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Harry Potter had spent all twenty-two years of his life as a pawn in the wizarding world. First, it was the prophecies anchoring him to an unwanted destiny, and now, the burning mark on his wrist dictated his fated partner. He felt as though he had never truly been allowed to choose anything. Thrusted into a role he didn't want, he was determined not to let this new magic consume him. When the silver runes appeared—a tattoo on his wrist marking his soulmate—he had desperately hoped it would be Ginny, the woman he loved. But fate possessed a cruel streak. A memory of the crush he’d harbored for his best friend when he was twelve floated across his mind. On instinct, his eyes sought her out. Hermione Granger’s golden-brown eyes pierced through him, and a small, hopeful smile began to grace her face. Seeing it, however, made everything inside him twist with dread.
He craved the life he had dreamed of with Ginny before they had gone on the run. He wanted the love he had chosen for himself. The Sunday dinners at the Weasleys and the sound of boisterous laughter ringing in his ears. He wanted Ginny because she reminded him of a time before the darkness had swallowed them whole. He wanted to escape the horrors of the war, and unfortunately, Hermione was inextricably tied to those horrors. Ginny saw the shift in him, she felt it. But in her fierce determination and Harry’s growing desperation, they both made their choice. "We can beat it, Harry," Ginny had told him then, her hand fiercely covering the mark on his wrist. "Soul bonds are old magic, but free will is stronger. We can, and will, choose each other." So, Harry chose her. He locked the truth away in the darkest corner of his mind, pulled his sleeves down, and tried to force the life he wanted into existence.
Hermione watched from across the battlefield as Harry and Ginny held each other, lost in a fierce kiss that could have put romance movies to shame. In that moment, something inside Hermione snapped—a feeling of absolute suffocation. For Hermione, the appearance of the mark had felt like an execution sentence for her heart. She had felt the bond snap into place, sensing for the first time that she truly belonged with Harry. He was her other half after all, but before she could even process the connection, she watched Harry pull Ginny into his arms. Witnessing his bliss in another witch's arms while he looked at her with the terrified expression of a trapped house-elf was almost more than she could bear.
‘Of course he doesn't want me,’ she thought. ‘He loves her. He loves Ginny. Why would he want someone like me?’ Because she loved him more than her own happiness, Hermione made her own choice. She never spoke of the mark, choosing instead to don a thick green ribbon to hide her arm under the guise of concealing her 'Mudblood' scar. Harry and Ginny knew the truth, and for four years, she played her role, forcing herself to sit through weekly Sunday dinners at the Burrow, enduring the agonizing pain of knowing she wasn’t enough.
Over the years, she sat across from them as Ginny leaned over to kiss Harry, and he returned the affection. Yet his eyes would still seek hers out unintentionally. Lately, Mrs. Weasley had begun dropping hints about a summer wedding after Ginny’s 3rd season of the harpies had ended. The mark burned Hermione every time the subject arose, her face turning a ghostly pale. She had grown thin, as though she were back on the run, her hair losing its luster, and falling out in clumps. Harry, conversely, looked radiant, though only because he had become an expert at hiding his own decay.
"Are you really alright, Hermione?" Ron asked one evening, noticing her staring blankly into the garden after dinner. "You barely touch your food these days. I’m worried about you, 'Mione." She mustered a fragile smile to hide the truth.
"I’m just tired, Ron. The Ministry transitions are exhausting, and dealing with my parents' funeral in Australia was... a lot. I’m fine, so don’t act like a mother hen." The lie felt like acid in her throat. Ron nodded and gave her a side hug, kissing the side of her head.
“Luna and I will be here if you need us, we're just a Floo call away.” He held her for a moment longer, sensing something was off but unsure how to help. When they separated, Ron went back inside, leaving her in the garden under the light of the full moon. She felt someone enter her orbit, her magic thrummed at the intrusion, identifying him instantly.
“Hermione.” It was all he could say. She felt sick to her stomach, a small, treacherous part of her still hoping he would finally choose her. That hope died when he spoke again, “Thank you for not saying anything after all this time. Ginny and I appreciate it.” Hermione held her head high, her mental shields reinforced by the training she had received from her friends Ara and Theo. A heavy, unsettling silence settled between them. Harry knew he was being cruel, but he loved Ginny and wanted to stay with her. He was about to speak again when Ginny’s voice called out to him.
He flinched, but kept his eyes on Hermione until she began to walk away, telling him to go to Ginny. She held her emotions in check, knowing Harry had returned to Ginny without a second thought. Once she reached the outskirts of the wards, she apparated away, collapsing in a heap of tears the moment she landed.
“Hermione!” The voice reached her just as she began to lose consciousness. The last words she heard before the world went dark were, “Theo! Call my aunt, Hermione is in—”
When she came to, she was met with the tearful gray eyes of her confidant, Andromeda. “Hermione.” Andromeda knew exactly what she was enduring, she had once fought her own bond with Ted to keep him safe. She leaned in, pressing her forehead against the younger witch's. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this, sweetheart. Know that you are loved. Fighting this bond is a fate worse than death.”
One cannot reject the fundamental laws of magic without consequences. And the price fell heavily on Harry, for one cannot go unscathed when they are the ones who cause such profound pain. To Harry Potter, ignoring a soul bond was like trying to breathe underwater without Gillyweed. At first, he thought he was managing, but the physical and magical decay soon became impossible to ignore. Over the past year, Harry had struggled with a relentless, low-grade fever that seemed to settle deep within his marrow. Every morning, he woke drenched in sweat, his magical core feeling heavy and unnaturally cold. These undeniable symptoms resisted every remedy; even Pepper-up Potion offered no relief.
This physical decline was compounded by a growing magical rejection. Whenever Harry held Ginny’s hand, a jarring, static-like resistance hummed between them. It wasn’t a lack of affection for her, but rather his magic recoiling from her as if she were an intruder. The severity of this conflict became clear when Ginny playfully tried to trace the hidden lines of his Soul-Mark, triggering a violent surge of accidental magic that shattered every window in his flat. At the heart of their decay was magical starvation. A soul bond requires both acceptance and proximity to sustain a wizard’s core, and by denying its existence, Harry was effectively starving them both. Hermione bore the brunt of this depletion, suffering from a profound, lethargic weakness that left her trembling after performing even the simplest of charms.
Witnessing his decline mirrored her own internal collapse; Hermione observed the tremors in his hands and the dark hollows beneath his eyes with a painful clarity. She understood the grim mechanics of their shared suffering. Harry was destroying them both in a desperate attempt to reject her. This epiphany shattered a fundamental part of her spirit.
The rain in Wiltshire didn’t feel like London’s heavy, suffocating mist. Here, it fell against the high, arched windows of Nott Manor with a steady, rhythmic sigh. In the small, dimly lit drawing room, Hermione sat tucked into the corner of a velvet chaise, a thick, knitted blanket pulled up to her chin. She looked agonizingly small. The fierce, brilliant witch who had outsmarted Dark Wizards and rewritten Ministry laws was fading. Her skin possessed a translucent, fragile quality, and her brown eyes—usually snapping with sharp intelligence—looked heavy, hollowed out by a year of weeping in the dark.
Theodore Nott stepped quietly into the room, carrying a tray with a silver teapot and two cups. He didn’t use magic to float it, he liked the grounding weight of things in his hands. Setting the tray down on the low table, he poured a cup of dark, fragrant tea laced with honey and chamomile, sliding it into her hands.
"You're thinking about him again," Theo said softly, taking a seat on the armchair opposite her. His tone wasn't accusatory, it was filled with a quiet, fierce protectiveness.
Hermione closed her eyes, her fingers tightening around the warm porcelain. "I can’t help it, Theo. Every time he smiles at Ginny, my wrist feels like it’s being branded with an iron. It’s... it’s a physical rejection. He’s starving his magic to keep from choosing me, and it’s dragging mine down with it."
Theo’s jaw clenched. He had spent his childhood watching his father destroy lives with dark magic, but this slow, voluntary martyrdom of Harry Potter’s was a different kind of cruelty. "He is a fool, Hermione," Theo said, his voice dropping into a low, deadly serious register. "He spent years being a martyr for the wizarding world, and now he’s playing the martyr against his own soul. But he has no right to take you down with him. You have given everything to that boy. Your childhood, your safety, your mind. You do not owe him your life."
"He wants to be normal," she whispered, a solitary tear tracking down her pale cheek. "He just wants to choose his own path. I can't hate him for wanting that."
"Then he should let you go," a sharp, melodic voice cut through the quiet room. Ara entered from the adjoining library, her dark robes sweeping behind her. She walked over to the chaise, sliding onto the edge of it and immediately wrapping her arms around Hermione’s trembling shoulders. Ara didn't care about decorum, she cared about the witch she had come to love like a sister.
"If he wants normalcy, let him have his dull, ordinary life," Ara murmured fiercely against Hermione’s hair, pulling her close. "But you are extraordinary, Hermione. You deserve someone who looks at the mark on your wrist and sees a coronation, not a curse. You deserve to be loved loudly, proudly, and with every breath a man who truly loves you can give you. ANd so far Harry is not living up to that title as your ‘other half’."
Hermione buried her face into Ara’s shoulder, finally letting out the jagged, sobbing breath she had been holding all day. Ara held her tight, rubbing her back, exchanging a dark, worried look with Theo over Hermione's curls. "I feel so empty, Ara," Hermione choked out, her fingers clutching at Ara’s robes. "I feel like if I stay here, watching them, I am going to entirely disappear."
"Then we get you out," Theo said firmly, leaning forward and placing his hand over Hermione’s right one. "The Paris research position is yours if you want it. Ara and I will help you pack. We will secure a flat in the magical quarter. We will build a ward around you that Potter’s guilt can never breach."
On a bleak, rain-slicked Tuesday, while contemplating the offer from the International Magical Research Coalition that Theo told her about, a bitter resolution took hold. ‘I am the source of this decay. Distance might finally break this connection,’ she reasoned. Driven by the need to end the bond that was effectively poisoning them, she committed to a three-year research post in Paris, signing the contract with the conviction that she had to save them by leaving.
The Weasleys threw a gathering at Grimmauld Place to celebrate Ginny’s official 3rd year season with the Holyhead Harpies. The room was loud, filled with the scent of roasted meat and firewhiskey. Hermione stood near the fireplace, clutching a glass she hadn't drunk from. She had decided tonight would be the night she told them she was leaving.
Harry walked into the room, looking pale and gaunt. As he passed her, their sleeves brushed. A sudden, sharp spark of silver magic arced between them, visible to the naked eye. Hermione gasped, stumbling back, clutching her arm as a fierce, burning pain shot through her bond. Harry froze, his breath hitching. He looked at her, his eyes wide with a mixture of agony and terror.
"Hermione?" Ginny called out, walking over with a frown. "What was that? Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," Hermione whispered, her voice choking. She couldn't do this for another second. The pain in her soul was entirely unbearable. "Actually... I have an announcement to make. I've accepted a position with the Ministry of Magic in France. I will leave via portkey at the ministry tomorrow morning." The room fell dead silent. Mrs. Weasley let out a cry of protest, but Hermione’s eyes were avoiding Harry’s and Ginny’s.
He looked as if he had been struck with a Bludger. "France? Hermione, no. You can't."
"I can," she said, and for the first time, the raw, bleeding heartbreak leaked into her tone. Her voice trembled, thick with tears she had suppressed for over a year. "And I am going, Harry. There's... there's nothing for me here. I packed up my childhood home, sold my flat, I simply have nothing left to give." The determination echoed in the room, the Weasleys grumbled, but ultimately conceded, turning this party into a farewell. One last night where everyone will be here. When the night grew long, she slipped out, avoiding Harry and Ginny all together.
The next morning, Grimmauld Place was a suffocating sort of quiet. Ginny sat at the kitchen table, tracing a pattern on the wood, watching Harry. He hadn't slept. He was shivering, his skin gray, the silver runes on his wrist visibly pulsing against his skin through the fabric of his shirt.
"She's leaving because of you," Ginny said softly. “Because of us.”
Harry didn't look up. "I know."
"No, Harry, look at me," Ginny demanded, her voice cracking. When he finally raised his eyes, she looked at him with profound sadness. "I loved you enough to fight a soul bond. But you're not fighting a bond anymore. You're fighting, her. And you're killing yourself to do it."
"I wanted to choose you, Ginny," Harry whispered, his voice broken. "I wanted to choose my own life."
"But you don't love me like that, Harry. You love the idea of me, the safety I gave you when the war ended, we both knew that even if you didn’t scream it to the top of your lungs. You love the safety I represented," Ginny said, a solitary tear escaping her eye. "And meanwhile, Hermione has been breaking into pieces right in front of us, keeping your secret, dying a little more every day because she thinks you hate her for existing."
The words hit Harry like a physical blow. Suddenly, a blinding, agonizing searing sensation tore through his left arm. Harry collapsed to his knees, clutching his wrist. The silver runes weren't just glowing—they were turning black at the edges. The bond was severing itself. Because Hermione was genuinely letting go, the magic was tearing away from his core. If it severed, a piece of his soul would go with it. The pain would be gone, but in its wake an emptiness would take its place. "Harry!" Ginny knelt beside him, but as she reached out, his magic violently repelled her, a localized gale of wind shattering the kitchen cabinets.
"She's at the ministry," Harry gasped, black spots dancing in his vision. The agony was total, a hollow, freezing emptiness expanding in his chest. "Ginny... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Go, you complete idiot," Ginny cried, pushing him away as the wind whipped her hair. "Go get her before you both die of pride!"
The morning of her departure arrived with a biting, gray chill. Hermione’s trunks were already shrunk and safely packed away in her beaded bag. She stood in the grand entrance hall of Nott Manor, wearing a thick travelling cloak and a heavy leather cuff strapped tightly over her left wrist, hiding the dull, graying runes that were slowly dying beneath her skin. She wasn't just leaving a country, she was leaving her heart behind, and the physical toll was glaring. She had to lean slightly against the banister just to keep her balance.
Theo walked up to her first. He didn't say a word. He simply pulled her into a fierce, unyielding hug. Theo was not a man prone to casual affection, but he held her as if he could shield her from the very laws of magic."When you get to Paris, you breathe," Theo whispered into her ear. "You read books that have nothing to do with him. You write your papers. And if you need me to come over and break his nose, you send an owl."
A wet, breathless laugh escaped Hermione’s lips. "Thank you, Theo. For everything." Ara stepped forward next, her eyes bright with unshed tears. She held a small, beautifully carved wooden box.
"I made this for you," Ara said, pressing the box into Hermione's hands. "It’s a specialized stasis charm. Put your ribbon on there when you change them. It will help dampen the feedback from the bond while you're leaving. It won't stop the ache entirely, but it will let you stand on your own two feet until the mark disappears"
Hermione looked at the box, then up at Ara’s fierce, loving face. "You didn't have to do that."
"Yes, I did," Ara said softly, cupping Hermione’s face with both hands, her thumbs wiping away a stray tear. "Because we love you, Hermione Granger. Not because you’re a war hero, and not because of fate. We love you for you. You are cherished here. Remember that when you make it to Paris."
"I will," Hermione whispered, squeezing Ara's hands tightly. "I promise I will." With a final, lingering look at the only two people who had truly seen her pain and chosen to hold her pieces together, Hermione turned and walked out into the rain, heading toward the Apparition point.
Her arrival at the ministry was an uneventful event. Hermione stood beside her trunk and placed by her side as she waited to be called to pick up the port key. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale. She had never felt so entirely alone. She looked at the time and then around the till, half-hoping, half-fearing. But nobody was coming. He wasn't coming. A choked sob escaped her lips, and she pulled her heavy trunk toward the till that had called her for the portkey that would be activated in three minutes. She reached for the port key, her left wrist throbbing with a dull, dying ache. The silver light beneath her ribbon was fading into a bruised gray.
"Hermione!" The voice cut through the floor and the chatter of departing people. She froze, turning slowly towards where the voice originated from. Harry was running through the crowds of people in the ministry, looking frantic—his coat was missing, his glasses were crooked, and his shirt filled with soot from the floo. He looked desperately ill, but his green eyes were locked onto her with a terrifying intensity.
"Harry?" she whispered, her heart leaping against her ribs, a painful, conflicted surge of emotion flooding her. "What are you doing here? Go back to Ginny. Don't do this to me. Please, don't do this to me anymore."
"I can't," he panted, stopping a few feet away from her. He was shaking violently, his chest heaving. "Hermione, I can't let you leave."
"Why?!" Hermione screamed, the agony of the past four years finally exploding out of her. The people around them gave them wide berths, sensing the volatile magic rolling off the two war heroes. Tears streamed down her face, hot and furious. "Why are you here, Harry? To tell me you're sorry? To ask me to stay and watch you marry someone else? To watch you look at me with guilt every single day because some cosmic joke decided we belong together? I can't do it anymore! It's killing me!"
"It's killing me too," Harry said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a raw, breathless plea.
"Then let it go!" she sobbed, pulling her left arm to her chest. "Let it fade! You never wanted me! You wanted normal! Go be normal!"
"I was wrong!" Harry roared, closing the distance between them. Before she could step back, he reached out and grabbed her left wrist, his fingers forcefully burning off the ribbon that hid the mark. His bare skin made direct contact with her exposed Soul-Mark that still had a silver glow to it. The reaction was violent, and an intense brilliant shockwave of silver and gold light erupted from their joined hands, expanding outward in a massive dome that pushed people away. The dead, freezing vacuum in Harry's chest vanished, replaced by a roaring, thrumming tidal wave of pure, golden warmth.
Hermione gasped, her head falling back as her own starved magic drank him in. The sheer, overwhelming relief of the completed circuit made her knees buckle, but Harry caught her, pulling her flush against his chest. The silver runes on both of their wrists vibrated, shifting, the cold metallic silver melting into a permanent, glowing, radiant gold. The light engulfed them. And this is without a kiss, the bond fixed itself once they touched and truly wanted each other.
"I was so stupid," Harry choked out into her hair, his arms wrapping around her waist so tightly it hurt. He was crying now, his tears wetting her collar. "I thought the bond was a trap. I thought it was another fate like the prophecy forcing me into a corner, a role. I was so terrified of losing my free will that I didn't see what was right in front of me."
Hermione gripped the fabric of his shirt, her face buried in his neck. The heartbreak was still a raw, throbbing wound inside her, but the warmth of his magic was already beginning to soothe it. "Harry... you hurt me so much."
"I know. I know, and I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you," he whispered fiercely, pressing a desperate kiss to her temple, then her cheek, until his lips found hers. The kiss tasted of tears, salt, and four years worth of denied agony, but beneath it was a profound, unshakeable certainty. The magic around them settled, humming a soft, harmonious tune that echoed in their bones. Hermione pulled back slightly, looking up into his green eyes, which were finally clear, bright, and free of fever. "The time for the portkey has passed," she whispered, though she made no move to leave his grasp.
Harry looked down at their tangled body, zeroing in onto his arm the golden marks shining beautifully in the dim room light. He smiled, a genuine, unburdened smile that she hadn't seen since before the war. "Good," Harry said softly, taking her trunk in one hand and intertwining his fingers with hers in the other. "Because we're going home." They shrunk her trunk, picking her up like a princess, leading her to the floo.
Six Months Later, Paris
After a long discussion and the unavoidable contract Hermione had signed, and the unwillingness to separate even more than they had, had been hard and made. Harry and Hermione ultimately moved to Paris until the contract ended, with Harry taking the most needed time off he deserved. The autumn air in Paris smelled of roasted chestnuts, damp cobblestones, and the crisp, clean scent of recent rain. In a quiet corner of the Latin Quarter, hidden from Muggle eyes by a series of ancient, woven disillusionment charms, stood a narrow, three-story townhouse.
Inside, the atmosphere was entirely different from the sterile, drafty halls of the Ministry or the heavy, memory-laden rooms of Grimmauld Place. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, throwing warm, golden light across floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that stacked neatly along every wall. Hermione sat at her desk, a quill scratching rapidly against a roll of parchment. For the first time in years, her skin was radiant, the sharp, brilliant spark back in her brown eyes. Her curls, once brittle and wild with stress, bounced with vitality as she moved.
A sudden, warm pair of hands settled onto her shoulders, gently kneading the tension from her neck. "If you don't put the quill down, Granger, I am going to be forced to use a Freezing Charm on your inkwell," a low, teasing voice murmured near her ear.
Hermione leaned her head back against Harry’s chest, looking up at him with a soft smile. "I'm just finishing the final revisions on the International Transmutation Act, Harry. The French Ministry is actually listening to my proposals."
"They'd be fools not to," Harry said, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her forehead. He looked entirely transformed. The gaunt, feverish boy from London was gone. His green eyes were bright and clear, his shoulders broad and relaxed under a soft knit sweater. The perpetual weight that had hunched his shoulders since he was eleven years old had completely melted away. As he reached over to slide the parchment out of her reach, his left sleeve shifted. On the inside of his wrist, the intricate runescript glowed with a deep, permanent, pulsing gold. On Hermione's matching wrist, the identical mark answered with the exact same radiant warmth. There was no static, no pain, no desperate lashing out of accidental magic. There was only a profound peace.
"Come on," Harry chuckled, pulling her up from the chair. "Theo and Ara just stepped through the Floo. If we keep them waiting, Theo will start critiquing my choice of wine, and Ara will look at me like she’s calculating the best curse to turn my hair blue."
Downstairs in the dining room, the table was laden with a mix of French pastries, rich cheeses, and a perfectly roasted dinner. Theo Nott was already pouring himself a glass of wine, looking entirely at home in the Parisian townhouse, while Ara was leaning against the mantle, watching the doorway with a sharp, discerning eye. The moment Hermione walked into the room, Ara’s expression softened instantly. She stepped forward, wrapping Hermione in a warm, unhurried embrace. "You look beautiful, Hermione," Ara whispered, pulling back to look at her friend’s glowing face. She checked Hermione’s wrist— The golden glow of the bond was unmistakably vibrant on her skin. "Paris suits you. Or perhaps... peace does."
"Both," Hermione said softly, her eyes shimmering with absolute gratitude. "Thank you for forcing me to cross the channel, Ara. For giving me courage."
"Don't thank her too much, she’ll get an ego," Theo remarked smoothly, though as he approached, his eyes were fixed on Harry. He stopped a foot away from the Savior of the Wizarding World, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, Theo raised his glass. "You look less like a walking corpse, Potter. I suppose I don't have to break your nose after all."
Harry offered a genuine, sheepish laugh, extending his hand. "I deserve the threat, Nott. Thank you both. For taking care of her when I was too blind and stupid to do it myself." Theo looked at Harry’s outstretched hand, then down at the golden bond pulsing on Harry’s wrist. Satisfied by the absolute devotion radiating from Harry’s magical core, Theo gripped his hand in a firm, brief shake. "Just ensure we never have to do it again."
"Never," Harry promised, his voice falling into the quiet depth of a solemn, unwavering vow.
Later that night, once the remnants of dinner had been swept away, Theo and Ara became immersed in a spirited discussion regarding their own lives and the updates they intended to share with the couple. Taking advantage of the privacy, Harry and Hermione slipped away to the small, wrought-iron balcony. Below them, the Parisian skyline glittered, its lights shimmering across the dark, distant ribbon of the Seine. Although a chill clung to the night air, it remained unnoticed by either of them. The magic connecting their souls had become a vibrant, pulsing hearth, enveloping them like a thick, protective cloak.
Harry drew Hermione close against his side, his arms encircling her waist from behind. As he rested his chin upon her shoulder, he intertwined his fingers with hers, firmly locking their glowing golden marks together. Harry pulled Hermione against his side, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind. He rested his chin on her shoulder, his fingers intertwining with hers, locking their golden marks together.
"Sometimes," Harry whispered into the stillness of the night, "I think back to those years in London and the air leaves my lungs. I came so close to destroying everything, nearly letting my own pride ruin the best thing that ever happened to me."
Hermione shifted within his embrace, her thumb gently grazing the line of his jaw as she cupped his cheek. The lingering pain of that fractured year had finally faded, replaced by six months of devoted love, quiet mornings, and a bond defined by true equality. "We were both just scared, Harry," she replied softly. "You were fleeing a destiny you never wanted, and I was terrified of being left behind. But against the odds, we made it through."
"I know that we have the bond, but I didn't just choose you for the magic, Hermione," Harry insisted, his green eyes boring into hers with an overwhelming intensity. "I choose you for who you are. You were there in the darkness I tried to keep hidden, the parts of myself I thought I had to bury to be the person I was before the hunt. But that's just it—you saw me at my absolute worst, you saw the real me, and I almost threw that away. The thought of you actually leaving is what finally broke me. I know I was being selfish, but now, knowing what you truly meant to me.. I could have let you go and let the bond be broken completely, even if it meant walking with a hole in my heart—my very soul. Hermione I would choose you in a world entirely devoid of magic. I would choose that in a heartbeat. Even if we were just Muggles working in a library, I'd choose you again, and again. every single day for the rest of our lives, and the next one, until the end of time."
Hermione smiled, tears of pure unadulterated happiness glistening in her eyes as she pulled him closer, drawing him down for a kiss. Magic may have sketched their destiny, but it was their own free will that had finally brought them home.