.

“I don’t know what this bond will become,” she whispered.
“I don’t know if I’ll lead, or rule, or change anything.”

Viktor’s hand tightened around hers.

“But I want you with me,” Hermione breathed. “In every step. In every rise. In every storm.”

Viktor’s voice trembled. “Then I am yours.”

The crown glowed softly from inside her room. The stars brightened.

Their bond pulsed— fire and starlight intertwining— forming something solid.

Something ancient. Something powerful.

And Hermione knew— This was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

The Ross Estate had hosted royal delegations, ancient covens, long-dead Highland kings, and meetings that shaped wizarding history.

But tonight… It prepared for something it had not seen in a thousand years.

The Court of Starlight.

A celestial gathering held only when a Guidestar Heir rose. When magic itself shifted.

Candles appeared in midair like waking constellations.
Silver runes lit the stone walls in curling arcs.
Moonlight poured through the high windows in shimmering beams.

And everyone waited for the same person:

Hermione Isobel McGonagall,
Heiress of Ross,
Witch of the Rowan Circle,
and bearer of the Crown of Astraya.

Viktor waited too—
back straight,
shoulders tense,
fire aura subdued but restless.

Like a dragon in ceremonial robes.

Because no matter the politics,
he was not here for Europe.
Or the covens.
Or the crown.

He was here for her.

Narcissa smoothed Hermione’s hair one final time, placing the Crown of Astraya gently atop her curls.

“You look perfect,” Narcissa said calmly.

And then added, “Terrifying. Untouchable. Glorious.”

Hermione nearly fainted.

Andromeda adjusted the starlight-trimmed cloak around her shoulders. “You’re a born leader, Hermione. Magic chose the right witch.”

Minerva pressed a soft kiss to Hermione’s forehead. “Walk proudly, my girl. Your ancestors walk with you.”

Hermione swallowed. Hard. “I’m scared,” she murmured.

Narcissa smirked. “Good. Only fools aren’t.”

Then she snapped her fingers. “Let’s go.”

The doors opened. The entire hall was silent. And Hermione stepped in.

Wings of starlight shimmered faintly at her back.
The crown glowed softly on her brow.
Her robes sparkled with constellations.

She looked like a piece of the night sky shaped into a girl.

Viktor exhaled sharply— hands curling at his sides, chest tightening at the sight of her.

Hermione locked eyes with him for a single heartbeat.

Warm.
Steady.
Grounding.

And he mouthed,
“I’m here.”

She nodded
“I know.”

One by one, representatives of magical Europe bowed.

France
Lady Vivienne performed a formal Veela bow.
“Guidestar Heir. France recognises your rise.”

Bulgaria
Deyan bowed deeply.
“The Dragon Priests stand ready.”

Viktor bowed next, eyes locked on Hermione’s.

“Hermione,” he murmured, voice reverent.
“The Krumov Line honours you.”

Hermione’s heart stuttered.

Scandinavia
Lady Signe bowed stiffly.
“The North acknowledges your awakening.”

Germany
Lord Gunther Eisenwald saluted with iron-stiff formality.
“We respect strength. And yours is undeniable.”

The Dverger Nation
A hush fell as Ragnok himself entered.

He bowed deeply.

“Celestial-born,” he rumbled, “friend of the Dverger nation…your rise is a blessing.”

Hermione flushed.
“T-Thank you, King Ragnok.”

“You earned our respect,” he said. “And now—our allegiance.”

The hall erupted in whispers.

Minerva inhaled sharply. Europe’s most feared magical power had just pledged loyalty to Hermione.

And everyone knew the world had changed.

But Not Everyone Was Pleased

A low, cold voice cut through the hum:

“Allegiance is granted too easily these days.”

The hall froze.

Three Bulgarian nobles stepped forward— the Zograf brothers, notorious for their political ambitions.

Elder Zograf bowed shallowly to Hermione.

“Guidestar Heir,” he said smoothly. “Your ascent is impressive.”

His younger brother added, “But we question the influence…of foreign dragon priests at your side.”

Hermione blinked. “You mean Viktor?”

The middle brother sneered.
“He stands too near. Too protectively. Too intimately.”

Viktor stepped forward, eyes blazing. “Speak plainly.”

Elder Zograf folded his arms.
“You are the Krumov heir. You were promised to our faction— your loyalty, your strength— not to a British girl.”

Viktor’s jaw clenched.

Hermione felt a painful twist in her chest.

Promised?

But Viktor’s response was immediate.
Cold.
Clear.

“I was promised to no one,” he snapped. “My loyalty is not owned. It is earned.”

Zograf scoffed.
“Then why do you stand at her side? What claim does she have on you?”

Viktor’s voice dropped—dangerously soft.

“No claim. Just a choice.”

Hermione swallowed.

The Zograf brothers laughed.

“A choice? Or a spell of resonance? Dragon magic bonds easily, Krumov. Especially to—”

Viktor’s magic exploded.

Fire roared around him— gold-red, furious, ancient— silencing the hall.

“Finish that sentence,” Viktor warned, “and you will not walk out of this room.”

Hermione’s wings flared reflexively, silver and brilliant.

The Zograf brothers stumbled back.

Hermione stepped forward, voice calm but unyielding.

“I am not controlling Viktor. I do not hold him. I do not bind him.”

She lifted her chin. “And I do not need to.”

Viktor stared at her—
stunned,
devoted,
breathless.

Hermione added:

“He walks beside me by choice. His own.”

The room trembled with her authority.
The crown glowed brightly.
The starlight rippled like a pulse.

And the Zograf brothers fell silent.

Meanwhile, along the perimeter of the hall, Harry and Draco were conspiring.

Harry muttered, “Look at those Zograf idiots. There’s more to this.”

Draco nodded. “Of course there is. They hate Viktor. They want control of Bulgaria. But that’s not all.”

He held up a sealed parchment. “We intercepted this from a suspicious envoy.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “That’s Dumbledore’s handwriting.”

Draco exhaled sharply. “Yes. And listen to this.”

He read aloud:

“The girl must be removed from the Krumov heir’s influence. Discredit him. Separate them. Break the bond before it settles.”

Harry’s blood ran cold. “He’s trying to destroy them.”

Draco nodded grimly. “And he has allies.”

Harry clenched his fist. “We have to protect them.”

As Hermione stepped down from the platform, the crown shimmering softly, Viktor met her halfway.

He grabbed her hand. She didn’t let go.

Their magic surged— a warm, brilliant pulse of fire meeting starlight.

The hall gasped.

Narcissa murmured, “Oh, that bond is nearly impossible to break now.”

Minerva whispered, “Impossible indeed.”

Hermione felt it deep— like a warm ache in her chest. A pull. A certainty.

“Viktor…” she breathed.

He stepped closer.

“You are extraordinary tonight,” he murmured. “And every night.”

Hermione flushed deeply. “I didn’t faint.”

“You didn’t,” he said proudly. “You rose.”

She exhaled.

Their foreheads brushed.

Not a kiss.
A promise.

Harry whispered to Draco, “They’re going to snap and kiss eventually.”

Draco nodded. “The tension is killing everyone.”

After the ceremony, as the crowd dispersed,
Ragnok motioned Hermione and Viktor into a private chamber.

His golden eyes glowed.

“Celestial Heir,” he rumbled, “I bring grave news.”

Hermione straightened. “What happened?”

Ragnok placed a metal-bound scroll on the table. “This was found in the cell of the traitor Dumbledore.”

Hermione froze.

Viktor growled.

Ragnok continued:

“It is a contract. An agreement. Between Dumbledore… and a faction of anti-coven nobles.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped.

“What kind of agreement?”

Ragnok’s voice darkened.

“To kidnap you.”

Hermione gasped.

Viktor snarled— low, guttural, dragon-deep. “No one will take her.”

Ragnok nodded.

“The dverger are increasing your protection. But you must be careful.”

Hermione swallowed, voice trembling.

“What do they want with me?”

Ragnok leaned forward.

“Your power. Your link to Viktor. And the future you two represent.”

Hermione’s hands shook. “They want to separate us.”

Viktor took her hands firmly. “They will fail.”

Ragnok added: “And there is one more thing.”

He opened the scroll.

A prophecy line was written in ancient starlight ink:

“When the Crown awakens and the Dragon rises,
their bond will tip the balance of magic.
Protect them,
for their unity shall shape the next age.”

Hermione whispered, “Viktor… this bond…it’s bigger than us.”

Viktor lifted her hand to his chest. “And we face it together.”

Hermione nodded.
Breath shaky.
Heart steady.

“Together.”

The crown glowed softly in approval.

Chapter Text

The Ross Estate felt too still that night.

Too quiet.
Too expectant.
As if every stone and blade of heather were watching Hermione and Viktor—
waiting for the next step.
The next shift.
The next rise.

Because tonight was not just another ritual.

Tonight was The Celestial Oath.

A rite performed only when a celestial witch’s bond began to solidify— when fire met starlight in truth, when magic demanded unity, when destiny whispered now.

And though Hermione and Viktor were not lovers, not a couple, not bound by any vow— Yet their magic was already calling for it.

Hermione stood in her chambers, staring at her reflection.

The Crown of Astraya rested on her brow, glowing like a captured moon.

She looked—

Different.

Stronger.
Sharper.
Softer.

All at once.

A witch becoming her own legend.

Minerva entered quietly, her robe trailing starlight enchantments.

“Hermione,” she murmured, “tonight’s rite will seal certain paths… and close others.”

Hermione’s stomach flipped. “Close what?”

Minerva held her daughter’s shoulders gently.

“The Celestial Oath binds magic. Not love. Not destiny. Magic.”

Hermione swallowed. “What does that mean for me and… Viktor?”

Minerva’s eyes softened.

“It means if your bond continues to grow, tonight will make it unbreakable.”

Hermione’s pulse skittered. “Unbreakable?”

“Yes,” Minerva said quietly. “For life.”

Hermione nearly stopped breathing.

She whispered, barely audible:

“I’m not ready for… forever.”

Minerva cupped her cheek.

“You are not being asked to choose romantic forever.” She tapped Hermione’s chest lightly. “Magic forever is different. And yours has already chosen.”

Hermione’s eyes stung.

“But what if I mess everything up? What if I hurt him?”

Minerva leaned her forehead against Hermione’s. “Then he will stand beside you anyway.”

Hermione closed her eyes as tears slipped out. “I’m scared.”

Minerva whispered,
“So was I when I stepped into my first coven, my girl. But I walked forward. For the women who came before me. For the ones who would come after.”

She lifted Hermione’s chin.

“And now you walk forward. Not because you must. Because you can.”

Hermione nodded weakly.

“I’ll try.”

Minerva kissed her forehead. “That is enough.”

Across the estate, Viktor stood in the training hall, chest bare, ritual tattoos glowing gold.

Deyan approached with a carved amber box.

“Priest Krumov,” he said, voice solemn, “are you ready to walk into the stars?”

Viktor inhaled deeply.

“If she is there,” he murmured, “I walk without fear.”

Deyan smirked. “You say it with pride.”

“It is true,” Viktor said flatly.

Deyan opened the box.

Inside lay a silver chain with a small dragon-carved emblem.

“For the ritual,” he explained. “Worn only by those willing to bind their magic to another’s.”

Viktor hesitated.

“Not a wedding,” Deyan reminded. “Not a vow. But magic. Shared.”

Viktor nodded, taking the chain. “I trust her.”

Deyan raised a brow. “And she trusts you?”

Viktor touched the emblem softly. “More than I deserve.”

Midnight approached.

The coven gathered at the stone circle behind the estate, torches flickering in spirals of silver flame.

Clouds parted overhead, revealing a sky trembling with stars.

Hermione stepped forward— dressed in flowing starlight-white, the crown glimmering on her brow, her aura shimmering with celestial glow.

Viktor stepped from the shadows— shirtless beneath an obsidian cloak, dragonfire tattoos pulsing, the silver chain resting over his heart.

Their eyes locked.

The bond pulsed.

Hermione’s breath caught. Viktor exhaled sharply.

The Rowan Circle hummed with magic.

Narcissa whispered, “Oh, they’re going to ignite the whole sky.”

Morgana Flint nodded. “It will be beautiful.”

Minerva raised her wand toward the heavens.

“Tonight,” she declared, “starlight calls to fire.”

Wind surged.
The ground vibrated.
The torches blazed brighter.

“Hermione Isobel McGonagall. Viktor Todorov Krumov. Step into the Circle.”

Hermione’s feet felt like they floated. Viktor’s steps were silent and steady.

When they stood facing each other, magic crackled between them like lightning.

Minerva continued:

“Do you accept that your magic has recognised each other?”

Hermione swallowed.

“Yes.”

Viktor nodded.
“Yes.”

The bond pulsed.

“Do you accept that your paths may entwine, not by duty— but by choice?”

Hermione’s voice shook.

“Yes.”

Viktor stepped closer.

“I do.”

Starlight erupted around their feet.

“Do you accept that this Oath is not marriage, not romance— but unity of magic— one that cannot be broken?”

Hermione trembled.

Viktor whispered softly, “Look at me.”

She did.

And she whispered:

“Yes.”

Viktor placed his hand over hers.

“And I swear yes.”

The coven chanted.

The stars brightened.

Minerva lifted her staff, voice ringing:

“Then let fire meet starlight.”

A spiral of silver light rose from Hermione’s chest. A whirl of gold fire rose from Viktor’s.

They collided— burst— and wrapped around them like twin storms.

Hermione gasped. Viktor grunted. Their magics intertwined— flaring— dancing— merging— Not painfully. Not forcefully.

Naturally.

As if they were meant to.

Hermione staggered forward.

Viktor caught her, arms curling around her waist.

Their faces inches apart.

Hermione whispered,
“Viktor…”

He breathed,
“Starlight…”

And the magic ignited.

A beam of white-gold light shot upward, painting the sky in fire and stars.

Their bond crystallised— warm, steady, glowing— a new magical force.

Not romantic.

Not yet.

But profound.
Ancient.
Unbreakable.

The coven gasped.
The earth hummed.
The crown glowed.

Minerva whispered, “It is done.”

The circle dimmed.

The magic faded.

Hermione collapsed to her knees, panting.

Viktor dropped beside her instantly. “Hermione—are you hurt?”

“No,” she whispered, breathless. “Just… overwhelmed.”

He cupped her face gently.

“Hermione—look at me.”

She did.

And saw raw emotion— fear, relief, awe, and something deeper— in his eyes.

“Are you alright?” she whispered.

“No,” Viktor admitted. “I nearly lost my mind when the magic pulled you from me.”

Hermione’s chest tightened painfully.

He continued, voice trembling— “When your magic screamed, mine answered.”

Hermione’s eyes stung.

The ritual had bound their magics permanently.

Not as lovers. Not as soulmates.

But as partners in magic.

Destined.

Connected.

Unbreakable.

Hermione whispered:

“Viktor… we’re bound now.”

Viktor lifted her hand to his lips— softly, reverently.

“Then I am bound gladly.”

And Hermione’s breath caught.

While Hermione and Viktor rested in the aftermath of the ritual, Harry and Draco found something worse than either expected.

Letters.
Dozens of them.

Signed by nobles from across Europe.

All agreeing to the same plot:

Kidnap Hermione.
Sever the bond.
Eliminate Viktor.
Force a political marriage.
Gain control of the Celestial Heir.

Draco went pale. “Oh Merlin!”

Harry clenched his wand. “They’re going after her.”

In the deepest cell of the dverger kingdom, Dumbledore traced a rune in blood across his floor.

His voice was cracked, but determined.

“If she will not come to me…” he whispered, “then I will bring her to her knees.”

The rune glowed.

And the old man smiled.

Chapter Text

The night after the Celestial Oath should have been peaceful.

Hermione should have slept deeply, her magic still warm from the ritual, Viktor’s presence steady through the bond, the coven’s protections strong around the estate.

She should have felt safe.

But destiny rarely grants rest to those who rise too quickly.

And tonight— the world rose against her.

Hermione stood on the balcony outside her room, unable to sleep, the Crown of Astraya resting quietly on her bedside table.

The wind was cold.
Gentle.
Unthreatening.

Until it wasn’t.

A prickle ran down Hermione’s spine.

Her celestial instincts whispered sharply—

Danger.
Danger.
Viktor—
VIKTOR—

Hermione gasped.

The bond flared violently, flooding her with panic that wasn’t her own.

Viktor’s fear.

Viktor’s pain.

Her hands shook as she reached for the railing.

“No—no—Viktor!”

Then—

BOOM.

A massive explosion rocked the far wing of the Ross estate.

Hermione’s wings erupted instantly—
full, silver, blazing with rage and terror.

“HERMIONE!” Harry, Draco, and Minerva shouted from inside the hall—

But she was already gone.

She launched herself into the night sky.

The courtyard below was chaos.

Masked wizards flooded the grounds— foreigners, assassins, mercenaries— all cloaked in black, firing dark spells at Ross wards.

Dozens.
More.

A coordinated strike.

Hermione’s stomach flipped.

They weren’t just trying to take her.
They were trying to overwhelm the estate.

But where was—

“VIKTOR!”

A deafening roar answered her.

Viktor burst from the smoke.

Barefoot.
Shirtless.
Bloodied.
Tattoo markings were glowing red-hot across his chest.
Dragonfire was swirling violently around him.

He was surrounded by eight attackers.

Eight.

And still standing.

Barely.

Hermione’s breath broke.

“No—no—no—”

One of the masked men grabbed Viktor from behind, pressing a blade to his throat.

Hermione’s scream shattered the air.

“DON’T TOUCH HIM!”

White-hot starlight exploded around her, turning the night sky molten gold.

Minerva’s voice echoed from the balcony— “HERMIONE NO—!”

But it was too late.

Celestial instinct took over.

Hermione dove— wings slicing through the air— magic crackling like thunder.

The attackers looked up at the streak of silver fire descending upon them— And froze.

Too slow.

Hermione hit the ground like a falling star.

Magic blasted outward— flinging bodies, shattering stone, disintegrating dark wards.

“LET HIM GO!” she screamed.

The attacker holding Viktor staggered— and Viktor seized the opening.

His entire arm erupted in gold fire. He grabbed the man’s wrist—

CRACK.

The blade fell.

The man screamed.

Viktor roared like a dragon incarnate, shoving the attacker backwards with a burst of fire.

Hermione’s wings wrapped around Viktor instinctively.

“Hermione—” Viktor rasped, struggling for breath. “You… shouldn’t be here—”

Hermione sobbed, gripping his shoulders.

“They came for you! They—someone hurt you—someone—”

Viktor cupped her face with shaking fingers.

“I’m alive,” he whispered. “Because you came.”

Hermione’s wings trembled uncontrollably.

“Don’t ever scare me like that,” she choked.

Viktor’s jaw clenched.

“I won’t,” he promised hoarsely.
“I swear it.”

But they had no time.

More attackers poured in from every direction.

Hermione stood in front of Viktor.

Viktor stood at her back.

Their magic flared.

The Bond Reaches a New Level

“Hermione—behind you!”

“Viktor—left!”

They weren’t speaking—

They were feeling each other through the bond.

Hermione’s starlight guided Viktor’s fire.
Viktor’s fire shielded Hermione’s wings.

Spells collided.
Exploded.
Ricocheted.

The attackers shouted in panic:

“THE BOND IS ADVANCING!”
“DO NOT LET THEM SYNCHRONIZE—”
“SEPARATE THEM—NOW—!”

But it was too late.

Hermione and Viktor turned at the same moment.

Their magics collided— and fused.

A wave of white-gold fire blasted outward—

A perfect sphere of celestial-dragon force— flinging every enemy in a 30-foot radius into the air.

Harry and Draco—who had sprinted into the courtyard—both stopped dead.

Draco whispered, awestruck: “That’s… a Bond Surge.”

Harry coughed. “That’s suicide to stand near.”

Their surge continued, spiralling upward into the sky.

Viktor staggered slightly.

Hermione caught him instantly.

“You’re hurt,” she whispered desperately.

“I’m breathing,” he said. “Good enough.”

“Not good enough for me,” Hermione snapped.

Viktor’s eyes softened.

But the next wave hit before they could speak again.

A second battalion of masked forces stormed the courtyard.

Harry and Draco charged forward with terrifying coordination.

“DRACO, RIGHT!”

“ON IT!”

“You take the back line!”

“You take the idiots in the front!”

“GOT IT!”

Harry conjured twin serpent shields— Parselmagic radiating in green light.

Draco unleashed razor-sharp arcane runes—pureblood wardcraft turned into weapons.

Spells clashed violently around them.

Draco shouted over the noise:

“HERMIONE! THEY WANT YOU ALIVE— VIKTOR THEY WANT DEAD—WATCH—!”

A curse flew at Viktor.

Hermione screamed—

But Viktor ducked, rolled, and fired back a blazing gout of dragonfire, incinerating the wand arm of the attacker.

Hermione’s heart nearly stopped.

“VIKTOR!”

He smirked through split lips.

“Close call.”

Hermione nearly hexed him herself.

Two attackers apparated directly behind Hermione.

“GRAB HER—NOW—!”

Viktor’s eyes widened.

“HERMIONE!”

Before she could turn— a spell slammed into her back.

White-hot pain. Everything spinning. Her wings flickered violently—

Viktor roared.

“DON’T TOUCH HER!”

He lunged—

But three wizards blasted him at once.

Viktor collapsed, gasping, blood on his lips.

“NO!” Hermione screamed.

She felt the bond twist— like someone was pulling Viktor away from her chest— tearing them apart. Her magic snapped.

And the sky answered.

Silver lightning erupted from her skin. Her wings expanded to their full span— six meters wide, brilliant and blinding.

Her eyes became molten gold. Her hair turned white as starlight.

She floated above the courtyard.

Viktor looked up— barely conscious—
and whispered: “Beautiful…”

Then Hermione spoke— and her voice echoed with the force of the stars.

“LEAVE MY FAMILY.”

The courtyard fell silent.

“DO NOT TOUCH VIKTOR.”
Her voice shook the stone.
“DO NOT TOUCH MY BROTHER.”
Harry choked.
“DO NOT TOUCH MY HOME.”
Her wings flared.
“OR YOU WILL FACE ME.”

The attackers faltered.

One whispered:

“She’s a full celestial—RUN—!”

Too late.

Hermione swept her wings downward.

A shockwave of starlight blasted across the courtyard, turning weapons to dust, destroying enchanted armour, and throwing masked men to the ground.

The leader of the attacking group growled:

“TAKE HER—NOW—”

But Viktor stood.

Barely.
Broken.
Bleeding.

But standing.

He wiped the blood from his jaw.

And fire ignited around him so bright the air warped.

He roared, “YOU WILL NOT TAKE HER!”

Dragonfire exploded outward.

And the attackers screamed.

Within minutes—

Ragnok’s elite guards arrived.
The Rowan Circle descended in a fury.
The Bulgarian priests unleashed ancient binding spells.

The remaining attackers were captured or fled.

Only silence remained.

Hermione collapsed, wings fading—

“Viktor—Viktor—”

He caught her.
Barely.

Her hands shook as she cupped his face.

“You idiot,” she sobbed. “You almost died.”

Viktor’s voice was raw.

“You screamed my name,” he whispered.
“And the world broke open.”

Hermione pressed her forehead to his.

“You can’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” he whispered. “Not even death could take me from you.”

Their breath mingled.

Not a kiss.

But closer than ever.

Their magic pulsed once— twice— Their bond locked.

Permanently.

Harry gasped.

Draco whispered, “Oh, stars above. They completed the bond.”

Far away, in his cell, Dumbledore sensed the surge.

He smiled.

A twisted, broken smile.

“So the bond is sealed,” he whispered. “Good.”

His eyes gleamed with madness.

“Now the real prophecy begins.”

Chapter Text

The Ross Manor’s walls still trembled with the aftershocks of battle.

Medic witches hurried from one wounded guard to another.
Dverger soldiers reinforced ancient wards with runic hammers.
The Rowan Circle swept through hallways like a storm wrapped in silk.

But Hermione saw none of it. She saw only Viktor.

He sat on the edge of her bed, battered chest wrapped in fresh bandages, hair damp from healing draughts, his breathing uneven. The glow of dragonfire magic still pulsed faintly beneath his skin.

Hermione stood before him, trembling.

“You could’ve died,” she whispered.

Viktor’s gaze rose to meet hers—soft, steady, unwavering.

“For you,” he said simply, “I would die a thousand times.”

Her breath hitched painfully. She stepped closer.

“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”

His brows drew together. “Hermione—”

“No,” she choked. “You don’t get to throw your life away. Not for me. Not ever again.”

He stood, wincing when his ribs protested, but he didn’t stop. He cupped her face gently.

“I did not throw my life away.”

His thumb brushed her cheek.

“I fought for it.”

Hermione blinked, confused. “For… your life?”

“No,” Viktor murmured. “For our life.”

Hermione froze. Her wings—just faint glimmers now—fluttered behind her.

“You can’t say things like that,” she whispered.

“Why not?” Viktor asked softly.

“Because,” Hermione’s voice cracked, “I’ve been trying so hard not to fall in love with you.”

Silence.

Stillness.

Viktor’s breath caught— like someone had stolen the air from his lungs.

He stared at her with raw, unguarded emotion.

“You think you are the only one fighting this?” he whispered.
“Hermione… I have been in love with you since the day you stepped into the circle with those trembling hands.”

Hermione’s lips parted in shock.

“Viktor…”

He stepped closer, gently taking her hands in his.

“I told myself to wait,” he murmured. “To be patient. To give you space. To let your magic settle.”

He shook his head slightly.

“But when you screamed my name tonight…”
His voice cracked. “I felt what losing you would mean. And it broke me.”

Hermione felt tears burn her lashes.

She placed a hand flat against his chest— right over the thrum of dragonfire beneath his skin.

The bond pulsed hard.

Viktor inhaled sharply.

“Hermione—”

The celestial hum answered.
Magic curled around them like warm smoke.

She finally whispered the truth she’d been running from:

“I love you.”

Viktor closed his eyes, trembling with relief, with devotion, with something that looked like worship.

He rested his forehead against hers.

“And I have always been yours.”

Hermione lifted her hands to his jaw, tilting his face toward hers.

“And I choose you,” she whispered. “Not because of destiny. Not because of the bond. Because of you.”

Viktor shuddered.

“Hermione…”

Their breaths mingled.

And this time— she didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t either.

Hermione rose on her toes, Viktor bent slightly downward, and their lips met in a kiss that felt less like fire and more like surrender.

Soft.
Deep.
Slow at first— then desperate with all the emotion they’d been choking down for months.

Viktor pulled her closer, careful of bruises, reverent with every touch.

Hermione held his face like she was afraid he would vanish.

The world didn’t explode.
No magical storms erupted.

But their bond— their bond sealed in brilliant gold.

A warm, breathtaking pulse passed through them both.

Viktor gasped against her mouth.
“Hermione—your magic—”

“It’s okay,” she whispered, kissing him again. “It’s us.”

He kissed her back with quiet, overwhelming devotion.

Fire meeting starlight.

When they finally pulled apart, both breathless, Viktor pressed his forehead to hers.

“Hermione Isobel McGonagall,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion, “you may be the celestial heir. You may be the Guidestar reborn. But to me…”

His fingers traced her cheekbone. “You are my heart.”

Hermione’s knees nearly gave out.

“Always?” she whispered.

Viktor nodded, gently kissing her knuckles.

“Always.”

The bond pulsed warmly again.

Harry peeked through the door. “Oh FINALLY.”

Draco leaned over his shoulder.
“I’m shocked the castle didn’t collapse from the tension.”

Hermione threw a pillow at both of them.

But she was smiling.

______________

Later that night, the Rowan Circle, the Dverger king, and the Bulgarian priests gathered in the great hall.

Minerva stood before them.

“Given the events of tonight,” she said, “we must acknowledge a truth.”

She looked at Hermione and Viktor— standing close, fingers intertwined.

“Fire and starlight have chosen each other.”

The hall murmured with approval.

Ragnok bowed. “The Dverger nation honours your bond.”

Deyan smirked. “Finally.”

Hermione flushed bright red.

Viktor squeezed her hand.

Then Minerva said gently:

“Your bond makes you stronger. But also more vulnerable to those who fear what you represent.”

Hermione nodded solemnly. “We know.”

Viktor stepped forward. “We will face it together.”

Hermione met his gaze, warmth blooming in her chest.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Together.”

___________

Hermione and Viktor walked out of the hall hand in hand.
Not just bonded.
Not just destined.

Together.

Firebound.
Starlight-joined.

A couple.
At last.

And the world—
watching from the shadows—
began to fear what that union meant.

Because together?

They were unstoppable.

Chapter Text

The morning after the attack felt different.

Not tragic.
Not fearful.
Not broken.

No.

The Ross Estate felt alert— waiting, stirring, waking to a new kind of power.

Because for the first time since her awakening, Hermione Isobel McGonagall walked the halls with absolute clarity.

No hesitation.
No self-doubt.
No trembling uncertainty.

She didn’t shrink from responsibility.
She didn’t fear her magic.
She didn’t worry about being “too much.”

The attack, the oath, the bond, and Viktor’s near-death moment had burned all that away.

This morning, Hermione walked like a girl who finally remembered she was made of starlight. And everyone felt it.

A cluster of foreign nobles whispered loudly as she approached.

“She’s too young—”
“She won’t know how to manage—”
“This is the moment to push a treaty—”

Hermione didn’t slow down.

She simply turned her head and said, in a voice that could slice marble:

“If you intend to speak about me, gentlemen—do it accurately.”

The nobles startled.

Hermione continued, tone cool:

“Yes, I am eighteen.
Yes, I wear the Crown of Astraya.
And yes, I command magic older than the dynasties you represent.”

She paused.

“And if you believe that makes me manipulable—please do try. I could use the entertainment.”

The nobles blanched and bowed immediately.

“Lady Ross—our apologies—”

“Accepted,” Hermione said briskly. “Now leave.”

They scattered like frightened rabbits.

Minerva watched from a distance, lips twitching proudly.

“That’s my girl.”

When Hermione entered the war room, the coven, Harry, Draco, Ragnok, and the Bulgarian priests were mid-argument.

“We should reinforce the eastern wards!”
“No, the traitor is internal!”
“The prophecy doesn’t state the timing—”
“We must question the captured attackers—”

Hermione slammed the door shut.

The entire room froze.

She crossed her arms.

“Everyone. Sit.”

They didn’t dare refuse.

Hermione stepped forward, voice sharp, commanding, logical:

“First: the attackers were international.
Second: they knew the layout of this estate.
Third: their goal was not assassination.
Fourth: they wanted to separate me from Viktor.”

Viktor tensed beside her.

“And fifth,” Hermione continued, “they weren’t improvising. They had logistics, runes, and synchronized timing.”

She raised her chin.

“This was a coordinated, multi-nation conspiracy.”

Silence fell.

Ragnok leaned forward. “Who gains from your downfall, Lady Ross?”

Hermione didn’t hesitate. “Anyone seeking to control Europe’s next era of magic.”

Harry muttered, “That narrows it down to… all of them.”

Hermione smirked. “Not for long.”

Draco asked, “What’s your plan?”

Hermione walked to the centre of the table.

And began distributing folders.

Detailed.
Organized.
Already analysed.

Everyone gawked.

“You did this overnight?” Narcissa asked, stunned.

Hermione shrugged lightly. “My magic kept me awake. I put it to use.”

Viktor stared at her like she’d personally invented the concept of brilliance.

She didn’t blush.

She let him look.

And she held her ground.

Hermione pointed at the first document.

“Here is a list of every noble family that stands to gain from Viktor’s death or my capture.”

Second document.

“And here is every voting seat at the ICW that would benefit from destabilising a Guidestar Heir.”

Third.

“These are known allies of Dumbledore who might still be moving pieces for him.”

Harry blinked.
“Where did you find all this?”

Hermione gave him a look. “I’m Hermione. I research.”

Draco whispered, impressed, “She’s back to being terrifying now.”

Viktor whispered back, “Yes. Perfect.”

Hermione turned to the coven.

“I’m not reacting anymore. I’m not waiting to be attacked. We go after them first.”

Minerva looked proud beyond words.

Ragnok chuckled deeply. “Spoken like a true sovereign.”

Viktor placed a hand on Hermione’s back— not guiding, not shielding, but acknowledging.

“You have a plan,” he murmured.

Hermione lifted her chin. “I have three.”

As the meeting broke apart, Hermione pulled Viktor into a quieter alcove.

He blinked at her boldness.

She didn’t look away.

“We need to talk,” she said.

Viktor stiffened. “You… want to end the bond?”

Hermione huffed a laugh. “No. I want clarity.”

Viktor blinked rapidly. “Oh.”

“We’re together now,” Hermione said plainly. “I don’t want uncertainty. I want honesty.”

Viktor stepped closer.

“Hermione— everything I am, everything I want, points to you.”

Hermione smirked slightly.

“Better.
But let me be clear myself.”

She pressed a hand to his chest, heat blooming under her fingers.

“I’m done doubting myself. I’m done being afraid of how much space I take up. I’m done being hesitant.”

She leaned closer.

“Viktor… I love you. And I’m not hiding it anymore.”

Viktor’s breath caught sharply.

Then he gripped her waist, slowly, reverently.

“I love you,” he whispered fiercely.
“And I never want you small. Shine, Hermione. I’ll match you.”

She kissed him— slow, confident, claiming.

When they broke apart, Viktor looked dazzled.

“Stars above,” he murmured, “you’ve become dangerous.”

Hermione grinned.

“I finally stopped holding back.”

That afternoon, Hermione entered the Grand Hall to meet with envoys from across Europe.

They expected a hesitant girl.

They got a celestial heir wearing a crown, radiating authority, and holding a folder of evidence against every one of them.

She didn’t bow.
She didn’t tremble.
She didn’t wait.

She stood at the centre of the room and said:

“You conspired to take my freedom. You sought to kill the man I love. You tried to steal political control of my crown.”

The hall went silent.

Hermione lifted her wand.

“I am the Guidestar Heir.

I am not yours to take. I am not yours to manipulate. I am not yours to command.”

Her wings flickered behind her.

“If you come for me again— I won’t run.” She smiled coldly. “You will.”

Viktor watched from the shadows, eyes blazing with pride.

Draco whispered, “Oh, they’re terrified.”

Harry nodded proudly. “My sister is terrifying. I love it.”

Minerva just smiled.

Chapter Text

The Ross Great Hall had been restored to brilliance overnight.

Silver torches glowed along the stone walls. Dverger-forged sconces shimmered with runes. The crest of House Ross—now intertwined with the celestial sigil—hung proudly behind the head chair.

But the room felt different this morning. Because today was not a meeting. Today was a coronation of purpose. Today was the birth of Hermione’s Court.

Hermione strode in with Viktor beside her— fingers intertwined, posture confident, the Crown of Astraya gleaming softly atop her hair.

The hall fell silent.

Not in shock.

In recognition.

She approached the carved silver chair, ornate but elegant, etched with constellations.

Some nobles whispered:

“She won’t sit.”
“She’s too humble.”
“She’s too young.”

Hermione ignored all of them.

She stood before the chair, looked at Minerva—

And sat.

A quiet shift rippled through the hall.

Not power-hungry.
Not arrogant.
Not unsure.

Hermione sat like a witch who had finally accepted what she was meant to be.

Viktor stood at her right side, hand still wrapped warmly around hers.

He didn’t hide the closeness. Neither did she.

Narcissa whispered to Minerva, “They’re already a royal pair.”
Minerva nodded with quiet pride. “Aye. And they will shake the world.”

Hermione rose slightly.

“I will not stand alone,” she declared. “I appoint a court—my court—to advise me, protect me, and shape the future.”

She lifted a parchment.

“And I choose not by blood, but by loyalty.”

Her voice rang sharp and confident.

“First: Harry Potter-Black.” Harry nearly dropped his wand. Hermione smiled warmly. “My brother. My friend. My shield.”

Harry swallowed. “Always, ’Mione.”

“Second: Draco Malfoy.” Gasps sounded. Draco arched one elegant eyebrow. “Obviously,” he murmured.

Hermione smirked. “No one reads pureblood law like you.”

“Third: Narcissa Malfoy.” Narcissa pressed a hand to her heart. “My darling girl…”

“Fourth: Andromeda Tonks.”

“Fifth: King Ragnok of the Dverger.” The hall trembled.

“Sixth: The Bulgarian Dragon Priests.”

And then— Hermione reached for Viktor’s hand.

“And seventh: Viktor Dragomir Krumov.”

Whispers exploded.

“The Krumov heir?”
“Her consort?”
“Her protector?”
“Her partner?”

Hermione spoke clearly:

“Viktor is not here because of the bond. He is here because he earned my trust. My respect. And my heart.”

A ripple went through the hall.

Viktor didn’t blink. He stepped closer to her, took her other hand, and bowed his head.

“My Guidestar,” he murmured.

Hermione flushed—but didn’t look away.

“My dragon,” she whispered back.

The entire hall erupted in stunned silence.

Narcissa fanned herself. Draco muttered, “They’re disgustingly adorable.”

Harry elbowed him. “Shut up and be supportive.”

Hermione stood, the Crown glowing as her wings flickered faintly.

“I have three decrees.”

Decree One — No More Secrecy

“All political motions involving my name, my magic, or my bond will be brought directly to me.”

Decree Two — Protection for Magical Peoples

“House-elves, Centaurs, Merfolk, and Werewolves will all be treated with dignity. Dverger alliances will be honoured. And Muggle-born witches will never again be abandoned.”

Her voice tightened with emotion at that last part.

Viktor squeezed her hand.

Decree Three — Retaliation Policy

“Any family, coven, or faction who attempts to harm me, Viktor, or my court— will face magical, legal, and political consequences.”

Her wings flared—silver and strong.

“I am not prey. I am not a pawn. I am the Guidestar Heir. And I will not be controlled.”

The room bowed.

Every wizard.
Every witch.
Every priest.
Every ally.

Viktor didn’t bow.

He stepped to her side and rested a hand over his heart.

“You burn brighter than the stars,” he murmured.

She smiled up at him— warm, soft, certain.

“And you’re still taller than me,” she teased quietly.

“You like it,” he murmured into her hair.

She blushed. “Maybe.”

After the meeting dispersed, Hermione pulled Viktor into a quiet corridor.

He blinked, startled. “Hermione?”

“I need something,” she said simply.

“What—”

She didn’t answer.

She reached up, grabbed his cloak, and kissed him— not soft or uncertain like before, but certain, warm, hungry for closeness.

Viktor groaned softly into the kiss, hands coming to her waist, pulling her flush against him.

Hermione didn’t pull away.

When they did break apart, her breath trembled.

“This isn’t slow anymore,” she whispered. “I don’t want slow. I want you.”

Viktor’s voice dropped low, controlled only by the last thread of discipline:

“Hermione… if you keep looking at me like that—”

She tilted her head.

“Like what?”

“Like I am yours,” he whispered.

Hermione’s smile turned wickedly soft.

“That’s because you are.”

Viktor kissed her again— deeper, stronger, protective and wanting.

When they broke apart, Viktor rested his forehead against hers.

“I will follow you anywhere,” he murmured. “Court. War. Destiny.”

Hermione cupped his jaw.

“Then walk beside me.”

Viktor nodded.

“Always.”

Far from the Ross Estate, in a shadowed mansion, nobles gathered.

Masked.
Angry.
Helpless.

Hermione’s rise was faster and stronger than anything they had planned for.

“She’s forming her own court—”
“She has the Dverger—”
“She has the Bulgarian heir—”
“She can’t be controlled—”

An elderly witch snarled: “Then we destroy what she cannot lose.”

Another hissed: “Viktor.”

A third whispered: “Or her crown.”

A fourth: “Or her coven.”

The leader lifted a scroll bearing Dumbledore’s mark.

“No,” he said coldly. “We take everything.”

He unrolled the parchment.

Inside was a ritual.

A dark one.

Meant to separate a celestial from her bonded fire.

Permanently.

The room chilled.

“It will kill her,” someone murmured.

“Exactly.”

Chapter Text

The Guidestar Court gathered for the first time in the newly consecrated Star Chamber — a silver circular room with floating runes, enchanted ceilings, and a central platform shaped like a starburst.

Hermione stood at the centre, cloak flowing behind her, the Crown of Astraya faintly glowing.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
No fear.

Just focus.

And Viktor stood behind her left shoulder, hands loosely folded behind his back, protective warmth in every line of his posture.

Anyone who looked at them saw it clearly.

This was not a girl with her boyfriend.

This was a witch and her dragon.

A political duo with terrifying potential.

“Today,” Hermione began, “we stop being targets.”

She projected a magical map into the air — glowing territories, shifting borders, sigils of different noble families.

Draco leaned in. “Where do you want to begin?”

“Here,” Hermione said sharply, tapping a region of northern Europe. “Eleven families support the Broken Thrones Alliance. Seven attended the attack. Four financed it.”

Harry nodded. “And the twelfth family?”

Hermione’s jaw tightened. “Their leader is in contact with Dumbledore.”

Narcissa hissed softly. “How deep does this go?”

Hermione raised her chin. “Deep enough that I intend to pull out every rotten root.”

Viktor moved closer, placing a warm hand on the star-map to freeze its form.

“If we strike,” he said calmly, “we must strike with precision. Hard enough that they fear us. Clean enough that they cannot retaliate politically.”

Hermione looked up at him — and the way her eyes softened for him was unmistakable.

“Exactly,” she murmured.

He gave a small smile. “We think alike now.”

She blushed, then regained her composure. “That’s why you’re at my side.”

Draco coughed loudly. “Oh Merlin, they’re in sync already.”

Harry whispered, “Get used to it. They’re stuck like this forever.”

Hermione didn’t deny it.

Viktor didn’t look away from her.

And the Court noticed.

Hermione shifted the map to reveal a series of blood-oath contracts, sealed letters, and illegal trade routes.

“These families,” she said, “have broken at least six international laws, three covenant treaties, and two magical ethics accords.”

Ragnok chuckled. “You’ve done your homework.”

Hermione smirked.

“I don’t do homework. I finish it before breakfast.”

Draco stared. “I love this version of you.”

Narcissa swatted him. “Behave.”

Hermione lifted her wand.

“Tonight we send diplomatic strikes.”

Viktor stepped in, voice a low rumble:

“And if diplomacy fails— we burn their alliances to ash.”

Hermione didn’t flinch.

She simply placed her hand over his. “Together.”

Viktor’s expression softened — visibly, undeniably — as he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

The Court collectively pretended not to notice.

She sat at the table, parchment glowing, quill moving in purposeful strokes.

“Who is this one for?” Harry asked.

“The head of the Ainsworth Family,” Hermione said. “He financed the mercenaries.”

Draco winced. “You’re not going to threaten him, are you?”

Hermione smirked.

“No. I’m going to terrify him politely.”

Viktor laughed quietly — a deep, warm sound Hermione felt in her bones.

She continued writing:

To Lord Ainsworth,
Your involvement in the recent criminal activity has been noted.
This is your only chance to step forward voluntarily.
The Ross Court expects you within 48 hours.
Failing this, I will proceed without your cooperation.”

Hermione Isobel McGonagall
Heiress Ross
Crown of Astraya
Guidestar of Europe.

Draco exhaled. “Oh, that’s deliciously threatening.”

Ragnok nodded. “Impeccable work.”

Viktor leaned over her shoulder."

“You missed one thing.”

Hermione turned.
“What?”

He took her quill and added:

“And understand that the Krumov Line stands with the Guidestar.”

Hermione’s eyes widened slightly.

“That’s a declaration,” she whispered.

Viktor didn’t look away.

“I know.”

She lifted her hand to his jaw and kissed him softly before she could stop herself.

Harry covered his face.
Draco groaned.
Narcissa sighed happily.

“Well,” Draco muttered, “the romance is definitely not slow anymore.”

Hermione kissed Viktor again just to prove a point.

Hermione turned back to the Court with full command.

“We strike in three phases:

1. Political pressure
Letters, economic sanctions, public exposure.

2. Magical interception
Dverger shields, coven spells, and Bulgarian seers watching the traitors.

3. Direct confrontation
Only if necessary.
Only if provoked.

And if they come for us—” Her wings shimmered. “—we are ready.”

Viktor placed a hand over her heart.

“I will always be ready.”

She didn’t blush.
She let the warmth settle.

Hermione lifted her staff.

“Starlight Court — assemble your forces. Send the letters. Prepare the wards. The era of fear ends today.”

The Court bowed.

Minerva smiled with pride.
Ragnok nodded in respect.
Narcissa whispered approvingly.
Draco looked thrilled.

And Viktor wrapped an arm around Hermione’s waist as they left.

“Are we going to war?” he murmured.

Hermione leaned into him. “We’re going to win.”

He kissed her temple. “Good.”

Chapter Text

Chaos rarely announces itself politely.

Sometimes it sends a letter.
Sometimes a threat.
Sometimes a whisper.

Tonight, it sent all three.

Hermione stood at the head of the Starlight Court meeting table, the Crown of Astraya casting a calm silver shimmer across her features.

But the parchment in her hand was anything but calm.

Ragnok tapped the table. “Read it aloud.”

Hermione unfolded the seal.

Viktor stepped behind her— close, warm, steady— his hand lightly brushing her waist.

She didn’t stop him. She leaned back just slightly, grounding herself in his presence.

Then she read:

To the so-called Starlight Court 
Your existence is a violation of magical balance.
Your alliances destabilise Europe.
Your continued interference will result in consequences.
Withdraw immediately.

She paused.

Then read the final line:

“Signed — The Broken Thrones Alliance.”

A cold hush fell across the room.

Harry’s hand tightened around his wand.
Draco let out a low whistle.
Narcissa’s lips curled in disdain.
Minerva’s expression turned to steel.

Viktor slipped his fingers through Hermione’s.

“You are not withdrawing,” he murmured against her temple.

She squeezed his hand once—firm and certain.

“I wouldn’t even consider it.”

She placed the parchment onto the table and conjured a map of Europe—glowing with a network of red-marked sigils.

“Let’s begin,” Hermione said, voice razor-sharp.

She pointed at the drifting symbols.

“These families form the core of the Broken Thrones Alliance:
— Ainsworth
— Zograf
— Eisenwald
— Ravencourt
— Thornweir
— Vasenko
— Delacroix
— Fjorlund
— Vasiliev
— van der Brucht
— Adlestone
And one unnamed leader.”

Draco narrowed his eyes.
“Whoever it is, they’re powerful enough to coordinate eleven nations.”

Hermione nodded.
“And reckless enough to attack my estate.”

Viktor leaned forward, palms flat on the table.
His magic crackled faintly under his skin.

“You give the order,” he murmured, “and we burn them from the inside.”

Hermione smiled—not sweetly.
Strategically.

“We won’t burn them.”

Harry blinked. “We won’t?”

“No,” Hermione said calmly. “We will expose them.”

Narcissa gave a proud hum. “Brilliant.”

Hermione tapped the map.

“These families rely on wealth, secrecy, and international status. We take those from them first.”

She conjured a second map—this one a web of gold threads.

“These are their trade routes. Smuggling ports. Illegal magical markets. Forbidden rune networks.”

Draco stared in awe.

“You mapped all of it?”

Hermione smirked.

“I mapped it last night.”

Viktor’s voice was soft, reverent:

“My beautiful, terrifying witch.”

Hermione flushed but didn’t break focus.

The Starlight Court dispersed into a discussions of sanctions and raids.

Viktor remained at Hermione’s side.

When she turned to reach for another document, he caught her waist and pulled her gently toward him.

“You haven’t rested,” he murmured against her ear.

She exhaled, leaning back into him.

“I don’t need rest. I need progress.”

“You need both,” he said. Then he lowered his head and kissed her shoulder — slow, warm, deliberate.

Hermione’s breath caught.

Minerva cleared her throat loudly. “Viktor, please— not on the strategy table.”

Viktor smiled wickedly. “My apologies, Lady Ross.”

Hermione tugged him down for a full kiss anyway.

Right there. In the middle of the Court.

Harry buried his face in his hands.
Draco muttered, “Good heavens.”
Narcissa beamed.
Ragnok grunted approvingly.

Hermione pulled back with a soft laugh.

“Don’t apologise for me,” she whispered. “Just stand close.”

He moved closer immediately.

“As close as you want.”

She hooked her fingers in his collar. “I want you everywhere.”

Viktor’s expression darkened beautifully.

“And you will have me.”

The Court pretended to discuss trade sanctions.

Badly.

Hermione raised her wand.

A scroll appeared on the table, sealed with Ross and Astraya sigils.

“This,” she said, “is our first move.”

Draco leaned in. “A cease-and-desist?”

“No,” Hermione said. “A condemnation letter to the ICW and the European Coven Council.”

Harry grinned. “Oh, we’re going public.”

Hermione nodded.

“We’re exposing the Broken Thrones Alliance. Formally. Legally. And without mercy.”

Narcissa clapped softly. “Elegant and devastating.”

Ragnok rumbled, “The Dverger will support your declaration.”

Hermione bowed her head respectfully. “Your alliance strengthens the Court.”

Viktor kissed her temple, murmuring, “And you strengthen all of us.”

Hermione didn’t blush this time. She had stepped into her role fully.

“Starlight Court,” she said, voice ringing with command, “our enemies have revealed their hand.”

She lifted the parchment high.

“Now we reveal ours.”

Hermione pressed the scroll to her heart.

The parchment glowed white-gold.

She whispered the activation incantation.

And the letter shot upward —
out of the manor,
into the sky,
splitting into twelve copies that streaked toward different magical capitals.

Every kingdom.
Every ministry.
Every coven.
Every ruling house.

They all received the same message:

Hermione McGonagall knows.
The Starlight Court is watching.
And they are no longer playing defence.

The world shivered.

Viktor wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“You’ve just declared political war.”

Hermione leaned back into him.

“No,” she whispered.
“I’ve declared victory.”

In a darkened estate, twelve nobles gathered as glowing copies of Hermione’s letter slammed onto their tables.

The leader tore it open.

Read.
And went white with rage.

“She’s exposing us.”

Another spat,
“She has the dverger behind her now!”

“She controls the covens—”
“She has the Krumov heir—”
“She has the Potter-Black power—”

The leader snarled,

“Then we crush her Court before it grows stronger.”

One whispered timidly,

“But she has the Crown of Astraya—”

“She is ONE GIRL!” the leader roared.

A chilling silence followed.

Then the leader unrolled an ancient scroll — the same one Dumbledore used.

“No matter her titles…
no matter her bond…
no matter her prophecy…”

The runes glowed black.

“…we will break her.”

Chapter Text

Bulgaria did not ask.

They summoned.

A formal scroll burned into existence in Hermione’s hands at dawn — written in old runic Bulgarian and sealed with the sigil of the Dragon High Temple.

Viktor read it once. His expression didn’t change, but the glow behind his eyes sharpened.

Hermione ripped it from his fingers.

“What does this mean?” she demanded.

Viktor sighed softly. “It means,” he said gently, “I am to stand trial.”

Hermione’s jaw clenched. “For what? Saving me? Bonding with me? Being alive?”

Viktor took her hands before she could crumple the parchment.

“For bonding with a celestial heir,” he said quietly. “It is considered a merging of two powerful magical lines. The priests must determine if the bond is destiny…”

His thumb brushed her wrist.“…or corruption.”

Hermione scoffed sharply. “And what exactly would I be corrupting you into? Reading books?”

Viktor smiled — but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Hermione stepped close, voice fierce: “You’re not going alone.”

Viktor cupped her cheek. “Hermione… you know Bulgarian tribunals don’t allow outside interference.”

Hermione bared her teeth. “Then they clearly don’t know who I am.”

The Court gathered instantly.

Harry slammed his hands on the table. “They can’t drag Viktor into some archaic judgment. He saved Europe at least twice!”

Draco hissed, “They’re using this as political leverage.”

Narcissa smirked. “Well, I’d love to see them try to stand against Hermione.”

Ragnok nodded gravely. “The dragons are protective of their traditions. But they will fear one thing.”

“What?” Hermione demanded.

“You,” Ragnok said simply.

Hermione didn’t smile.

Good.

Two hours later, she marched to the Bulgarian portal chamber with Viktor right behind her.

Priest Deyan stood in the archway, arms crossed.

“You cannot go through, Guidestar. This summons is for Viktor alone.”

Hermione stepped forward, her wings shimmering faintly. “I will say this once.”

Deyan stiffened. “I go where Viktor goes.”

“Lady Ross—” Hermione lifted her chin.

“I am the Celestial Heir. His bonded. His equal. Try and stop me.”

Deyan blinked.

Then he stepped aside.

“With respect,” he murmured, “I would rather fight a mountain.”

Viktor kissed Hermione’s knuckles, low and reverent.

“My fierce star.”

She smirked.

“My dragon.”

It was colossal.

Ancient pillars carved with dragon scales. Fire pits burning with blue flame. Priests in black-and-gold robes lined the hall.

At the far end stood the High Dragon Priest — a man with silver braids and eyes like smouldering coals.

“Hermione Isobel McGonagall,” he said. “You were not summoned.”

Hermione met his gaze without bowing.

“I do not need a summons.”

A murmur rippled through the hall.

The High Priest gestured to Viktor.

“Heir Krumov. Step forward and answer our charge.”

Viktor began to move — Hermione moved with him.

The High Priest frowned. “Guidestar—”

Hermione’s voice was quiet. Dangerous.

“If he stands judgment, I stand beside him.”

Viktor’s hand brushed hers. He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

Priest Malamir read aloud:

“Viktor Todorov Krumov, you are accused of—
• Forming a Higher Bond without permission
• Binding dragonfire to a celestial heir
• Risking destabilisation of old magic
• Giving foreign courts political access to the Dragon Line”

Hermione’s magic flared.
Viktor squeezed her hand gently.

“It’s alright,” he whispered.

“No,” Hermione said, “it’s not.”

The High Priest raised a brow. “Speak, Guidestar.”

Hermione stepped forward.

“Viktor did not ‘give’ me anything. I chose him. My magic chose him. The Constellation itself chose him.”

Murmurs.

Malamir protested: “This union changes the balance—”

Hermione cut him off sharply. “This union strengthens it.”

She gestured to Viktor. “He is not corrupted. He has ascended.”

Her wand sparked with starlight.

“And if any man in this hall claims otherwise, I challenge them to stand before my magic and speak the lie aloud.”

A stunned silence fell.

Viktor whispered, “Hermione… you don’t need to fight for me.”

She turned to him, eyes fierce.

“I don’t fight for you. I fight with you.”

Viktor’s breath trembled.

And the bond pulsed warmly between them.

The High Priest rose.

“Then we test.”

He lifted a crystal orb glowing with dragonfire.

“This orb tears apart false bonds. Look inside it.”

Viktor did first.

The fire stayed calm.

Then Hermione.

The orb blazed white-gold.

A collective gasp shook the chamber.

The High Priest stared.

“A celestial-dragon convergence…” His voice trembled. “Not seen for 700 years.”

Hermione didn’t blink. “Do you doubt us now?”

The High Priest bowed his head. “No.”

He turned to the assembly.

“The bond is true. Sanctioned. Blessed.”

The hall erupted in shock.

Viktor exhaled, tension melting from his shoulders.

Hermione slipped her fingers into his.

“It’s over,” she whispered.

He leaned down, brushing his lips against her forehead.

“Only because of you.”

As they turned to leave, a young priest — eyes burning with resentment — hissed: “A foreign witch will not lead our heir—”

Viktor shoved Hermione behind him with lightning reflexes.

Hermione stepped right back in front of him.

And her magic snapped outward in a whip of silver light.

The young priest fell to his knees, gasping.

Hermione’s voice was cold as winter steel.

“Your heir stands with me. You would be wise to do the same.”

The hall bowed.

Even Viktor stared at her like she’d set the sky on fire.

“Starlight,” he whispered, “you’re magnificent.”

Hermione lifted her chin.

“I know.”

He laughed — deeply, proudly — and kissed her in the centre of the Bulgarian High Temple.

The priests pretended not to see.

As they left, the High Priest called out:

“Hermione Isobel McGonagall.”

She turned.

“You have the blessing of the Dragon Temple.”

Hermione smiled.

“So does Viktor.”

The High Priest bowed.

“Together, you two may alter the destiny of nations.”

Hermione met Viktor’s eyes.

“That’s the plan.”

Viktor kissed her softly.

“A good one.”

Chapter Text

Hermione returned from Bulgaria with Viktor’s hand tightly clasped in hers, their bond humming like warm starlight under her skin.

But peace did not greet them.

War did.

The moment they stepped through the Ross portal, Narcissa rushed forward, face pale and composed only by sheer aristocratic training.

“Hermione,” she said, voice taut— “We found something.”

Hermione straightened instantly. “What?”

Draco stepped out from behind her, holding a heavy leather-bound document sealed with iron.

“This was hidden beneath the archives,” he said. “Someone broke into the manor last night.”

Hermione’s fingers curled around her wand.

“They infiltrated my wards?” Her voice was calm— terrifyingly calm.

Draco nodded grimly. “And left this behind.”

He placed the book in her hands.

Harry exhaled. “Because they wanted you to find it.”

Hermione’s eyes sharpened like blades. “Then let’s see what message they think they’re sending.”

She cracked the seal.

A blast of cold air swept through the hall, extinguishing half the torches.

The book opened by itself.nPages flipped. And then— They stopped on a single symbol.

A crown formed of broken thrones, jagged and cruel.

Viktor’s hand snapped to her waist, pulling her slightly back instinctively.

Narcissa whispered, pale, “That is not a family crest.”

“And not a nation’s,” Draco added.

Ragnok stepped forward, his voice low.

“That,” he rumbled, “is the sigil of a sovereign. A king—or queen—who claims the thrones of Europe.”

Hermione’s breath froze.

“A single ruler?”

Ragnok nodded solemnly.

“The Broken Thrones Alliance is not a council. It is not a faction. It is not a group of nobles sharing power.”

Harry swear-whispered, “…there’s a monarch?”

Draco’s face drained of colour. “A hidden king?”

Ragnok shook his head. “Not hidden. Ancient.”

Hermione closed the book.

“So the leader of the Broken Thrones Alliance… is the one claiming this crown.”

A chill crept across the room.

Viktor tightened his grip on her waist.

“Hermione,” he murmured, “this is more than political rebellion.”

Hermione nodded slowly.

“I know.”

She looked up at the Starlight Court— her court— and let the fearlessness settle in her voice.

“This isn’t a group of families jockeying for power.”

Her wings shimmered faintly in anger behind her. “This is a throne war.”

Hermione conjured an illusion: maps, timelines, family trees, war records.

“Let’s break this apart,” she said. “Step by step.”

Her voice had changed recently— firmer, sharper, controlled.

Viktor stood close beside her, quiet but watchful, eyes tracking every detail she traced.

Hermione pointed to the first map.

“These attacks weren’t random. Every family involved is ancient. Powerful. And aligned under a single ruler.”

Draco leaned forward. “But a ruler of what? None of these families hold crowns.”

Hermione smirked. “Not modern crowns.”

She tapped the book. “They’re reactivating an extinct monarchy.”

Narcissa blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Hermione turned slowly. “The Sapphire Crown.”

Three people—Harry, Draco, and Viktor—spoke at once:

“The what?”

Hermione inhaled.

“The Sapphire Crown was a unified magical throne in the 1200s.
One ruler.
Over Europe.
Over covens.
Over dverger clans.
Over dragons.”

Ragnok growled softly. “We ended that era for a reason.”

Hermione nodded.

“It broke magic.”

Minerva added quietly, “It caused the Celestial Collapse.”

Hermione exhaled sharply.

“And now someone wants to resurrect it.”

The Court quieted.

Then Viktor asked the question everyone feared:

“Who is trying to take the Sapphire Crown?”

Hermione lifted her hands and turned the page again.

The book answered for her.

A name bled through the parchment in silver-blue ink.

Aurelius Ainsworth.

Draco stumbled backwards.

“Ainsworth is alive?! He vanished fifty years ago!”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“He was obsessed with magical supremacy.”

Narcissa shook her head. “No. He wasn’t obsessed. He was... delusional.”

Ragnok growled,

“That man once tried to annex Dverger territory.”

Hermione closed the book fully. “Now he’s trying to annex Europe.”

She looked up. “And he wants my crown.”

Viktor’s magic flared violently.

Overprotective.
Terrified.
Furious.

He caught Hermione’s hand.

“He will not touch you.”

Hermione squeezed back.

“He won’t.”

Then she stepped forward, expression turning icy-calm.

“Because we strike first.”

Hermione placed her palm on the centre of the star-sigil table.

A glowing projection flared to life.

“Here is our strategy.”

Draco smirked. “This is going to terrify someone.”

“Good,” Hermione said.

Harry sat straighter. “We’re ready.”

Hermione looked at each of them.

“Step one: Expose Aurelius Ainsworth to the ICW.
Step two: Collapse his funding.
Step three: Break the alliances supporting him.
Step four: Capture him.”

Viktor lifted her hand to his lips again, voice low.

“And step five?”

Hermione’s smile turned razor-sharp.

“Make an example out of him.”

Draco and Harry shared a glance.

Narcissa whispered proudly, “She has become far more dangerous than any of them expected.”

Viktor murmured,

“She is becoming exactly what Europe needs.”

Hermione didn’t blush.

She stepped closer to him and kissed him softly, slowly and sure.

“We’re doing this together,” she whispered.

Viktor’s voice dropped.

“Always.”

Ragnok took the book, sniffed the binding, and tapped the etched cover.

“This book is not simply information,” he said. “It is a warning.”

Hermione frowned.

“How do you know?”

Ragnok opened the final page.

And the room went silent.

A prophecy line shimmered in sapphire-blue ink:

“When the Celestial Crown rises,
the Sovereign of Broken Thrones shall answer.
Only firebound starlight
can shatter the false king
and end the old magic reborn.”

Hermione inhaled sharply. “Firebound…”

Viktor took her hand.

“Us.”

“Starlight…”

“Also us.”

Draco muttered, “Oh for Merlin’s sake, of course it’s you two.”

Harry sighed dramatically. “It always is.”

Viktor kissed Hermione’s temple. “You are the starlight.”

Hermione smiled softly. “And you’re the fire.”

They both turned back to the prophecy.

Hermione whispered:

“Then that means we’re the ones meant to stop Aurelius.”

Viktor nodded. “And we will.”

Hermione spoke with authority, no hesitation:

“We prepare ourselves. A war is coming. Aurelius wants the Sapphire Crown. He wants me. He wants Europe.”

Her wings shone faintly behind her, shimmering like moonlit blades. “And he will fail.”

Viktor stepped behind her, arms sliding around her waist, voice low and certain. “With fire and starlight, he does not stand a chance.”

Harry tapped his wand on the table. “Starlight Court, assemble.”

Draco smirked. “Let’s go hunting.”

Ragnok grinned sharply. “The dverger are ready.”

Narcissa raised her brow elegantly. “So is polite devastation.”

Hermione lifted her head.

The Crown glowed.

“We bring the fight to him.”

Chapter Text

The morning after uncovering Aurelius Ainsworth’s identity, the air felt different.
Not afraid.
Not unrested.
But bracing— like the earth itself sensed a storm coming.

And Hermione? She didn’t flinch. She sharpened.

Her steps were swift and decisive.
Her crown glowed like a warning.
And Viktor walked beside her like a silent promise of fire.

The Starlight Court followed her into the High Strategy Chamber.

Harry.
Draco.
Narcissa.
Andromeda.
Ragnok.
The Bulgarian Priests.
Minerva, watching with a quiet pride, Hermione no longer shrank from.

Hermione didn’t sit today.

She stood at the head of the table, wings shimmering faintly behind her.

“Today,” she said, “we cripple Aurelius Ainsworth’s network.”

She waved her wand.

A glowing list appeared midair.

“Here are his accounts, hidden under false names and shell corporations.”

Draco squinted. “There are over fifty.”

“Fifty-two,” Hermione corrected.

Ragnok’s steel-sharp grin surfaced. “And I can freeze each and every one.”

Hermione nodded. “Do it.”

The room gasped.

Harry whispered, “You’re not easing in?”

Hermione turned her head slowly.

“He tried to kill my Court. He tried to steal my bond. He tried to take Viktor.”

Her gaze hardened. “I don’t ease with tyrants.”

Viktor’s hand found the small of her back, pride warm and fierce.

“My starlight,” he murmured, “you are ruthless.”

Hermione smirked.
“I learn from the best.”

She lifted a parchment.

Blue wax seal.
Silver runes.
Her handwriting.

“This,” she said, “is my message to Aurelius Ainsworth.”

Harry choked. “You’re writing him directly?!”

Hermione nodded. “Yes.”

Viktor tilted his head, impressed. “You face him on your terms.”

She smiled. “Exactly.”

She read aloud:

To Aurelius Ainsworth,
Pretender to a throne long rotted
I see your moves, your line, your ambition.
Allow me to clarify something:
Your era died.
My era rises.
Come for my crown if you dare.
I am not the girl you thought I was.
I am the heir you fear I have become.
~Hermione Isobel McGonagall
Starlight Crown.

The room fell silent.

Narcissa fanned herself. “My darling girl… remind me never to anger you.”

Ragnok snapped the seal open, enchanted the letter, and sent it streaking into the sky.

Hermione watched it go. “He’ll know I’m hunting him now,” she said.

Draco swallowed. “You’re provoking a man who ruled Europe once.”

Hermione’s wings shimmered behind her.

“I know.”

As the Court dispersed to carry out orders, Viktor pulled Hermione aside— into a shadowed corridor.

He pressed her gently to the wall, one hand braced beside her head.

She gasped, but didn’t pull away.

“Viktor—”

“You challenged a sovereign,” he murmured, voice deep. “You just declared open war.”

Hermione lifted her chin.
“And?”

Viktor leaned closer, breath warm against her cheek.

“And it's the hottest thing I have ever seen and I have never wanted you more.”

Her knees nearly buckled. “Viktor—”

He slid his hand to her waist. “You face him without fear.” His voice darkened with admiration. “You stand against every nation.”

Hermione whispered,
“I stand with you.”

That was all it took.

Viktor caught her mouth in a fierce, hungry kiss— not gentle, not cautious— the kind that said you are mine and I will die for you and live for you and I follow you into war without hesitation.

Hermione kissed him back with equal intensity, fingers curling in his shirt, pulling him closer.

She broke away only long enough to whisper: “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

They were interrupted by Deyan appearing breathlessly in the hall.

“Guidestar! Viktor! The Court needs you—now!”

Hermione straightened instantly, Viktor stepping beside her in one fluid movement.

“What happened?” Hermione demanded.

Deyan struggled to speak. “A… a sigil appeared. Outside the manor gates.”

They rushed outside.

The Court gathered at the edge of the wards.

And there, carved into the earth in glowing sapphire fire, was a massive symbol:

The Sapphire Crown.

Hermione stepped forward.

The sigil pulsed. Then a voice—not spoken aloud, but echoing through magic itself—filled the air:

Hermione Isobel McGonagall.
You declare war on a king.
Then war you shall have.

Viktor snarled low in his throat, pulling Hermione back.

“Do not touch her.”

The voice ignored him.

You claim the Starlight Crown.
I claim the Sapphire.
We are destined to clash.

Hermione’s wings burst outward in pure fury.

“Come face me yourself, coward!” she yelled.

A cold laugh echoed.

“Not yet, heir. First, I break your Court.”

The sigil flared—
then exploded in a burst of sapphire flame that rocked the ground.

When the smoke cleared, the message burned at Hermione’s feet:

“Your dragon falls first.”

Viktor stiffened.

Hermione froze.

And then her magic erupted— violent, bright, trembling with rage.

“No,” she hissed. “No one touches him.”

Viktor caught her shoulders, steadying her.

“Starlight—”

“I won’t let them take you,” she whispered.

His forehead pressed to hers. “They won’t.”

The sigil pulsed once more before fading entirely.

Leaving only silence. And war.

She turned sharply to the Starlight Court.

Her wings flared.
Her voice was a blade.

“Prepare all wards. Call every ally. Send ravens to the dverger and the dragon temples.”

She clenched her fist around the empty air where the sigil had burned.

“Aurelius wants a throne war?”

Her eyes glowed with starfire. “He’ll get one.”

Viktor stepped behind her. “And he will lose.”

She reached back without looking and found his hand.

They squeezed once.

United.

Ready.

Unbreakable.

Chapter Text

The sky over the Ross Estate was still smouldering from the Sapphire Crown’s magical mark.

But Hermione didn’t wait for the ashes to cool.

She acted.

Fast.
Sharp.
Merciless.

Because Aurelius Ainsworth had made a mistake— a fatal one.

He threatened Viktor.

And Hermione Isobel McGonagall did not forgive attacks on her Court.

She did not forgive threats to her dragon.

She stood at the centre of the war room, fingers gripping the table until her knuckles whitened.

“Where,” she demanded, “is the Ainsworth stronghold?”

Draco spread several maps out.
Narcissa stood beside him, wand glowing as she traced markers.
Ragnok tapped a runic stone.
Harry muttered curses under his breath.

But it was Viktor who answered first. Quietly. “They’re hunting me.”

Hermione spun toward him. “Not while you’re with me.”

Viktor stepped closer, eyes shadowed with guilt. “Hermione… this is my burden, not yours.”

She shoved him lightly—not to hurt him, but to shake him.

“Don’t you dare,” she said fiercely. “Don’t you dare say this is your burden alone.”

Her voice cracked with emotion—and rage.

“You didn’t choose this war. Aurelius chose us. He went after you because of me. So I stand with you because of us.”

Viktor’s eyes softened. “Hermione—”

She grabbed his collar, pulled him down, and kissed him hard.

The Court politely pretended not to watch.

When she pulled back, breath sharp, she whispered:

“You are not alone. Not ever.”

His forehead touched hers.

“Then let us face him together.”

“We will.”

Hermione flicked her wand, and a glowing hologram of Europe appeared above the table.

“Twelve possible strongholds,” Draco said. “All with layered illusions.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“Not twelve. Three.”

She circled them with three sharp gestures:

Norway.
Romania.
And northern Germany.

Ragnok grunted.
“These were seats of the Sapphire Court.”

Hermione nodded tightly.

“That’s how Aurelius thinks. Old thrones. Old magic. Old power.” Her eyes hardened. “But I understand old power better than he does.”

She tapped Romania. “This is where Viktor was attacked during the Triwizard chaos.”

She tapped Norway. “This is where Fjorlund holdings are strongest.”

She tapped Germany. “This is where Eisenwald bloodlines converge.”

“We’re splitting into teams,” Hermione continued. “Starlight Court will hit all three at once.”

Draco cracked his knuckles. “Beautiful.”

Narcissa smiled. “Poetic.”

Harry grinned at Hermione. “Terrifying.”

Viktor wrapped his arm around Hermione’s waist, pulling her subtly closer. “Perfect,” he murmured.

She didn’t blush—she leaned into him.

A loud boom shook the estate.

Minerva rushed in, eyes sharp.

“Hermione—anti-dragon wards just activated.”

Viktor stiffened. “What?!”

Hermione’s blood ran cold.

“They’re here.”

Harry darted to the window. “Oh Merlin— they’re not here for the estate. They’re here for him.”

Viktor stepped toward the door. “I’ll draw them off—”

Hermione’s voice sliced through the room like a blade. “No.”

He froze.

She walked toward him slowly, power rippling through her with each step.

“You don’t sacrifice yourself,” she said firmly. “You don’t run. You don’t hide.”

Her wings unfurled—silver and sharp.
Her crown glowed.
Her magic pulsed.

“Not while I breathe.”

Viktor swallowed hard, shaken by the force of her devotion. “Hermione…”

She took his face in both hands. “I am your equal. Your partner. You bonded.”

She kissed him—slow, deliberate, certain. “Anyone who wants you,” she whispered, “goes through me.”

Outside, the sky darkened.

Dozens of masked mercenaries—a specialised anti-dragon battalion—advanced.

Spellbreakers.
Dragon charmers.
Old-world rune hunters.

Their leader raised a corrupted dragonbone staff.

“Take the Krumov heir!” he barked. “Kill the Guidestar girl if she interferes!”

Hermione stepped into the courtyard.

Viktor beside her.

And the Starlight Court behind them.

Hermione raised her chin.

“You think I’m the one who will interfere?”

The mercenaries hesitated.

Hermione spread her wings, eyes glowing gold.

“You didn’t come prepared.”

With a flick of her fingers, the starlight exploded.

A dome of shimmering silver engulfed the courtyard, sealing it.

No escape.
No reinforcements.
No retreat.

The mercenaries panicked.

“What is this magic—?”
“She’s a celestial—!”
“Retreat—retreat—!”

Hermione stepped forward.

“No,” she said.
“You don’t get to run.”

Viktor’s tattoos ignited, swirling gold flames from his arms, chest, and throat.

He stood tall and lethal beside Hermione.

Draco fired runic chains that wrapped around fleeing attackers.
Narcissa sent precision hexes that blew apart their formation.
Harry unleashed serpentine shields that devoured curses.
The dverger smashed through enchanted armour.

But Hermione— Hermione moved like the night sky come alive.

A mercenary charged her.

Hermione lifted her hand. He flew backwards twenty feet.

A spell struck her wings.

The wings absorbed it.

Another mercenary tried binding ropes.

She flicked her wrist.

The ropes exploded into stardust.

Viktor grabbed an attacker trying to flank her.

Fire roared up his arms.

He threw the man to the ground.

Hermione froze the air around another, trapping him in silver restraints.

Their movements synced—effortless, instinctive.

Viktor swung.

Hermione stepped with him.

Hermione cast.

Viktor shielded their flank.

The Court watched in awe.

Narcissa murmured, “They’ve become unstoppable together.”

Minerva whispered,
“They are.”

The last mercenary fell.

Silence settled.

Hermione, shaking but steady, walked toward the staff the leader had dropped.

Sapphire fire flickered up the bone.

Hermione touched it.

The fire coiled into words:

“You are too late.
The dragon has already begun to fall.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped.

She turned sharply to Viktor.

He blinked—dazed for just a second. “Hermione—?”

She stepped closer. “Are you hurt?”

“No—just—just tired—” He wavered.

Hermione caught him instantly.

Viktor’s eyes unfocused.

Draco cursed. “Something’s wrong!”

Harry ran forward. “He’s been hit—some kind of delayed spell—”

Ragnok shouted, “Get him inside!”

Hermione lifted Viktor’s face, voice trembling but firm: “Viktor—look at me.”

His pupils were unfocused.
His magic flickered.
His legs gave out.

Hermione caught him, holding him against her. “Viktor!”

His voice was barely a whisper. “Hermione… I’m sorry…”

Hermione’s wings flared violently. “NO. Stay with me. We are NOT done.”

He collapsed fully into her arms.

Hermione screamed.

The starlight around her shrieked back.

Chapter Text

Time stopped when Viktor hit the ground.

Hermione caught him before his head struck the stone, dropping to her knees with him cradled against her chest. His body was burning hot—far too hot—yet his skin had begun to pale beneath the dragonfire glow.

“Viktor—Viktor, look at me—!”

His lashes fluttered.
His breath stuttered.
The fire in his tattoos flickered violently, like a dying star.

Harry was already running.
Draco was shouting orders.
Ragnok bellowed for healers.
Minerva’s staff struck the stone once—hard—summoning every healer in the estate.

But Hermione saw only one thing.

The faint, wrong-colored sigil seeping through Viktor’s skin— a dull, sickly sapphire-black rune, crawling over his ribs.

Her voice turned ice-cold with terror.

“Dragonbane.”

The healers froze.

Ragnok’s face went ashen. “Impossible… that spell was sealed centuries ago.”

Hermione shook her head sharply. “Not sealed. Hidden.”

Viktor’s fingers twitched weakly against her sleeve.

“Hermione…” he whispered.
“Don’t—don’t do anything reckless…”

She bent so close her forehead touched his.

“You fell for me,” she said fiercely.
“I’m allowed to be reckless about you.”

His lips twitched faintly.

“I always—preferred that version of you…”

Then his eyes rolled back.

And the dragonfire went out.

They laid Viktor on the ritual table in the inner healing chamber, runes blazing along the walls as ancient wards sealed tight.

Healers moved fast.
Dragon priests chanted.
Dverger wardsmiths reinforced the room with steel runes.

Hermione stood at the head of the table— silent, rigid, terrifyingly calm.

Ragnok approached her carefully.

“The Dragonbane Curse does three things,” he said quietly.

Hermione didn’t look at him.

“Say it.”

“It severs dragonfire from the blood.”
“It collapses internal magic channels.”
“And…” Ragnok hesitated.

“And?” Hermione said.

“And if the bond tries to compensate, it will kill the bonded partner as well.”

The room went dead silent.

Harry’s breath caught.
Draco swore softly.
Minerva stiffened.

Hermione finally turned her head.

“So,” she said steadily, “if I try to heal him through our bond, I die.”

Ragnok nodded once.

“Yes.”

Hermione absorbed that in a single breath.

Then she said:

“Good.”

Minerva spun on her.
“No.”

Hermione didn’t raise her voice.

“I said good.”

Viktor’s chest barely moved now.

Hermione placed one trembling hand over his heart.

“It means Aurelius underestimated me. He thought separating our magic would weaken us. Instead, he’s shown me exactly where to strike.”

Minerva grabbed her shoulders.

“Hermione, listen to me—this curse was designed to kill primordial beings. Dragons. Celestials. Gods.”

Hermione’s eyes burned gold.

“Then it shouldn’t have been used on someone I love.”

Draco slammed a massive tome onto the table.

“I found it,” he said grimly. “Original European War Codex. Dragonbane is a sovereign-class curse. Only a ruler could legally cast it.”

Hermione’s head snapped up. “A king.”

Harry’s voice was hollow. “Aurelius.”

Draco nodded. “And Hermione… there’s worse.”

He turned the page. “This curse isn’t meant to kill immediately.”

Hermione’s blood ran colder. “Then what’s it meant to do?”

Draco swallowed.

“It turns the victim’s own magic into poison. If Viktor wakes, his own fire will burn his heart from the inside out.”

Hermione slammed both palms onto the stone table.

The room shook.

The crown blazed.

The wards screamed.

“HE IS NOT DYING,” she said, voice echoing with raw celestial power.

The healers staggered.

Hermione forced herself to inhale.

She turned slowly to Ragnok.

“How do we break it?”

Ragnok hesitated—just for a second too long.

“There is a way.”

Hermione’s eyes flared.

“Tell me.”

Ragnok rumbled quietly.

“Dragonbane can only be broken by a being whose magic predates thrones. Whose power is not born of bloodlines or sovereign law.”

Silence.

Then Minerva whispered:

“A full celestial…”

Hermione’s chest tightened.

Ragnok nodded.

“But not by spellwork,” he continued. “By absorption.”

Draco went cold. “You mean she would have to take the curse into herself?”

Ragnok nodded again. “And survive it.”

Harry’s voice cracked. “You’re saying she has to let the curse try to kill her instead?”

“Yes.”

The room exploded.

“Absolutely not!” Minerva snapped. “That curse will tear her magic apart!”

Hermione wasn’t listening.

Her eyes were locked on Viktor.

Still.
Too still.

“What are the odds it kills me?” she asked calmly.

Ragnok hesitated.
“High.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened.

“And Viktor’s odds if we do nothing?”

Ragnok looked at the fading dragonfire lines in Viktor’s skin.

“Zero.”

Hermione nodded once.

Decision made.

“I’ll take it.”

Minerva moved in front of her.

“You will not throw your life away,” she said fiercely. “You are the Starlight Heir. You are the balance of magic—”

Hermione stepped closer until their foreheads nearly touched.

“And he is my heart.”

Minerva’s lips parted—but Hermione wasn’t finished.

“I didn’t claim the Crown to survive. I claimed it to protect.”

Her voice softened.

“And I will not rule a world that has him buried in it.”

Harry rushed forward.

“Hermione, there has to be another way—another ritual—another—”

Hermione grabbed his hand.

“Harry. You’re my brother.” Her voice faltered only once. “But I am his partner.”

Draco stared at her, eyes burning.

“And if it kills you?”

Hermione turned to him. “Then make it mean something.”

The room fell silent.

Viktor stirred weakly. “Hermione… no…”

She bent down instantly, gathering his face between her hands.

“Hush,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his. “You followed me into a throne war. Let me follow you into fire.”

His eyes glazed over.

“I love you,” he whispered, barely audible.

She smiled through tears.

“I know.”

The ritual chamber was prepared in minutes.

Ancient celestial sigils.
Dragon runes carved into the floor.
Starlight and fire activators aligned.

Hermione lay beside Viktor on the rune-circle, their hands clasped tightly.

Minerva stood at the head of the circle, shaking.

“Once she begins absorbing it,” she warned quietly, “If you break the contact, both of them will die.”

Hermione looked at Viktor.

“I’m not letting go,” she said.

He tried to smile.

“Good. Because I think I’m… a little attached to you.”

She laughed breathlessly and squeezed his hand.

The circle activated.

Sapphire-black fire lifted from Viktor’s chest like living smoke.

It twisted.

Screamed.

Reached for Hermione.

She didn’t flinch.

It slammed into her heart.

Hermione arched with a cry—but did not let go.

The crown shuddered violently.

Her wings tore free in a burst of blinding light.

The dragonbane curse fought her magic—
burned into her veins—
clawed through her bond—

But she held it.

With will.
With fury.
With love.

“YOU DO NOT GET HIM,” she screamed.

Celestial light erupted from her core.

The curse shrieked—and shattered.

The black fire collapsed into nothingness.

The runes went dark.

Silence fell like a held breath.

Then—

Viktor gasped.

Dragonfire surged back into his skin.

His eyes flew open.

“Hermione—!”

She slumped forward into his chest.

Alive.

Barely.

Viktor caught her, panic flooding his voice.

“HERMIONE—HERMIONE—OPEN YOUR EYES—”

Her lashes fluttered weakly.

“I told you,” she whispered faintly. “I’m… not letting go.”

He pulled her against him, shaking.

“I almost died,” he rasped.

She managed a slow, crooked smile.

“So did I. That makes us even.”

He kissed her hair desperately.

“You’re impossible.”

She whispered:

“And you’re alive.”

Around them, the Starlight Court exhaled together.

Minerva sank into a chair, trembling with relief.

Draco wiped his eyes angrily.

Harry laughed and cried at the same time.

Ragnok bowed deeply.

“The Starlight Heir has done the impossible.”

Hermione’s eyes drifted closed again.

Viktor held her tighter.

“Rest, my starlight,” he whispered.

“I will burn the world if it dares touch you again.”

And somewhere far away—

Aurelius Ainsworth felt his curse die.

And for the first time in fifty years—

He felt fear.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke to silence.

Not the peaceful kind— the dangerous kind.

No crackle of wards.
No hum of the estate’s ancient magic.
No whisper of starlight in the walls.

Just Viktor’s breathing.

She opened her eyes slowly.

She was in her room, drawn in soft silver light, the curtains stirring faintly as dawn bled across the sky. Viktor sat beside her bed, one hand wrapped tightly around hers, the other braced against the mattress as though he hadn’t moved in hours.

He looked wrecked.

Bruised knuckles.
Dried blood at his collar.
Eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion and fear.

The moment Hermione shifted, he froze.

Then—

“Hermione.” His voice broke on her name.

She managed a weak smile. “You look terrible.”

A strangled sound left his throat as he surged forward, resting his forehead against hers.

“You terrified me,” he whispered. “You broke the curse like it was nothing—then collapsed like you were dying—”

Her fingers twitched in his.

“Still here,” she murmured. “Annoyingly resilient.”

His arms tightened around her carefully, like she was something precious and breakable.

“You took Dragonbane into yourself,” he said hoarsely. “That should not be possible. It should have torn you apart.”

Hermione’s gaze drifted to the ceiling.

“It tried.”

Viktor stilled.

“What do you mean?”

She swallowed.

“My magic… changed it. Rewrote it. Turned it inside out.”

Slowly, she lifted her free hand.

Silver light gathered in her palm— but interwoven through it now ran thin threads of something darker.
Not evil.
Ancient.
Star-deep.

Viktor stared.

“That is not pure starlight.”

She nodded.

“It isn’t.”

Minerva arrived quietly, as if she’d sensed the moment Hermione woke.

The second she saw Hermione’s aura, she froze.

“Oh.”

Viktor tensed. “What?”

Minerva stepped closer, eyes searching, wary.

“The curse didn’t leave you untouched,” she said softly.

Hermione’s expression was calm. “No.”

Draco and Harry burst in moments later.

Harry skidded to a halt by the door.

“You’re awake—thank Merlin—Hermione, you nearly—”

Then he felt it.

He staggered.

Draco caught him reflexively.

“What in the nine hells is that magic?” Draco whispered.

Hermione studied her own hands.

“It’s starlight,” she said slowly. “But it’s also… something deeper. Older. Heavier.”

Ragnok’s voice rumbled from behind them.

“The curse did not break you.”

They turned.

“It forged you.”

Hermione looked at him sharply.

“What does that mean?”

Ragnok bowed his head.

“The Dragonbane tried to convert celestial magic into death. Your power devoured the spell—and adapted. You now command a type of starlight no throne, crown, or prophecy was built to withstand.”

A chill rippled through the room.

Harry whispered, “You got… upgraded?”

Hermione snorted weakly. “That’s one way to put it.”

Viktor’s hand tightened around hers. “Does this hurt you?”

She met his eyes. “No. It fixed something I didn’t know was fractured.”

The shift in Hermione’s magic did not stay confined to her room.

Across Europe—

Ancient wards flared to life.
Sleeping covens woke screaming from prophetic dreams.
Dverger forges rang without hammers touching them.
Dragon lines pulsed.
Pureblood families felt their ancestral magic bend—subtly, unmistakably.

And in a black tower buried deep beneath old sapphire ruins— Aurelius Ainsworth staggered as his ritual chamber shattered.

“What— WHAT DID SHE DO?!” he roared.

The Sapphire Crown above his head cracked.

Just a hairline fracture.

But enough.

One of his followers whispered in terror, “My king… the stars moved.”

Aurelius’ eyes burned. “She did not merely survive my curse.”

He bared his teeth.

“She evolved.”

Despite every protest, Hermione tried to stand that same evening.

Viktor caught her instantly.

“No.”

“I’m not made of glass,” she grumbled.

“You’re made of stars that just ate a sovereign-class curse,” he shot back.
“You’re sitting.”

She opened her mouth.

He lifted a brow.

She sat.

Victoriously—but sitting.

Minerva smiled faintly.

That night, the wards screamed.

Not an attack— A reaction.

Hermione bolted upright in bed.

Viktor was instantly awake.

“What?”

“They’re not attacking us,” she said sharply. “They’re responding to me.”

She swung her legs over the side of the bed.

Viktor followed her at once.

The Starlight Court met her in the main courtyard moments later.

The air trembled.

Above them, the sky warped— starlight folding in unnatural geometric patterns, like constellations rearranging themselves.

Draco whispered, “That has never happened.”

Hermione stepped forward.

The moment she lifted her hand, the sky answered. The wards stopped screaming. They bowed.

Actual, physical wards bent inward, aligning to her presence.

Ragnok exhaled heavily.

“The balance just shifted again.”

Hermione’s voice was barely a whisper.

“I didn’t ask it to.”

Minerva placed a steady hand on her shoulder.

“You don’t need to ask anymore, Hermione.”

Later that night, long after the Court dispersed, Hermione and Viktor stood alone at the balcony overlooking the Ross cliffs.

The sea far below was silvered with unnatural light.

Viktor studied her carefully.

“You’re different.”

She didn’t deny it.

“Are you afraid of me?” she asked quietly.

He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“I am afraid for you,” he said. “But never of you.”

She leaned back into his chest.

“I don’t feel like I belong to the prophecy anymore.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple.

“Good,” he said. “Prophecies are cages.”

Hermione turned in his arms.

“What do you see when you look at me now?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“My partner. My equal. My future.”

She exhaled shakily.

“Even if I become something no one understands?”

He kissed her softly.

“Especially then.”

Her hands fisted in his shirt.

“Viktor… if Aurelius is already cracking under this—he’s going to escalate.”

Viktor’s eyes darkened with promise. “Let him.”

That night, Hermione dreamed.

Not of fire.
Not of war.

But of a vast, empty sky.

And a voice—not prophecy, not fate, not destiny—

Choice.

“You are no longer bound to what came before.
You are not the answer to the past.
You are the beginning of what comes after.”

Hermione woke with tears on her lashes.

And certainty in her bones.

Chapter Text

Aurelius Ainsworth did not sleep.

He did not eat.
He did not blink.

He watched the fracture along the Sapphire Crown widen, feeling the cosmic backlash wrench through his veins.

She had changed the stars.

HER.

A girl who should have died under the Dragonbane curse.

A girl who should have broken.

Instead—

She broke him.

Aurelius gripped the throne carved of frost-metal, knuckles draining white. His voice echoed beneath the collapsed crown-room.

“She devoured a killing curse meant for gods… and walked away stronger.”

His followers trembled.

None dared speak.

Aurelius turned slowly, eyes glowing a poisonous blue.

“Begin the Sovereign Protocol.”

The room gasped.

“My king— that ritual was forbidden even for the Sapphire Court—”

Aurelius lifted a finger.

Silence.

“Hermione McGonagall is no longer a threat to be eliminated.”

His smile was razor-thin.

“She is a rival monarch.”

He raised his hands, and the throne room thrummed with twisted, old energy.

“So let us treat her like one.”

At the Ross Estate, breakfast had barely begun when the wards screamed.

Narcissa dropped her teacup.
Minerva surged to her feet.
Harry jerked his wand free.
Draco cursed, overturning a chair.

Viktor lifted Hermione instantly from her seat, clutching her waist.

“It’s not an attack,” she said sharply, eyes narrowing.
“It’s… pressure.”

“Pressure?” Harry echoed.
“On what?”

Hermione stared upward.

“The political grid.”

The ground trembled.

And then—

CRACK.

A shockwave rippled across the British Isles.

Draco’s eyes widened. “That was an oathstone shattering!”

Hermione’s magic surged instinctively, wings shimmering.

“Which one?”

Ragnok appeared with a flash, breathless.

“The French Ministry. Their Charter of Sovereigns has just been broken.”

“Broken how?” Hermione demanded.

Ragnok swallowed. “Aurelius declared dominion.”

Hermione’s blood froze.

“He what?”

Ragnok nodded grimly.

“He claimed the Sapphire Crown. Formally. And invoked the Old Sovereign Protocol—the ancient right to challenge other crowns.”

Harry swore loudly. “He’s throwing Europe into political war.”

Hermione clenched her fists.

“No. He’s declaring war on me.”

A messenger raven slammed into the window with a scroll bound in panic magic.

Hermione caught it mid-flight.

Reading, her face hardened.

“Germany just lost its magical charter.”

Another raven.

“The Scandinavia Pact dissolved.”

Another.

“Ireland’s High Council is collapsing—”

Another.

“The Bulgarian Ministry is under magical siege—”

Viktor stiffened, jaw clenched.

“Not my home,” he whispered.
“He would not dare.”

Hermione grabbed his arm.

“He dares everything.”

Ragnok read the latest incoming sigil, and his eyes widened.

“By the Forge…”

Draco leaned in. “What now?”

Ragnok’s voice was grave.

“Aurelius just forced six governments to bend knee to a resurrected monarchy.”

Hermione inhaled sharply.

“He’s collapsing Europe to rebuild it under him.”

Narcissa whispered, horrified, “The Sapphire Crown is conquering without armies.”

Minerva gripped the table.

“Through political collapse.”

Hermione lifted her head.

“No.”

Her eyes glowed.

“He’s not conquering Europe.”

She looked up at the sky— feeling the cosmic magic shift— twist— bend—

“He’s reshaping it around a throne no one wants.”

Viktor clasped her hand.

“Hermione… what exactly is he doing?”

She whispered:

“He’s taking crowns by destabilising the balance of magic. One collapse feeds the next.”

Harry’s voice cracked.

“It’s a chain reaction.”

Hermione nodded.

“And if he gets enough sovereign signatures to recognise his throne—”

Draco finished for her “—he becomes the legal ruler of Europe.”

The room fell cold.

Hermione whispered:

“He’s not hunting Viktor anymore.”

She looked straight at Viktor.

“He’s hunting me.”

Hermione stormed into the war room, Viktor at her heels.

“Status!” she barked.

Narcissa conjured a magical map showing shifting borders of magical authority across Europe—blue zones collapsing into Ainsworth’s sapphire glow.

“France, Belgium, Luxembourg, Northern Germany— all destabilised,” Narcissa said.

Harry frowned. “So he’s not even physically attacking?”

“No,” Hermione said. “He’s collapsing the arcane foundations of every nation. If the magical laws break, so do the governments.”

Draco muttered, “He’s rewriting the political map.”

Ragnok slammed his stone hammer onto the table. “He wants the Old Empire restored.”

Hermione nodded.

“The Sapphire Empire.”

Viktor grabbed her waist and pulled her close.

“You are not facing him alone.”

She touched his cheek gently.

“I know. But I have to face him first.”

He froze. “I will not allow that.”

Hermione rose on her toes and kissed him—slow, grounding, decisive.

“You will stand beside me,” she whispered. “But the stars want me on the front line.”

His voice was raw. “And I will be your shield.”

She kissed him again, harder.

“You already are.”

Every mirror in the room crackled suddenly— reflections turning sapphire-blue.

Aurelius’ face appeared.

Every witch and wizard in Europe saw him.

Aurelius Ainsworth.

Pale.
Sharp.
Eyes glowing with unnatural monarchy.

He smiled.

“Europe has been leaderless for centuries, bound to weak Ministers and shattered councils.”

Hermione stepped forward. “Turn it off,” she ordered.

“No,” Minerva said quietly. “We need to know what he intends.”

Aurelius continued.

“The old crowns slept. Magic decayed. Chaos ruled.”

His voice sharpened.

“But a new heir has risen.”

The Court froze.

Aurelius smiled wider.

“Hermione Isobel McGonagall.”

Hermione bristled.

“You have no right to speak my name—”

Aurelius cut her off.

“You claim the Starlight Crown. I claim the Sapphire. Europe is ours to battle for.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed.

“This is not a challenge.”

Aurelius tilted his head.

“It is a summons.”

A pulse of sapphire magic blew out every mirror in the room.

Silence.

Then Hermione turned, calm and terrifying.

“Viktor.”

He stepped closer.

“I'm here.”

She took his hand and kissed it.

“Send ravens to every court we still hold. Seal our borders. Prepare every alliance.”

He nodded.

“Hermione?” Harry said carefully. “What are you going to do?”

Hermione’s wings burst free in blazing starlight.

She glowed like a newborn constellation.

“I’m giving Aurelius his answer.”

Ragnok took a step back from the sheer heat in the air.

Viktor stared at her like he’d never seen anyone so magnificent.

Hermione lifted her hand.

A silver flame formed in her palm.
Growing.
Brightening.
Expanding.

It became a sigil.

Her sigil.

The Starlight Crown.

Hermione released it.

It soared into the sky with a thunderous crack— and etched itself across the clouds.

Europe saw it.

Every magical being felt it.

Aurelius’ challenge had been answered.

Hermione whispered to the horizon:

“You want a throne war?”

The sigil burned brighter.

“Then meet your queen.”

Viktor wrapped his arms around her from behind, fierce and sure.

And Aurelius Ainsworth, in his ruinous tower, felt the tremor of her power.

He whispered, trembling with both fury and awe

“The girl is becoming a goddess.”

Chapter Text

The stars would not let Hermione rest.

She had declared herself against a king.

And the universe had answered.

The first sign was the pain.

It started as a low ache beneath her ribs— not physical, not magical in the ordinary sense, but structural, as if her existence itself had begun to strain against the laws that shaped it.

By evening, the ache had become fire.

Hermione dropped to one knee in the middle of the west corridor, breath tearing from her lungs. Viktor caught her instantly, arms locking around her waist before she could hit the stone.

“Hermione—!”

She gritted her teeth, refusing to scream. Starlight leaked through her skin in fractured pulses.

Minerva appeared a second later, eyes widening in horror. “It’s happening already,” she whispered.

Ragnok thundered in behind her.

“The convergence has begun.”

They rushed Hermione to the deepest ritual chamber beneath the Ross Estate—older than the castle, older than Britain itself, carved from stone that predated recorded time.

Viktor never let go of her hand.

Not while she shook.
Not while silver fire crawled over her veins.
Not while the crown flickered above her head like it might explode into light.

Minerva stood at the edge of the circle, hands trembling for the first time Hermione could ever remember.

“Hermione,” she said softly, “your magic evolved by force. The curse broke you out of the old order faster than your body could follow.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “In plain words, Mum.”

Minerva closed her eyes.

“You are becoming something too quickly for your mortal form to contain.”

The room went silent.

Viktor’s grip tightened painfully.

“What happens if she doesn’t stabilise?” he asked.

Ragnok answered, voice like grinding stone.

“She will burn herself into a star.”

Hermione let out a weak, breathless laugh.

“Well. That’s dramatic.”

Viktor spun on Ragnok with barely contained fury.

“She is not dying for a prophecy or a crown!”

Hermione squeezed his hand.

“Viktor… listen.”

He looked at her—really looked at her.

She was glowing.

Not metaphorically.

Actually.

His voice cracked.

“Don’t.”

She reached up and cupped his cheek, thumb brushing beneath his eye.

“I’m not saying goodbye,” she said softly. “I’m saying stay with me.”

Ragnok rumbled.

“The only way to stabilise her now is the Celestial Convergence Ritual.”

Harry whispered from the doorway, terrified.

“What does that do?”

Minerva answered quietly.

“It binds Hermione's new power permanently into the fabric of the world.”

Draco swallowed.

“And if it fails?”

Minerva didn’t hesitate. “She ceases to exist as a person.”

Silence shattered the chamber.

Viktor went very, very still.

Then he stepped forward. “Then I enter the ritual with her.”

Ragnok’s eyes widened. “You would be obliterated.”

Viktor didn’t blink. “If she burns into a star,” he said evenly, “then I burn with her.”

Hermione’s breath hitched.“Viktor—no—”

He pressed his forehead to hers.

“I followed you into Throne War. I followed you into death magic. You will not walk into eternity alone.”

Her eyes filled with light and tears.

Minerva whispered, shaken, “The ritual was never meant for a bonded pair—”

“Then it will change,” Viktor said simply.

Harry surged forward.

“There has to be another way—seal her magic—contain it—delay it—”

Hermione shook her head weakly.

“No more cages,” she whispered.

Draco turned his face away.

Narcissa covered her mouth with shaking fingers.

Minerva’s voice broke.

“You are my daughter.”

Hermione smiled at her.

“I know.”

Minerva closed her eyes.

Then she raised her staff.

“Prepare the Convergence.”

The chamber transformed.

Ancient constellations ignited across the walls.
Dragon runes burned in the floor.
Dverger forge-lines flared like molten silver beneath the stone.

Hermione and Viktor stood in the centre of it all.

Hands clasped. Foreheads touching.

Starlight gathered around Hermione in blinding slow spirals. Dragonfire answered from Viktor—deep gold, furious and alive.

Ragnok’s voice thundered: “Celestial Heir, you stand at the threshold of becoming.”

Minerva’s voice followed, trembling but unwavering: “Dragon Prince, you stand at the brink of erasure.”

Viktor lifted Hermione’s hand to his lips. “I am not afraid.”

Hermione swallowed. “I’m not either.”

The ritual is activated.

The world screamed.

Starlight tore free from Hermione’s body in massive, radiant arcs— her wings exploded outward, vast and burning— her crown shattered and reassembled in incandescent waves.

Viktor shouted in pain as dragonfire ripped up his back, carving living runes into his spine, arms, and chest.

Their bond ignited.

Pulled.

Stretched.

Hermione cried out as the universe tried to tear her apart.

Viktor roared as the ritual tried to reject his existence.

And still—

They did not let go.

Hermione found herself standing in an infinite sky.

No floor.
No stars.
Just light.

She felt herself unravelling—memories, childhood, laughter, fear, books, Hogwarts, Harry, the Grangers who named her—everything loosening.

A voice spoke around her. “You are leaving what you were.”

Hermione lifted her chin. “I know.”

“Why do you resist the final step?”

A second presence tore through the light—

Fire.
Heat.
Fury.
Love.

Viktor.

He appeared beside her, barely holding shape, made of flame and will.

“Because she is not alone,” he said.

The Voice paused.

“Dragonfire does not belong in the constellation.”

Viktor stepped closer to Hermione.

“Then the constellation will change.”

Hermione took his hand.

“I do not want to be worshipped,” she said clearly. “I want to live.”

The universe went quiet.

Then the Voice spoke again.

“Then you will reign without becoming divine.”

The light surged.

And the convergence collapsed inward.

The ritual chamber shattered with power.

Waves of force flattened the Starlight Court to the ground.

Minerva screamed.

Ragnok braced with his hammer.

Harry shielded Draco.

And at the heart of it all—

Hermione and Viktor fell.

Together.

Viktor hit the stone first—hard.

Hermione collapsed onto his chest.

For one terrible second—

Nothing moved.

Then Viktor sucked in a broken breath.

“Hermione—”

Her lashes fluttered.

She lifted her head weakly. “I hate… rituals.”

He laughed hoarsely. “So do I.”

Her magic stabilised.

No longer wild.

No longer tearing.

Still vast.

But no longer consuming her.

Minerva fell to her knees in relief.

“She lived…”

Ragnok bowed deeply.

“They both did.”

Later that night, Hermione stood alone at the mirror.

Her reflection had changed again.

Still human.
Still herself.

But behind her eyes—

The stars no longer raged.

They waited.

Viktor came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Does it still hurt?”

She leaned back into him.

“No.”

He kissed her shoulder.

“Good.”

She turned in his arms.

“What if this makes me something dangerous?”

He smiled softly.

“You were dangerous long before this.”

She snorted.

“Fair.”

Then she grew serious.

“Aurelius will feel this.”

Viktor’s eyes darkened.

“Let him.”

Hermione rested her forehead against his.

“The throne war just changed shape.”

Far away, in sapphire shadow, Aurelius Ainsworth screamed.

The ritual backwash tore through his crown room.

The fracture in the Sapphire Crown split wider.

Aurelius staggered, blood running from his nose.

“She anchored herself,” he hissed. “She refused ascension—”

One of his followers whispered in terror

“Then she is not a rival god…”

Aurelius’ eyes burned with hatred.

“She is a sovereign.”

Chapter Text

The war did not begin with fire.

It began with ledgers.

By dawn, the Starlight Court had already moved.

In the highest spire of the Ross Estate, the new sovereign—Hermione Isobel McGonagall—stood at the centre of a rotating lattice of floating documents. Trade routes. Blood-oaths. Vault chains. Shadow accounts.

Beside her, the dragon prince—Viktor Krumov—watched in quiet readiness, arms folded, fire restrained beneath his skin.

And far beyond their reach, in sapphire shadow, the false king—Aurelius Ainsworth—felt the first threads of his empire unravel.

Hermione lifted her hand.

“Begin Phase One.”

The lattice ignited.

At the same moment across Europe:

• Dverger vaults froze twelve primary funding lines.
• Illegal rune-smuggling ports collapsed under coven interdiction.
• Three sovereign-class shell families were publicly unmasked.
• Six political bribe networks vanished overnight.

By noon, half the Broken Thrones Alliance was financially dead.

Reports flooded in.

“The Thornweir accounts are gone.”
“Zograf holdings are frozen by three neutral courts.”
“Vasiliev was arrested in Prague.”
“Eisenwald just fled his estate—”

Hermione didn’t smile.

She only said, “Good. Phase Two.”

Viktor stepped closer, his low voice near her ear.

“You dismantle kingdoms the way others play chess.”

She replied quietly, “I learned from better predators.”

In the shattered throne chamber, Aurelius slammed his hand onto the fractured crown.

“STOP HER.”

A dozen followers fell to their knees.

“They’re breaking the alliance from inside, my king—”
“The trade Lords are defecting—”
“The dverger have closed the undercities—”
“The dragons have withdrawn neutrality—”

One whispered in terror:

“The Starlight Court is outlawing you.”

Aurelius’ magic flared violently.

“She does not outlaw kings,” he snarled. “She challenges them.”

His eyes burned sapphire.

“Then I will take something she cannot replace.”

Night fell over the Ross Estate.

Silent.

Too silent.

Viktor was the first to feel it— that subtle wrongness in the wards.

He turned just as the air split.

A sovereign-killer stepped through shadow itself, blade forged of throne-metal, spell-masked beyond prophecy.

The blade never reached its target.

Starlight caught it midair.

Hermione stood between the assassin and her partner, one hand raised, eyes dark with controlled fury.

“You came for him,” she said softly.

The assassin tried to speak.

The air crushed inward.

The blade shattered.

The killer folded like collapsing armour, pinned by gravity that no spell could counter.

Viktor moved instantly, fire exploding around his arm, disarming what remained.

Hermione stepped closer to the trapped figure.

“Tell your king,” she said calmly, “that my court no longer dies quietly.”

She flicked her fingers.

The ward ejected the body into the void between borders—alive, broken, and delivered straight back to Aurelius’ fortress.

Viktor stared at her.

“You didn’t hesitate.”

She met his gaze.

“Neither would he.”

By the third day, the Sapphire King could no longer hide.

Aurelius’ face was torn from every enchanted mirror across Europe—not by illusion, not by projection—

By public decree.

New headlines burned through the magical world:

BROKEN THRONES DECLARED ILLEGAL SOVEREIGN POWER
STARELIGHT COURT RECOGNIZED AS NEUTRAL ARBITER
AURELIUS AINSWORTH: PRETENDER TO NO CROWN

In the Ross war chamber, Draco leaned back in his chair in disbelief.

“You didn’t just beat him politically,” he said. “You erased his legitimacy.”

Hermione replied evenly, “Power without recognition is only rebellion.”

Viktor watched her with something close to reverence.

At sunset on the fifth day, the Ainsworth stronghold breached itself.

No siege.

No army.

The internal wards turned inward.

The Sapphire King was locked inside his own throne room by the very sovereign magic he had abused.

Ragnok’s hammer struck the stone floor in approval.

“He is caged by the crown he tried to steal.”

Minerva whispered, stunned, “She’s already won.”

Hermione didn’t answer.

She was staring at the final location sigil, glowing steadily.

“He’s trapped,” she said. “Not defeated.”

Viktor stepped in behind her, hands resting lightly at her waist.

“Then we'll end this.”

She leaned back into him. “Yes. Together.”

The sky above the estate darkened unnaturally.

Aurelius’ voice tore through the heavens in raw magic:

“YOU THINK YOU HAVE WON?”

Hermione stepped into the open courtyard alone.

Wings unfurled.

Crown aglow.

“No,” she said calmly.

“I know I have.”

“I WILL COLLAPSE EVERY BLOODLINE THAT STANDS WITH YOU.”

Hermione tilted her head slightly.

“Then you will be fighting the entire future.”

The sky cracked.

The Sapphire Crown shattered completely.

Aurelius screamed.

And vanished from all magical sight.

Viktor reached her side instantly.

“He just fled.”

Hermione nodded.

“Good.”

She turned back to the Court.

“Now the hunt becomes personal.”

That night:

• Four Broken Thrones families formally surrendered.
• Three defected to the Starlight Court.
• Two went into magical exile.
• One line went extinct without violence—simply erased from political relevance.

The ancient empire didn’t fall into flames. It fell in paper and law and silence.

Hermione stood at the balcony later, Viktor behind her, arms around her waist, chin resting against her temple.

“You dismantled a monarchy in six days,” he murmured.

She exhaled slowly. “I didn’t want a throne.”

He kissed her hair gently. “And yet every throne bows.”

She closed her eyes. “The worst part is still coming.”

His arms tightened. “Then we meet it standing.”

Chapter Text

Aurelius Ainsworth vanished without a trace.

No mirror would show him.
No prophecy would track him.
No ward would acknowledge his existence.

For the first time in fifty years, the Sapphire King was not a king at all— He was a fugitive.

And that made him dangerous.

The answer did not come from divination.

It came from history.

Hermione re-opened the war map in the Starlight Court chamber, eyes already ringed with sleepless resolve.

“Look at what he’s lost,” she said quietly.

Trade nexuses faded one by one.
Strongholds went dark.
Sapphire sigils winked out across the continent.

Only one remained.

A single, pulsing mark far to the east.

Viktor studied it. “That isn’t a sovereign vault.”

Harry frowned. “It’s not a capital either.”

Draco’s breath caught. “It’s… pre-ministerial.”

Hermione nodded. “He didn’t flee to power.”

Her eyes lifted. “He fled to the origin.”

The mark resolved into ancient runic letters etched deep beneath the Carpathians.

Ragnok went still.

“That’s not a fortress,” he rumbled. “That’s a tomb.”

Silence fell.

Hermione said softly, “He’s gone back to the throne that made him.”

The tomb was older than the Imperial Crown.
Older than the covens.
Older than the Ministry system.

It responded to no authority except sovereign will.

Which meant:

Only Hermione.

Viktor’s jaw set immediately. “No.”

She turned to him. “Yes.”

“You go in alone, and he will kill you,” he said flatly.

She stepped into him, close enough to feel his heartbeat.

“He can’t. Not without dying himself.”

“That’s not comforting.”

She took his face in both hands. “I don’t need comfort. I need you beside me.”

His resistance broke instantly. “I was never staying behind.”

She smiled faintly and kissed him.

Short. Firm. Certain.

“Good.”

The air at the tomb entrance was dead.

No magic hum.
No ward resistance.
Just silence carved into stone.

Hermione stepped forward first.

The threshold recognised her instantly.

Starlight flared.

The stone doors opened.

Inside, the chamber stretched vast and hollow—its ceiling lost in darkness, its floor carved with cracked constellations. And at the far end—

Aurelius waited.

Not on a throne.

On his knees.

The broken Sapphire Crown lay shattered at his feet.

He lifted his head slowly. “So,” he rasped. “The counterfeit sovereign arrives.”

Viktor’s fire ignited behind her in warning.

Hermione answered calmly:

“You crowned yourself with a relic that never wanted you.”

Aurelius laughed weakly.

“You devoured my curse. Shattered my empire. Bent Europe without touching a sword.”

His eyes burned.

“And still you come to me like a child walking into a monster’s den.”

Hermione didn’t even slow. “I came to close the cycle.”

Aurelius pushed himself upright using the shattered crown.

“You could have ruled beside me,” he hissed. “We could have restored the old order.”

Hermione gestured around the ruined chamber. “This is the old order.”

He snarled. “You think the world survives without absolute rule?”

She stepped closer. “No. It survives because it doesn’t have one.”

He screamed and unleashed the last of the Sapphire Crown’s power.

Throne-magic tore through the chamber like a collapsing sky.

The ceiling cracked.

The floor splintered.

The tomb tried to consume them all.

Viktor surged forward without waiting for orders, dragonfire slamming into the wave, holding it back with sheer brute will.

Hermione walked straight through the storm.

The magic bent around her.

Aurelius stared in horror.

“You aren’t resisting it,” he whispered. “You’re overwriting it.”

She lifted her hand. “Because this magic no longer answers to crowns.”

The Starlight Crown formed above Hermione’s head—not as metal, not as a jewel, but as a living constellation.

Aurelius staggered backwards.

“No—no—no-you cannot—”

Hermione spoke once. “This monarchy ends with you.”

Light struck the shattered crown.

Not explosively.

Not violently.

Quietly.

The remaining throne-magic collapsed inward on itself, folding in a perfect, silent implosion.

When the light faded— Aurelius Ainsworth lay on the stone.

Alive.

Mortal.

Powerless.

Hermione lowered her hand, breathing steadily.

Viktor released the fire slowly, watching with stunned intensity.

She turned to him.

“It’s over.”

For the first time since the war began—

He believed it.

They did not kill Aurelius.

They did something far worse to a tyrant.

They returned him to the world as ordinary.

Stripped of throne-magic.
Stripped of sovereign standing.
Stripped of every ancient claim.

The Starlight Court took him into custody as a criminal, not a monarch.

When they walked back through the tomb threshold together, Viktor finally spoke.

“You just ended a twelve-century monarchy.”

Hermione exhaled. “I ended a mistake.”

He stopped her, turned her toward him fully, hands framing her face.

“You faced a king without fear.” She leaned into his touch. “I faced him knowing you would be behind me.”

His voice roughened.

“Always.”

He kissed her—slow, grounded, victorious.

No sparks.

No chaos.

Just certainty.

Chapter Text

They did not hold the trial in a palace.

They did not hold it in a court.

They held it in neutral space— a floating amphitheatre conjured above the Baltic Sea, sustained jointly by coven magic, dverger runecraft, and dragonfire wards.

Because what stood accused was not merely a man.

It was an era.

Delegates arrived from every remaining magical power:

• Coven Matrons in living starlight veils
• Dverger Kings in forged rune-armour
• Dragon Priests in fire-threaded robes
• Ministry representatives stripped of sovereign privilege
• Old bloodline heirs who had survived the Broken Thrones purge

At the centre platform stood the accused—Aurelius Ainsworth—
no crown,
no sigil,
no throne-magic in his veins.

Just an ageing man in iron restraints.

For the first time in a century, He looked small.

And yet the arena trembled with the weight of what he had been.

When the hall quieted, all eyes turned to the Starlight Throne.

And there she stood—Hermione Isobel McGonagall—
not raised above them,
not hidden behind guards,
but standing level with every power gathered.

Behind her, silent and burning with restrained fury, stood Viktor Krumov.

Not as a shield.

As witness.

Hermione did not raise her voice.

She did not need to.

“Aurelius Ainsworth,” she said calmly, “you stand accused of sovereign usurpation, transnational magical destabilisation, attempted annihilation of protected bloodlines, economic subjugation of twelve nations, and the resurrection of extinct throne law.”

His lip curled. “You cannot try a king.”

Hermione tilted her head slightly. “You are not a king.”

The words landed like a verdict.

The scroll of indictments unfurled itself, glowing with shared authority seals.

Each charge was read aloud:

• The Dragonbane curse
• The collapse of six ministries
• The forced bending of three covens
• The destabilisation of dverger undercities
• The attempted assassination of a bonded sovereign partner
• The unlawful reactivation of imperial throne magic

Aurelius listened with thin amusement.

“You speak of laws,” he said. “I invented half of them.”

Hermione held his gaze. “No.”

She lifted her hand. “You warped them.”

When witness after witness spoke— ruined families, shattered compacts, near-extinct lines— Aurelius remained silent.

Until Viktor stepped forward.

Not angrily.
Not theatrically.

Simply honestly.

“You tried to erase me,” he said.
“And when you failed, you tried to erase her instead.”

Aurelius laughed faintly. “She was becoming too large for your little world.”

Viktor’s eyes darkened. “She became too large for your lies.”

Hermione didn’t stop him.

She didn’t need to.

Then she spoke again. “Aurelius—this is your final opportunity to recognise the legitimacy of what comes after you.”

His eyes sharpened. “Or?”

Hermione answered with quiet, irrevocable certainty: “Or history will record you as a footnote instead of a ruler.”

For the first time, Aurelius lost control of his expression.

The assembled powers withdrew into shared judgment.

Not for hours.

Not for debate.

For three heartbeats.

Then the verdict manifested as a unified sigil in the air.

Hermione read it aloud.

“Aurelius Ainsworth, former bearer of the Sapphire Throne—
You are stripped of all sovereign status in perpetuity.
You are barred from throne magic, imperial succession, and historical mandate.
You are sentenced to perpetual containment in neutral void custody.
Your line is severed from succession forever.”

She paused. “And your era ends today.”

The sigil burned itself into reality.

The restraints locked.

Aurelius screamed—not in rage— In terror.

“You would reduce a king to nothing?!”

Hermione’s reply was soft. “No.”

She stepped closer. “I reduced a mistake to silence.”

The void gate opened. And the Sapphire King was taken into nothingness without ceremony, without crown, without legacy.

The instant Aurelius vanished—

Something ancient broke.

Not violently.

Not explosively.

Across Europe, every remnant of imperial throne law simply… dissolved.

Old compacts unravelled.
Phantom succession claims faded.
False blood-oaths burned out of living heirs.

For the first time in twelve centuries, No single throne stood in magical Europe.

Only balance.

Hermione closed her eyes briefly as she felt it happen.

Then she exhaled. “It’s done.”

Viktor took her hand.

Not possessively.

Groundingly.

Later that night, with the amphitheatre dissolving back into sea mist, Hermione stood alone at the edge of the platform.

Viktor joined her silently. “You ended a king without becoming one,” he said.

She rested her head lightly against his shoulder. “That was the point.”

He was quiet for a moment, then asked softly, “And what does that make you now?”

She looked out across the dark water. “Free.”

He smiled into her hair. “So is the world.”

Chapter Text

The world did not end when a throne died.

It inhaled.

And exhaled something new.

The disappearance of Aurelius Ainsworth left behind more than relief—it left a vacuum.

Power hates emptiness.

Magic hates imbalance.

And within days, every court, coven, council, and kingdom began to shift uneasily, trying to decide what shape the future would take without a crown to orbit.

For the first time in centuries—

There was no emperor.
No sovereign throne.
No magical monarchy.

Only fear.

And possibility.

The Starlight Court convened in what used to be the old Ross throne hall.

But the throne itself remained empty.

Deliberately so.

Delegations arrived in waves:

• The French High Covens
• The Eastern Dragon Councils
• The Baltic Free Houses
• The Dverger Sovereign Forgemasters
• The Reformed Ministries
• Even old Pureblood dynasties long reduced to whispers

They didn’t come to crown her.

They came to ask her to lead them anyway.

Ministries offered joint rulership.
Covens offered ceremonial supremacy.
Trade nations offered controlling equity.
Dragon councils offered hereditary spiritual command.

Even some heirs of the Sacred Twenty-Eight stood and bowed.

Hermione listened.

Quietly.

Perfectly still.

Viktor stood beside her, unreadable, unwavering.

When the last delegate finished speaking, the entire hall waited.

They expected a yes.

They expected a queen.

Hermione stepped forward.

And shattered that expectation cleanly.

“I will not rule you,” she said calmly.

Murmurs swept the hall.

“I will not sit above you. I will not become the throne you just buried.”

She lifted her chin.

“The world suffered for centuries under the idea that magic needs a single crown.”

Her wings shimmered faintly behind her—not as a threat, but as a reminder.

“And today, you are asking me to become the very thing I just destroyed.”

Silence fell heavy as stone.

A coven matron whispered, “Then what will you be?”

Hermione answered without hesitation:

“A keystar, not a crown.”

Confusion rippled.

She continued:

“I will anchor the balance.
I will arbitrate what threatens to tip it.
I will protect what cannot protect itself.
But you will govern yourselves.”

She looked toward the ministers.

“You will answer to your people.”

Toward the covens.

“You will answer to your circles.”

Toward the noble heirs.

“You will answer to the future.”

Then, softly: “And I will answer only when the world itself is at risk.”

The hall breathed out as one.

Not disappointed.

Relieved.

By nightfall, the Starlight Accords were drafted.

Not laws.

Not decrees.

Frameworks.

They outlined three foundational truths:

No Sovereign Throne May Ever Be Reinstated in Magical Europe.

No Bloodline May Claim Universal Rule by Magic Alone.

The Starlight Court Exists Only as a Balancing Force—Not a Government.

Hermione signed first.

Then Viktor added his personal dragon-priest sigil.

Then Minerva added the mark of the covens.

Then Ragnok struck the first Dverger seal.

One by one, the world committed to a future without empires.

Long after the delegates departed and the hall emptied, Hermione stood alone beside the abandoned throne platform.

Viktor found her there, sitting on the steps, staring at the empty space.

“You could have had everything,” he said quietly.

She didn’t look at him.

“I would have lost myself.”

He sat beside her. “And now?”

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Now I get to choose my life again.”

He slid an arm around her waist. “Choose me?”

She smiled softly. “Already did.”

They sat in silence, the weight of the world finally lifting.

In the days that followed:

• Old Ministry power structures quietly reformed
• Coven territories drew new boundaries based on consent, not conquest
• Dragon realms resumed neutrality—but with open alliance
• Dverger trade laws decentralised wealth monopolies
• House-elf protections were codified across three regions
• Noble betrothal politics softened into diplomacy instead of compulsion

The Starlight Court did not rule.

It corrected.

Rarely.

Decisively.

Without spectacle.

Hermione became something no prophecy had ever predicted:

A sovereign who refused sovereignty.

The most powerful witch in Europe— And the least corruptible.

One evening, as they walked along the Ross cliffs with the sea burning gold beneath the sunset, Viktor stopped her.

“You frighten the world,” he said thoughtfully.

Hermione raised a brow. “Rude.”

He smirked faintly. “And you save it without needing to be worshipped.”

She huffed. “That part is exhausting.”

He turned serious, cupping her face. “You were never made to be a ruler.”

She searched his eyes. “What was I made to be?”

His thumb brushed her cheek.“Free...Mine”

She kissed him.

Long. Slow. Deep.

No magic surged.

No stars fell.

It wasn’t needed anymore.

Chapter Text

Peace did not arrive all at once.

It came in verdicts, in confessions, in ruined reputations, and in the quiet, irreversible shifting of people who could never again pretend they were innocent.

This was the chapter where ghosts were finally laid to rest.

The inquiry into potion crimes was not dramatic.

It was clinical.

Cold.

Unavoidable.

The Ministry—now stripped of its old protections and political shielding—was forced to act under the new continental ethics accords. And under those accords, intentional coercion through potion magic was classified as magical assault.

Ron Weasley broke first.

He lasted twelve minutes under truth wards.

Twelve.

Jealousy.
Entitlement.
Resentment.
A need to possess what he believed he had been owed.

Every dose.
Every concealment charm.
Every altered memory attempt.

All of it came out.

Hermione did not attend.

She didn’t need to.

The verdict reached her by courier:

Permanent wand restriction.
Full public record of magical assault.
Lifetime prohibition from political office, academia, and spell governance.

He was not imprisoned.

He was erased from relevance.

And that, in the end, hurt far more.

Ginny Weasley lasted longer.

Not because she was innocent.

But because she was practised.

Love potions.
Compulsion drafts.
Line-binding attempts on Harry’s bloodline.
Ritual interference.

It all surfaced.

When the final truth crystal cracked, she collapsed, screaming that she had only wanted everything she’d been promised.

The world answered coldly:

Attempted magical enslavement of a sovereign heir.
Permanent exile from all British coven territories.
Marriage prohibition under the unified magical consent law.

The family that had once dreamed of rising through blood and proximity fell in a single season.

Molly Weasley never stood trial.

Her crime was never magical.

It was pressure, manipulation, status-obsession, and non-magical coercion.

So she faced the only punishment her kind truly understood:

Public disgrace.

The matchmaker who had once ruled drawing rooms was quietly barred from them forever.

Invitations stopped.

Doors stayed shut.

And the silence that swallowed her influence was absolute.

The final sealed archives were released three weeks later.

Not rumour.

Not theory.

Documentation.

Long chains of political manipulation.
Intentional placement of child soldiers.
Withholding of protections.
Calculated endangerment framed as “necessary sacrifice.”

The world did not condemn him loudly.

It did something worse.

It rewrote him.

No statues were torn down.

They were simply never cleaned.

No honours were revoked.

They were simply never spoken of again.

In the new historical record, Albus Dumbledore was no longer a mythic hero.

He became what he truly was:

A brilliant, dangerous strategist who confused control with salvation.

Hermione read the final file alone.

Then closed it.

And never opened it again.

Harry Potter—no longer a symbol, no longer a chess piece—stood in the Black ancestral garden with Sirius beside him, staring out over the restored estate.

For the first time, there was no war waiting at the edge of his name.

“I don’t have to be anything now,” Harry said quietly.

Sirius studied him.

“That terrifies you?”

Harry smiled faintly.

“It used to.”

Now he trains young witches and wizards in defensive autonomy—not obedience.
Now he laughs without flinching.
Now he belongs to himself.

And when he visits Hermione, it is not as a weapon.

It is like a brother.

Draco no longer wears the weight of legacy like a chain.

He is not an heir driven by fear anymore.

He is a negotiator.
A strategist.
A man who learned how close rot can live to beauty.

Narcissa, stripped of the illusion that aristocracy alone could protect anything, finally learned what it meant to choose the correct side before history closed its fist.

They are not redeemed.

They are responsible.

And that is enough.

The last trial ended in the early hours of the morning.

The estate slept.

The sea was quiet.

Only stars and cliffs remained awake.

Hermione stood on the edge of the Ross cliffs with Viktor beside her, their hands loosely intertwined.

“They don’t haunt me anymore,” she said suddenly.

Viktor turned to her.

“What doesn’t?”

“The potions,” she said.
“The betrayal.
The feeling that my will was something other people could edit.”

She exhaled slowly.

“I thought I would always carry that rage.”

He tilted his head.

“And now?”

She looked out across the water.

“Now it feels… closed.”

He squeezed her hand.

“You don’t have to be forged by injury forever.”

She smiled faintly.

“I know.”

After a pause, she said softly:

“They wanted to own me.”

Viktor’s jaw tightened.

“And now?”

She turned to him.

“Now I own myself.”

One letter arrived at the Starlight Court that Hermione did not open for days.

It came from her biological parents.

Not cruel.

Not apologetic enough either.

Just… awkward.
Fearful.
Small.

They wanted to “understand her world now.”

Hermione read it once.

Then she folded it carefully.

And placed it into the fire.

Viktor watched silently.

“You don’t owe them,” he said.

“I know,” she replied.

She turned into him.

“I already have a family.”

By the end of that season:

No one chased Hermione’s crown anymore.
No one whispered about potions in corridors.
No one tried to marry bloodlines by force.
No one waited for prophecy to bless their greed.

The world did not become perfect.

But it became honest.

And that was the beginning of everything.

Chapter Text

Five years later.

The world did not remember the sound of crowns breaking anymore.

It remembered quieter things.

The way wards hummed softly instead of screaming.
The way covens met without drawing battle lines.
The way dragons flew for ceremony, not war.
The way politics became negotiation instead of conquest.

And in the far north, on the cliffs of the Ross lands where silver sea met endless sky—

Hermione built a home.

Not a palace.
Not a stronghold.

A home.

The Ross estate no longer carried the weight of sovereignty.

It was warm now.

Sunlight in the mornings.
Open windows.
Books were stacked where they didn’t belong.
Teacups forgotten on railings.
Footsteps that belonged to people who felt safe enough to wander.

The Starlight Court still existed.

But it came rarely.

And only when the world truly needed it.

Most days, Hermione lived.

She stood barefoot in the long grass one afternoon, sleeves rolled up, wand tucked behind her ear as she argued animatedly with a group of young witches over ward theory.

Her power no longer pressed down on the air.

It flowed.

She still glowed sometimes— a faint hush of stars beneath the skin— But it never clawed at her anymore.

The world had finally learned how to hold her.

Viktor watched her from the edge of the field, leaning against a stone wall with quiet familiarity. He wore no priest insignia now. No formal sigils. Only the old dragonfire markings beneath his skin—and the unmistakable calm of a man who no longer had to fight every day to survive.

He still flew.

Sometimes for duty.
Sometimes for distance.
Sometimes for joy.

But he always came back here.

Always to her.

When Hermione finished the lesson, she spotted him and lifted a brow. “You’re judging my teaching again.”

He smirked faintly. “I am admiring your refusal to frighten them into brilliance.”

She walked up to him, warm from the sun, eyes sharp with amusement. “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it.”

“I enjoy everything you do,” he said simply.

She leaned in close. “That’s dangerous devotion, dragon.”

His hand slid around her waist. “You married it.”

They still whispered her name in distant courts.

They still told stories.

But the titles had changed.

Not Queen of Stars.
Not Celestial Sovereign.
Not Empress of Balance.

They called her something else instead.

The Witch Who Ended Crowns.

And they spoke it not with fear— But with gratitude.

As for Viktor, the world called him

The Dragon Who Followed Her Into Quiet.

He never corrected them.

Harry visited often.

Sometimes alone.
Sometimes with Sirius.
Sometimes with students who still needed to see that the people who once saved the world were now… ordinary.

He brought laughter with him.

And peace.

And occasionally chaos.

He and Viktor still sparred in the mornings just for the sheer joy of it.
Hermione still scolded them for breaking the garden wards.
They still pretended not to do it on purpose.

Some things never changed.

Thank Merlin!

On the first truly quiet anniversary of the throne war’s end, Hermione and Viktor stood on the cliff at dusk.

No ceremonies.
No watchers.
No wards flaring.

Just wind.
And sea.
And stars slowly waking overhead.

Hermione rested her head against his shoulder.

“Do you ever miss the fire?”

Viktor considered the question carefully.

“No,” he said.
“I am the fire.”

She huffed a laugh.

“And very dramatic about it.”

He turned to face her.

“And you?” he asked. “Do you miss the power?”

She thought about it.

Then shook her head.

“I have it when I need it.”

She took his hand and pressed it to her chest. “And I have this when I don’t.”

His breathing stuttered just once.

Hermione no longer woke from nightmares of potions.

No longer braced for betrayal in every smile.

No longer wondered if love was a trick of altered will.

She chose him.

Every day.

And he chose her right back.

Not because of bonds.
Not because of prophecy.
Not because the sky once answered their names.

Because at the end of the world—

They had turned toward each other.

And never turned away again.

The stars climbed higher.

Viktor slipped an arm around her shoulders.

Hermione tucked into his side.

And for the first time since the war—

Nothing waited.

No enemy.
No king.
No crown.
No ritual.

Only tomorrow.

And the soft certainty that neither of them walked alone anymore.

THE END