Chapter Text

Chapter 1

An Interview With the Potters

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HERMIONE

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June 2006

“You must understand,” Hermione said, her fingers gliding slowly over the curve of her belly. The motion was steady, almost meditative, as if she were grounding herself in the weight and wonder of the life she carried. A smile lifted one corner of her mouth—soft, wistful, edged with something that hadn’t quite healed. "This story has a happy ending."

The couch dipped with a creak as Harry dropped beside her. His presence brought a familiar warmth, the kind that wrapped around her without asking. One arm draped behind her shoulders, fingertips grazing her upper arm with a quiet reverence. Then came the kiss—light against her ear, teasing and tender.

She recoiled a touch, shoulders scrunching as she let out a huff of breath that was half a laugh. The bristles of his trim beard always caught her off guard. Fingertips scratched at her ear, the movement quick and unconscious. But already her eyes had fallen to where his hand found hers—where their fingers wove together and rested over the small, rhythmic swell of their fourth child.

“When are you going to shave that itchy beard off, huh?” she asked, not bothering to mask her smirk. Her voice was light, but laced with affection—the kind born from years of knowing every version of him.

“A very happy ending…” Harry murmured, this time addressing Luna, who watched them with her usual calm wonder. A lopsided grin tugged at his mouth. “And I have it on good authority you adore this supposedly ‘itchy’ beard.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and let her head fall back against the cushions. “I’d like it to go on official record that I do not, in fact, adore his beard.”

Luna’s laughter rang out like a charm. Soft and chiming, it breezed through the room and landed gently between them. She straightened a little in her chair, pen hovering midair like it, too, was curious. “You say your story ends happily. Why begin with that preface?”

The question didn’t sting. It lingered. Hung in the space between what was and what had been. Hermione glanced sideways. Harry had turned toward her fully now, his brow smooth, expression softened by memory.

He kissed her without hesitation—slow, sure, and saturated with something unspoken. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission or audience. Just truth. Just them. When he pulled back, he pressed another to the bridge of her nose, and she smiled in spite of herself. Their joined hands slid down to his thigh, and her thumb began tracing absent circles across his jeans.

She turned to Luna, who waited quietly while her charmed notepad scribbled on. “You might believe our story first begins when my husband stole an unexpected kiss from me in the tent we shared while hunting Voldemort’s horcruxes. However, it’s a bit more complicated than that…”

“Complicated?” Neville’s voice came from beside them. The crinkle of chocolate foil accompanied his words as he dropped into the nearby armchair. He glanced between bites toward the growing circle of children clustered near the hallway.

Hermione tensed. The topics they'd speak with Luna and Neville about weren't particularly suitable for small ears. Thankfully, Sirius and Remus came into view. Together, they chased the eldest Potter—their not quite three-year-old son who acted more like the ringleader of the growing troupe of wayward witches and wizards in their small chosen family.

Jamie—James Robert Potter—ran to his mum, who gathered him up in her lithe arms and held him on her lap for a moment. Already, he wore round glasses that matched his dad's. Truthfully, there wasn't much of Hermione in this little tyke. He had hazel eyes—much like his grandfather. However, this little mischief-maker mostly exclusively minded his mum. She was the first he hugged in the morning. The one he insisted kissed him last before being tucked in for bed at night.

Sirius frowned at Hermione, dropping his attention to the small boy with unruly black hair. Crouching down before the witch, he sighed.

"Alright, Jamie... What'll it be this time?"

Jamie sucked his thumb, glancing up at Harry before settling his undivided attention on Hermione. "Nothing! I wanna stay here!"

Hermione smiled, brushing down some of her eldest son's hair—a rather useless endeavor. "Jamie, bubba, Severus gave me a brand new book filled with marvelous misadventures and theories. I'll read you one tonight for bed—but you must promise me you’ll listen to your uncles."

Instantly, the boy's face glittered with excitement. "I promise, I promise!" he shouted as he clutched his mum's jumper.

Sirius clapped his hands together, looking straight at Harry before smiling at Hermione. "I promise—no more interruptions."

Harry chuckled and roughed up Jamie's hair with his hand. "That's alright, Sirius. You know how much I enjoy seeing a nearly three-year-old child outmaneuver you."

Sirius scoffed. "Outmaneuver me? Well, James and I practically invented mischief. He's just dangerous—that mind of his."

Hermione leaned into Harry as she passed Jamie to his lap. "It's about all he's got of me in him, isn't it?"

Sirius grimaced while he stood. On his way up, he plucked Jamie up and hoisted his belly onto his shoulder. Jamie's infectious laughter filled the room. "For better or worse is to be determined. I almost feel sorry for dear, old Minerva. To think, he'll have Harry's cloak, my charm, Hermione's mind, Remus' kindness, and James' penchant for endless mischief and roguish looks. He'll be unstoppable, I daresay..."

Harry smirked. "Hermione's already started a small stockpile of Howlers, if you would believe it..."

Hermione rolled her eyes, gesturing to Luna and Neville. "We're not going to start on that again!"

Sirius spun around in a circle, and Jamie's melodic laughter flooded the room—along with the loudest squeal imaginable. Saluting the four adults in the sitting room, the older wizard muttered a quick goodbye and rounded the corner with Jamie in tow.

Neville chuckled softly. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Complicated how?”

Harry’s posture changed first. Shoulders pulled tight. Breath paused in his chest. The silence crackled until Hermione gave his hand a squeeze. Just one. Firm. Present.

Only then did the tension leave him. His expression shifted, lips quirking into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Back at Malfoy Manor… Bellatrix Lestrange cursed Hermione while… torturing her,” he said, voice grating like worn stone. “That curse nearly stole my only shot at true peace and happiness from me—and her.”

Luna’s entire face pinched. Her lips parted slightly before her brows pulled together. Even her pen hovered, uncertain. “Curse?” she asked softly. Almost a millisecond later, she shook her head, humming through a thought working in her mind.

Before the silence could thicken, she leaned in and tucked a strand of pale hair behind her ear. “Before we get too far into this interview session, I’d like for each of you to state your occupations. Many of our readers will like the smaller details of your rather complex story. It’ll help ground it a bit.”

Harry nodded, clearly grateful for the change in topic. He rubbed his hand over the edge of his beard. “Sure, I’m… part-time—I suppose—at the Ministry. Under the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in the Auror Office as, well, an Auror. I stepped back once Hermione started having the kiddos. I suppose it’s better to say that I… freelance with the Auror Office these days.”

Hermione tilted her head toward him, amusement glinting in her eyes. “That’s his convoluted way of saying he mostly stays home to be with the kids. He does occasionally take on an assignment here and there, but he let Sirius convince him to step back a bit more than a year ago to help him with Jamie’s mischief. You’d think a Messer could handle a toddler’s antics, but… No!”

Neville laughed. “The Boy Who Lived…turned stay-at-home dad. It’s actually rather charming, isn’t it, love?”

Luna’s smile was luminous. “Quite! I think it’s wonderful. Besides, you deserve the break—after all the gloom of the war. It’s nice to see you so happy, Harry.”

A sheepish flush crept along Harry’s cheeks. He shifted his weight, cleared his throat, and ran a palm along his knee. “It’s not exactly what I pictured life to be after destroying the darkest wizard of our time, but I rather enjoy wrangling our family. It gives me time to connect with Sirius and Teddy, my godson, and Hermione the opportunity to run the business with Snape… Blimey, our life is strange, isn’t it? Who’d have thought I’d ever say something like that.”

Hermione’s gaze lingered on him, the affection there so open it made her throat tighten. No matter how many years passed, she still marveled that he was hers. That they had survived it all to reach this.

She turned back to Luna. “Severus and I went into business together. Now that he’s no longer teaching at Hogwarts, we’ve been able to officially take on more and more clients and cases.”

Luna leaned forward, notebook swiveling with her. “Apologies, Hermione. But can you tell me the name of your business and the nature of its work?”

“Right!” Hermione’s whole face brightened. “Well, it’s called Prince & Prose—It’s what happens when a war hero and a reformed bastard decide the world needs better textbooks and translations. We specialize in misunderstood magic—he experiments and brews potions and antidotes to the Wizarding world’s most dangerous dark poisons, whereas I translate books mostly found by Aurors within the Ministry. Together, we try not to burn the place down.”

Neville smirked. “Reformed bastard? Is that a direct quote, or can you recommend an alternative?”

Hermione sighed. “Direct quote, I’m afraid—I lost a bet with Sirius, so I have to keep up my end of the bargain. But please ensure you mention that I said it. Severus would hex Harry if that’s unclear…”

Harry chuckled under his breath. Leaning in, he kissed her temple. “Always looking out for me, Hermione…”

She rolled her eyes, though her fingers curled a little tighter around his. “Well, someone has to.”

His lips found the backs of her fingers this time. “Stubborn witch…”

Luna’s eyes twinkled. “Didn’t Severus recently publish a new edition of Advanced Potion-Making?”

Hermione’s hands clapped together, excitement radiating from her like sunlight through a storm. “Yes! It’s the official edition for future N.E.W.T.s students. It’s being taught at Hogwarts this year. Now all sixth- and seventh-year students can cheat in Potions!”

Harry groaned. “I hardly cheated in Potions!”

“We’ll see what the masses believe,” she said, too sweet to be innocent.

Luna laughed again, voice honey-warm. “Excellent! Thank you for your thoughtful responses. Let’s continue with the rest of the topics we’ve established for this session, shall we?”

Harry reached for his glass, nodding as the light caught in his wedding band. “Of course.”

“The curse… Can you explain it a bit? The Quibbler already leaves many of our readers with enough questions unanswered. I’m afraid many in our community still doubt the existence of things like Nargles, Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, and the like…”

Fingers tightened, almost reflexively. Her grip on Harry’s hand grew firmer as Luna’s voice trailed into the stillness of the sitting room. The words hadn’t hurt. But they cracked open the door.

“Actually, we know very little of it. Rather, we know what the curse does… And Severus—well, Severus and I—found a potion regimen that contains its effects. But what, exactly, it’s called, where it originates—things of that nature—we know next to nothing.”

The confession slipped out quieter than she intended. Still, she sat straighter, lifting her chin despite the heat crawling up her neck. “Harry first speculated its existence after… Well, we'll get to all that in a bit. But Severus confirmed it at Spinner’s End the summer after the Battle of Hogwarts—when I was assigned to be his Watcher by Minister Shacklebolt. Even now, there’s little we can uncover about it.”

Harry’s palm shifted. A second later, his other hand settled on her knee—solid, grounding. The warmth of it bled through the fabric of her trousers, and for a moment, the smallest breath caught in her throat.

“The Ministry, in its haste to prosecute Death Eaters, mismanaged evidence from what they gathered at their homes,” Harry added. His thumb brushed softly over her kneecap. “We’ve tried locating books and references to it from the Lestranges’ belongings, but it’s still very much an ongoing investigation.”

Brows drew together, instinct tugging her upright. A familiar fire sparked beneath her sternum.

“The curse actually possesses similar qualities to that of a horcrux,” she said, words clipped now, tight with memory, “but it’s not one!”

“Thank Merlin…”

Harry’s voice had dropped, a sigh woven through the words. His hand inched up, possessive and tender all at once, curling over the inner bend of her knee.

“Anyway,” she continued, softer now, “the curse imbued in my scar similarly manifests emotional instability, erratic negativity, and…uncontrollable violence in those who care for me.”

Every breath they didn’t speak echoed with memory—of knowing, of the kind of intimacy built in small, ordinary hours. Like a thread stitching years together. Fingers slid into hers. Not just to hold, but to tether. He anchored her hand back to the soft, warm swell of her belly. There, beneath her palm, life stirred. A quiet reminder of all they had made together.

Wool shifted. Her jumper slipped from her shoulder like dusk falling from the sky. The kiss that followed didn’t ask permission. It was slow, and soft, and certain—pressed to the exposed skin like a seal. He stayed there, breath warming her collarbone, until instinct pulled her gaze sideways.

Their eyes locked.

It was like falling into the moment, headfirst.

Hermione's breath caught. Their tangled stare felt like standing on the edge of something tender and all-consuming. That bold green hue that painted his gaze—fierce and unguarded—spoke of love not dulled by time, but sharpened. A glint of something playful stirred behind it too, and her lip tucked between her teeth.

She didn’t smile. Not at first, at least. It came slowly, like sunlight creeping in after storm clouds.

Harry leaned in. Chin against her shoulder, fingers brushing the curve of her arm. The weight of him there felt inevitable—like it had always belonged. Her skin prickled with goosebumps as his lips moved against her throat, warm and maddening and familiar.

“Harry…”

The word barely made it out. A whisper shaped more by breath than voice. Her throat cleared quietly as her eyes flicked to the friends seated nearby. The moment belonged only halfway to them.

“We’re not alone, you know.”

He didn’t stop.

Brows lifted with mock innocence. His nose grazed hers, and his mouth climbed up her neck again. Every kiss felt slower than the last. Deliberate. Drawn out. Designed to make her forget anyone else existed.

Harry's breath warmed the delicate skin just beneath her ear before his lips found it—soft, teasing. “Mhm, I love it when you scold me, Hermione...”

The words—spoken only for her to hear them—were velvet-drenched mischief. Just as his teeth caught the edge of her earlobe, a soft kick bloomed against her belly, sudden and sharp enough to make her inhale.

The wizard stilled, breath catching.

A heartbeat later, a goofy smile unfurled—quiet, warm, full of something deeper than words. Fingers slid downward, guiding his hand to where the movement had come. His whole expression shifted.

The playful mask dropped. In its place was awe—unfiltered, reverent. Their eyes met again. This time, the world held its breath.

Harry's thumb traced her cheekbone. Soft. Unhurried. A strand of her hair was smoothed over her shoulder before he leaned in and kissed her, mouth to mouth, with a kind of unspoken promise she’d learned to trust.

When he pulled away, his gaze dropped. Another kick distracted him from his lustful mischief. His grin widened.

Hermione let out a soft laugh, clearing her throat as if to scatter the emotion building in her chest. "The second trimester is Harry’s favorite…"

Neville chuckled, tipping his head back against the cushion. “When’s he due again?”

“Sirius’ birthday,” Harry answered, too easily.

A groan left her throat before she could help it. “I hope he comes early or waits a week.”

Luna’s brows pinched gently. “Any particular reason why?”

“Because Sirius’ head can’t stand to inflate any further!”

Her voice lifted just enough to carry into the kitchen. A beat later, Sirius’s indignant reply echoed back, muffled by slamming cabinets and distance. “Oi!”

Laughter rippled through the room. Neville let out a low chuckle, his mouth tugging into a lopsided grin. Beside him, Luna pressed her fingers to her lips, eyes twinkling with quiet amusement. Harry buried his face in his wife's shoulder with a cheeky grin.

“That old wizard is convinced Harry’s dad somehow played a hand in all of this,” she said, hand drifting protectively across her belly. “That the very son we chose to name Sirius Remus could possibly share his birthday…”

Her words dissolved, breath catching as his fingers wrapped gently around her wrist. When he pressed his lips to her palm, it was slow—intentional. The warmth of it seeped into her skin, saying everything neither of them needed to voice aloud.

Then—

Something softened the texture of his emerald gaze—an echo of tenderness she’d come to recognize in the smaller moments that mattered most:

The way Harry looked when Jamie first wrapped those tiny, little fingers around his dad's.

When her husband stepped through the front door, shoulders bowed from the day’s weight, and still met her with a gaze that said she was peace itself.

When eight years of grief curled like smoke beneath her ribs, and his kiss found her like light through a crack in the dark.

The space between them thinned, warm and magnetic, until his lips hovered just above hers—close enough to feel her breath, close enough to steal it.

“It’s a sweeter way of explaining how this little guy came to be—our best Valentine’s Day yet.”

Her hand landed on his shoulder in a half-hearted smack. “Harry!”

Unrepentant, he rubbed his beard with smug delight. His gaze roamed from the swell of her belly back up to the heat in her cheeks.

“Totally worth it, love.”

Her face burned, but her lips betrayed her—curling with fondness and frustration in equal measure.

“Merlin, how we’ve strayed from the topic at hand…”

“That’s alright!” Luna said. Her voice drifted through the air like a breeze through lace curtains—gentle, light, entirely sincere. “It’s nice to see you both so happy. You know, considering all it took to get here…”

Harry sat back against the high back of the sofa, crossing his leg over the other. Not for a second did he let go of his wife’s hand. “Thank you for bearing with us—my wife is positively possessive of me. Can’t keep her hands off the Chosen One, I suppose.”

The witch frowned. “I’m not going to dignify that lie with a response…”

“Lie?” Harry asked, a playful smirk stretching his lips up. “The only lie floating about here is you denying that you’re obsessed with me.”

Hermione exhaled, slowly. Scratching her hair and fluffing up her already unruly curls, she locked eyes with Luna. The rhythm of the conversation wedged its way back into her mind, pulling her back into the undercurrent of why they’d gathered at all.

It mattered—what they were trying to piece together.

“The curse…”

Neville clapped, rubbing his palms back and forth in quick succession. “Right! The curse.”

“Severus speculates its effects lessen the more exposed to dark magic one is. For example, the curse…affected Ronald quite a lot more than Harry. Even in the early days of watching him that summer, the curse didn’t impact Severus at all…”

Luna tapped her index finger against her lips. The rhythm was slow. Measured. Thoughtful.

“I’ll have to ask if he’ll consent to sit down with me regarding it later on…” Her voice tilted upward as she flicked her gaze between them. “No matter. Tell me, did this curse have any adverse effects from when you activated the Veil to return Sirius, Hermione?”

Muscles tensed before she could stop them. A breath lodged sharp in her throat. Her hand trembled slightly in Harry’s. Layers of dark memories pressed at the precipice of her mind. It all slapped her like it meant to imprison her all over again.

“We’re really diving into it, huh?” she asked, though it came out more like an exhale.

Luna’s voice followed fast. “Once we conclude our series of interviews, you’ll tell me what to strike from my notes. Nothing you’re not comfortable with will ever see the light of day. That’s the agreement!”

A soft smile spread across Harry’s face. It wasn’t his usual grin. This one held weight.

“We don’t doubt or trust that isn’t the case, Luna,” he said, rubbing his thumb across his wife's leg with a slow, repetitive motion. “You’re one of our best friends. Of course, we trust you and Neville…”

Her eyes lifted to meet his. Unspoken hesitation flickered beneath the surface, but she nodded once, just enough for him to see it.

“We want them to understand our story…”

Harry turned to her fully. The shift in posture brought his knee against hers. His hand came up, gentle as ever, cupping her jaw. Then, without a word, he kissed her.

Once.  Then again.

Each time unhurried. Each time carrying something more than comfort.

“It’s not worth it if you’re uncomfortable,” he murmured against her lips. “Everyone who matters—”

“They’re not all here, Harry…” She cut him off, voice cracking before she steadied it. “I miss them, too. This may be the only chance we have to fully explain things.”

“Hermione—”

“I want to try…” The witch's fingers cupped her husband's cheek, brushing against the edge of his beard. She leaned forward until their foreheads met. “Besides, you’re right here with me. Together, we can do anything.”

A breath left Harry. Not quite a sigh. Something looser. Easier. He nodded, eyes closing as his lips found her forehead.

The trim of his beard brushed her skin, tickling the tip of her nose. Laughter escaped before she could stop it.

“See? She adores it—the beard.” The teasing in his voice curled around her.

She rolled her eyes, shoving gently at his chest. “You think you’re so charming, don’t you?”

His grin was all boyish pride and mischief. "All that matters is that you think I’m charming…”

A snort of laughter left her throat. She shook her head, turning back toward Luna. 

“Apologies, Luna. At the pace we’re going, we’ll be awarded the couple who requires the most time for a Quibbler interview.”

Luna’s smile was wide, wicked in that quiet Luna Lovegood way.

“Honestly, it’s a bit reassuring to know that other former Gryffindors spoil their partners with too much affection, too... Sometimes I think Neville is the exception. You know, there are days where he won't let me out of bed before he—”

“Oi!”

A square of chocolate came flying through the air, tossed lazily from Neville’s hand. Luna caught it in her mouth, unbothered.

Laughter bubbled from Hermione’s lips before she could even try to contain it. Harry’s grip around her knee tightened. She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder.

The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. Rich and warm. Almost like old times…

Eventually, Luna’s voice broke through. “You mentioned the curse affected Ron more… ”

Swallowing, the witch bit her bottom lip. “The attack at the Ministry back in 1998—it was the last time all three of us were together. Excluding at Hogwarts, of course.”

“When was the last time you met with him, Hermione? Did that encounter differ in any way?”

Fixing her eyes on the old wooden floorboards for a second, Hermione inhaled and held the air in her lungs while taking in the sight of the piano off to the side of the sitting room. Exhaling, she regarded Luna with a tense, polite smile.

“The last I saw of Ron in any meaningful way was after his trial—weeks before all of us returned to Hogwarts. He was lovely…considering the circumstances.”

Neville adjusted in his seat, clearing his throat with a sympathetic frown. “How did you discover the curse worked through affecting those that cared for you? When did you learn it wasn’t those who you cared about?”

Tears gathered in her eyes, and she anchored her dark gaze on the window. The light caught on the few tears that fell—the ones she couldn’t catch.

Harry tightened his hand on hers. “You don’t need to do this, Hermione—”

Sniffling, Hermione sighed, looking up at the ancient ceiling and wiping under her eyes. “Yes, Harry. I do…” she said. 

There was not a chill about the room; still, she rubbed her shoulders as a shiver jolted up and down her spine. Faces of the past—vicious eyes, delirious cackles, and twisted grins—coiled around her, binding her to horrid memories. After a minute of being unable to speak, she tapped Harry’s leg.

Sighing, Harry leaned forward. Taking her hand in his, he rubbed his beard before speaking. 

“For privacy reasons, I’d like to keep Michael Corner’s name out of this. But during the second term of Hogwarts, Hermione…briefly…dated him. The curse—it forced her into an isolation beyond all manner of comprehension.” 

He swallowed, stiffening when the light caught her tears. Immediately, her husband scooted closer to her and rubbed the pad of his thumb under her eyes. 

The gentle wizard pressed kisses over her closed eyelids, quietly brushing his lips against her temples until they reached her ear. There, he promised her she’d never again be alone—that he was with her until their last breath.

Feeling his wife visibly relaxed, Harry pulled away and held her sad stare as she searched his brilliant green gaze. The witch leaned her head to his, the sound of their impact rather audible. Together, they drew in a slow, deep breath—releasing it in tandem.

Clearing her throat, Hermione muttered, “I had no real interest in Michael, really. I was just tired of it all…”

Luna frowned and pinched her flat brows together. “Tired of what, exactly?”

Harry cupped Hermione’s jaw, his thumb brushing the shape of her somewhat thin lower lip. He offered her a sad smile. “Can you do it?”

A fresh layer of tears glistened in her dark eyes. Hermione shook her head and scoffed. She hated crying this much—honestly, she really did. But here she sat: in the sitting room of Grimmauld Place facing every demon head-on. 

The witch waved a hand, and her husband grabbed it and settled it on his lap. He knew what she needed from him. With another sigh, Harry fixed his gaze back onto Luna.

“I will never be able to accurately depict how lonely she was: no parents, no friends, no family, no home. The only person she had by her side was Snape.”

The wizard swallowed.

“Valentine’s Day of 1999. Michael…attacked her at the Hog’s Head—driven by Hermione’s curse. I was… Well, I often watched Hermione under my Invisibility Cloak back then. Needless to say, I stepped in…before he could hurt her too much. She Obliviated him—used a Confundus charm to fill in the gaps of their sudden breakup.”

Luna pinched her brows together. “And what happened? After that, I mean…”

“I went dark…gave up,” Hermione wiped her long jumper sleeve at her nose. “I shut down on everyone—except Severus, of course. I was so thoroughly convinced I was the poison. That’s the true brutality of Bellatrix’s curse, you see.”

Hermione gumbled a curse under her breath. Reaching between the two couples, the witch plucked a box of tissues off the coffee table. She cleared her throat before blowing her nose. Shaking her head, she shook out the tension in both hands.

“Anytime I got close to someone… The curse actively took root in those who cared for me. A curious exception, though, is that the more exposure they had to the dark arts, the softer its impact was. There was a cruel correlation between those with less exposure and how…uhm, violent their attacks would inevitably be.”

Luna deflated in her seat, her back hitting the high back of her sofa chair with slow malaise. “Any further details specific to the attacks does not fit the nature of these interviews. If it’s all the same, I’d like to shift the questions a bit…”

Harry exhaled. “Thank you, Luna.”

“Of course,” she replied. After a beat, the spirited witch’s features softened a little. “I’m sure you’ll find the next question equally uncomfortable; however, I think it’ll be one of the more productive ones to be asked this session…”

Hermione pinched her brows, crossing her legs on the sofa and scooting closer to Harry. “Go on.”

“What can you tell me of the present state of your relationship with the Weasleys?”

Hermione slid her hand into Harry's hair, ruffling it a bit before brushing it flat again. Her lips pressed to his temple. Before she leaned too far away, he captured her lips with his. Pulling away slowly, he smiled at her and bounced his eyes over each of her features. There was a sadness settling between them—a weight they’d always left unspoken, but never forgotten.

“All mentions of them are off-record for the feature, obviously.” Harry pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “Ron… The way things ended between the two of us is pain enough—though, I suppose leaping head first down toward the bottom of a Firewhisky bottle will do that.”

“Dark days, those.” Neville offered Harry a tense smile.

Harry squeezed Hermione’s hand. “I don’t know how I’d have made it out if it weren’t for you and Remus, then.”

Grimacing, Neville scrunched his nose, considering his reply before speaking. “If I never have to see the Chosen One’s bare arse again, it’ll be a debt paid in full!”

Hermione narrowed her eyes and smirked. “Ah, yes! ‘The Chosen One’s Bare Arse’ certainly draws attention, doesn’t it? Luna, have we found our headline? The Quibbler would certainly outsell the Prophet that day—that’s for sure…”

“You think you’re so funny, Hermione…”

The witch rolled her eyes and batted her husband’s chest. “It doesn’t matter what I think, now does it? So long as you think my dismal humor is charming, we’ll make it through another year together, Mr. Potter…”

Harry’s features lit up—eyes crinkling, mouth tugging into a grin that belonged to no one else but her. The kind that turned boyish in an instant, disarming and impossibly fond. Mischief played at the corners of his expression as he leaned in, voice low and teasing.

“How very presumptuous, Mrs. Potter. If any illusion that I’d ever let you go again exists, I’ll take to the rooftops of Diagon Alley and shout my devotion until even the goblins blush.”

A rush of heat touched her skin. She lowered her gaze with a soft, embarrassed laugh. “Harry…”

“But why stop at that?” he mused. With an air of theatrical flair, he planted a thoughtful hand beneath his chin and lifted his face to the heavens.

A spark of mischief lit behind his eyes, the kind that always spelled trouble—or laughter, depending on the audience. Harry shifted slightly in his seat, already halfway caught in the thrill of whatever ridiculous declaration he would make. The grin tugging at his mouth was too pleased, too knowing…as if he'd found the perfect blend of charm and chaos.

His voice took on a mock-serious timbre, like a man announcing a royal decree. “I shall tattoo your name across my chest in glittering runes that translate into utter nonsense and attend every Ministry gala shirtless.”

“Well, we’re certainly veering back off-track, aren’t we?” Hermione said, a small laugh tickling the back of her throat. “Remind me, Luna… What were we speaking about?”

The soft-spoken witch smiled, her voice a gentle thread weaving through the infant quiet. “The state of your relationship with the Weasleys…”

A low groan escaped her as she collapsed backward into the cushions, head sinking into the worn fabric of the sofa. “Oh, God. That’s right…”

A bite of chocolate disappeared into his mouth as Neville repositioned himself, chewing thoughtfully while the quiet took on an uneasy weight. “Things still tense with them?”

Harry cleared his throat, the words catching behind a pause he couldn’t quite smooth. “We see some of them occasionally outside Order meetings and war commemorations and gatherings: Arthur, Molly, Bill and Fleur, George. It’s just… It’s not quite the same—not after everything I did after…” 

Luna inched closer to the edge of her seat. “After…?”

Silence settled again. The witch shifted slightly, brushing a hand through her hair—long, unruly, bushy with the weight of too many memories. “After what I consider to be my worst memory…”

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

Hermione’s Worst Memory

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

HERMIONE

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

27 May 1998

The smile had barely bloomed before it withered. Hermione stood still on the stoop, breath fogging faintly in the cold air, her fingers curled tightly around the strap of her bag.

Across from her, Harry filled the doorway. The threshold seemed to shrink around him, pressing his shape into something too sparse, too worn. No light reached his eyes; the rest of his features remained fixed. Nothing in his expression acknowledged her presence—not warmth, not confusion, not even irritation.

A hollow stillness settled between them, like something sacred had already been broken.

The witch drew back instinctively. A subtle lean, her chin lifting as her weight shifted toward her heels. Her gaze flickered over him, searching for something familiar in the slant of his mouth, the lines framing his eyes. Anything. But nothing met her there.

Harry didn’t speak. Neither could she.

Time dragged. The seconds extended like threads unraveling from a seam. Thirty of them passed in aching stillness. She shifted on the step, tugging at the frayed edge of her sleeve. Her thumbnail scraped over a loose thread there again and again until it broke away. Then came the nervous bite of her lower lip.

The wizard glanced down, gaze catching on her mouth for the briefest second. The shift in him was subtle—just a breath too long, a heartbeat off rhythm. Like he remembered something he hadn’t meant to feel.

The tension clinging to his shoulders loosened, the rigid lines of his posture softening by degrees. Something beneath the surface gave way—a quiet fracture in the mask he wore.

Hermione's lips lifted by a fraction—more reflex than certainty, a flicker of something reaching toward warmth and falling short. The movement felt fragile, like testing ice that had cracked once before and might again.

“Uh, hi,” she muttered.

The sound of her voice brushed the air like a secret, light and clumsy. As if she’d forgotten how to speak to him. Gone was the girl who'd slung curses and hexes by this boy's side, the courage she'd had even when the Snatcher clutched her as Fenrir Greyback looked at her like he'd do unspeakable things to her.

The silence between them only deepened. He didn’t smile—didn’t even try. Just stood there like the memory of who he’d been was too far gone. Gone was the lopsided smirk of the friend she remembered from the common room or Quidditch games.

“What do you want, Hermione?” It came out rough, her name—like it had been caught on something sharp on the way up. Like it took effort just to push it from his mouth.

Her throat closed around something unspeakable. Still, she kept her voice level. “May I come in?”

His answer was clipped and cold. “That can’t… No.”

Before she could reply, he stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him with a finality that startled her. The clunk of wood against frame resounded louder than any slam.

The air between them prickled. Not with tension, but with distance—like a crack forming in glass.

“Harry… What’s gotten into you?”

A strand of hair hung low over one eye, casting a shadow that made him look even more unreachable. She reached toward him—without thought, only instinct. The cavernous space between them felt impossible to bridge. 

But her fingers never made contact.

Harry's hand shot out, catching her wrist. Not violently. But firmly. A grip that communicated nothing but a cold message. No affection. Not even anger.

Her breath caught. Eyes stung.

Yet his thumb moved.

A single stroke, slow and warm—like a memory waking up in her skin. It undid her composure in a heartbeat—quietly, utterly. For a second, he held her hand. Just one second. 

For a second, it felt like he didn’t want to let go. But then he did—gently.
And in the next breath, he recoiled like he regretted the softness, like her skin had cursed him. The flex of his hand was the only indication of any emotion he felt.

The witch let her hand dangle limply to her side. “I—I haven’t seen much of you since… you know.”

“Yeah...” He didn’t meet her eyes. 

The word came thin and weightless, like he couldn’t be bothered to carry them. The young wizard hands disappeared into his pockets as he kicked absently at a crack in the concrete, eyes scanning the horizon for somewhere else to be.

“It’s busy work…ridding the world of dark lords and all.” His shoulders rolled in a shallow shrug. “Peace is… Well, it’s not as peaceful as I imagined it would be.”

“R-Right…”

Hermione looked away, then back again—completely unsure where to fix her gaze. She knotted her hands together at her waist, fingers worrying over one another. Each second made the ground beneath her feel less certain.

Solid.

Then—something pulsed sharply beneath her sleeve. Her forearm. The foul scar. The letters carved into her skin burned. Not with fire, but with a restless itch that scraped from within.

She gasped.

Immediately, Harry moved. The wall between them crumbled. His hands found her forearm like they remembered the shape of her. Light at first. Reverent. Like she was a spell barely held together.

Harry's eyes scanned her face, searching with quiet desperation. She felt the shift in him before he spoke.

“Hermione?”

The shake of her head was small, almost apologetic. She waved her hand like the truth might drift with it—but the moisture clinging to her lashes stayed put.

“It’s… It’s nothing, Harry. The scar—it’s just itching like crazy lately.”

The line between his brows pulled tight. He leaned forward by a fraction. His mouth parted like he might ask more, but then paused. He settled on quietly watching her.

“H-Have you gone back to St. Mungo’s?”

She nodded, chin tight. “They can’t find any lingering magical traces, and it’s just a dull but constant itch. They have more important patients to bother with…”

A pause stretched between them, his lips pressing into a thin line before he opened them once more. “Have you been by to visit? Snape, I mean…”

Hermione inhaled slowly, a steadier breath than the last. “Yes.” Her voice softened, warmed by memory.

“He’s finally stable enough to be awake. The man was delighted to find out he did not die—that I helped in saving him.”

Harry sighed. A dry, unimpressed sound. He lifted his hand and grazed it over her sleeve, just above the cursed word.

“Helped? Hermione, you alone saved him.”

Her brows lifted, mouth twisting slightly with restrained protest. “All I did was administer a few potions to him. He’s the one who carried the antidote for Nagini’s venom. Without it…”

The sentence dissolved. The silence that followed lingered like steam after rain—heavy, but no longer cold. Something had shifted. Not healed. But softened.

A furrow etched deep between Harry's brows. Something in his expression heated—a tension blooming where the cold, cruel emptiness once lived. Slowly, the heat of his soft stare smothered beneath the weight of something unspoken

His shoulders squared—as though bracing for something. The weight of his stare fell heavy on her heart, stripping away the rest of the world with its intensity. Breath quiet, he inhaled slowly through his nose, steadying himself. Everything left unsaid for months now surged in the space between them. And still, he watched her like she was the only fixed point in an unraveling sky.

Ten seconds passed.

A breeze circled them, brushing the bottom hem of her flannel shirt, tugging strands of hair into her face. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm shrieked. Eventually, it cut off. Laughter echoed faintly from across the street—two young women sharing something private, light.

Twenty seconds.

Hermione's throat tightened, a constriction that felt as though words might rise—but would never make it to her lips. The rhythm of her heart sharpened, picking up speed with a force that startled her—like it leapt ahead of her thoughts.

Each beat struck behind her breastbone. Not with pain, exactly. But with insistence. Urgency. Steady as a knock at a locked door. Something in her body demanded to be let out. All she could do was stand there, awkwardly pinned beneath the weight of his gaze, as her pulse pounded louder than the sounds of the street around them. Color pinched at her cheeks, intensifying with every heartbeat punctuating the silence.

Thirty seconds.

Harry hadn't blinked. Not once. Not until now.

The weight of his stare tethered her in place, bound her as surely as ropes. She wondered if whether he held her together or unraveled her entirely. Pinching her brows together, the witch fidgeted with the button of her right long sleeve.

Beneath the low sweep of his lashes, his gaze fixed to hers with a quiet desperation that made her breath stutter. Unwavering. Unflinching. A slow, aching flutter stirred low in her belly—a soft chaos that curled inward, trembling at its edges, as though it, too, had been waiting for this moment all along.

Harry's eyelids dropped a fraction. Lips parted. His throat bobbed once, the motion barely there, but the clench in his jaw gave him away. A breath pushed through his nose, long and heavy. Muscles shifted beneath his shirt, arms tight, shoulders visibly shaking.

Her eyes dipped. Fists, buried deep in the pockets of his jeans, twitched—hit knuckles straining against denim. The sight shot a bolt of need through her.

Never had anyone made her feel this. Never...

When she looked up again, she caught the change—subtle, but definite. He’d leaned in, just enough to notice. A thin sheen gleamed along his forehead, barely visible between wayward strands of black hair. That stubborn fringe curled around the lightning bolt scar just off-center above his brow.

Hermione’s next breath trembled in her chest. The air tasted sharp. Her ribcage rose too fast, her chest stuttering with each inhale and exhale. Biting her lower lip only made things worse. 

Dangerous.

The wizard's gaze dropped instantly, caught there like a snare. The quiet drag of her teeth over flushed skin pulled something taut between them. His eyes didn’t budge, fixed like gravity had anchored them to her mouth. As though the simple gesture had dismantled the last of his restraint. 

Twisting the fabric at her sleeve cuff, she watched as the boy licked his lips. Slowly. An anxious swallow couldn't hide the whisper-quiet moan that resonated down her throat. Her hands shook. In her boots, her toes curled

Forty-five seconds.

The space between them shortened with a single misstep, soft and clumsy. Knees weak and legs insubstantial, she caught the heavy, sluggish weight of her body as she stumbled closer to him.

Harry's pupils expanded, dilating until the bright green of his irises narrowed to a faint halo around the black. Gooseflesh broke across her arms, her back, her thighs.

When he lifted a hand, he brought it to her jaw with the gentlest touch—so careful it almost didn't register. Their eyes met, and in the breath that passed between them, everything else ceased.

With his other hand, he reached between them, curling their index fingers together like a secret. He raised them slowly, guiding until their hands hovered at chest level. A gentle prod tapped the center of her palm. At once, she loosened her jittery fist for him until her fingers splayed apart.

The boy pinched all five fingers at the center of her trembling palm. With an audible swallow, he traced the shape of her hand with his feather-light fingertips, spreading each of his fingers along the path of hers. 

The smallest contact set off sparks. Eventually, his hand stretched flush against hers. His fingers shuddered. So did hers.

The world fell away. Only that touch existed.

A hum escaped her throat—half breath, half sound. His forehead dropped to hers, a sigh rustling the space between them. 

Their eyes locked again. Swallowed in tandem. His lids lowered again, his nose brushed along hers. Lips grazed.

Hermione's heart surged, banging wildly inside her chest until it hurt. He groaned. A ragged, unhidden thing. Gasping, he stepped closer to her, the scuff of his trainers on the pavement punctuating the world beyond their arms' silence.

Closer now, as if magnetized—made opposite, yet snapped together as though they'd always belonged. When his stomach brushed hers, she felt the muscles there twitch under his thick shirt. With one final step toward her, the hardening, rounded pressure of the bulge straining at his jeans brushed the center of her thighs—real, undeniable.

Her arm jolted up. Her fingers sank into the dark chaos of his floppy hair, tangling there until her trim nails lightly scratched at his scalp. They both gasped. The sound cracked against the row of houses like a spell discharged in open air.

The witch pulled her brows together, tight. Unable to keep still, she draped her arm around his shoulders. Her hand pressed firm against his shoulder blade, fingers digging deep into the fabric of his shirt there. Tears spilled—unnoticed until he leaned in and kissed them all away.

Sweeping his stare across her face, the boy adjusted his fingers against their joined hands. He interlaced his fingers with hers. The effort was slow, achingly tender. The contact settled there like a vow. Without a word, he tucked them behind her—resting low at her back like he meant to reinforce her loose posture.

Leaning in, he dragged his soft lips along her jaw and down the column of her throat to its hollow. He pressed his body into her again, shifting. Hermione responded, arching into him with a quiet gasp.

She kissed his hair just above his ear. He nuzzled her collarbone in return, mouth hot against the fabric. As he moved again, the friction he built between them at the front of her jeans deepened, hastened. His moan vibrated against her skin.

"Harry!"

The cry burst from her before she could think, like something ancient had been yanked from her chest. It rang out louder than she'd meant, echoing down the quiet street with the force that shattered the fragile borders of the veil of warmth tingling between them.

Hermione's body jerked, startled by her own voice—by the sheer volume of need threaded through it. The wizard tightened his hold on her but pulled back so he could meet her glassy stare.

And just like that, the magic shattered. 

"What did it mean—when you kissed me in the tent last year?"

Tension spread through his jaw. A flicker of something unreadable passed over his face. He didn’t speak—at least, not right away. Just held her, his body seemingly unwilling to separate. Then, reluctantly, his hand fell from hers. The other loosened from her face.

Three steps back. That’s all it took... His hands raked through his hair, then pushed up his glasses. Though he fixed his eyes on the pavement, the effort could not hide the color stinging his cheeks. When he looked at her again, something behind them had closed.

"You kissed me back, Hermione…" 

The mumbled admission cracked through the quiet. He fisted both hands; quickly, he shoved them inside both of his front pockets.

She nodded, though it took effort—her whole body felt suspended, barely connected to the ground beneath her. Tears welled so quickly they blurred his outline. Lifting the weight of her sleeve to her face felt impossible, slow. Fabric scratched across her cheek, soaking in the evidence she couldn’t hide.

"And we never spoke of it—not once, not ever. Too much happened all at once, but..."

She took a small, hopeful step forward—barely more than a lean into the space between them. A need to ease the ache in her chest. But he pulled back, subtle yet unmistakable. Like their proximity might cost him something he wasn’t ready to pay. Her heart sank.

"Harry, Voldemort is dead—"

"You kissed him—Ron. In the Chamber of Secrets. He won’t bloody well shut up about it—"

The words scraped out of him like gravel dragged across stone—sharp-edged, broken, full of grit. Each one sounded torn from someplace deeper than anger. 

Harry's jaw worked tight, muscles ticking like they might snap. Shoulders sagging, he leaned back hard against the door, as though his legs could no longer bear the weight of restraint. Like only the frame behind him kept him from crumbling outright.

"Harry, you snogged Ginny during the battle, too. Besides, I had to see for myself if what I felt for Ron could… Well, it doesn’t compare. I spent seven years tiptoeing around him and our supposed feelings. That kiss ought to have made plain the trajectory of my life, Harry. In a way, it did—just not how I’ve always imagined…"

His face twisted—features drawn tight. His jaw slackened for a breath, then locked again with visible effort. It was the kind of expression that made her stomach knot, like she'd peeled open something he had no intention of showing. As if her presence alone split him open in ways he hadn’t prepared for.

Hermione didn’t speak. She didn’t move. Just stood there and gave him silence, the one thing he might still know what to do with.

Still, nothing. The distance between them ached.

"Harry, I need to know if that kiss in the tent meant to you what it means to me."

Harry let out a long, uneven sigh—one that seemed to deflate his entire frame. Shoulders drooping, he rocked back on his heels, the movement uncertain, almost boyish in its hesitation. Then, with a quiet scrape, the toe of his trainer nudged the pavement, dragging through dust like he was trying to erase something that wouldn't lift. His silence filled the space between them, louder than anything he'd said yet.

"Hermione, Ron is my best mate, and you’re with him—"

"I broke up with Ronald last night, you supremely thick tosser!"

He froze, breath held tight in his chest as though the air itself had betrayed him. Eyes widened—startled, stricken, as if the truth had landed like a blow he hadn’t seen coming. Tears surfaced fast, swelling along the lower rims, catching the light with the same clarity as his disbelief.

"W-What?"

"Ron is my best friend, too. He deserves better than what I can ever give him." 

Her voice faltered as she spoke, softening until it barely crept past her lips. Fingers worked at the ends of her sleeves, twisting the fabric into coils that cut into her palms. A sharp, audible swallow betrayed how close her composure teetered. She couldn’t meet his gaze—not yet. Not while her courage threatened to slip through her fingers.

"I’ve known for weeks how I feel about you. I stayed with Ron and at the Burrow so long because I wanted to know for certain there was nothing I would leave behind. And you've—you’ve hardly wanted to see me these last few weeks…"

Still, he said nothing. His gaze dropped, anchoring to her shoes. It was easier, maybe, to focus on the scuffed toes of her boots than the storm in her eyes. Easier to retreat into silence than step into the terrifying clarity of all she'd said.

"Nothing can change it, Harry—how I feel… about you, I mean."

Silence lingered again, thick and stifling—pressing in on all sides like fog. It clung to her skin, coiled around her throat. The absence of his reply grew louder with every heartbeat.

Still, she refused to let it crush her. With quiet defiance, she lifted her chin—barely, but enough to steady herself against the storm still brewing between them.

"However this conversation goes, I’ll still… Well, I’ll always love you, Harry."

Harry’s shoulders sank, and his chest slackened. As though exhaustion had peeled through to his bones and demanded surrender. Arms dragged behind, fists tightening against the door—trembling so slightly it could’ve been missed.

“It’s too late, Hermione… It’s not right. I’ve...shagged Ginny—loads of times…”

The confession landed between them like a dropped wand in battle. No noise, but a weight. Hermione nodded. Not once, not twice, but slowly—as if her entire body required time to accept what her mind already knew. Tears slid unchecked down her cheeks, glinting in the faint light.

“I-I know… Ginny—she, umm… She won’t shut up about it…”

A hollow laugh cut through her words. It didn’t reach her eyes. Not even close. Her voice cracked at the edges, the sound small and frayed. Their eyes met. Glassy. Stubbornly wide. Both too filled with things neither dared name.

Hermione blinked first. Gaze falling to her sleeves, she picked at a wayward thread with deliberate care, as though unwinding that single strand might keep her grounded.

“It’s awful, really. She describes it in such excruciating detail. I’ve told her I’m not interested in hearing any of it—told her that you’re like my…brother. It’s the only lie I know that will be remotely believable,” she muttered.

Her fingers twitched toward the scar carved into her arm. A small rub. Then a scratch. Abruptly, she stopped. Wiping her cheeks, she managed a smile that split her heart in half—sincere and shattering all at once.

“Needless to say, I’ve had to get a bit creative when she gets going and I need a way out of the conversation.”

“I’m so sorry. Truly, Hermione. I never want to hurt you—not ever…”

The apology struck like the dagger Bellatrix had used on her only weeks ago—down to the bone. Her throat tightened. Still, she forced a breath through it, nodding with a shrug that tried for indifference but missed.

“I know how this conversation ends, Harry. What chance would I have to compare to Ginny Weasley?”

“Then why are you—”

“Because I need closure, Harry. Without it, I’d be stalking the shadows in every corner of whatever room you’re in for the rest of my life. I don’t know what I can do to move on, but getting closure is a bloody decent place to start, I suppose...”

“…move on,” he echoed.

Harry’s voice dropped to a murmur, strained and gravelled. Shadows cut deeper across his face, hollowing the space beneath his eyes. His breath came ragged, chest rising in quick succession like he couldn’t quite catch it.

A ripple ran through his frame, shoulders quivering beneath the pressure of words left unsaid. One hand slipped to his side and curled into a tight, shaking fist, knuckles pale with tension.

“Hermione—”

“I’m not daft, you know. Every day, we ran for our lives chasing things we knew next to nothing about. We were alone. Emotions were high—the stakes even higher. We grew too dependent upon each other. It’s easy to confuse those feelings for…something else.”

Without thinking, her fingers rose—drawn by something more instinct than intention. They grazed the unruly fringe that shadowed his brow, pushing it back with a familiar tenderness.

At her touch, he stilled. Then, gradually, something gave. A slow exhale. The softest tremble. When her nail grazed his scalp, a low sound escaped him—part relief, part ache.

“Perhaps I am wrong, and this is something… The point is that neither of us can know that without facing this head-on.”

A breath hitched behind her teeth. She stepped closer, eyes scanning his face, searching for clarity where there was only dark, foreboding cloud.

“Harry, no one else in this entire world knows how it feels to be the Chosen One—what it means to defeat the darkest wizard of our time at just nearly eighteen. There’s no right or wrong way to grieve or transition into this peace you gave us. I don’t know how you feel—that’s why I’m standing here… Asking what this could be.”

“Hermione, this will never be that simple!” His voice cracked like lightning. Pain split through it, loud and breathless.

Her hand found his in the space between heartbeats—cautious at first, then certain. Skin brushed skin, fingertips lingering in a pause before they curled together, palm to palm. Their grip tightened slowly, not from fear, but from familiarity. Something unspoken pulsed there, a quiet spark of shared ache and unyielding memory. Between them, warmth surged—not heat, but solace.

“You’ve lived the most complicated life imaginable. I know that. Perhaps I ask too much, but I’m standing here asking for it anyway,” she whispered.

Air rushed from her lungs in one trembling exhale. The words sat heavy.

“You taught me that the best things worth fighting for are never simple, Harry… I’ll be with you—always. We’ll figure this out, together.”

Harry's hands rose. One cradled her jaw with aching reverence, while the other hovered midair, caught in a tremor that betrayed his restraint. He leaned in—drawn like gravity—but stopped just short. Lips brushed hers in a fleeting ghost of contact. Not a kiss. A question, suspended.

She eased back, the breath between them breaking. Tears caught in her lashes. There was no sharpness in her expression—only the slow, aching descent of acceptance. The kind that hollowed more than it hurt.

“You’re still with Ginny…”

“Hermione—”

“You want simple things, Harry…” Her brows knit. She cleared her throat. “Are you going to end things with her or not?”

Not a flicker moved through him. No blink. No breath. The air around him thickened, as if the moment itself refused to pass. Silence enveloped them—dense—as though the truth had seized his body before his voice could catch up.

When the truth reached her, tears spilled from the corners of his dazzling green eyes. “I can’t, Hermione…”

She sniffed, laughing softly. An empty sound.

“You could, but you won’t…”

“What happened in the tent that night…was great, but it was a mistake.”

“A mistake…”

The word lingered. She echoed it through a hollow laugh as a breeze fluttered between them. Her gaze tracked him. From the frayed hem of his trainers to the halo of his messy hair. The longer she looked, the more her face crumbled.

“Harry Potter believes I am a mistake…”

“NO! I never said YOU were the mistake!”

Hermione tipped her head back, blinking up at the vast stretch of sky above them. Tears slipped past her lashes in quiet surrender. She didn’t wipe them away. Didn’t bother pretending they weren’t there. The fight had drained from her limbs, leaving only the steady ache of truth.

“Harry, I know you better than anyone. You’re running. It doesn’t feel like you are right now, but in time, you’ll look back to this moment and know that I am right. I’m trying to avoid all that… Please, if there’s a chance this could be something—”

His arms crossed over his chest, sharp and defensive. Eyes narrowed to slits, every muscle in his face tightening as if to keep something in. The shift was immediate and unmistakable—a wall, tall and cold, rising silently in the space between them.

“Running, am I? What the fuck do you know about what I feel?”

The witch stood her ground. No recoil, no retreat. Instead, both hands lifted—gentle but insistent—as they came to rest at the crooks of his elbows. His muscles jumped beneath her touch, rigid with resistance. Then, slowly, tension ebbed. His arms uncoiled, falling to his sides.

Their hands found each other again, fingers threading with practiced ease. She stepped in, closing the distance until her forehead touched his—a point of contact steadier than breath.

Noise surrounded them—city traffic, distant voices, wind. She tuned all of it out. Only their breathing mattered. She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. He turned to the touch. A gasp escaped him. His eyes dropped to her lips, lingering.

“Because I tried shagging Ronald last night…”

His hands jolted in hers, a reflexive, visceral recoil. Fingers clenched tighter than before, as though holding on might somehow undo what he’d just heard. All color drained from his cheeks, leaving his expression stark and hollow. His jaw locked, muscle ticking beneath taut skin. When their eyes finally met, his gaze burned with disbelief—and something dangerously close to devastation.

“I couldn’t do it, Harry. He’s not you. His hands aren’t yours—his touch is not yours. We got as far as him unbuttoning my shirt and brushing his hand at my breast over my bra. It all felt…wrong.”

His eyes roamed her features, slowly. Her lashes clung to fresh tears. Fingers quivering against his, the tiniest tremors unraveled what composure she had left. Strength clung to her by a thread, every breath a conscious effort to stay upright. Vulnerability etched itself across her every feature—bare, unguarded, and trembling. And yet, his eyes never left her. He stared as though even a blink might strip her from existence.

“I ended things as respectfully as possible—but it’s only a matter of time before he puts things together. He doesn’t know I’m in love with you. He doesn’t know I am completely yours, Harry Potter…”

Fingers untangled but didn’t stray far. They reconnected at her waist, tugged her close, anchored her like she might disappear. Her name spilled from him—again and again—low and guttural, rasping against the skin of her neck like a lit match.

She barely gasped before the world shifted. He lifted her with a suddenness that startled, spun on his heel, and pinned her between his body and the door with the precision of instinct, not thought. Wood pressed into her back. Muscle, heat, breath—all of him—pressed into her front. The jolt of him hardening against her jeans made her breath catch.

The door creaked open as he leaned into her. Inside, the entryway wrapped around them, dim and quiet but pulsing with tension. A thud behind them—door shut, sealed, private.

He eased his hold. Slowly. Let her body slide down his, inch by inch, until the soles of her shoes found the floor again. His hands didn’t leave. Instead, they climbed her frame, reverent and desperate, gathering her in like a lifeline. His touch made promises his mouth hadn't yet dared to say.

They stood face to face, breaths uneven, trembling with something old, buried, and newly raw. Just two inches separated their heights, but the space between them had never felt smaller.

She could feel it in the way he looked at her, like he had for months now—when no one else noticed, when the fire crackled low, when the silence between them felt more like truth than stillness.

It had never been like this. Not with Viktor. Not with Cormac. Certainly not with Ron.

That had been noise. This was signal, a frequency that guided her home—to Harry's strong arms.

Over the years, her peers sought affection, validation, and escape in the arms of boys and at the height of their hormones. But to Hermione, not much of that ever mattered. Instead, she'd always clung to logic, duty, and the fragile thread that held Harry and Ron together. Whereas most found comfort in bodies and bravado, she'd found it in certainty, in strategy, and in the endless fight to keep them all from falling apart.

As if surrendering to something sacred, his eyes fell half-shut—adoring, aching. He leaned into her, hips grinding in a way that felt more like a question than a demand. The young wizard nipped at her bottom lip, taking it between his teeth and pulling it toward him until it popped back into place. 

"Harry..." she whispered.

Her best friend planted his palms on both sides on her hips. Slowly, he dragged both hands up the sides of her body until they reached her shoulders. Adjusting his hands slightly, he trailed the backs of his fingers down the path of her arms until arriving at her elbows. 

Eyes searching hers, one of the wizard's hands found hers. He eased it over his shoulder so that her hand settled at the middle of his back. Even through the thick shirt he wore, his body felt so bloody hot. She clutched the excess fabric there in her shaky fingers.

Fingers found her wrist, paused there like a question, then lifted her arm until it met the wall just above her head. She didn’t resist. The heat of his breath tickled the space beneath her ear before he nestled into the curve of her neck, drawing in a breath like he was trying to memorize her scent. Their fingers linked, slow and certain.

A shiver broke loose across her entire body—starting at her toes, curled tight in the warmth of her boots, then racing upward in slow, electric waves that jolted her body back to life. It climbed her calves, swept through her clenching thighs, and coiled low in her belly before branching outward—up her spine, along her arms, all the way to her jittery fingertips. Her hands trembled where they touched him, where they held on like he was the only thing still tethering her to the ground.

The young wizard fitted himself against her like he’d belonged there all along. The pressure between them intensified—the bulge in his jeans firm and pressing directly into her. She barely had time to imagine what it would feel like skin to skin before his hips began to move, jerky, uneven, like restraint was slipping through his fingers.

The sound she made was fragile, aching—a hum pulled from somewhere deep. She moved with him, hips clashing in a pace that fumbled somewhere between inexperience and surrender.

Wall at her back, heat at her front, Hermione dropped her head and trembled. A helpless whimper tore free, startling even herself with how exposed it sounded. He growled her name against her ear then captured her earlobe between his teeth with aching slowness. Her grip on his shirt tightened, fingernails catching cotton like a lifeline.

Every nerve lit up in the wake of his touch. Every breath hitched in rhythm with the unraveling.

"Has anyone ever touched you here, Hermione?"

The question struck low—rough, reverent. Its crude nature ought to have triggered any amount of awkward uncertainty or vehement offense. However, none came. The words seeped into her heart, which captured their unspoken meaning.

Breath tangled in her throat. She blinked once, twice, then shook her head. Speaking was an impossible feat right now.

Harry's groan came instantly, deep and guttural, like the answer physically affected him. His forehead pressed harder into hers as his body trembled with restraint, the tension in his jeans still working at the center of her thighs.

“Good,” he rasped, eyes fluttering shut and voice rough against her ear. He groaned, forehead pressing to hers, hips twitching like control was slipping thread by thread.

One breath. Two.

"Have you ever touched yourself here?"

Hermione's breath caught as a rush of color overtook her, spilling from her collarbones to her brow like fire under the skin. She bit her lip, gave the barest shake of her head.

"You'd be mine, then." His lips ghosted along her skin, rising to meet hers—hovering, hesitant—until the barest brush sent a shiver raking down her spine. "All mine, always..."

Tingles prickled at her sex. A dampness she'd only read about and heard from her dorm mates during the many nights in her dormitory soaked her there, too. Despite the heat, her knickers felt cool against her 

The heat in his eyes dulled to a slow burn as they dropped, half-closed, heavy with longing. Their heads bowed together, breath mingling in the hush between them. His hips moved—soft, aching—a grind that felt like both apology and promise.

“Hermione…”

Each syllable from him unraveled, voice thin with strain. He pulled his hands from her body with visible reluctance, just enough to reach the collar of her shirt. One button gave way, his fingers clumsy with urgency. The collar of her shirt loosened, and then his lips found her bare throat—soft, warm, and aching to claim.

The witch clung to him, arms curling around his back with a kind of desperation—like he was gravity and she was about to drift away. Safe in his arms, she let the world fall away. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else had ever come close.

Harry suckled at her throat with aching restraint—no urgency, only need. Lips moved in slow, rhythmic pulls, coaxing heat from her skin and emotion from her chest. She pressed closer, trying to disappear into him.

“Merlin, you feel—you taste…”

The words vibrated against her skin. He nipped again, softer. A quiet swallow trembled through him, and then his tongue moved—slow, deliberate—before he sealed his mouth tighter over her.

“You’re bloody perfect."

The words left him like breath he’d held too long. 

"Never once did you leave me. Never once did you stop believing in me."

Harry pressed a kiss on the spot he'd claimed again—his breath hitching as he held her tighter.

"You were the only thing I thought of when I stood before him—Voldemort.”

Her breath caught at the name. He moaned softly into her neck, the sound muffled by skin and need.

"You said you’d go with me."

His mouth pressed again, firmer this time, as if needing to ground the truth inside her.

"You were there with me, Hermione. You are always with me."

The final words slipped from him like a vow, barely spoken, lips still on her throat—still claiming her, gently, completely.

Hermione moaned his name, helplessly undone. His hand moved—one to her jaw, then downward, grazing her chest until his palm cupped her breast. The gentleness of it nearly shattered her.

She cried out. Quiet. Frantic. Goosebumps broke along her skin. Her name left his mouth again, cracked and trembling.

Fingers reached for her belt. His mouth opened against her throat, suckling hard. Too hard. She clutched his wrist—frozen. Eyes wide, ceiling blurred.

“Harry, stop—not like this.”

Everything stilled.

No hesitation. He backed off, his final kiss at her neck a benediction more than a protest. The hand at her belt rose slowly to her cheek, then fell, brushing the edge of her hair. It curled there for a breath too long.

Her nipple brushed the knuckles of his fingers, and she moaned despite herself. He swallowed, breathing thick. His thumb skimmed the bruise blooming at her throat before reaching to fasten the undone buttons.

Fabric folded closed. Skin disappeared. But the heat between them didn’t. Their eyes met—hers wide with questions, his heavy with grief. Silence stretched taut between them.

She wouldn’t leave. Not yet. Not without the answers she sought.

“What is this? Tell me how you feel, Harry.”

His eyes shimmered. Then spilled. She brushed away the first tear before it hit his chin.

“I—I can’t…”

Hermione wiped at her nose, shaking her head. "Harry, we just did..."

"Please, Hermione..."

His fingers trembled as they pinched the edge of her shirt.

“It’s a simple question—one that ought to be answered plainly. Why did you kiss me that night—in the tent?”

Tears glazed his stare, turning green into glass. His lips opened, a question caught there, but only air left him—thin, weightless, lost before it found shape.

Finally, he muttered, “It’s too late, Hermione. I’m with—”

The witch reached for him, both hands cradling his face like she could will the truth out of him. Her fingers trembled just as much as his did now. He covered her wrists, thumbs stroking the tops of her hands. His grip was gentle.

Afraid.

“Tell me, Harry! I have spent the last seven years of my life fighting beside you—defending you and sacrificing everything for you! I will never regret a single moment of it or any choice I made because of it, but just be honest with me!”

Tears streamed down her face. But the boy's only reply was a slow shake of his head. More silence... 

“Please… Please let me go.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. Time stretched. Her whole body shook. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Again.

Still nothing.

She yanked her hands free. He flinched and tried to follow, but she stepped back, retreat clear in every line of her posture. One hand wiped her face. She couldn’t look at him.

“You... You should go…” His voice was barely audible. Defeated. Ashamed. He didn’t meet her gaze.

“Ginny deserves more than this—you’re lying to her! To everyone! To yourself, especially!”

“It’s not a lie, Hermione!”

He snapped before he could stop himself, voice cracking, not just with fury—but desperation. His shoulders tensed, jaw tight, but his eyes betrayed him—glass-bright, too full. Whatever armor he'd built was already breaking beneath the weight of it all.

“I’ve loved Ginny—”

Hermione drew in a sharp breath, her jaw tightening as her arms crossed over her chest. Her throat worked around something thick—grief or fury, she couldn’t tell. Maybe both.

“But it’s not her with whom you’re in love!”

“We’re not children anymore! There’s no more dark wizard to defeat! Do you honestly think any of the Weasleys would still call me their own if we’re together?”

The blow came not in volume, but in precision. Words sliced clean, sharp with contempt, wrapping around her ribs like a vice. Something sacred, something once safe, turned bitter in an instant.

Muscles in his jaw bunched. Lips twisted into a sneer that stretched too long, too deep, as though he relished the cruelty. The green in his eyes, once soft with memory, iced over with something colder than rage.

Against the wall, her spine locked in place. Arms crossed low over her abdomen, breath trapped beneath layers of panic. His fists at his sides clenched tight. Both of his shoulders drew taut as if disgust had a shape—and it was her.

Air shifted cold across her skin, breath hitching. The look in his eyes wasn’t heartbreak. It was loathing. The kind she’d seen in Greyback’s grin. Heard in Bellatrix’s laugh. That same predatory light flickered behind his expression—unmistakable.

Fingers twisted in the hem of her shirt, clenching tight as if she could anchor herself to the moment. The witch's breath caught in her throat. Every exit felt sealed off, the world closing in. No wand. No protection. Just instincts screaming beneath her skin—this was danger, and she was trapped.

This wasn’t Harry. But yet, here he stood...

None of her limbs could move. She could do nothing.

“Harry?”

The word came as more breath than voice, weak and cracking in the middle. She hated the sound of it, hated how small it made her feel. But she needed to believe this wasn’t him. Not really.

“For the last seventeen years, I’ve wanted nothing more than a large, loving family like theirs. And here you stand wanting to take it all away! I could never be with you—you have no family.”

A sudden movement snapped her out of stillness. His fist slammed into the wall beside her head with such force the plaster shattered inward, skin meeting wood and stone until his arm punched clean through. Dust rained down. A jagged hole gaped inches from her temple. The crack of impact echoed through her bones, and for one breathless moment, she was back in Malfoy Manor again, bracing for the next blow.

Hermione flinched hard, body recoiling against the wall as if it might swallow her whole. A quiet sob slipped out before she could stop it—small, broken, and sharp in the silence that followed. A shiver crept down her spine. Her knees locked.

Her breath stuttered, shallow and fast, pulling tight against her ribs. Lashes blinked too quickly to clear the blur. Both shoulders hitched, and her arms clung tighter across her middle as if something inside might spill out. Toes curled in her shoes. Her throat worked around a swallow that wouldn’t go down.

Every muscle screamed for stillness—from the sharp, unspoken terror of prey caught in open air. A tremor worked its way through her body, but she held her arms close, like maybe if she didn’t move, this would stop.

But he kept going, every word a nail in her chest.

“You think I wanted to get stuck with you when Ron left? I wanted you to go away with him—better to be alone than to suffer your existence a moment longer!”

He lunged. She flinched.

His hand yanked at her sleeve with a force that startled her into stillness. A button snapped loose and clattered to the floor, spinning once before stilling. Her arm, bare now, burned beneath the cool air.

She didn’t need to look.

The cold struck bare skin, and she froze. Heat prickled along her arm where fabric had been, nerves flaring as memory surged. Her breath caught, lashes fluttering. She already knew what he’d exposed.

Not just skin. Not just a scar. A word.

Ugly. Branded. Alive beneath the surface.

Etched into her by Bellatrix Lestrange. Now, Harry dragged it into the light.

“You’re nothing but this—a swotty, clingy little mudblood with nowhere to go!”

The word struck harder than any curse she’d ever known. Her head jerked back like she’d been slapped. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her breath seized. Chest stilled. Her vision doubled and blurred at the edges.

Her legs nearly buckled. One arm shot back against the wall to hold herself upright. She could barely feel the stone beneath her palm.

“Better to be alone than to suffer your existence a moment longer!”

“You’re nothing.”

“Swotty, clingy little mudblood.”

“You have no family.”

She stared at him. Not Harry—not anymore. A stranger with Harry's voice. A stranger who wore his skin and spoke with such disgust it scraped against everything she had once believed unshakable.

Everything hurt. Her lungs. Her eyes. Her chest. The place where hope used to sit.

She tried to blink, but even that felt like too much effort.

The tears slipped free.

Her hands shook. Her arms dropped. Her spine curled in just slightly, a crack in her usual composure. She looked at him like she had never seen him before—and maybe she hadn’t.

Then, something in his face changed.

Harry's eyes widened slightly. Anger fled his features like breath from lungs. He looked pale. Around the entryway, his gaze wandered—lost, dazed, as if searching for something to anchor himself.

"...Hermione?"

He said her name like it pained him. His shoulders slackened. His mouth opened, then closed. The silence stretched.

Her lungs drew a jagged breath. Her ribs ached with the effort.

Not a single bloody thing left to the witch. Not now. Not with the war behind them and peace nothing more than a curtain pulled over the wreckage. Whatever use she'd had to everyone, the war had wrung it dry. And now, hollowed out and discarded, she stood with no home, no coin, and no blood left to call her own.

Nothing. That’s what remained. That’s what she was.

Nothing to him.

And as he stood there—watching her crumble under the weight of what he’d done, said—something inside him buckled. The sharpness drained from his features. Horror dawned in pieces, in slow succession. A flicker in the eyes. A twitch at the jaw.

Eyes darted to the gaping hole in the wall, then back to her—green turned ghostly. His lips parted, but no sound came. When he stepped forward, her whole frame jerked as if anticipating a second blow.

That’s when his chest caved. A sob ripped out of him, sudden and ugly, as if something vital had been torn from the inside out.

“Hermione—”

The walls of her throat crushed inward, making breath a task too difficult to manage. A soft, pitiful noise slipped past her lips as her hand flew to her mouth. A self-preserving scoff came without thought, bitter and breathless. She stepped toward the door.

"Wait, Hermione!"

When she heard his footsteps following her, she shoved him—harder than she meant to—and tore for the door. It slammed shut behind her, it's echo like an ending. Taking the steps two at a time, the witch stumbled on the last one.

Remus caught her just before she collapsed, arms wrapping around air and panic. A sob cracked out of her, sharp and breathless. The sound tore from her chest before she could brace for it—raw, shattering, involuntary. It ripped straight through bone and breath like a rupture.

Her palm flattened over her mouth. Her chest heaved again. And again. Each breath shorter, sharper than the last. Tonks shifted Teddy on her hip, brows furrowed. Remus took half a step toward her—and stopped.

Hermione wrenched herself free and stumbled—shoulders hunched, eyes wild—toward the apparition line.

The front door slammed open with a metallic crack that echoed down the stone steps, the knob colliding with the iron railing. The jolt of sound shook the silence loose.

"Hermione, wait! Please! FUCK! I—I didn’t mean a word of it! I don't know what happened!"

Harry's footsteps pounded behind her, frantic and uncoordinated. Gravel scattered under his shoes as he skidded forward, a hand outstretched in blind desperation. But she turned too quickly—so quickly he faltered mid-step, halted by the force of her fury.

She twisted sharply, the motion fierce enough to send her curls slashing across her cheek. Her chin angled high, eyes cutting through him like a blade drawn in silence. Shoulders squared and jaw set, she stalked forward—every step precise, unforgiving. The heel of her boot dug into the loose gravel on the pavement, scattering it in her wake. Dust swirled around her ankles.

Harry froze mid-step. His breath caught in his throat. A step back—hesitant, uncertain—broke his momentum. His body recoiled before he could think, as if the air around her crackled with heat. Muscles tensed across his jaw, and his brow furrowed, twitching as he tried—and failed—to school his expression. His lips parted, shaping the start of a plea, but the sound died before it could rise.

His hands hovered uselessly by his sides, fingers twitching with the urge to reach for her—yet unable to move at all.

"How else could you have possibly meant it, Harry?"

The question sliced the air between them. His breath hitched. Shoulders rose and fell in short, stuttering bursts. His eyes widened, then narrowed, and then widened again—like panic was strangling any ability to focus. Both hands disappeared into his hair, dragging hard at the roots.

A guttural sound tore from Harry's throat as he doubled slightly forward, shoulders trembling under the weight of his sob. His knees bent like they might give at any moment, his entire frame caught in erratic waves of breath. Hands clutched at his scalp, nails scraping roughly against his scalp before sliding down to cover his face. Each gasp came louder, sharper—his ribcage shuddering with every inhale he failed to hold steady.

Hermione’s posture never wavered. Arms locked at her sides, spine straight as a drawn bowstring. Her chin remained tilted just enough to look at him, eyes unblinking, mouth pressed into a hard, colorless line. Not a twitch betrayed her. Not even a blink.

Still gasping, Harry clawed at the front of his shirt as if trying to steady the beat of his heart. She used the moment he looked away to take another step—closer to the apparition line.

"I’m so sorry, Hermione! I don’t know why I said any of it! I didn’t mean to do or say any of it! You're safe with me, you know that! I meant not a bloody word of it—you have to know that!"

Remus’s voice broke through the chaos, distant but full of concern. "What on Earth is going on? Harry? Hermione—let’s just calm down."

Remus approached cautiously, trying to catch her hand. She twisted her body, stepping out of his reach before his fingers could so much as brush her skin. One hand rose to her face, dragging her sleeve roughly across her nose, then her eyes, then her cheek.

"I don’t HAVE to do a damn thing, Harry Potter!"

The name snapped from her tongue, each syllable cutting clean. Harry recoiled instinctively, a full-body jolt that left his shoulders hunched and one hand flying up to his face. His fingers flattened against his lips, trembling slightly, as if trying to hold in the rush of air that left him. Behind the shield of his palm, his eyes glistened, flicking toward her with a silent, gutted question.

"Hermione, you know me! I will never hurt you—"

Her laugh startled even her. Breathless. Almost hollow. Too light for the weight of what she was feeling.

"Your fist almost collided with my head! You called me a mudblood—among all the other things!"

Gasps followed. Tonks stepped forward. Remus blinked in horror. Neither spoke.

Harry crumpled. Shoulders rounded. Eyes wide and red and frantic. Remus placed a steady hand on his shoulder. But Harry shrugged him off like it burned. His entire focus snapped back to Hermione.

Her body shifted subtly backward, just an inch. But he felt it. And it stopped him.

He raised both hands slowly. Palms open, fingers trembling. They hovered midair by his shoulders, a wordless plea for her to stay. His whole frame shook with emotion. Fists clenched white. Jaw tightened and released. Lips parted. No words came for a moment. Only breath.

"S-Something compelled me to do it... I don’t know what, but PLEASE! You have to believe me! Something happened. We need to figure out what—"

A sob ripped out of her chest and climbed up her throat. Her hand covered her mouth, but the sound still broke free. Her breath faltered. A tremor passed through her shoulders. Her eyes burned with tears that blurred everything but the memory of his words. The sound of the impact mere inches from her head.

Her feet moved on their own. She turned away. Her body leaned toward escape. Every step toward the apparition line felt heavier than the last.

"Hermione? HERMIONE!"

Trainers skidded hard against the stone path as Harry lunged forward, cutting off her path just as she raised her foot to step past the boundary. The slap of rubber soles echoed sharply, jolting her to a halt mid-stride. Denim brushed her leg when he moved in too close.

There was no warning—just the sudden blur of his long sleeves and the heavy thud of his body planting itself in front of her, breath shallow, arms raised as if to hold the very air between them still.

They stood inches apart. Neither moved. Words hovered and died in the space between them. The world narrowed until nothing remained but breath and proximity. His chest heaved. Hers barely moved.

Harry inched forward, as if trying not to startle her. Precisely like he'd done with Buckbeak their third year. His hand lifted—not rushed, not forceful—but gentle, shaking.

Fingertips touched her sleeve. Slid down. Found her forearm. The pressure was feather-light, almost reverent. He raised her arm. Bent his head. Lips pressed to the place where her scar lived, hidden and quiet beneath fabric.

She didn’t flinch.

The wizard's brow furrowed. His expression softened. When his hands rose again, they cupped her jaw—warm and trembling.

His eyelids drooped. He leaned forward. Their lips met.

The kiss didn’t spark—it seared. A gasp collided between them. Breath tangled. His moan poured from somewhere deep, as if it had waited in silence.

Her hands moved without thought, gripping the back of his shirt, clinging to him like she might fall. His back arched forward. His moan darkened, softened into her mouth.

Her body hummed. A flutter spun low in her belly as her mouth parted and her tongue found his. She felt the shiver ripple down his back. His chest pressed into hers as their mouths collided again and again.

A moan slipped from her when he shifted, when his tongue swept against hers, slow and intentional. Her fingers dragged up beneath his shirt. The heat of his skin sent a jolt through her arms.

In his arms, she floated. All she could feel was his breath, his tongue, the unsteady rhythm of their kiss deepening. All she could hear was the soft whimper he gave when she kissed him harder.

And then—he pulled back. Barely. Pressed a kiss to her nose.

They exhaled together. A slow, uneven breath.

Eyes half-closed, he leaned his forehead to hers. Their laughter came light, barely there. A bubble rising between their chests.

The pad of his thumb brushed against her temple, guiding the curl behind her ear with a touch that lingered a second too long. He caught her wrist, and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. Their foreheads nearly touched. Neither blinked. Neither spoke. Her lashes trembled, but her gaze didn’t drop.

The boy stared at her lips again. Something about the way he looked at her cracked something open in her chest. A laugh broke from her lips—quiet, girlish, helpless. He chuckled too, breath catching.

Then, silence.

Harry’s arm curved slowly behind her, deliberate and unsure. His fingertips found the narrow valley of her spine, gliding downward with a featherlight touch. The motion lingered at the base of her back—warm, electric—before trailing just above the curve of her hips. She drew in a sharp breath. Her posture shifted. A tremble rose from deep within and fluttered through her limbs. Her hand moved instinctively, cradling his jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone. She searched his face, eyes flicking between his—like she needed to see him before she let herself fall.

Their mouths met again.

He inhaled sharply through his nose, and the sound of it brushed against her lips. His eyes clenched shut, lashes pressed into his cheeks, and his head tilted as the kiss deepened. There was no rush—only the slow build of something unfolding. A pulse of sensation sparked at her tailbone and streaked upward. Her knees weakened. She rose to her toes with a breathy hum that slipped between them. His tongue moved against hers with a deliberate, languid rhythm—less urgency now, more reverence.

A soft wind curled around them, sweeping loose strands of hair across her cheek and coaxing a shiver from her arms. Tiny bumps rose along her skin, the chill threading its way through the sleeves of her shirt. Their mouths parted, but he didn’t retreat. Instead, he leaned in—pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose, then one cheek, then the other. His lips brushed her skin like petals falling. When he kissed her forehead, her eyes fluttered closed. Her breath stayed caught in the space between them.

A breath escaped her—soft, uncontrolled—as his fingers drifted along her sleeve. The pads of them grazed the worn fabric with a tenderness that unsettled more than it soothed. Downward, they traveled, slow and searching, until they hovered over the hidden mark beneath. Her body went still.

Her lips, parted with the remnants of a dazed smile, twitched once. The corners faltered. Breath hitched in her chest, shallow and caught. Her gaze—glassy with something fragile—tilted downward.

Ginny. 

The name sliced through the haze like a sudden chill. Hermione’s shoulders jerked back, breath stuttering. Her eyes lost focus. A blink. Then another. Each one slower, heavier. Tears swelled, not from the kiss, but from the memory it chased.

Her lips parted, then shut. A silent question trembled in the downturn of her brows. What was she doing?

Images flickered uninvited: Ginny’s laughter in the common room. The soft squeeze of her hand during O.W.L.s. The way she'd stood beside her through everything, steady and kind.

That girl—the one who called Hermione family—was Harry’s. Always had been. Always would be. He'd said that, too. Over on the stoop. 

"Ginny..."

Harry’s hands froze. The line between his brows deepened. A flicker passed through his eyes, quick and unmistakable. His grip loosened. Then tightened. His thumb hovered, uncertain, no longer stroking, just resting there like he feared one wrong movement would shatter her completely.

He looked at her the way someone does just before a door closes. The way someone does when they know they’re about to lose something vital.

The words returned—ugly, unbidden:

"Better to be alone than to suffer your existence a moment longer."

"You’re nothing."

"Swotty, clingy little mudblood."

"You have no family."

Her lips pinched together, the subtle tremble in her jaw betraying the tension bracing her spine. Breath caught behind her teeth, but she held it there—silent, unmoving.

Between them, his fingers curled tighter into the fabric of her shirt, drawing it taut against her ribs. His knuckles blanched from the pressure, clinging as if the warmth of her body might anchor time. But something shifted in her eyes—something distant—and the moment sagged beneath the weight of what neither could hold onto.

"No, Hermione!"

The sound snagged mid-sentence, tearing through his throat like it hurt to speak. His voice pitched upward—thin and fractured—as if dragged through too much emotion too fast. His shoulders pitched forward, jaw clenched, and he blinked rapidly.

"Stay with me, love! Please..."

Hermione tore her hands away from his shirt in one violent motion, breath hitching as she stumbled back on unsteady feet. One, two, three steps—quick, jerky, like her body needed distance before her mind could catch up. Her chest rose sharply, struggling to find air, ribs pushing against the fabric of her shirt.

Fingers pressed hard to her mouth, wiping with a frantic edge, as if the memory of his lips might be erased with skin and will alone. But it lingered—warm, dizzying, unmistakably his.

"Hermione—"

Her throat tightened. Her brows knitted together. "You’re right, Harry… This is a mistake."

“Hermione…” 

Harry's mouth opened, barely. Just enough for the sound to slip free, cracked and quiet. Her name teetered at the edge of his lips, breath warming the sound but never quite giving it form.

A tremor passed through his fingers where they hung limp at his sides. His chest rose too sharply, like the breath behind it had caught. Throat bobbing once—twice—before stilling entirely, the boy looked as though speaking her name had taken too much from him.

The witch stepped back. One foot backward, then another. Shoulders drawn tight, jaw set. Rolling her eyes, she scoffed, shook her head, and turned away from him.

“HERMIONE!”

It wasn’t a scream. It was a breaking. Her name escaped him like a sob forced into shape, desperate and unfinished. He stumbled a step closer, hand stretched out, hovering in the air as if she might still be within reach.

"Don’t leave us—not like this!"

The tug came fast—his fingers curling into her sleeve, halting her mid-stride. He pivoted, stepping in front of her again, blocking the way with the same instinct that had once caught Snitches mid-dive.

She froze, glare sharp, spine straightening in protest. He sniffed sharply, almost silently, and with brows pulled close together, cupped her cheek like she might shatter if he moved too fast.

“I love you, Hermione!”

It hit the air like a confession dragged from somewhere deeper than breath. His knees nearly buckled on the weight of it. The sound shook through him, ragged and breathless.

Tears stung her eyes, and she shook her head. "No—"

"I do! I love you!"

Harry flinched at the strength of the declaration, like the words themselves hurt. Those glassy, green eyes blinked, and tears crawled down his face. His free hand clutched the edge of her sleeve, knuckles paling as he tightened his grip.

"That night in the tent?"

Just for a heartbeat, he looked at her like the memory still lived just beneath his skin. His eyes softened as his chin shook.

"You fit my arms like you were made for me. Just me!"

A breath escaped him—shaky, stunned by his own words. He swallowed hard, throat bobbing.

Hermione quietly wept, shaking her head. "You don't get to tell me this now! Not after everything you said—"

"The lantern light hit your eyes, and they glowed...like amber starlight."

He smiled, barely—just for a second, as though the memory stung and soothed at once. The words came out faster now, unraveling.

"I have never felt more at home than I do when I look at them... You."

With a sharp shake of her head, she shifted her weight back, jerking her arm in a feeble attempt to wriggle loose.

Harry dipped his head against her, closing his eyes. A tremor passed through him. Shoulders shook with the effort of holding still.

"Your chin fell on my shoulder, and I felt you—the source of all warmth in a cold world. Only you!"

The wizard's voice cracked at the end.

"So I leaned in—I had no choice. I had to!"

The next words dropped to a whisper.

"And for a single moment, Hermione, the world was perfect."

The heat of his touch scorched where it should have comforted. She slapped his hand away from her face, breath shuddering through clenched teeth. Her head shook—once, twice—before her voice cracked into the air.

“Harry, I-I can’t do this.”

“You’ve never left me—not once… Please stay with me! I-I need you! Only you…”

Hermione's hand curled at her stomach, twisting the flannel of her shirt in a clenched fist. She cupped his cheek with the other, thumb dragging against the stubble along his jaw. Her lips brushed his forehead—soft, sorrowful, final.

“First it’s Ginny—now all of a sudden, me?”

The boy surged forward, his arms enveloping her like a net drawn too tight. Fingers gripped the sleeves of her jumper, knuckles whitening with effort. His forehead pressed against her temple, breath searing hot against her skin. Fog bloomed against the glass of his crooked frames.

“It’s you—always and only ever you.”

The next kiss came like a storm. Mouth colliding with hers in a tangle of grief and want. She gasped into it, startled—then matched him, her body drawn forward by some ancient ache. Every inch of him trembled against her.

Still—she pulled back. Lips parted. Breath caught in her throat.

“The things you said—”

His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened, hands fisting the hem of her shirt like he feared she might vanish.

“I told you—something compelled me, Hermione. I meant not a bloody word of it!” The desperation cracked each word. “Do you honestly believe that after everything, I would ever say those things—least of all hurt you?”

The witch's gaze dropped to the tilt of his glasses—lopsided and fog-smeared from where he’d cried into her. With quiet care, she fixed them, letting her fingers rest an extra second. He stopped breathing, like her touch had pinned him in place.

Harry held that breath for ten, maybe twelve seconds before it broke loose, jagged and loud. A sigh that dragged his shoulders down with it. She dropped her eyes. Pavement swam under a veil of tears. He shifted beside her, uncertain, adjusting his hold on her shirt again.

One curl, wiry and frizzed, fell across her cheek. The young wizard tucked it behind her ear, fingertips ghosting along the edge of her jaw.

She looked up, slowly. Pain clouded her irises.

“And before? We stood right here, and you told me that you couldn’t be with me. That it was too late…”

A shift passed through him like a ripple—shoulders softening, jaw unclenching, breath thinning until nothing moved. He looked younger in that second. Smaller.

But she saw it.

The heartbeat's hesitation. A flicker of doubt in his eyes. And she knew. They couldn’t fix this. At least... Not for now.

Her arms hung useless at her sides. Voice raw, she asked, “You don’t know what you want… But I do, Harry."

His breath stuttered. Once. Then twice. He blinked, unfocused, like the world had slipped out of alignment. The sound that left him was barely a whisper—but it trembled like the start of a sob. His head dipped, resting against her collarbone, as though he couldn’t stand without her holding him up.

The grip on her shirt pulled, sharp enough that the fabric dug into her ribs. "I want to be with you," he whispered.

"The last seven years of your life have solely centered around Voldemort. Since the battle, have you given yourself the time to breathe? To process anything?”

Harry pulled away from her only enough so that both hands could cup her face again. The gentle pads of his thumbs caressed beneath her eyes.

“I’m not confused...”

His voice wavered, thin as thread pulled too tight. Like it unraveled from the weight of what he finally let himself speak aloud. Each word landed unevenly, stretched and splintered by a truth too honest to sit quietly in his throat.

“Nothing has ever been clearer. There is no moment where I live—breathe—without you. You are the only peace I will ever know. I die the second you leave, Hermione! I love you! I'm sorry it took all this to get here. Stay… Please?”

The sound of his voice clung to her skin. Her jaw tightened. A pulse fluttered at her neck. And somewhere inside the ache, something shifted—just enough to let the thought slip through: maybe. He meant it. He had to! Didn't he?

Her memory answered:

“Better to be alone than to suffer your existence a moment longer.”

“You’re nothing.”

“Swotty, clingy little mudblood.”

“You have no family.”

Every syllable sliced clean through her—precise, merciless. They struck the same places, over and over, like they remembered exactly where she broke.

When Hermione shook her head, recognition seemed to hit Harry with the weight of the whole world.

Air rushed through his lungs, uneven and too shallow to hold. He lurched forward, forehead resting against hers like a surrender. His mouth pressed to her brow—clumsy, shaking, reverent—as though it might tether him to whatever fragile thread still held them together.

“Please don’t leave me… You love me! You said so yourself, and you’re running! Stay… We’ll take things slow—at your pace. I won’t snog you or try anything more. Just be with me? Please, Hermione....”

His voice broke in half on the last word. 

One breath dragged in, shaky and unsure, in her lungs. Another followed, thinner—like her body didn’t trust the air. Every inch of her felt pulled taut, suspended between staying and breaking.

“Harry…”

He surged forward—not with his body, but with words, tumbling out too fast to shape. His voice cracked at the edges, breath hitching between each sentence. Like if he stopped—even for a second—she might vanish.

“We can sort through all the books in the Black library this summer. We can read to each other—start a quiet life... One filled with endless laughter and love. Whenever you want, we can start a family all our own! I love you—I have always loved you. Only you!”

His words painted a dream—one soft at the edges, threaded with a kind of hope she hadn’t dared feel in years. It unfolded like a memory not yet lived: quiet mornings, firelight laughter, a world untouched by war. And it broke her.

Tears slipped down her cheeks without sound, slow and steady. She didn’t wipe them away. Didn’t look away. Just stood there, unraveling, as the picture he built with trembling hands became too much to bear.

Her head shook, slow and small. “Harry—”

“O-Or say you hate me. Tell me you never wish to be with me, if that’s what you truly want… I’ll accept however you’ll have me, Hermione!”

His chin trembled, breath shivering against her skin. He pressed a flurry of kisses to her face—hurried, desperate, landing wherever he could: her temples, the curve of her cheek, the corner of her trembling mouth.

Harry's hands framed her jaw, fingers splayed, not forceful but begging. When his lips found hers again, it wasn’t with heat—it was ruin. Shaking, pleading, broken. And for one unbearable second, she leaned in.

“Do anything but run away from this. Stay—we’ll figure out everything, together. Always…”

Hermione's shoulders shook with the force of a sob she couldn’t contain. Her hands hovered near his chest, caught between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

When she looked up, she knew the look on his face would haunt her for the rest of her life. Eyes brimming—desperate, torn. Looking every bit the boy who lived where his parents, family, and friends died all around him.

His face blurred behind the veil of her tears, but she didn’t look away. Instead, her voice broke through the storm of breath and heartbreak, so quiet it nearly drowned beneath the sound of her own crying.

“Someday, you’ll see that me leaving was for the best…”

A kiss to his cheek. The final act.

“Goodbye, Harry.”

His hands reached for her, fingers curling in the fabric with the desperation of someone grasping a ledge. The cloth wrinkled beneath his grip, bunching between them. His knuckles whitened. There was no force in it—just pleading, quiet and breathless, written into every line of his body.

“No…”

The witch covered his hands with hers, gently—almost lovingly—trying to unfasten his grip. But each time she pried one free, another clung tighter.

“No, no, no,” he muttered with every new grasp.

A glance behind him—Remus stood there, shoulders rigid, eyes glassy and rimmed red. His mouth was set in a firm line, but his expression fractured beneath the weight of what he knew was coming.

No words passed his lips at first. Just a single nod and a slow step forward. Each movement cost the werewolf something. The grief was there—in the stillness of his body, in the way his gaze never left Harry's trembling form.

“I’m so sorry, Harry…” Hermione closed her eyes as Remus looped his arms beneath Harry’s. “Time to let her go, Harry.”

She shook her head, almost like she didn't believe what she was seeing, doing, inflicting. When Remus managed to pry one of Harry's hands off of her, she stepped back. Only once.

“Hermione?”

A sob burst from her chest as Remus tugged him back, his arms locking around Harry’s torso. Harry thrashed in his grip, legs braced, heels skidding across the pavement as if sheer will alone might hold him to her. His whole body arched forward, desperate to resist, to stay close, to stay touching.

Harry didn’t scream at first—just a sharp exhale, like the world had been knocked out of him. Then came the struggle—like a drowning man clawing for the surface, unwilling to be pulled from the one thing keeping him afloat.

“HERMIONE!”

It fractured in his lungs—sharp, guttural, animal. A cry not meant for words, but for loss so deep it warped the shape of language. It left his mouth like he choked on it, like the breath it cost to speak her name was the last one he would draw. 

The sound hit the street and disintegrated—like it had nowhere to land. It punctuated the exact moment he became a boy who had run out of things to lose. It was the same cry that ruptured his mortal body after Sirius fell through the Veil. But now, it came with the knowledge that he was the one she chose to leave behind.

The witch covered her mouth with a hand. She stepped back. Then took another. He lunged—hands outstretched as he broke through Remus' hold, desperate to catch some part of her.

“HERMIONE!”

If she did not run, he would catch her. So she turned around and ran.

Behind her: the sound of rubber soles squeaking and the hard thud of knees on pavement.

“Please, Hermione!”

Crack.

The world vanished. She reappeared in Gwydir Forest Park.

No voices. No footsteps. Just birdsong and breeze.

She wandered deeper, further from the trail, into the quiet unknown. There, beside a stream and nestled between three ancient trees, she began to cast. Wards flared. Shields rose. Enchantments echoed from her lips like second nature.

When the tent stood, she stepped inside and collapsed onto the lower bunk. The mattress groaned beneath her weight. She stared. At the corner. The place it all started. The dance.

A breath caught in her throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth. The first sob wrenched out of her—silent, but searing.

It didn’t stop. Not for hours.

Every so often, another Patronus message flew into the tent. Remus, Ron, Kingsley, Minerva, Ginny, Molly, and Tonks.

She answered not a single one.

But when the stag pranced through the flap, she covered her ears with her hands. The message was lost to the moment, and eventually, it faded into nothing.

Nothing.

"Better to be alone than to suffer your existence a moment longer."

"You’re nothing."

"Swotty, clingy little mudblood."

"You have no family."

The war was over. Her use to everyone was done. Even to herself.

Nothing. She was—had—nothing...

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

Until the Stars Burn Dark

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

HARRY

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

27 May 1998

The ceiling spun—slowly, lazily, like the world had lost interest in balance. Shadows from the crooked chandelier curled in the corners like smoke. Somewhere between the blur of firewhisky and grief, Harry lay half-sunken into the mattress, the sheets twisted beneath him like ropes.

Air dragged through his lungs, too thick. His arms wouldn’t move. Not really. Even his head, when he tried to tilt it, felt carved from stone. Only his eyes moved—barely—heavy beneath lids swollen and raw.

The door hadn’t opened.

Not that he’d heard.

Still—he felt it. A weight. Soft. Familiar. Dipping the mattress behind him, slow enough to stir the shallow fog in his brain.

"Harry? What's going on? What's the matter?"

It was her. It had to be. His heart surged against the weight in his chest, pounding loud enough to drown the rest of the world out. That voice—soft, concerned, just as he remembered it—stretched across the broken places inside him like a healing charm. Of course she came back. Of course she found her way to him. She always did.

His breath caught.

“You’re here!” he slurred.

The words spilled out of him, half-formed and broken at the edges, but laced with something unfiltered—raw and radiant. Like a child discovering light again after weeks in the dark. His lips parted, trembling, as though even speech might betray how fragile the moment was. A sob nearly followed but caught somewhere in his throat, too tangled in disbelief to surface.

His vision swam, but the shape beside him remained—blurred, yes, but there. Solid. Real. The certainty in his voice wasn’t born of logic, but longing. A fierce, reckless need to believe that some part of her had come back, that her absence had only ever been a test and he had passed by enduring it. That if he just held on, if he just said nothing more, she wouldn’t vanish again.

Joy splintered from his throat, ragged and slurred, but threaded with something pure. Desperate. Hope cracked open wide, pouring out of him like blood from a reopened wound.

His body didn’t rise to meet her. Couldn’t. But his soul lurched forward like it might tear itself from the wreckage to greet her.

A breath. Then—

“Of course, I’m here, Harry. Remus—”

Her voice—no, not hers. Not quite. The cadence was off, just enough to make something at the edge of his mind flinch. But the warmth in it, the softness, the sheer closeness of it—it was enough.

Enough for a heart strung thin by silence. Enough to steady a soul unraveling at the seams. Enough to make him forget—if only for a moment—that she’d gone. Just enough to tether him to the fantasy before it frayed.

In the haze, it passed for her.

Harry clung to it like breath in deep water, let it wrap around the hollowness inside him until fantasy became fact. His brain, pickled in firewhisky and aching memory, grabbed hold with trembling fingers and refused to let go.

Because the alternative—that she wasn’t here, hadn’t come back, that he was alone—was a truth too cruel to survive.

He hiccupped. The sound fractured, like glass beneath pressure, then warped into silence. Whatever she'd said slipped away before it could land, stolen by the sharp buzz swelling in his ears. He strained to listen, desperate for even a syllable, but it was like trying to catch light with his hands—slipping through, untouchable.

His throat tightened. Not from tears, not yet, but from the unbearable closeness of a voice he thought he’d lost forever. Her voice—gentle, melodic, barely audible through the static—but still enough to unravel him. Just the sound of it felt like mercy, a thread stitching closed the raw wound she left behind.

And if he couldn't make out the words? It didn’t matter. Her voice was here. She was here. That was enough.

Hermione had come back to him!

The syllables of her lovely, singular name smeared together, like ink in rain. Only her name flickered in his mind, but the shape of it died on his tongue before his lips could form it. One word. A single utterance of the sweet word—and she might disappear all over again—and this time, he wouldn’t survive it.

So it was never her name he spoke—grunted between the thin veil of pleasure she gave to him here.

Ears pulsed. A ringing built in his head until her words dropped out entirely. And still—he believed.

Even as fingers slid beneath his shirt. Even as a mouth pressed to his jaw, then lower. Even as clothes were tugged and peeled and discarded like silence, he believed. His limbs, clumsy and numb, responded more to instinct than will—guided by warmth, by breath, by illusion.

Love.

Somewhere deep inside, something warned him. Whispered that this wasn’t real. That the voice was wrong, the cadence wholly familiar but not hers.

But he buried it.

Drowned it beneath the friction of skin and heat, the consuming ache—the bone-deep hope—that breath alone could rewrite the truth, inscribe her love into the parchment of his skin. That this time—just this once—it wouldn’t end in loss. He chased the ghost of her through touch, pretending every tremble, every moan belonged to the girl he'd never stopped aching for.

Not once did he speak her name.

Not even when lips brushed his neck. Not even when her perfect lips fit around the shape of his prick with a bit too much confidence. Not even when he whispered things he'd squashed—compacted—down into the confines of his heart for months. Not when he came undone with her, her body convulsing and trembling.

The fantasy hung by a thread, delicate and shimmering. A single word could unravel it all.

So he kept silent. Eyes closed. Heart open.

The scent of her hair—wrong, but not enough to break him. The way she touched him—rougher, more assertive. What he offered in devotion, she returned in dominance—ripping softness away before it could settle. Each time he touched her with any measure of reverence, she countered with frantic pressure, pace, pain—an edge that determined to deny him the illusion of the love he felt for only one.

But through the static of the frequency of this fantasy, it was close enough. 

Harry clung to every illusion like it might slip between his fingers if he looked too hard. Every breath he took tasted of longing, not lust. Every movement slow, reverent, a prayer whispered with his hands.

He kissed her like he'd been waiting years. Touched her like he feared she’d disappear. Inside that aching blur of heat and noise and illusion, he gave himself away—not to the girl above him, but to the ghost he’d conjured from memory and desperation.

And he made love to her like she was Hermione. Because, in his mind, she was. Because if she wasn't, he didn't want this.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

June 2006

The moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind her, it echoed soft and final in the quiet.

Harry leaned up on his elbows, bare chest rising slow and steady. The sheets, rumpled from the restless wait, clung to his lower half. Only his pyjama bottoms remained.

Hermione’s voice carried through the stillness as she ran a hand over the top of her head, fingers raking into the tangle of curls already beyond taming.

“I don’t know how we’ll ever be able to reasonably send Jamie away to Hogwarts, Harry.”

Her fingers tangled tighter in her hair, voice trailing as her gaze dropped to the floor.

“Just me leaving the room at night sends him to fits… I can only hope the twins fare better. I don’t know where I went wrong with him..."

Harry smirked, the motion lazy and crooked as he pushed himself up higher. His shoulders rolled back, spine stretching until the muscles along his abdomen flexed beneath the dim bedroom light. One arm bent at the elbow, steadying his weight. The other rose so he could rake his hand through the mess of his dark hair, fingers twitching with a restlessness he didn’t bother to hide.

Every inch of her told the truth—the way she chewed the inside of her cheek while trying to appear calm, the slight shake at her chin, how her arms folded over her chest like armor, the gentle tremble in her exhale. Unconsciously, his wife rocked gently on the balls of her feet, like the floor itself could no longer steady her.

Harry felt it all like second skin, each signal a silent tug on the thread connecting them. Something in him broke open.

The slight sag of her shoulders, the way her lashes fluttered low to shield the exhaustion in her eyes—these were the moments that gutted him. Time passed—no matter how much. Still, she clung to silence like it was a safer, softer solace than the world’s scrutiny. It was like she vanished from the world altogether—no matter how much it screamed her name. Like she forgot she deserved to be seen. To take up space.

Since the day they met on the train, Hermione had been the weaver, the needle, and the thread of their trio—carrying, protecting, defending, and bleeding for them without expectation or complaint. 

From the moment he saw her again in Australia, he vowed—quietly, deeply, and in perpetuity—to meet the monsters that waged a war in her soul. To stand beside her where no wand, no goblin-made sword, or chosen one prophecy could reach. Only presence. Even if it left his chest cracked and hollow, he’d scream into the dark until it carried her back—or claimed him with her. Until love was all that could keep away the shadows crawling just beyond reach.

“Love…” he murmured.

The single syllable weaved through the air—though its texture was soft as silk, it frayed at the edges by everything he couldn’t fit into the expanse of a single breath. It spilled from him like prayer—quiet, aching, helpless. But the gentle word reached her.

A sharp gasp. Unfocused blinking, then sharpening. With a small shake of her head, Hermione came back to him. Only him. The wall behind her heavy gaze cracked just enough for the light to pour through. Something eased in her. One tear-bound smile, and he was wrecked—his whole body aching to kneel, to hold, to promise.

Merlin, Harry loved her.

The urge to cradle the witch in his strong arms nearly scorched his every nerve to ash. Proximity, too soon, could drag her deeper into whatever storm she’d barely climbed out of. So, he didn’t move.

His wife cleared her throat and tugged at the hem of the jumper that swallowed her frame. Her hands slipped behind her back, gripping each other as she leaned into the door for support, eyes fixed to his with startling clarity.

Before she could retreat back into herself, he spoke—voice low, but sure. “You, Hermione Potter, are the best mum in the whole bloody world. You’ve gotten nothing wrong with Jamie. It’s in his blood, his need for you…”

The wizard watched her carefully. The way her body barely shifted and her eyes dropped to the floor betrayed her thoughts. She wanted to believe him—desperately so. But she didn’t know if she was allowed to. Like if she waited at the door in silence long enough, he’d give her the permission she seemed to need.

Legilimency was unnecessary to know it—to see it all there.

A second later, Hermione’s lovely earthy eyes snapped to his, rooting like a snare and halting her mid-thought, mid-motion. It was his voice that tethered her to him with a single thread, invisible but unbreakable. The second their eyes met, the air changed—charged and thick. It was the kind of silence that shimmered. Intimate. Feral. Soft.

Hermione’s gaze softened. His skin prickled. A slow shiver rolled down his spine, goosebumps erupting in its wake. The air left his lungs in a quiet rush. The hair on his arms lifted like her stare had become touch itself. No matter how much time passed, those eyes alone breathed straight through his flesh.

The muscles in his thighs twitched beneath the weight of his stillness, and his shoulders eased—not a bit in control at the moment, simply responding to her. His tight abs clenched. To steady himself, he fisted the blanket.

Nothing broke their heated stare—not even the swell of the thick, long cock she fit so perfectly tenting his pyjama bottoms. Their bodies spoke a primal, sensual language that no mouth could ever shape. Only with her was this possible.

She swayed just slightly, her chest rising in a breath she hadn’t meant to take. Her eyes changed—glinting with something quiet. That quiet, trembling smile held an expansive universe—one to where he entirely belonged in perpetuity, one fortified in the weight of her love.

His wife’s sultry smile softened, sweetening as she swallowed. “Quidditch is in Jamie’s blood. An endless thirst for knowledge is in his blood. Merlin help us all, James Potter is in his blood! But your possessiveness, Harry?”

Harry’s lopsided grin earned him only her disapproval. Hermione narrowed her eyes and pinned them on him. It did nothing to soothe the erection he suffered. Shifting forward, he scooted to the edge of the bed, palms resting on his knees.

“You love it, Mrs. Potter,” he muttered. 

Folding her arms over her chest, the witch sighed. “Mr. Potter, your possessiveness—it more than works for us. You need me too much, and I crave to be needed. But Jaime learned this behavior. And despite what you say, nothing changes the fact that it’s our fault! Much of the first two years of our marriage were spent within these walls. At the time, it was for the best, but I worry we’ve ruined him…”

Harry rubbed a hand over his face, fingers scratching at his beard before dropping back to his knee. “Ruined? That’s a bit too harsh a word for it.”

The small crease between her brows pinched. Shoving a hand through her hair, she scratched at her scalp, inflating the wild curls he adored. The witch scratched at her stomach before playing with the ends of her long sleeves. 

The sight tugged at him.

“Our son can barely let me leave the house to go to work,” she said.

‘Our son.’

It was a truth that never failed to level him. His smile curved softly, caught somewhere between awe and ache—but she missed the weight behind it. So thoroughly did her worry distract her. Her expression shifted, arms folding tight across her chest like armor.

“It’s a problem, Harry…”

“Hermione…”

Though her name tenderly passed his lips, there was nothing soft in its weight. His voice was velvet-draped steel, soaked in affection but thick with authority. Expectation. It struck her like a wand command, absolute and spoken by the man to whom she surrendered.

That she—the strongest, brightest witch of their age—conceded some control to him always struck something primal in him. Every time she yielded, she carved her vows into his skin. A promise made real: that she’d never again leave him, that she chose him, that they’d stitched their fragmented souls together long ago.

It was a sacred thing, the way she folded into him with nothing but breath and trust. Every time, it made him feel unworthy—like he clutched something divine with slippery hands. Unclean, undeserving. But she let him anyway. She tended to his control—not with obedience, but with trust.

Love.

Pathetic as it was, Hermione met it without judgment.

Before her, connection never mattered. Just an echo of dark dominance laced with a wayward, warped need to punish—himself and the willing women that craved the crude, consensual cruelty. Such punishment hadn’t been anything more than a desperate, feeble attempt to quiet the wails of wanting who he could never have. They let him command their bodies, and he had. But none of it touched the ache Hermione had carved in him long before she was ever his.

Every night with someone else had been a lie he told with his body. He bent them how he pleased, whispered shocking things meant to humiliate them, and handled them like they alone were the reason for the Hermione-sized hole in his life. He’d used sex like a weapon—each night a battle against his own hollow chest. They didn’t mind it—the pain. The women he’d taken begged for it. They came to him in droves, drunk on the fantasies only a war hero could inspire. He’d welcomed them, punished them for not being her.

Early in their marriage, the witch claimed their lovemaking was safe. Safe—it was a word he still didn’t fully know what to do with. It echoed through him, reverberating off each one of his ribs until it nailed to his heart. 

The Boy Who Lived, they called him. The Chosen One…

Over the years, The Prophet tossed a few other ridiculous monikers to his collection: Voldemort’s Vanquisher, the Hero of the Wizarding World, the Golden Boy, the Hero of Heartbreaks and Hangovers, Patron Saint of Pub Crawls, The Quidditch-Quaffing Casanova, the Boy Who Shagged, the Boozy Bachelor of the Auror Office, the Hiccupping Horcrux Hunter, Saint Potter the Sloshed.

Hogwash—all of it. Well, the over-aggrandized aliases, at least.

The point is that Harry Potter didn’t deserve any of it—her or her love. But she chose him anyway. Forever would they choose each other. Never would he choose anything—anyone—else. Not again.

Hermione Potter—Merlin, he loved how those two words anchored his heart—did not require a single thing from him. Didn’t need him to be strong. Didn’t want him to perform. She only asked for him—just the man who kissed her shoulder when she cried and learned every secret spot that made her laugh. 

She was his truth—and he was hers. Always.

Power used to mean control, and control had only been a weapon that inflicted upon others the same torment that hollowed him. But with her, gentleness was their shield—cocooning them within each other until flesh melted away and all that remained was their singular magic. Every look she gave him rewrote the agony of the past. Every touch untangled knots he always thought permanent. 

Theirs was the kind of power that came in small, quiet moments: when her breath tickled his throat as her trembling body took him, when neither of them could make sense of their tangled limbs and heaving chests, when trust shimmered in her gaze after he instructed her what to do next.

Together, they’d built something unshakable—a foundation layered with gentleness, woven through with truth, and anchored in peace. Never in Harry’s life had he known what it felt like to stand on something that wouldn’t give way. But she gave him that. And in doing so, the storm of who he used to be calmed. That old ache to control every inch of his world dulled beneath her touch.

Hermione was his safety.

“Harry?”

The sight of her squeezed his heart, a vise of tenderness and want that stole the very breath from his lungs. That he could feel so much without having her close or even touching her was equal parts unbearable and sacred. 

Her grounded gaze—once bright with that aching obedience she offered only him—lost its edge, softening with a question buried somewhere deep within her mind.

In the time he took to marvel at her splendor, Harry hadn’t spoken a request.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

Swallowing hard, he sat a bit taller. Rather than speak, he outstretched his arm toward her, the slow extension of his palm a silent plea. It trembled—from the overwhelming weight of what it meant to ask and be given this kind of love.

The hush of her soft footsteps sent ripples of tingles up and down his spine. Closer, she came. Never close enough. Hermione reached for him. The warmth of her fingertips seared his hand. When her fingers reached the heel of his palm, Harry twisted his wrist so that his hand spread flush against hers. Together, they tangled their fingers, folding over each other’s knuckles. 

Harry stroked her with his thumb. “The only thing that would make the moment perfect is having my wife in my arms.”

Hermione smirked, easing her free hand to cup the thick, trim beard along his jaw. Humming, the witch leaned down and tried to steal a kiss. But when his crooked grin curved his lips, she groaned. She settled her forehead against his.

“I thought you wanted to have me in your wicked way, husband.”

The wizard shook his head, his eyes falling closed as he nuzzled her cheek with his nose. The scent of this woman both drove him mad with want and settled something buried deep within him. Quickly, he brushed his lips from her cheek to her temple. The effort earned him a satisfied moan—a quiet sound that melted him twice over.

“I always want you—in wicked ways or otherwise,” he replied.

Hermione dragged her thumb over his beard at his jaw, kissing his forehead before he reached under her heavy jumper and tickled the dip of her spine. His wife stood at her full height, and he rested his head between the shallow valley of her breasts.

“But?”

Opening his eyes, he glanced up at her, his chin settling at her chest. Hermione shoved the hand at his jaw through his floppy dark hair. Licking his lips, Harry smiled up at her. 

Shaking his head, he said, “Tonight, I just want to be with you. I’ll coax another round out of you tomorrow—Merlin knows, your hormones won’t demand less.”

Hermione chuckled, the effort more air than sound. “You and the damn second trimester…”

“Hey, it’s not only the magic-crippling shagging I endure.”

“Endure it, do you?” she asks, quirking her brow in an attempt to stifle her grin. “Perhaps the Ministry ought to award you with an Order of Merlin, First Class for such a selfless act of service and inspiring show of bravery.”

Harry shrugged. “I have one of those already…”

“Yes, I remember when they gave it to you…” Hermione sighs, brushing some more of his hair back. “Only days after the battle, and you could hardly stand my presence.”

“Oh, your presence, I most certainly endured. Poorly, but I endured it all the same.”

The witch brushes his bottom lip with her thumb, searching his eyes with the crushing weight of all they suffered to ultimately bring them together. “Careful, Mr. Potter… We’re treading awfully close to the one argument you’ll never concede.”

The wizard pressed a kiss in between both of her breasts, sliding his free hand to her arse and squeezing her there. Like always, the pressure did not inflict. It imbued a fragile balance of equal parts possession and peace.

Harry straightened his spine, leaning back slightly as he pressed on her bum. Instinctively, she stepped toward him, erasing the thin distance between them. He spread his legs wider as she neared. Slowly, he slid his hot palm down—settling high on the back of her thigh. 

Swallowing, the witch disentangled their hands so she could snake her arm across the back of his shoulders. When he delicately pinched at her supple thigh, she gasped, her knee immediately bending—to his will, high enough to dip the edge of the mattress just beside his hip with her lithe weight. It creaked as she hoisted her other knee onto their bed so she could straddle her husband.

A shiver tickled up and down his fingers, popping through him until every nerve prickled. All that separated them was two layers of thin pyjama bottoms. The heat of her sex nearly burned him alive. When her arse settled in his lap, his prick jerked in response.

Both of her brows lifted, daring him. Silently challenging him. Her nails scraped slowly across his shoulders, teasing at the edge where control began to fray. Down his arms, her fingers dragged trails of fire. Then—her teeth sank into her intoxicating lip, slow and cruel. 

“Still only want to be with me tonight?”

Harry nearly groaned aloud. Stars, he loved this witch—the mother of his children, the center of his universe.

Sighing, he grumbled, “Of course not… But something is on your mind. Tonight, we’ll talk, we’ll grow tired, and then you’ll fall asleep in my arms. None of the nightmares will take you—and neither shall I. Let’s just be, Hermione.”

Hermione nodded, leaning in until she stole a chaste kiss from his lips. Harry wrapped both arms around her body, holding her to him like the world meant to steal her. Between them, their son kicked at her belly, which pressed high on his abdomen.

“Lovemaking is most certainly a lovely perk of the second trimester, love. But I could tie you down to a chair and feel your belly waiting for all his little kicks all day… He feels like ours, and we haven’t even met him yet. What I feel—right now, in this perfect moment with you, Hermione… It has to be exactly what my dad felt with mum and me.”

“It is, Harry. They loved you—so much.”

His wife adjusted in his lap, inching closer to him like she intended to unzip his skin, crack open his ribcage, and curl up beside his fluttering heart. It still wouldn’t be close enough.

She was right, of course. Her confirmation transformed imagination into fact—one Harry believed with all he was.

Harry brushed some hair back over her shoulder. Tears shined in his eyes as he stared up at the love of his life. “Remus says we remind him of them.”

“Sirius says we’re far worse! Just the other day, he called us disgusting. Let that sink in: Sirius Black called us disgusting…” His wife scoffed, rolling her eyes with an easy smile.

Harry smirked. “I think it’s a fair assessment.”

“Not you, too!” Hermione frowned. 

“Do you remember what I promised you—back in Australia?”

The witch leaned into him, her forehead resting against his. Yawning, she muttered, “You said so much, Harry. I’m too tired to guess…”

“I swore to you that we’d be so disgustingly happy—that we’d grow old together.”

“Oh, right… No, that makes sense. I suppose we are disgusting.”

Their lips brushed, the kiss far too brief. But still, it was everything. 

“Tell me what’s on your mind…”

“Bugger…” Hermione pulled back slightly. Shoving her lips to one side, she whispered, “I’d hoped I was distracting you well enough.”

“What is it, love?” 

The question came gently, quiet enough to coax but not pressure. He tilted his head, eyes never leaving hers, willing her to speak without forcing it.

Something flickered in her expression—concern cloaked in calm. Though her lashes trembled, the witch neutralized any other hint that something was amiss in her mind.

Then—her hand lifted.

Fingers brushed his cheek before nudging the bridge of his glasses up his nose. That tiny motion—so familiar and tender—landed with the impact of a gut punch. Whatever swirled within her, she meant to minimize it. Immediately, Harry knew she thought of Ron.

It had to be...

“Today—it just took a lot out of me. It just got me thinking about things—stupid, minor things… That’s all.”

The words clung to her lips, hesitant. His gaze dropped to her mouth, catching the moment her breath wavered. The thought sat just behind her teeth, unwilling to leap. He saw it—felt it in the way her breath trembled before escaping.

The distance vanished in a breath. He leaned in, deliciously slow like temptation itself. He brushed his lips over hers—barely at first. The longer they held each other’s hot glare, the more delicately brutal his pressure became. The witch in his arms parted her pouty mouth. As a relentless shiver wracked over her body, her breath stuttered out of her throat until he tasted the fresh mint of it at the tip of his tongue. 

Then, Harry caught her bottom lip between his teeth, gently dragging it until it slid and popped back into place. It was a quick, visceral claiming. A groan coiled in his throat. His chest heaved so violently he thought he meant to steal the breath from her lungs—like he’d settle for nothing except both of their oxygen to survive. 

Settling both hands at either of her hips, Harry ground her down against his cock, which pulsed and thickened the more she undulated over his lap. Her breath faltered, shivering out in a sigh that feathered across his cheek, warm and vulnerable and wholly hers.

Spoiling his wife with a reverent kiss to the cheek, Harry searched her face. The tautness in his spine eased, uncoiling like rope from a winch. Her weight tilted forward, gravity choosing him.

“It’s Ron, isn’t it, love?”

Hermione groaned—the noise stuck between a frustrated growl and an airy laugh. “Sometimes I hate you so much, Harry.”

A lone curl fell from her temple. Harry brushed it back gently, fingertips memorizing the slope of her cheek. Lips touched down to the spot at her throat he loved most—her skin warm where her pulse beat strongest. Her hum stirred the space between them, vibrating low and steady.

Hermione bent forward, draping herself over him. She pressed kiss after kiss into his hair as though she could stitch her name into every strand. Harry tightened his arms around her.

“Yes… It doesn’t help that the Ministry gala is in a few days. Ron will be there—everyone will be…”

The air between them turned too still, too fragile. Her words thinned into a whisper, then vanished. She clutched at her jumper like it might hold her together. Tears shimmered beneath her lashes, spilling before she could stop them. Each one was a betrayal of the composure she fought to keep.

“I haven’t seen him—not since the trial, Harry. It’s not like I fear him or that he’ll attack me. I just don’t know what to say or how to act around him. The way he found out about us—it was cruel. I hate The Prophet! They’ll be there, Harry–at the gala. What if I do or say something stupid, and The Prophet runs another story? What if the memories of the attack come back, and I hurt him further?”

One hand rose. Then the other fell still. He caught her face, thumb gliding beneath the rim of her eye, capturing the tear before it dropped. Her skin was too warm. Her breathing was shallow. His grip tightened just slightly, not to hold her still—but to keep from falling with her.

“We’ll take things one minute at a time, love. Honestly, I doubt he’ll bother giving you much grief—if any at all. You’re not the one who stole the witch he liked for years only to turn around and fuck his fiancée in a drunken stupor…”

The laugh burst from her before she could stop it—caught between a huff and a sob. She covered her mouth too late, eyes blinking through the sting of lingering tears. Her lips curled upward, unwilling and soft. But the ache beneath it stayed, tethered to the smile like shadow to flame.

They hovered in the hush, noses grazing, breath shared. The pull between them was magnetic, inescapable. Her smile trembled as she whispered, “We’re a mess, Harry Potter…”

His wife’s body shifted into his, all breath and warmth and life. Harry’s arms folded tighter, enveloping her. Their son danced between them, a soft kick nudging the shallow curve of her pregnant belly. For a second, he forgot the world outside existed.

“But we’re together, Hermione. That’s all that matters—you, me, and the family we’ve created and chosen. I know it’s selfish to say—considering everyone I hurt to live in this perfect moment…”

“Never for a moment will I regret this, Harry. We have no control over how others feel about us… We’ve respected their distance—and they hate us anyway, don’t they?”

Hermione shook her head, curls brushing against his cheek. Her hand slid up his chest, fingers splaying across his heart like she needed to feel it beating.

“I'll never apologize for loving you. I’ll never apologize for being with you. I’m so bloody proud to be your wife. Our family, our life, you—all of it is perfect…”

Her voice trembled—with such firm conviction.

Harry touched her like he was learning her all over again. Hands slid beneath the edge of her jumper with reverence, not haste. Every fold he lifted felt like a revelation. As the fabric cleared her head, her breath hitched—quiet, uneven. Her skin rose in a wave of gooseflesh, so sensitive it made him pause.

She shifted in his lap, hips adjusting, heat pressed flush to his. The thin layers that stretched between them felt irrelevant. They were together, skin to skin—soul to soul—in everything but name.

“Harry!”

He bent down, kissing the top of her breast like he’d missed it for a lifetime. His mouth opened. His tongue stroked. Then he suckled—gently, deeply. Her moan was soft and sharp, and her body arched into him like it knew the rhythm before it began.

There was no urgency. Only reverence.

“Mhm, Hermione. You’re so beautiful. I don’t say it enough, but you own me—body, heart, mind, and soul alike. I am yours—always.”

The wizard laid a kiss to her nipple like a vow, teasing the bottom of the nub with his hot, wet tongue. Then another to the other. His hand curved gently under her breast. The sigh that escaped sounded like a secret she hadn’t meant to share.

“Harry, I need you. Please, I can’t stand it—the emptiness inside of me.”

Her voice broke as though the confession fractured something inside her. Her lip trembled. Chest heaving, she leaned in, forehead brushing his, as if closer proximity might stitch up what grief had hollowed out.

Harry didn’t speak. The air between them was too thick, every breath heavy with aching restraint.

A slow, visceral nod rolled through him. His hand curved around her arse, fingers flexing slightly—not in hunger, but in reverence. She understood. Hips shifted forward, giving him just enough space. The ease of her body responding to his without hesitation was more than familiarity—it was trust so complete it made his throat burn.

His hands fumbled at his waistband. The tremor in his fingertips betrayed the storm within. He rocked his hips, lifted slightly, and shoved the pyjamas down with uneven breaths. Urgency threaded every movement, but nothing was careless.

When her bottoms vanished, the sight of her bare hips halted him. No knickers. Her body, already flushed, already ready for him. The breath he took shuddered through him, as if she had knocked the wind out of him with nothing but her existence.

She moved to lower herself onto him—slow, careful—but he stilled her with a firm grasp at her hips. His grip tightened, not possessive, but anchoring. Grounding himself.

Not yet. He needed to watch her fall apart first.

His fingers slipped between her folds. The heat. The wetness. The way she fluttered against him. Her slick coated him immediately. He dragged his thumb gently upward, feeling every ridge, every gasp, every clench.

Her eyes fluttered closed. A breath caught behind her lips. When they opened again, her gaze pinned his, wide and searching. One hand cupped his jaw, the other followed. Her thumb stroked along his cheekbone, eyes scanning his face like she was trying to memorize him in this exact moment.

He curled his fingers inside her. She cried out—sharp, raw, real.

“Harry!”

It was a sob. It was a plea. It was a homecoming. His lips brushed her cheekbone, his breath ghosting up toward her ear. He spoke against her skin, voice splintered and sacred.

“Hermione, I am yours.”

The tremble started in her shoulders—a ripple that spread down her spine, making her limbs quake as if her body couldn’t contain the force of him. Her thighs squeezed tight. Hands fisted in his hair, clinging to the only thing that grounded her.

Then, with a shuddering exhale, she shifted. Hips tilted forward, inch by aching inch, and she began to sink down onto him. The resistance of her body gave way to him slowly, deliberately, and she took him in with a breathless, broken gasp.

Heat wrapped around him like a seal. The stretch was exquisite—tight and all-consuming. He felt her everywhere.

A low curse spilled from his lips, hushed against the delicate skin of her neck. He nuzzled into the space just beneath her ear, letting his mouth brush over the pulse pounding there. One hand slid back between them, thumb finding her clit once more. He circled it gently, coaxing rather than commanding.

She arched instinctively. Her lips parted around a silent moan. Her body, still adjusting, began to move again—slow and steady—until she found her rhythm and reclaimed control.

“That’s my good girl.”

The words trembled out of him, full of awe. She clenched around him. His spine bowed, a ragged groan scraping up his throat.

“Just like that, love.”

Her rhythm took hold of him—tentative at first, like she was still discovering the language of their bodies. Each roll of her hips grew bolder, more sure. The muscles in her thighs tightened with every movement, her breath coming in shallow, shaky gasps.

Harry matched her, not just in motion, but in meaning. His hands gripped her waist, thumbs brushing the soft curve of her lower belly, holding her steady as his body rocked upward into hers. Their foreheads almost touched. Their eyes locked. And in that narrow distance, the universe narrowed to her.

A low sound escaped him, half groan, half prayer, as pressure built behind his eyes. Stars burst—not just from pleasure, but from the raw, aching closeness of it all.

“Hermione, you fit me like you were made for me. Only me. You squeeze me in a way no other could. You have me in a way no one else ever will.”

He buried a hand in her hair and pulled her mouth to his. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft.

It was a collision of everything unspoken. Tongues tangled. Teeth grazed. She whimpered into him, and his chest caved. Their foreheads bumped. Breath and need and devotion twisted into one, and still—it wasn’t enough.

Her hips moved. His arms locked around her back, crushing her against him.

“Harry, I—I don’t know what I want… I thought I wanted to take you from the top, but… Mhm! Tell me how you want me. Please, I’ll be so good for you.”

Her voice faltered mid-sentence, snagging on a gasp that never fully left her throat. Her hand rose slowly, trembling as it found his chest—fingertips splaying wide at first, then curling inward, gathering a fistful of his skin and the soft hairs above his heart. The contact wasn’t forceful. It was pleading. Anchoring.

His head tilted back just slightly, eyes climbing to meet hers through lashes half-lowered with restraint. The muscle in his throat shifted as he swallowed, slow and heavy. His grip at her hips shifted, fingers digging in—not to control, but to keep himself from falling apart.

“Hermione, I’m gonna be honest, I can hardly think right now…”

She lifted her hips. The slow, wet drag of her body parting from his left him panting.

Then—she flexed around the head of him, her muscles squeezing like she meant to make him feel it for days. He groaned, jaw slack.

“Fuck, Hermione! Just like that.”

Their hands found each other again, fingers lacing tight like they might fall apart without the tether. Her nails dug into the back of his hand, sharp crescents of need etched into his skin. Then, with a trembling breath, she lifted herself—slow, almost reverent—and slid off him entirely.

His cock bounced against his stomach with a soft, wet slap, the sound sharp in the quiet. The cool air hit him hard, dragging a gasp from deep in his chest, but it was nothing compared to the absence of her heat.

Still, she didn’t pause.

Her body stayed close. Closer. Her slick folds began to glide along the length of him—each pass unhurried, every movement intentional. She wasn’t teasing. She was savoring. Worshipping him with her body the same way he had with his mouth, his hands, his restraint. The shine of her arousal coated him as she moved, as if she were painting her claim with each slow rock of her hips.

“You said you’d be good for me, Hermione...”

There was no scolding in the tone. Just reverence. Wonder. 

She let one of his hands go, only to reach for his face, slow and deliberate. Her fingers trembled slightly as they found his jaw, thumb gliding over the soft, trim hair there, lingering just at the corner of his mouth where his breath hitched.

His reaction was immediate. The muscles in his jaw loosened, and his shoulders slumped, surrendering into the comfort of her touch. He leaned in, eyes fluttering shut, nuzzling softly into her palm like a man starved of gentleness.

He breathed her in—slow, desperate—as if the scent of her skin could anchor him in place.

“Let go with me, Harry. We don’t have to play the whole game tonight, but I want to submit. Let me please you,” she whispered.

He exhaled. Shallow. Shaky. Then—swift and sure—he flipped them.

She landed beneath him, hair splayed in wild waves. Her eyes fluttered. Lips parted. Each breath visibly shook her chest. He loomed above, one hand braced beside her head. His gaze caught the faint indent of her teeth against her lower lip.

That was enough.

“Scoot back, love.”

She obeyed with the kind of grace that made him ache. As she moved, something inside him detonated—an explosion of need, love, hunger, reverence. It shot down his limbs, lit up his spine.

“You’re such a good listener, Hermione… You’ve always been brilliant. But you’re so much more—you’re the only woman in this whole world. Beauty did not have a definition—not until the moment you stepped down in that purplish-blue dress in fourth year.”

He crawled after her. Not a man anymore—just something wrecked and reverent. Her skin pebbled beneath his breath. He dragged his mouth down her body, mapping the lines of her stomach, the curve of her breast.

Her nipples, darker from pregnancy, begged for attention. He kissed one. Then the other. Let his tongue circle. Suckled until her back arched off the bed.

When he looked up, her eyes flickered—just for a second. Something unsaid hovered there. A correction. A truth. One she held behind her teeth, not because it wasn’t real, but because it wasn’t ready.

Her lips parted, then closed again. She swallowed whatever she’d been about to say.

She let him have this moment. Let him worship her.

His hand slid lower again. He brought his fingers to his mouth first, the taste of her still warm on his skin. He licked them slowly, deliberately—his eyes never leaving hers. A low hum vibrated in his throat as he leaned forward, kissing the swell of her stomach, her hip, her inner thigh.

Then he slipped his fingers back inside her. Deeper this time.

Her entire body flinched, thighs quivering as her hips bucked involuntarily. Her hands, frantic for something to anchor her, clawed into his back, nails dragging down in jagged, desperate lines.

“Harry!”

It cracked out of her like lightning.

“I want you from behind, Hermione. Get on your hands and knees facing the headboard,” he said.

No hesitation. She turned. Braced herself. Hair tumbled over her shoulder, obscuring her face as her spine curved, presenting herself. She was art. Destruction. Divinity.

“That’s it, love. Brace yourself on your elbow. With whichever hand you want, I want you to touch yourself. Play with yourself while I love you… I won’t last too long tonight.”

Her hand moved with trembling precision, sliding between her thighs as if guided by instinct alone. Fingers parted herself slowly, then circled her clit with aching grace—delicate, tentative, as though the sensation might consume her.

A sharp breath burst from her lips. Shoulders tensed. Hips shifted in anticipation.

Behind her, Harry’s jaw tightened. His teeth dug into his lower lip, the tremor in his exhale betraying the edge of restraint. He watched her for a beat longer, gaze dark and reverent, then moved behind her like a wave drawn to shore—inevitable, wrecked.

“You’re perfect, you know. Everything I ask, you obey me with such sweet grace.”

Hermione moaned, soft and broken, the sound slipping from her throat like a secret she couldn’t hold. A tremor passed through her body, one that started in her belly and rippled outward.

“Harry, I need you. Please…”

The last word trembled out of her, unconditional and unguarded. Like something too sacred to say aloud. But too impossible to keep inside. It was a word given.

To him.

The armor it donned? Her unfailing trust.

In him.

Harry froze.

He didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. His fingers clamped down on the bedding like they’d keep him from unraveling. Spine taut, muscles clenched, he froze as her voice detonated inside him—small, sweet, ruinous. One word. And it dragged up years of buried ache like corpses from a grave.

Hermione knew the general details about his darker nights inflicting a second's pleasure upon the most willing of enthusiastic witches. What he'd done to them—what he'd (at least in the beginning) let them do to him... He knew it was best left buried six feet deep with the dead.

Never had she asked questions. For specifics. Never had he tried to explain it, either. Not with her history with rough, hateful assaults that lacerated her each and every day.

There still remained a fear—never just a dull echo, but a raging tempest that threatened to swallow him whole—in him. What if she couldn't look at him the same when she learned everything?

Harry would lose her again—but this time, she'd never come back to him. When it ultimately happened, he would not survive it. Not this time.

And it was only a fucking matter of time. They'd finally began accepting invitations to public events. 

No matter how consensual it had all been, he couldn't quite shake the shame and guilt away. Thinking back on it made it harder to meet her earthy, gentle gaze.

Every crude, cruel night shared with strangers in a drunken stupor had always been about three things: punishment, dominance, and control. When they left Hogwarts in 1999, he'd had precisely none of any of those things.

By then, he'd been a shell of a person. Lifeless. Whatever someone told him to do, he'd comply. Never had he thought it possible that he'd find his way back to her.

So...

When Arthur and Molly told him to propose to Ginny, he had.

When Ginny suggested they move in together, he'd bought them a small house in Godric's Hollow. 12 Grimmauld Place was far too big for them—and he'd promised it away to a witch who wanted nothing to do with him.

Back then, he waited for her to magically materialize before him and accept his offer of sorting the Black family library with him. The summer before Hogwarts, he'd holed up there and occasionally a Ministry expert—ridding the flat of its foul, dark curses, trinkets, and portraits.

The only joy that summer brought him was gifting George Walburga's portrait. The sullen, once cheeky wizard devoted a corner of his shop making a miniature soundproof theatre. For two Galleons, one could hear the filth themselves.

The frame remained stuck to the wall at Grimmauld Place. For years it remained vacant. Empty—just like the wizard himself...

When Ginny swore she was pregnant with his child and told him to find some shred of happiness in knowing someone shared his blood, he'd tried.

Merlin, had that been a true low—second only to the day he lost Hermione.

When Ron told him to explore his options and enjoy the single life, he'd enthusiastically done so—compliments of his favorite wingman, Old Ogden's.

Then Sirius miraculously returned from the Veil. Now, he knew for sure it'd been Hermione's doing. Back then, he could only hope, suspect—before drinking and fucking another night away.

To no one's surprise, Sirius wasn't that great of a stable father figure. Too reckless, wayward, and playful for his own good. Pair that with alcohol and a blur of witches, and Harry nearly lost himself entirely.

Merlin bless Neville and Remus...

Living life neglecting by the ones who were supposed to be wired to love you hadn't ever mattered growing up. None of it had. Not when he'd return to Hogwarts and the magical Wizarding World that nearly killed the one woman who'd stood beside him through it all.

Fuck, the past hurt.

When a bright, beautiful witch named Hermione Granger stayed with him instead of leaving with Ron, Harry started thinking about everything he wanted. Everything he'd never had. So much that he'd forgotten everything she would never have again.

Because of him...

Punishment—precisely what he'd done to himself and his partners. No one could hurt him more than he would himself.

Dominance—the crude, cold cruelty he'd exacted to everyone whom he could hurt.

Control—numbing the pain and love long enough to regain any measure of it in his life.

Harry Potter had fucked like he was trying to scrape her memory—eight bloody years of it—off his bones. But she never left.

Never...

Back in May 1998, Hermione Granger offered him something no one else ever could—devotion without demand, love without limit. Only she had ever saw past the legend of the Chosen One long enough to see Harry for what he'd always been: a boy broken, bruised, and bleeding. Only she always seemed to know what he truly wanted.

And when she'd chosen to offer him her heart—shaking, open... He'd abandoned her. Long before she left him. Ruined her connections to the Weasleys. Selfishly asked her to stay with him—to choose him after he'd chosen otherwise.

Hypocrite. Fool. Coward.

Everything he did for their children was to prove to his parents—all who perished on his behalf or at the hands of Voldemort—that he could be worthy of the life they'd given him.

And now, here she was. His wife—stars, he adored feeling those two words in his chest, in his soul. 

Harry settled his trembling hands on both of her hips, his fingertips jolting against the warmth of her skin. A sharp breath squeezed through his throat as tears stung his bold, green eyes. Shaking his head, he sniffed, the effort quiet.

Thank, Merlin.

While he left her waiting, she moaned his name like it was a prayer—nothing like the curse it ought to be. This witch said his name. With such devoted need...

Hermione bowed forward, resting her weight on one elbow. The angle of her spine arched like a bowstring pulled taut. Her arse tilted up, sex glistening from self-pleasure and open for him—no shame, no hesitation. Only trust.

Fuck! She was so beautiful. His...

Even after giving him three children, her body was a map of their love. Proof of their story. He swallowed hard. One hand tightened on the curve of her hip, thumb tracing the faintest stretch mark. The other guided himself forward. The full, hot head of him brushed against her. As soon as he penetrated her, the world—the horrors of Voldemort, May 1998, the dark path back to her, Australia—all of it disappeared.

Right now, there was and ever only would be a man named Harry Potter and a woman once named Hermione Granger.

"Harry!"

The cry cracked open the room—sharp, breathless, soaked in vulnerability. It was more than need; it was surrender.

Harry didn't deserve it—any of it. Her, their family, this life. But she'd gifted it to him anyway.

His jaw locked tight, the muscles there ticking as he dragged in a breath through flared nostrils. The hand at her hip flexed and curled, fingertips pressing deep enough to anchor, not bruise. The other now steadied at the small of her back, where the dip of her spine rose to meet his palm like it had always been waiting for him.

The wizard sank inside her like a man drowning—like every inch was oxygen and every breath was borrowed. Inch by aching inch, Harry gave himself to her. And she took him as he was: a man ruined, desperately devoted to her. Only her. 

His pace. was slow, gentle, delirious.

Hermione's soft moans—thin, shattered, pleading—wrapped around his spine like a chain. They swept through him like balm over scar tissue, softening edges he thought would never dull. Each time they made love, it was salvation. It cleansed him—stitched more of him to her soul.

Oh, fuck, fuck, FUCK! This witch owned him: body, heart, mind, and soul. In life and in death. Until all the stars burned dark.

“Hermione, I’m already so fucking close—tell me you’re there, too. I want to come with you.”

Harry's voice cracked near the end, buried in the crook of her shoulder. Almost at her throat. He didn’t want to let go without her.

“Mhm… Me, too, Harry!”

His wife’s spine bowed, shaking under the force of her need. When she clenched around him, Harry nearly sobbed. The base of him met the slick, open heat of her, and gods, it felt like mercy. Like being forgiven for everything he’d ever ruined.

The witch's entire body fluttered around him. He adjusted his knees, pushing deeper. The effort earned him a rare treat. A foul curse tumbled from her tongue and into the air. She didn't do it often. However, he quickly learned early on in their marriage that it always meant he did something wonderful.

Harry grinned.

The first thrust had no fire—only a gentle gravity, a slow surrender. A trembling glide of flesh that sang of all the years he’d waited to feel whole. A careful slide of his hips, so soft it almost hurt. Her hands gripped the sheets, steadying herself against a love that never let go.

He bowed his head to rest at her back, breath catching as it ghosted across her skin. A sound escaped him, guttural and full of awe. Where they met, the world ceased. No noise, no past, no pain—just her, grounding him. Every inch of him inside her felt like a resurrection. Every time.

She was the safest place he'd ever know.

"Hermione!"

A thick bead of his sweat dropped from his forehead onto her skin. They moved together like breath and heartbeat—natural, instinctive, inseparable. He felt everything—every tremble in her thighs, every flutter of her core, every breath that caught on the edge of release.

The wizard withdrew with aching care, slow enough for the emptiness to echo—just for a heartbeat. Her warmth clung to him like memory, like home. And when he eased back in, it was worship—each inch a silent apology for every year lost.

The witch moaned, the sound almost inaudible, deeper than normal. She was fucking close. He was closer. But he wanted to send her to paradise first.

Urgency curled around each new thrust. With each quick slide of his thick, long cock, her entire body trembled. He anchored his splayed hand on the mattress. With better support, Harry rolled his hips, bucking into her with more force. A shiver made every muscle at her back convulse. 

“Harry, let go with me…”

With one final, explosive thrust, Harry stilled, erratically undulating against her. Up, down, up, down. A torturous roll of his hips followed by a jolt to his wife’s every nerve as he flexed the length of him. The wizard did everything he could to reach the deepest parts of her. 

“Ladies first.”

Only then did he lean forward, pressing a kiss into her throat as he reached for her small, swollen breast. Pinching her nipple, rolled it and squeezed it until it was a hard, pebbled nub. Delicately, he palmed the whole of her hot breast in his jittery hand. 

Hermione was near delirious, shaking and moaning nonstop. “Please don’t stop. Oh, Harry! I’m so close…”

While he remained still, he slid his hand from her breast lower until it felt the slick mound of her cunt, his fingers lightly pressing and playing with her clit. With his other hand, he squeezed her arse cheek and gently bit the nape of her neck. 

With a final flex, Harry grunted her name, shaking as he moved in deep, languid rolls. She unraveled—voice breaking on his name like it was the only truth she’d ever known. She repeated it no less than six times. In a rush, he felt the walls of her sex convulse, easing him in even further inside of her.

His lips curled into a grin, breath still ragged. Then he moved again—harder, faster. His hands gripped her hips like she was the only solid thing left in the world. Her arse jiggled with each thrust. He couldn’t look away. Tongue darted out to wet his lips, breath catching in his throat. The sound of them filled the room—wet, urgent, aching.

Harry kept the rhythm fast, the depth long, but never rough. 

“Harry, please,” she sobbed. “Come for me…”

The wizard opened his mouth, but no words came. With a frustrated sigh, his wife reached back, cupped his balls gently, massaging after he thrust again—one last time.

That was it.

“Hermione! Fuck, I love you! I have loved you... Ah!—”

Harry’s voice dissolved into frenzied, possessive moans. Growls that tried to shape her name. His body jerked. Spasmed. Finally, her core held him prisoner as his cock ignited deep within her—a symphony of muscle and music. 

Thick, hot volleys exploded from him in shuddering bursts, heating her womb as he trembled against her. Every pulse, the greedy, insistent grip of her hungry body devoured. Her body held him like a memory she wasn’t ready to release.

Her twitchy muscles squeezed him so fucking tightly. They milked him of every last drop, and he gasped at the brutality of such urgency.

Hermione whimpered, reaching her hand back and curling her pinky around his index finger. She flattened his palm over the swell of her belly as she chased the last of his release by grinding and rolling her hips. His wife built a friction between them there. 

Even as he softened inside of her, she clenched her sex like he had anything more to give her. A tremor up her spine dragged a parade of spasms up her muscles there.

“God, you feel so good even after…”

Slowly, he slipped out of her and collapsed to his back. Hermione whined, which made his lips stretch wide in a lazy, leisurely smile. She twisted around until she erased all space between them on the mattress, facing up. Before she deflated, she nudged his glasses up his nose.

Rolling onto his side, Harry reached for her without thought. The instinct was pure, primal—bring her back, hold her close, never let her go. Without a word, she curled into him, every inch of her bare skin meeting his. Damp. Soft. Real. 

Harry nuzzled into the slope of her shoulder before easing lower, ear pressed to her chest. Fingers shaking, he found the curve of her belly and held it as if holding everything they’d survived.

Her sigh spilled out like warm honey, soft and slow. A single strand of her hair clung to his cheek, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t—not while relearning how to breathe again. Their chests rose and fell until, at last, the rhythm between them evened. 

When she shivered, his hand rose, and without a word or wand, warmth bloomed through the room.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Barely audible. A breath meant for him alone.

Harry tried nodding. “Mhm…” he murmured, nuzzling closer.

This witch was his home—his constant, his compass, his salvation. He clung, helpless and whole. Like his next breath would be stolen if she ever pulled away. Sure, it was pathetic. But nothing in this world was powerful enough to loosen his grip. Not on her.

Never.

His life moved to the pace of her pulse. When it slowed—when it steadied, so did he. Beneath the warmth of her skin, his nerves stopped rattling. His thoughts softened. His sorrow quieted.

Overwhelmed by the fragility of this moment, he opened his eyes. Tightening his arms a bit, he pulled her in like a prayer answered. Her hum vibrated against his skin, and he smiled for no reason other than the fact that he could. The sound dissolved the sharpest edge of his sorrow.

With her heartbeat humming against his chest, steady and sure, Harry could breathe. He could live. He could love. He could soften. He could sleep. He could be. And just maybe, he could finally fully surrender.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

28 May 1998

Something sharp pulsed behind Harry’s eyes before awareness even settled. His lids twitched, breath shallow, uneven. A heaviness pressed in around his temples—not pain exactly, but pressure, as though his skull had been stuffed with cotton and grief. The cloying taste of Firewhisky clung to the roof of his mouth, sour and stale, mingling with the dry fuzz coating his tongue. Each inhale scraped raw.

Harry blinked. The ceiling above him floated into view, then fractured into light. Threads of morning slashed through the curtains, spilling harsh sunlight across the bed. He squinted, lids fluttering against the sting.

Something warm shifted beside him.

The brush of skin on skin, the whisper of breath that wasn’t his. Soft. Steady. Familiar.

The wizard turned his head slowly, movement stiff, eyes catching on the tumble of red hair spread across the pillow.

A sick jolt rippled through his gut as his gaze locked on her. Skin flushed hot, then cold, then hot again—like his flesh couldn’t decide if it was burning or freezing. Breath hitched. Not in surprise—but revulsion. Every inch of his skin crawled with the memory of her hands on him, her lips, her body twined with his while he was too far gone to stop it.

His fingers twitched. Then clawed.

Scraping at his own arms, he dragged his nails across his skin in sharp, erratic strokes—too gentle to scar, too violent to soothe. He needed her off him. Out of him. Gone from the surface of his body and the edges of his memory.

Each scratch came faster. Desperate. Bile rose in his throat.

Harry leaned into the mattress with his brow, like something sacred might pass between them—shame siphoned into cotton and springs. His jaw clenched until it ached. A tremor ran through his limbs.

Then, slowly, his knees slid forward, the muscles in his thighs giving way. He let himself collapse, spine slumping downward until his back met the solid base of the bed.

The sheets rustled above him. Cold floorboards prickled his skin through the thin layer of his boxers. He didn't fight the descent. He let gravity pull him, let the shame pin him in place.

His head dropped back against the frame, and his breath came in short, uneven pulls—as if he were surfacing from underwater only to be dragged down again. Hands flattened against the floor on either side of him, fingers twitching like they couldn’t decide whether to grip or release.

The room loomed around him. His heartbeat echoed in his ears.

Still, he stayed there, motionless, as if the bed itself might anchor him through the unraveling.

His breathing stuttered. Jaw clenched so tight his molars ached. The muscles in his neck trembled, locked and pulsing as if his body might reject the very breath that sustained it. One hand lifted, hovered near his throat, fingers curling halfway before retreating.

He gripped the mattress instead, fist sinking into the edge like he could squeeze the memory from existence. His other hand dragged through his hair, clutching hard enough to sting at the roots.

Harry's thoughts reeled, crashing against one another in frantic succession. The taste of Hermione’s kiss still clung to him—soft and slow and real. It had lingered in the corners of his mouth. And now? Now it had been buried beneath something he hadn’t wanted, hadn’t chosen.

The contrast twisted inside him like a knife.

His nails pressed into his scalp. A twitch ran down his back, violent and involuntary.

Then stillness. 

A long, slow exhale. But it didn’t calm him. It didn’t touch the nausea rising like bile in his gut. He looked down at his own chest, rising and falling too quickly beneath the faint sheen of sweat.

This body, hers for a moment, had been defiled by his carelessness. Not stolen by Ginny. Given. And the guilt burned deeper for it.

The one kiss he’d sworn to protect, to carry like a secret until he was worthy of her trust again, had been tarnished—stolen from its pedestal by what his body had done without him.

His fingers curled into his thighs, nails dragging hard enough to leave crescents on his skin. Shoulders tightened as if bracing for a blow he deserved.

Hermione would never believe him—his love—now. Not after yesterday. Not after this. The shame scorched him deeper than any wound he'd taken in war. 

Harry's shoulders collapsed inward. Knees turned in, spine curled. And still the sensation stayed—coating him like filth he couldn’t scrub away. His frame shook again. This time slower. Deeper. Not grief. Something worse.

Revulsion spread through him in waves, rippling from the nape of his neck and spilling down through his shaking hands. His throat closed off like it was refusing to let him breathe around what he’d done.

He gasped. Not for air. For escape. But none came.

Ginny.

The room spun. The air in his lungs turned thin. His knees pulled in, chest folding tight around them. Elbows locked over shins. He dropped his head to his knees.

His lungs convulsed. A sob burst from him before he had time to brace. It shook him from the center. Hands dug into his sides like he could hold something in—something that refused. When he rocked forward, jaw trembling open, nothing came but the shallow twitch of breath.

Hermione’s name didn’t rise to his lips. It didn’t have to. Her absence settled over him like frost. Cold, invasive. Inescapable.

The unspeakable word returned.

Mudblood.

Harry's jaw clenched. A vein pulsed in his temple. One hand slammed into the floor. Wood met knuckle with a crack. The sting barely registered.

Guilt crawled up his spine, blistering hot. He clawed toward the wand left on the nightstand, fingers fumbling the grip. It almost slipped.

The wizard closed his eyes. His heart transported him back to their tent—to the only sanctuary he'd known in the last year.

The canvas rustled faintly with wind. Ron was gone, and the quiet pressed heavy between them. Hermione sat huddled by the radio, eyes glassy but face dry, spine pulled taut.

Harry couldn’t stand it—seeing her folded so small. He stood, offering a hand. She blinked, hesitated, then placed hers in his. They moved awkwardly at first, shuffling atop the worn carpet, shoulders too close, then not close enough.

But within seconds, something shifted. Her mouth curved ever so slightly. The lantern gave her eyes a glow he hadn’t seen before—honey-rich and bare.

His step faltered, their chests colliding. But she caught him, lifting a hand and brushing her hand through his dark hair. A sweet, melodic giggle sung across the tent. His palms dampened, but she either didn't notice or didn't mind.

Between steps, Harry tried to peek at her eyes. They glowed so brightly he had to drop his gaze and adjust his collar. How had he never noticed how lovely her eyes were?

The final chords slowed, and something in the air did, too. She was so close he could feel the edge of her breath on his cheeks. Hermione dipped her chin to his shoulder, adjusting her arms around his body. Their bodies rocked back and forth as the music quieted.

Pulling away, the witch smiled at him. All of it—Voldemort, the horcruxes, Dumbledore, Ron, the scarce state of their food... Breathing. Everything disappeared the longer he drowned in the depths of her rich, earthy eyes.

Harry's eyes dropped to her lips, lingering there as he swallowed. The pace of his pulse rendered him rooted where he stood—still in her arms. He leaned in before thought could catch him.

Their lips met, tentative and soft—barely there pressure. But she responded. Her fingers fisted into the collar of his jumper, pulling him closer. His knees nearly gave. His heart misfired in his chest.

The inexperienced wizard lifted his hand, which trembled until he anchored it at her jaw. It was the tiniest, most insignificant sound—but a shy moan resonated from her throat between them.

Harry didn't know why he did it, but he pulled back only far enough to tease the tip of her nose with his. He angled his head differently and felt her grip on his jumper tighten.

Every inch of his body broke out in gooseflesh, pinching as the hairs stood to attention on his arms. His free hand slid down until he settled it low on her back. 

When Hermione stepped closer to him, the world beyond the tent flap and all sound quieted. All he heard was the weight thickening her breaths. His hands shook. He wanted to hold her in his arms forever—promise her he'd protect her from the dangers he led them into.

Always.

When they pulled apart, her cheeks pinked. He was sure his face matched the shade of his deep crimson jumper. Both of them exhaled a half-laugh, startled and breathless. She slid her palms down his chest, slow and sweet. Until they left only warmth in their wake.

"Expecto Patronum."

The incantation fractured mid-breath, scraping its way out. His grip faltered. A burst of silver tore from the wand, light rippling like water under strain. The stag formed slowly, its legs quivering as it stood, head bowed, ribs rising too fast—like it, too, could barely breathe.

"Please come back... I love you, Hermione."

The words spilled out. A plea and devotion tangled together. The stag turned toward the window, its gaze sweeping the air. Then it leapt.

Gone. Just like Hermione.

Harry's breath caught. Shoulders twitched forward. The wand in his lap slid sideways, rolling off his leg as if it no longer belonged to him. A few seconds more, it thudded onto the wood like punctuation.

Fingers hovered, half-curled, suspended in disbelief. He blinked at the palms like they didn’t belong to him. One trembled. Then the other. And then his whole frame buckled inward. His hands gripped his face, knuckles pressing into his brow.

The sob that shredded his throat was guttural. Shaken loose. Too full to contain. It punched through the silence like something dying inside him, dragging his ribs open on its way out.

Behind him—

"What the hell was that?" Ginny asked.

Harry heard the words, but he lacked the energy to interpret if it was a question asked in confusion, hostility, or both.

He didn’t respond.

The wizard's posture curled tighter, as if shrinking might make him vanish. Shoulders caved forward, spine bowed. His fingers twisted in the fabric of his boxers, knuckles paling. Breath dragged in sharp, thin streaks—like inhaling through nettles. A tremor shook his arms, but still he held.

Sheets rustled behind him. The shuffle of feet. The groan of wood. Weight shifted beside him. Ginny’s knee nudged his thigh. His whole body flinched, wrenching away like it might undo what had already been written into his skin.

Hermione... That soft, strong name slammed through his skull with the force of the Killing curse. He couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t sit in the same breath with what he’d become.

"Harry? That Patronus—what did it mean?"

The sight of the books held him. Spines faded, corners bent—the sort of imperfections born of love. His throat bobbed once, but nothing passed through. A trembling breath passed through him.

Even the memory of her hand on a page felt too much to bear. They were still here. But she wasn’t.

She followed his line of sight, but didn’t speak. The silence that stretched between them wasn’t gentle. It throbbed. Her voice came again, lower now. More tentative.

But he didn’t hear it. Didn't answer.

The word returned like a curse spat into his marrow. Mudblood.

No noise. No outward break. But inside, something recoiled—twisting, shrinking from itself. He gripped his elbows tighter, as if holding himself together could stop the unraveling.

The memory hit—Hermione, too close to the blast of his anger. The wall had splintered, but it was her face he couldn’t forget. Wide-eyed. Brimming. That was when he saw it: fear, where trust used to live.

Something inside cinched. Tight. Vicious. His throat sealed itself. Nails dug into the flesh just above his collarbone. Each breath scraped against the next, too fast to hold, too thin to keep. His mouth opened but made no sound. Only his shoulders moved—jerking, uneven.

It felt like drowning from the inside out.

Then Ginny was gone. The relief didn't last long.

The world shrank to nothing but pulse and breath and loss. He stayed like that. Shaking. Alone. The weight of everything crushed in on him. The things he’d done. The things he couldn’t take back. 

Sniffling, his vacant stare clung to the worn spines again. A sob slipped loose—quiet but vicious. Lethal in its ache. Gone—dead. There was no saving it... His future. His life. Death was kinder than the weight of what he’d done to her. What good was a life when all it ever did was wound the one person he couldn’t stop loving?

"Hermione..."

Love bloomed like a wild thing in his chest—unruly, absolute. And she was gone before it could root. She was gone, and it was his own fucking fault.

Clawing at his throat, Harry choked on another sob. The sound wasn’t human—it was broken, raw, a wound turned vocal. Each breath came jagged, like he was inhaling shards. 

Spit clung to his lips. Tears poured without rhythm, each one a lash of punishment. Shoulders heaving, spine bowed, he looked like grief made flesh.

"Hermione," he whispered. 

If names had power, then let the lovely, soothing, resilient name summon her to him like the Taboo had the Snatchers.

The wood floor vibrated. Several pairs of footsteps now neared him. Shouting. Pleading. Sobbing. All of it was irrelevant. None of the voices belonged to her. Tears burned streaks down his cheeks. 

When they approached him, Harry anchored his undivided attention on those books.

Harry Potter and a stack of well-worn books had one thing in common: 

Hers. They were hers.

Too late…

Tonks sank to her knees at his side. The witch’s hair was black today. She spoke, but everything fell quiet. When she touched him, the nerves of his skin felt numb. Never once did he look away from those books.

Harry would hand it all over. His parents in the Mirror of Erised. The hope once whispered by the Resurrection Stone. Teddy’s first burst of laughter. The Weasley family. His best days playing Quidditch at Hogwarts.

All of it.

He would’ve bartered every sliver of it. Every hard-earned ounce of peace the war had left him. If it meant he could traverse time to yesterday—repair the parchment-thin trust and give her the truth he's squashed in his heart, he'd do it.

If the price required to have her was every last thing that had ever made life bearable—every last fucking memory, every last person he'd loved, he wouldn't hesitate.

He would love her—until every last star burned dark.

"Come back to me, love..."

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

The Attack at the Ministry

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

HARRY

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

28 May 1998

The quill skidded across parchment, then paused. Harry’s hand hovered mid-air, fingers twitching faintly, as though memory itself had snagged in the bend of his wrist. Ink collected in a small blot—forgotten, spreading. His jaw clenched, the muscle feathering beneath skin tight with strain. He blinked hard at the half-formed sentence, then let the quill fall with a soft clink against the desk’s edge.

The Pensieve hovered in front of him, swirling silver memories casting flickers of pale light across his face. He didn’t look at it.

Footsteps scuffed behind him down the three steps that split the Headmaster's Office in half. A pause at the landing, as though the figure there had taken a moment to observe him first. The old stone beneath bore the burden of someone carrying more than just their own weight. A shift, a soft intake of breath. Then a voice cut through the stillness—quiet, but grounded, the kind that carried history and worry all at once.

"Would you mind telling me what all this is about, Harry?"

The sound of his name hollowed him out. His fingers tightened in response. One hand curled into a fist, the other flattened against the parchment like it might hold the page—and his thoughts—in place. A breath hissed between his teeth. He didn’t lift his gaze.

"It’s a Pensieve, Remus," he said. "They’re a magical device very few use to store and review memories…"

A short laugh followed, low and knowing.

"You know that’s not what I asked."

Harry’s lips parted as if to respond, but no words followed. He looked down instead. The knife gleamed beside his hand—Bellatrix’s, slick and cruel, the very one he'd received from Kingsley, who had secured approval from Gawain Robards himself at the British Auror Office. Its presence chilled him in a way no other artifact ever had. 

The young wizard reached out and adjusted one of the memory vials, fingertips trembling just slightly. Then, he stared as the strands coiled inside, catching the light. Inside the Pensieve, yesterday played on repeat: Hermione’s voice. Her face. Her footsteps retreating.

Tears swelled, prickling hot and insistent. He pulled off his glasses, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his palm. Sniffled. Jammed them back onto his face. Both hands dove into his hair, tugging—like pain might pull the grief loose.

"Last year," he rasped, eyes unfocused, "I kissed her—Hermione. And from that night until the battle here, we had this unspoken understanding: don’t mention it. Never a good time for it. Nothing good would come of it. Not with Voldemort and everything else. We had to focus. Then Ron came back…"

His throat bobbed. Hands curled tighter into his hair.

"He’s my best mate. He loved her. After that, it was easy to pretend it hadn’t meant anything more than a moment’s awkward comfort. But that was a lie I convinced myself was the truth—and I hurt her."

Remus made a sound from the stairs—a long exhale, the shift of boots. When Harry glanced up, he found the man watching him with a furrowed brow, both hands sunk deep into the front pockets of his trousers.

"Harry, I know what Hermione means to you…as your friend. The idea of losing a most precious friendship can…make you act a bit out of sorts. Perhaps, you’re too quick to end things with—"

"I’m NOT confused!"

Harry's shout cracked like glass. His chest heaved. One hand shot to his sternum, clutching his shirt, as if the force of his heartbeat might knock him off balance.

"Ginny—when I woke up this morning, I wanted to peel off every inch of my skin. I’m in love with her, Remus. I love her! But if I can’t be with Hermione right now, I’m getting to the bottom of this fucking knife. There’s no bloody world where I would ever call Hermione a… Well, you know. There’s something I’m missing—in these memories. I know it!"

Remus crossed the room. No sharp steps, only a slow glide toward Harry’s pain. He stopped a foot away, then leaned in and placed both hands on Harry’s shoulders.

"I believe you, Harry…"

His tone carried no edge. Only gravity.

"But the way you handled things certainly was not the most respectful option available to you—both Hermione and Ginny deserve better. You deserve better. You’ve leaned more and more on the bottle since the battle. Not unlike Sirius after he left Azkaban… It’s doing you no favors."

"I know, Remus!"

His voice snagged. Rough, thick. He scrubbed a hand down the length of his jaw, nails scraping against stubble. Moisture filled his eyes again. He tilted his head back like it might force the tears down. Instead, he laughed under his breath—short, bitter—and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

"I don’t know who I am anymore... I hate this."

Remus stayed quiet, watching. His silence stretched just long enough to feel unbearable.

"Who you are may seem a far-off thing, Harry, but I know who you are not… Never forget—you have both your mother and father in you. Though they’re gone, they are never very far away."

Harry breathed in deep through his nose, then buried his face in his hand. The shake in his shoulders gave him away.

"All my life, all I’ve ever wanted was a family of my own. That always meant the Weasleys… But watching Hermione walk away from me… Waking up with Ginny in my bed… You don’t know what I would give to undo what happened yesterday, Remus."

The other man tilted his head.

"So tell me—what would Harry Potter do to obtain the power to rewrite yesterday?"

That question hit somewhere low in his chest. Harry looked up. His lips trembled but didn’t part.

"You wouldn’t like it."

Remus placed a hand back on his shoulder. The warmth of it settled.

"Tell me, Harry. I won’t judge you—nor will I leave you. If nothing else feels tangible enough to hold onto, know you can trust me. Always."

His throat worked as he swallowed. Then, slowly:

"I would give up every moment I saw my parents: in the Mirror of Erised, back in the Little Hangleton graveyard, through the Resurrection Stone. Every moment playing Quidditch. The feeling of seeing Hogwarts for the first time. Being told I was a wizard. My friendship with Ron. The moment I found out Sirius didn't kill my parents."

Harry’s voice faltered briefly, breath catching on the memories he listed like beads on a string. His hands gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles paling. Eyes shimmered but didn’t fall. He stared past Remus, through him, as if seeing something only grief could conjure.

"The moment I found out who really killed my parents. Getting to know Sirius. You asking me to be Teddy’s godfather. Holding him for the first time. Every last happiness I’ve ever felt. Every single bloody moment of peace."

His voice cracked. He clenched his eyes shut.

"All of it would be a tiny price compared to losing her, and I would do it—in a heartbeat with a fucking smile. I would obliterate the world of its every last color if it meant I could undo it, Remus."

His voice cracked again, breath rasping like parchment tearing. The lines around his mouth pulled tight, and his hands trembled where they gripped the edge of the desk. Shame flushed his face, raw and unrelenting. A storm sat just behind his eyes—rage and sorrow, unspent.

"What in Merlin’s name does that say about me? Out of everyone I could have hurt, it was her! All because I’m a bloody coward—so afraid to let go of the only family I’ve ever known…"

Remus’s eyes softened. A shadow of amusement flickered through the grief on his face, like a memory brushing the edge of a bruise. His shoulders eased, the tension there receding just slightly, and one corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile, but something close. There was warmth behind it, aged and tempered by loss. The kind of expression worn by someone who had lived long enough to recognize pain and still choose kindness.

"You defeated the greatest dark wizard of our time. Overnight, every piece of the life you knew changed. It’s only natural that you would cling to that which is familiar."

Harry curled his hands into fists again—harder this time. His knuckles turned white.

"Hermione is familiar… What I did—I’ll never deserve her, Remus."

The older man leaned forward. One hand cupped Harry’s cheek.

"The bond you and Hermione have formed over the last seven years… Perhaps some time and space is for the best."

Harry shoved his hand away. His whole body coiled tight, like a wire pulled to its limit. Shoulders squared, jaw clenched, and his hands curled into fists at his sides. His breath came fast and shallow, chest rising in sharp bursts. Eyes locked on Remus, burning bright, demanding answers through fury he didn’t yet know how to name.

"What are you saying?"

Remus’s posture held steady. He didn’t recoil, didn’t flinch. His arms remained relaxed at his sides, though the muscles along his jaw flexed ever so slightly. A furrow etched itself into his brow, and his gaze lingered on Harry—watchful, as if bracing against the full weight of what might come next. Still, his feet stayed rooted, shoulders squared in quiet resolve.

"You love her. Of that, I have not a single doubt, Harry. But consider what this love does to you—costs you. It’s… It’s unhealthy: to need someone like this. If Hermione means to stay away from you for however long, you must know how to stand on your own. Otherwise, it will destroy you. And in such destruction, you will hurt more than yourself."

Harry’s fist shot out, shoulder snapping forward with the sudden burst of movement. He shoved Remus backward, the force sharp, clumsy, more pain than precision. His chest heaved, and his stance widened instinctively—like his body expected a fight his mind hadn't fully planned. The breath he let out was harsh and uneven, as if it had clawed its way up from somewhere far deeper than his lungs.

"What the fuck would you know about what I feel?"

A bitter sound escaped Remus. It wasn’t laughter—not really. His mouth twisted, and the breath that followed trembled slightly at the edges. Lines deepened around his eyes, the faintest crease forming at his brow. He stood still, but something in his expression faltered—like a bruise pressed beneath old armor. It sounded like old pain resurfaced, familiar and unwelcome.

"Oh, a great deal more than you should ever know. Do you know what Tonks means to me, Harry? What I would do to keep her and Teddy safe? After we lost Sirius, I didn’t want to feel anything—not ever again. Suddenly, she’s there—everywhere in my mind and heart. She was never supposed to feel anything. Not for me. But life has never been kind to me."

"Remus—"

"If it weren’t for Teddy and you to help keep me grounded in reality, she would consume me. There is no life. Not without her. Before the battle really began, I told her that we would live or die together. I used the Killing curse for the first and last time to save her, Harry. Do you think the world will miss Antonin Dolohov much? Tonks wouldn’t look at me for days after the battle. I still don’t care. I will never regret saving her."

Something broke in Harry’s face. His brows lifted slightly, drawn upward in aching recognition. His chest shuddered, the kind of movement that started in the stomach and fought its way out. He stepped forward slowly, cautiously. Shoulders slumped, breath shaky. One hand lifted, fingers unsteady, and landed gently on Remus’s arm.

"I’m sorry…"

No answer came—only movement. Remus gripped Harry’s jumper and pulled him into a crushing hug. They stood there for several seconds, motionless. When they parted, Remus kept a hand firm on Harry’s shoulder.

"Despite what it seems, I have no intention of convincing you that what you feel for Hermione is wrong. I only wish to spare you from this sort of life. You’re far too young to be shackled to it."

Harry pulled away. Rubbed the back of his neck. Eyes low.

"It’s too late, Remus. I-I don’t care what I need to do. I will search the deepest depths of the darkest magic if it means I can figure out what happened. I would never hurt her! Not ever…"

His chest rose and fell in erratic rhythm, and the weight of the words seemed to drag his shoulders forward. A tremor passed through his fingers. He wiped his palms on the thighs of his trousers. His voice, when it returned, carried something raw—stripped of all composure.

"My behavior, it wasn’t me! Bellatrix’s knife—it must be cursed. Bill found nothing. Detected not a single thing out of sorts. Hermione is in danger, and I need to find out how I can protect her… Before something else happens."

Remus nodded, lips tight.

"If you’re resigned to this, then know you’re never alone. You’re all I have left of them—James, Lily, and Sirius. You may not be my nephew by blood, but you’re certainly family by choice. No matter where you go, I will never be too far behind."

Harry’s throat closed. He nodded once, chest too tight to speak. His lips trembled, pressing into a thin line as he turned slightly away. Shoulders hunched forward, tight and protective. His fingers curled at his sides, nails digging into the fabric of his trousers. Even blinking felt like too much—like it might break something already cracking deep in his chest. No sound escaped him. Just a subtle shake of his head as he tried, and failed, to breathe steady through the ache.

"Would you care for me to have a look?" Remus asked gently. "You’re hardly well rested… Perhaps, I may find something you’re missing."

Color crept up Harry’s neck. His hand rubbed at the back of his head.

"It’s not exactly the most…uhh, wholesome of memories."

"Harry, please tell me you didn’t—"

"No!" His voice pitched. "Of course, I wanted to, but she…stopped me. Thank Merlin!"

Remus pulled a square of chocolate from his pocket and unwrapped it slowly, the foil crackling in his hands. He examined it for a moment, as if weighing its significance more than its taste. Then, he bit into it—calmly, almost absently. The scent of dark cocoa filled the space between them, grounding and familiar. A soft laugh escaped the older wizard.

"You really have made quite a mess of things, you know."

"I know that."

"What did Ginny say—when you broke up with her, I mean?"

Harry stared at his shoes, blinking at a scuff on the toe that hadn’t been there yesterday. His thumb rubbed obsessively at a frayed thread on his jumper, working it loose until the yarn thinned between his fingers. Shoulders curled in, small and defeated, as if trying to disappear into the stone beneath their feet.

With a quiet, breathless sigh, Harry shoved both hands deep into his pockets, fists clenched so tight they trembled.

"She told me she’ll still be here when Hermione leaves me again… That no one will ever love me as much as she does. She said that she won’t let my confusion break us apart. Everyone thinks I’m confused…"

Silence fell again.

Remus cleared his throat. "Let me have a look, then."

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

HERMIONE

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

29 May 1998

The moment hung quiet, broken only by the ticking clock above the Minister's desk. Each tick seemed to echo through the room with deliberate precision, as though time itself hesitated to intrude.

Dust motes spun lazily in a shaft of afternoon sunlight near the edge of the windowpane. The air carried a hush that pressed inward, waiting—expectant, uncertain. Beneath it all, the silence clung too tightly, as if even the walls were listening.

“I’d like to formally request Severus Snape—Watching him, I mean.”

Her voice didn’t tremble, but something in her shoulders did. Chin lifted, spine straight, Hermione stared past the scattered documents between them. The air smelled faintly of ink and parchment, warm from the late afternoon sun filtering through the enchanted glass.

Kingsley leaned back slightly, his brow furrowing with quiet concern. Fingers curled loosely around the armrests of his chair. “Hermione, he’ll require serious attention. Not only does he await trial with the Wizengamot, his healing regimen is rather intensive.”

A sigh ghosted past Hermione's lips. One leg crossed over the other in a motion too practiced to be casual. Her hands, clasped in her lap, squeezed tighter until her knuckles blanched. “I can handle it, sir.”

“It’s not a question of whether you can handle it.” His voice softened as he leaned forward again, elbows resting on the polished surface between them. Fingers threaded together, he regarded her like one might a trembling bird. “My sole concern regards your welfare. You’re young. You ought to be celebrating with friends—enjoying the public’s appreciation. Not—”

“If it’s all the same,” she cut in, the words escaping faster than she intended, “I’d like to become his Watcher. I saved him at Hogwarts. It’s only appropriate that I should be the one who suffers his ire all summer.”

That coaxed a long, low exhale from Kingsley. The lines around his eyes deepened as he looked at her through years of shared battles and loss. He studied her, not as Minister, but as someone who’d watched her grow up surrounded by war.

“Hermione,” he said carefully, “is everything alright?”

The words landed like a blow, invisible but deeply felt. Her back stiffened. A pause, long and brittle. Then, barely audible: “Honestly, no… I’m… Well, I’ve recently discovered my friendship with both Ronald and Harry are likely at their end. Only for a little while, I hope.”

Her voice caught on something sharp, something raw. Gaze lowered, lashes trembling. She blinked rapidly, as if that alone could stem the tears. Her hand moved again, tugging her sleeve over her wrist, where the scar pulsed like a living thing. She winced when the fabric grazed it—subtle, but not unnoticed.

Kingsley’s brow creased further. He leaned forward, forearms bracing the desk. “The other night… Tonks didn’t say much of what happened. Only that you and Harry had a bit of a falling out…”

The sting came quick. The kind that clawed behind her eyes and burned in her throat. Hermione blinked quickly, looking anywhere but at him, her thumbs moving in frantic little circles over each other.

“If it’s all the same,” she said again, gentler this time, “I’d like to focus on why I’m stealing so much of your non-existent time, Minister Shacklebolt.”

Kingsley sighed. The kind that deflated his whole chest. He leaned back, hands steepled beneath his chin. “Kingsley, Hermione. Call me Kingsley.”

Her lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Chin lifted, she swiped the corner of her eye before the tear had a chance to fall. “Kingsley.”

“The Order still maintains ownership of several safe houses across the United Kingdom. You may pick one of them—claim it for your own for the summer or in perpetuity, if you wish,” he offered, voice low.

Shaking her head, Hermione sniffled. One hand lifted to rub beneath her nose as she looked off to the side. Her voice faltered before she found the strength to speak. “Too many Wizarding families remain displaced. I can’t take a home away from one of them.”

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

He spoke like a father would—with gentleness that made her heart ache more than it helped. Her shoulders hunched slightly, the armor of certainty faltering.

“You may have your pick of Watching any of the Death Eaters unfit for Azkaban who await their trials—”

“Apologies for interrupting, Kingsley,” she said.

A curl slipped from the witch's braid, loosened by the nervous tilt of her head. It dangled near her cheek, catching the light, a tiny rebellion in an otherwise controlled appearance. Her fingers lifted to tuck it away, but the motion betrayed her—tentative, trembling.

Fingertips brushed her skin, lingered near the edge of her temple, as if grounding herself there might anchor the rest of her. The hand dropped slowly to her lap, where it clenched the fabric of her dark flannel shirt with quiet desperation.

“I’ve camped at random places the past day or so waiting for our meeting today. I can’t stay at Grimmauld Place or the Burrow, and I certainly cannot go home—I’m not ready to face it. Not yet. Not alone…”

Her hands balled into fists at her sides. Jaw tightening, she glanced toward the window before she spoke again.

“I don’t want to tip off Skeeter that anything is amiss with us among the Golden Trio—not so soon after we’ve won.”

Her voice cracked slightly, thin and wavering at the edges like a fraying thread. She clamped her mouth shut, nostrils flaring as she dragged a breath through her nose. Shoulders drew upward, then fell in a forced exhale, as though releasing tension she couldn't otherwise tame. Her hand lifted toward her chest before falling back, fingers curling again in her lap. The effort to steady herself made her seem smaller somehow, like a figure slowly folding in on itself.

“I have no money left in my possession, Kingsley. I… I haven’t eaten anything in nearly two days.”

That admission lingered, suspended between them. Her eyes didn’t meet his.

“Stealing doesn’t feel right anymore—not now that the war is officially over.”

Hermione's thumb rubbed anxiously at her wrist—over fabric, over the angry scar that burned. The motion was small, repetitive, and desperate—like trying to erase something permanent through sheer will.

The cloth of her sleeve did little to dull the memory burning beneath it. Her pulse beat against the edge of the mark, a phantom echo of pain that never truly left. Each stroke over the fabric felt like both punishment and comfort, a silent confession she couldn’t voice aloud.

“I don’t wish to trouble Headmistress McGonagall, either. Please, sir! The 100,000-galleon stipend would radically change my life once I graduate Hogwarts next summer.”

Finally, she looked up. Her shoulders hitched halfway through a breath that never quite filled her lungs. Eyes glossy, she tilted her chin and forced the movement, like it physically hurt to meet his gaze.

The muscles along her jaw tightened, twitching once before settling into stillness. Her fingers uncurled from the fabric of her shirt, only to grip it again. Tighter than before. Her lips parted slightly. For a second, she didn’t speak—just blinked, wide-eyed, holding herself still as if bracing for a verdict she already feared.

“And you’ll find no one better equipped to care for Snape with the dignity he’s owed.”

Kingsley's gaze narrowed, shadows slipping into the lines around his mouth. "Why Snape?"

Hermione’s mouth twisted into something meant to resemble laughter, but the sound that followed barely escaped her throat. It cracked mid-air—half breath, half broken thought. Her shoulders jerked once with the effort, then fell slack, like even her body wasn’t convinced by the attempt.

Behind her lashes, no warmth stirred. Instead, her gaze dimmed, cooling into something brittle and distant. Her hand fluttered once in her lap, catching the edge of her cloak, then stilled entirely.

"I can’t very well go to Malfoy Manor again…"

Kingsley’s expression didn’t shift. No blink. No twitch. Just the slow drag of his fingers across the stubble lining his jaw. His gaze remained steady, unwavering, even as his voice dropped an octave—softer now, but no less pointed.

"Tell me, Hermione. Why him?"

A twitch pulled at the corner of her mouth, so brief she might’ve imagined it. Her lips parted but no sound emerged. She took a breath through her nose and let silence pool between them for a long moment. Then, finally, she afforded him the only sliver of truth she could give.

"Because he won’t hover. He won’t ask questions. He’ll leave me to my peace. And…"

The Minister leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk.

"And?"

The witch's arms folded tightly. The shallow breath she took made her shoulders shrink inward. Her palms rubbed in slow, rhythmic strokes down the sleeves of her flannel shirt. Then came the shake of her head—small, restrained, almost mechanical.

"We share at least one thing in common…"

"...which is?"

A breath expanded her chest. Her chin lifted, mouth set into a line sharp enough to cut. The silence between them grew denser, her posture alone answering before her words could catch up.

"Sir, is this line of questioning relevant in discerning whether I’d be a good fit, or are you asking out of sheer curiosity?"

A wry smirk tugged at the Minister’s mouth. One brow lifted.

"Which one gets me the answer I want?"

The breath she exhaled came with a roll of her eyes. She sank an inch lower into her seat, then smiled—but it didn't quite settle on her sullen face.

"We likely share the same favorite color."

A heavy beat passed. The corner of Kingsley’s mouth twitched. A sound slipped out—soft, barely formed, more breath than laugh. His shoulders rose with it, as if pulled by a thread of amusement he hadn’t expected to find. The motion softened him.

"I don’t think I’ll hear that particular reason when interviewing other Watcher candidates… I’ll assume there’s more to it than that."

"Of course there is, sir."

The space between them grew taut. Something shifted in her—barely perceptible, but present. A stilling. A subtle anchoring.

"Will you tell me?" he asked, the question laid bare without ornament.

Hermione met his stare, her gaze locking onto his with an unfailing steadiness. Her chin tipped a fraction higher. The familiar fire—long buried beneath grief and fear and unknowing—flickered alive behind her eyes.

"You’ll decline my request sooner than I’ll tell you, Kingsley."

It wasn't a threat. Not quite a dare. Just a hint into the truth she’d already made peace with—one she couldn't exactly go around disclosing. He watched her like he’d never really seen her before. Measured every crack in her expression. Every too-careful breath.

Seconds passed. Then more.

The skin at her forearm began to itch—faint at first, then sharper. Burning. She pressed her wrist into her thigh, as if pressure could erase it. Still, it crawled. Sweat beaded along her hairline. A thin, shimmery line. Her jaw set harder. She would not scratch. Not in front of him.

Kingsley leaned back. Fingers laced in his lap, his shoulders fell with the sigh that left him.

"The Ministry accepts your request. Severus Snape should be so lucky to have you as his Watcher and caretaker for the summer."

Her lips parted, but before she could speak—before a smile could rise—he lifted a hand to stop her.

"I should warn you, Hermione… Spinner’s End is not at all as accommodating as that paltry tent you three shared."

He paused, watching her for a reaction. None came.

"The bed you’ll have is the same one Peter Pettigrew occupied during his time serving Snape."

His tone didn't change, but something in his eyes flickered—discomfort, maybe. He tapped a finger once against the edge of the desk.

"The Ministry shall provide a strict budget for food and other essentials for you both."

Her face remained neutral, but her hands tightened in her lap.

"We’ll expect you to report here monthly with detailed progress updates on his condition and treatment of you."

His words slowed. Less official now. More warning than instruction.

"Everything he says and does will be entered into evidence against or in favor of him during his trial later this summer."

She blinked once, slowly.

"In short," he finished, voice quieter now, "you will be miserable."

She inhaled deeply, as though drawing strength from somewhere far away. Then, the witch exhaled in one long, slow breath. For the first time in minutes, her posture softened.

"Guaranteed food and accommodations are two luxuries I’ve not had in quite a while, Kingsley. I’ll be your most grateful, cooperative, and successful Watcher. I expect my last report shall detail exactly how amiable Snape and I get on."

That earned another chuckle. This one more honest than the last.

"That would be a report to behold, indeed."

From his drawer, Kingsley pulled a thick envelope and set it before her.

"Inside, you’ll find everything you need for the job—including the stipulations on ensuring you receive your full stipend, due dates for your monthly reports, and his Potions regimen. All of it and more are in this dossier."

Her fingers closed around it. His did not let go right away.

"Sir?"

"I’m sorry to hear about your falling out with Harry and Ronald. I hope…"

His breath caught mid-sentence, chest lifting with the pause as though something heavy pressed there. The hardness around his eyes eased, lines smoothing just slightly. A gentler light welled in them—one that hadn’t been present moments ago. His jaw shifted, lips parting, but whatever came next needed more time. In that pause, his expression said the rest.

"The whole of our community only benefits from your friendships with those boys."

A thin sheen welled at the corners of her eyes. Her lashes fluttered once, steadying. Jaw tight, she pressed her lips together for a heartbeat—holding something in—perhaps just simply steadying herself. And then, slowly, almost stubbornly, the faintest smile curved one side of her mouth. It trembled but held.

"I appreciate that, sir."

An awkward silence wove itself between them, threading the space with invisible tension. Hermione offered a polite smile, one that failed to stretch beyond her lips. Her fingers rested atop her knees, motionless, while the corners of her mouth lifted out of habit, not feeling. Her eyes—dull at the edges—remained distant, unfocused.

Across the desk, Kingsley watched her in silence. One elbow leaned against the armrest, his hand resting near his chin. His gaze was unreadable at first, but gradually, the furrow between his brows deepened. The soft exhale from his nose barely stirred the air.

"There’s a favor I should ask of you…"

Her head tilted slightly. The muscles in her jaw tensed, then loosened. Curiosity crept in. The tightness around her mouth softened, and her brows drew together, uncertain.

"What is it, sir?"

He held her gaze a moment longer, as if weighing the cost of what he was about to ask. Then: "Consider this a mission on behalf of the Order."

She nodded slowly. A shallow swallow passed down her throat. Her shoulders shifted slightly in her seat. "Alright…"

With no further delay, Kingsley turned to a different drawer. The chair creaked under his shifting weight. As he opened it, his wand moved with deft, practiced grace, murmuring a spell she couldn’t quite catch. The hum of magic filled the office like a low vibration. Air thickened. Her skin prickled. Something pulsed just beneath the desk’s surface until, at last, a hollow click echoed from within.

His arm disappeared elbow-deep into the drawer. An undetectable extension charm, clearly. She would know the signature of it anywhere—after all, she carried the very same enchantment on her person every single day. Her fingers grazed the edge of her beaded bag as if to confirm its presence.

From the depths of the drawer, he pulled a tiny amber vial. Its contents shimmered—a wispy, blue-white thread swirling in suspension. Between his thumb and forefinger, he presented it to her.

"Give these back to Snape. The Ministry… Well, between the two of us, corruption still penetrates this institution."

Hermione’s hand hovered for a moment. She didn’t reach for the vial. Her gaze flicked between the bottle and Kingsley’s eyes. Instead of taking it, her shoulders tensed and her spine straightened. Her eyes lifted, narrowing faintly as she met his unflinching stare.

"But sir—his trial…"

Kingsley exhaled. A long, tired sound. He pinched the bridge of his nose, briefly closing his eyes.

"I have seen them. I’ve secured myself and Harry as primary witnesses. You’ll be called, too. Eventually. But listen carefully, Hermione: you will deny giving this to him. Do you understand?"

Her lips parted. Her hand opened in her lap, then curled back into a fist. No words came. It took her a few seconds longer than it should have to find them. Finally, pressing her lips to one side and furrowing her brows, she nodded.

"Consider it done."

Then it came—a sharp hiss, torn from somewhere low and buried. Her spine snapped straight, rigid as if she’d been hit with a jolt of electricity. One eye squinted shut. The other fluttered, watering as a gasp caught between her teeth.

Her right hand jerked forward on instinct, fingers scrambling to find the source of the fire burning beneath her sleeve. She gripped the fabric tight, nails biting through cotton as her body curled around itself. Each breath came short and uneven, as though the act of inhaling pulled across something raw.

Her face twisted. Brow creased deep, nostrils flaring. A fine tremor started at her jaw and crept down her neck. She bent forward, forearms resting on her knees, trying to curl around the pain, to trap it—to contain it.

The scar had gone from a dull ache to something carnivorous. It throbbed with vengeance, searing through skin and tissue like a second pulse. Two days without Harry, and it had become a thing alive—furious, festering, punishing.

Her fingers twitched against the sleeve, desperate for relief that wouldn’t come.

The burning was no longer symbolic. It was brutal. Punishing. Real.

Kingsley moved fast. He stood and reached for her hand, firm but gentle. His fingers wrapped around her wrist while he tugged the sleeve back. The skin revealed was livid red—swollen, inflamed. The scabbed letters of "Mudblood" stood puffy and cracked. Around the edges, tiny blisters oozed clear fluid.

She yanked her arm away the moment his fingers loosened. Her other hand dragged the sleeve down hastily.

"Why haven’t you gone to St. Mungo’s?"

"I have," she said, voice quiet. Her head dipped slightly. Her eyes lowered to her knees. Her head shook in defeat. "They kept me for three nights. Found no traces of a curse. Cleared me."

His frown deepened. A muscle in his jaw ticked. Gaze hard. "The dagger she used, the Ministry apprehended it. We have it. I’ll ask Bill to check—just to be safe. Curse-breaking’s his specialty."

Bill Weasley.

The moment the name left his lips, she froze. Not visibly at first, but inside, something snapped taut. Her lungs stalled. A cold flash rippled through her chest. Images blistered across her mind—Harry’s mouth on hers, his hands framing her face, the unbearable sweetness of betrayal. Of guilt.

Arms folding across her stomach, she slouched into the chair. Her shoulders curled inward, her spine bowing. A slow exhale left her lungs, shaking faintly on its way out.

"The dagger… Would it be possible for me to take it? If anyone can determine if it was cursed, it’s Severus Snape."

His body stilled, just for a heartbeat. One hand paused mid-air, fingers curled slightly as if debating whether to gesture or withdraw. His brows lifted—unreadable, some careful weighing of thought.

Then the moment vanished. He straightened, spine lengthening with poised calm. Shoulders squared. The expression that followed was practiced—perfect for a man playing the pleasant politician. A quiet sort of mask slipped into place: polished, dignified, composed. Whatever flickered behind his eyes never made it to the surface.

"It’s in the hands of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

"The Aurors…"

Another smile. Same sharp neutrality.

"Yes."

Her stomach lurched—as though the air itself had curdled. Her hand pressed flat against her abdomen, fingers splayed wide. A tightness bloomed at the base of her throat, thick and slow—like something vile threatening to rise.

The meaning was unmistakable. Of course it would reach him. Of course it would end up in his hands. Her lashes lowered. Jaw clenched. Just last week, Harry had begun his internship at the Department.

There would be no avoiding it. No changing the path now set in motion. Harry would likely use it as a tool to see her—maintain a small semblance of proximity. 

No. Hermione would have to figure this out without it.

"You fit my arms like you were made for me. Just me."

The memory struck like hexfire. Hermione drew in a sharp breath through her nose. Her shoulders lifted, rigid. She held it. Waited for the ache to settle, to subside.

It didn’t.

"There’s no need to trouble Bill, Kingsley. I’ll… I’ll stop by Diagon Alley. Get something from the apothecary. It’s only an infection."

He didn’t look convinced. One brow lifted.

"With what coin?"

Her silence answered before her words could. She winced. Bit her lip. Her gaze dropped to her shoes.

"Right…"

Kingsley didn’t wait. He moved to the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out a small drawstring pouch, and dropped it beside her. It clinked against the wood.

"Take it, Hermione. It's what’s left of my emergency stash. Should be close to 500 galleons."

"Sir!"

Her eyes widened. She straightened, already shaking her head.

His look silenced her. Stern. Kind. Unmoving.

"If you give me any grief, I’ll rescind your assignment to Watch Snape."

Reluctantly, she reached forward. Fingers curled around the pouch. The weight of it settled like lead in her beaded purse. Another debt. Another burden.

Alone. She needed to be alone...

Tucking a loose curl behind her ear, she summoned a smile that didn’t quite make it to her eyes.

"Thank you, Kingsley."

He paused.

"Promise me something, Hermione…"

She straightened again. A flicker of tension coiled along her spine.

"Yes?"

"When you need help—you’ll find me. I’d say Arthur or Remus, but they’re too tied to the boys. Come to me. Whatever it is, I’ll help. They don’t have to know."

The nod she gave came slow. Hesitant. But his gaze held no room for denial.

"Thank you, Kingsley."

"Of course…"

Her hand drifted slowly toward her forearm, fingers hovering just above the fabric as though bracing for the heat beneath. When her palm made contact, a faint shudder passed through her shoulders. She pressed down gently, then firmer—each added ounce of pressure an effort to steady herself.

Her eyelids fluttered closed for a moment. Lips parted, but no breath came right away. The carved word beneath her skin burned like a brand even through the cloth, but still, she didn’t pull away. Her fingers spread wider across the scar.

Then, in the silence of the moment, her posture slackened just slightly.

"I’d like this to remain between us. All of it. Please. No one can know. Not yet…"

He didn’t hesitate. "Uphold your promise to me, and I can give you that and whatever else you require of me."

The room fell quiet. A strange stillness settling in its wake.

And so it began—the summer of exile. Hermione would be a guest at Spinner's End. Somehow, she'd nudge Snape into helping her figure out the scar.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Each step rang sharp in the silence she carried. Slow. The echo of her boots on polished stone followed her like an accusation, folding into the murmurs blooming behind her. They weren’t loud, these whispers—but they pierced. Slivers of sound buried in contempt. A hiss of breath here. A muttered name there. Hermione kept walking.

Her spine held straight, chin tilted in that careful defiance she'd perfected after second year. But her fingers—those betrayed her. They clenched around the thick folder against her chest, so tightly the parchment inside bent at the corners, the seal pressing painfully into her sternum. The pressure steadied her, reminded her she was still moving, still breathing.

Eyes followed. Some narrowed in disgust, mouths tightening into thin, grim lines. Others—far worse—glimmered with glee. Morbid fascination gleamed in their stares, the sort Bellatrix used to wear before the Cruciatus Curse slipped past her lips. A twisted kind of joy at the sight of a broken thing.

Hermione’s throat worked around a swallow. The sound it made felt too loud in her ears. She blinked rapidly and turned toward the Atrium, each step heavier than the last.

The midday crowd hadn’t lessened. If anything, the sheer number of robes brushing past made the space feel too narrow, the air too thick. Golden light from the enchanted ceiling shone down on the grand fountain at the center—no longer a monument to muggle subjugation. Now, it was a place of remembrance. Of grief made stone.

She slowed. Her gaze lifted. Names shimmered across the bronze plates encircling the sculpture’s base—etched with care, reverent and final. Fred Weasley. Colin Creevey. Her eyes moved down the rest of the list, lips parting and tears burning.

A breath trembled in her chest. Not quite an exhale. Not quite a sob. Her grip tightened around the dossier.

Then she stopped entirely. One hand reached forward, fingertips grazing the cool metal. It steadied her. Her chest rose once. Fell. She closed her eyes and let the air escape through her nose—slow and quiet.

A sound broke the stillness.

“I couldn’t do it, Harry. He’s not you. His hands aren’t yours—his touch is not yours…”

The voice cracked open the moment. Her breath hitched. Eyes shot open, head snapping toward the fountain. There, perched at its edge with legs casually crossed, sat Ronald Weasley.

His jaw worked against some invisible tension. His hands clutched the Daily Prophet, fingers curling so tightly the pages threatened to tear. Every word that left his mouth held venom.

Her bag slipped slightly off her shoulder. One hand fumbled the clasp open, and she tucked the folder inside with practiced movements that betrayed her shaking fingers.

Her eyes swept the space around her. Every witch and wizard seemed to hold a Prophet. Some open. Some rolled beneath arms. But all eyes found her.

Heat prickled up her neck and bloomed across her cheeks. The sting crawled toward her eyes, where tears threatened to spill and blur the world to watercolor. Her throat constricted. She blinked hard, once, twice—forcing the edges of her vision back into focus. Shoulders stiffened. Jaw locked.

Still, she stepped forward. Each motion quiet, defiant. The weight of every pair of eyes on her, every cruel or detached whisper, every ounce of humiliation—all of it she met head-on.

“Ron—”

“We got as far as him unbuttoning my shirt and brushing his hand at my breast over my bra.”

The words landed like stones hurled through stained glass.

“I ended things as respectfully as possible—but it’s only a matter of time before he puts things together.”

Hermione's hands flew to her sleeves. Fists twisted the fabric. Her knuckles went white.

“Ron, let’s go somewhere—talk.”

But Ron didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“He doesn’t know I’m in love with you.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Shoulders curled inward slightly, as if absorbing the blow.

“Please, Ronald! Not here… Stop this—”

“He doesn’t know I am completely yours, Harry Potter…”

She reached for the paper, her fingers trembling, but he moved faster. The Prophet slammed onto the fountain edge with a crack. Her whole body recoiled, eyes shutting as the sound echoed.

When she opened them again, he was standing.

Towering.

His face, shadowed and unreadable, hovered inches above hers. Muscles in his jaw ticked beneath skin flushed with fury. His eyes—those familiar, stormy blues—looked nothing like the boy who once shared a tent with her under starlit skies.

Hermione didn’t flinch. Not this time. Her spine lengthened, vertebrae aligning with quiet resolve as if bracing against a storm. Shoulders eased back, tension curling away from her frame like smoke. Her chin lifted, eyes wide and glistening but unyielding. Tears gathered at the corners, held firm by the same force that held her upright.

“How much of this is true?” The words hit like hexes. “And don’t deny it! Skeeter caught a photo of the two of you snogging!”

Her gaze flitted sideways. A woman near the lifts leaned forward, brazen and wide-eyed, her entire posture angled toward the confrontation like a spectator leaning over a dueling ring. A much older wizard pretended to shuffle a stack of memos. He barely concealed his amusement as he angled his body toward them.

No one looked away. They didn’t want distance from the argument—they wanted details. They wanted a bloody spectacle.

Hermione bit her lip. Arms folded across her middle, like a shield for the hollow ache blooming inside her.

“All of it,” she said, her voice firm.

It wasn’t a confession. It was a release—like letting go of something she’d clutched too tightly for too long.

Ron's eyes went glassy. A tremor passed through him, subtle at first. His breathing hitched. Shoulders drew tight, and his jaw locked so hard it visibly clenched at the hinge. The tear that slipped down his cheek wasn’t mournful—it was the last trace of the boy who called her friend.

Then his eyes changed—all at once, like something inside him cracked. What had been sorrow glazed with betrayal turned hollow. Empty. And then filled with something far worse.

Something foreign.

A light behind his gaze vanished, replaced by a frigid stillness that didn’t belong. His pupils seemed to dilate, swallowing the lovely blue color. The skin beneath his eyes tightened, face slackening as though momentarily stunned—before twisting sharply. The muscle at his jaw jumped. Lips curled back in a slow, venomous snarl.

He looked at her like she was the wound. The rot. The origin of everything wrong in the world. His breath left in a slow exhale, but the way his chest rose and fell—it was restraint slipping, second by second.

What stood before her wasn’t just Ron anymore. It was something else.

And it hated her.

Ron stepped forward—like a man possessed. His fingers twitched at his sides, then curled into fists. The soft shake of his shoulders turned rigid, braced by something cruel and unseen.

His lips peeled back, slow and tight, exposing his teeth in something far too vicious to be called a sneer. His eyes—wide, glassy, locked—didn’t blink. Not once. They tracked her like prey, pupils blown, color drained beneath the weight of something violent and unnatural. His nostrils flared sharply. Not with breath, but with something else—like his whole body rejected the air it inhaled.

Fists clenched at his sides, fingers flexing in small, jerky spasms. Shoulders squared, no longer trembling—just braced, locked, like they might split from the tension anchoring his posture. His neck twitched. His chin jutted forward, jutting sharp like a strike was building from within.

A flush crept up from his collar, overtaking his throat, his cheeks, his ears—like blood boiled beneath the skin. Veins surfaced along his temple. His brows lowered in a slow, deliberate collapse, twisting his face into something unrecognizable. Something monstrous.

He leaned in.

Barely.

But enough to make the threat unmistakable. His gaze didn’t just rest on her—it dug. Deep. Merciless. Unrelenting. Whatever part of him had once loved her had been burned clean through. And it fixed itself on her.

Only her.

“Was shagging him everything you hoped it would be, Hermione?”

Her lips parted. Voice rose, unsteady.

“We didn’t—”

“DON’T LIE TO ME!”

The bellow shattered her resolve. The sound of it crashed through the Atrium, echoing off the walls like a violent spell. Her body recoiled as if struck, muscles locking in instinctive retreat. One foot jerked backward. The other nearly buckled. Gasps erupted around them, some muffled by palms pressed to lips, others ringing clear in disbelief.

Then his hand lunged forward.

Fingers clamped around her left forearm—hard. Too hard. Her breath broke into a yelp, sharp and reflexive, as the sudden pain bit through her skin. Her other hand shot to his wrist, nails digging in, trying to wrench him off. The bones in her arm shifted under the pressure. She twisted against his grip, but it didn’t budge.

He held fast.

Right over the scar.

The skin there flared instantly beneath his grasp. A heat bloomed under the pressure—hot, unbearable, like the wound had torn fresh again. Her knees threatened to give out. The very air left her lungs.

Still, he didn’t ease.

His grip tightened. A calculated cruelty. His knuckles whitened, digging harder as if he meant to crush the memory of her.

Her features buckled. Brows crashed together, her lips parting with a stifled cry. Eyes squeezed shut. Breath hitched violently in her chest as her free arm braced against his chest, pushing, trying to gain distance.

Her body writhed—not to escape him entirely, but to shield the scar. To protect the soft, brutal reminder of what had already been taken from her. The pain wasn't just physical. It radiated outward, summoning the echo of a knife, a curse, a laugh that wasn’t his.

And Ron didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Didn’t let go.

A shiver rippled down her spine.

“Ronald, stop! You’re hurting me…”

Her voice cracked—thin, broken, barely above a whisper. One foot stumbled backward, the weight of his grasp anchoring her in place. Her arm burned beneath his fingers, nails digging in right over the fresh scar. Pain surged. Her shoulders tensed, and her breath came sharp through her nose.

“I’m hurting YOU?”

His laugh was no laugh at all. Twisted, ragged, guttural. It rose from deep within his chest, his whole body trembling as if something monstrous had been unchained. Red flushed across his cheeks, climbing to his ears. His lips curled in mockery. Tears carved their way down his face.

“Don’t make me laugh.”

Hermione’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. Her hand inched toward her wand, instinct overriding reason. Her eyes—wide, frantic—searched his face for anything familiar.

“Nothing happened!”

The words flew out too fast, too desperate. Her brows pinched together. A tremor passed through her, from chest to fingertips.

“Nothing happened? NOTHING HAPPENED?!”

Ron’s voice detonated. It hit the walls of the Atrium like a curse, sharp and echoing. His body surged forward.

With one vicious motion, he seized the front of her blouse and yanked. Fabric tore. The top few buttons of her flannel shirt scattered across the gleaming floor. Cold air rushed against her skin as her collar gaped open—exposing the bruise, round and discolored, at the base of her neck.

Shame painted her cheeks. Her hands shot up in reflex, trying to shield the exposed mark, but his glare pinned her in place.

“You know he’s fucking my sister, but you don’t care who you hurt, do you?”

Spit flew from his lips. Each word spat like venom. His teeth clenched between syllables.

“So long as you swallow the Chosen One whole and sup him till he’s spent, yeah?”

She reached for her wand—but he was faster.

Ron yanked it from her grasp and flung it to the side. It skittered across the marble, useless. Her arm dropped to her side as her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow gasps. Panic swelled, thick and suffocating.

Her teeth clenched. Her jaw trembled. Pain screamed through her arm as he squeezed again, and she cried out—loud, guttural, helpless.

“Ron—stop this!”

Her plea hit him like a gust of wind to a mountain. He laughed. Cruel. Hollow. The sound turned her blood cold. It echoed—the way they’d laughed at Malfoy Manor. She couldn’t breathe.

Then the scar split open.

Hot blood oozed beneath fabric. It seeped through, staining his palm. She shoved her right fist toward his face, but he caught it midair—effortless, merciless. The strength in his grip doubled. Her knuckles twisted. She whimpered.

“Every moment we’ve ever shared, Hermione, is a LIE!”

The young wizard's eyes burned. Bloodshot and shining, they darted erratically over her face as though searching for something long lost. Their rims were red, lashes soaked, but the tears only seemed to feed the madness coiled behind them. His nostrils flared with every breath.

“No, it isn’t!”

Her head shook hard, as though trying to dislodge the weight of his words. Strands of hair flew from her braid, falling into her eyes, clinging to tear-dampened cheeks. The defiance in her motion was undercut by the sheer desperation etched into every line of her face.

“All of it was real!”

Shoulders hunched inward, she braced herself—against him, against this, against the break she could feel coming. Her voice cracked. She choked back another sob.

“You’re my best friend. I never meant to hurt you, I promise… Please stop this…”

For a moment, nothing. Then—

Ron shoved her. Her body slammed to the ground. Palms scraped along the smooth marble. The wind knocked from her lungs. She wheezed, struggling to right herself.

His wand gleamed above.

Hermione dragged herself across the floor—slow, crawling. Her good hand outstretched toward the glint of her wand. Her blood-slick fingers slipped across the floor.

The Atrium spun. The crowd. Their eyes. Some horrified. Most watched like spectators at a Quidditch match.

Not a single soul stepped forward.

“If you think Bellatrix hurt you…”

Ron’s voice slithered through the air like smoke from a cursed flame—low, coiled, and thick with malice. His lips barely moved, yet each word bled poison. He loomed above her. The tendons in his neck strained, and a shadow flickered behind his eyes—something too dark to name. His stance was that of someone no longer reaching for understanding, only destruction.

“…just wait until I’m done with you. Filthy fucking mudblood...”

The word slammed into her like a hex.

Her hand inched closer, fingers trembling as they reached for the slender piece of salvation just within her grasp. Blood smeared across the polished marble, leaving streaks in her wake. She was almost there.

Then—

A shadow eclipsed the wand. His foot came down like a hammer.

The sound that followed was not just a crack—it was a shattering. A sickening pop echoed off the chamber walls as bone gave way under the brutal weight. Her wrist twisted, the joint buckling in a direction no limb should bend. A scream exploded from her throat, shrill and primal. Her mouth gaped, her head thrown back as the sound ripped from her lungs.

Her body folded inward, collapsing around the pain. She rocked slightly, cradling the injured limb to her chest as her face contorted—eyes squeezed shut, brows crumpled, mouth wide and quivering. One long, ragged cry tore free, hoarse and full of disbelief, echoing around the unmoved crowd.

Her other arm—weak, trembling—rose in vain to protect herself.

Ron grabbed her collar and dragged her upright. Her legs dragged. Her shoes scraped. Her broken hand dangled. Her fingers wouldn’t close. Her other hand clawed at his, trying to peel him away.

“Please, Ron...”

A sob. A whisper. A plea. Her eyes searched his face for something—remorse, confusion, humanity. All she found was loathing. A familiar monster who served the dark lord who wanted to exterminate witches and wizards like her.

His hands lunged for her throat with terrifying purpose—no preamble, no hesitation, no mercy. Thick fingers locked around her neck, thumbs digging into the delicate hollow just beneath her jaw. Her breath caught instantly, body jolting with the sudden assault. Her eyes flew wide, panic rising sharp and fast in her chest. Her unbroken hand flew to his wrist, fingers scrabbling, nails clawing, but his grip only tightened.

The pressure grew. Her windpipe compressed. Sounds died in her throat. Every muscle in her neck strained against the vice closing around it. Her legs kicked helplessly beneath her, heels scraping against the floor. Her head jerked as she tried to turn away, as if she could escape his hold by force of will alone. But his hands didn’t budge. They only squeezed harder.

Blood pounded in her ears. Her vision blurred. Stars bloomed across her sightline, dancing like specters in the dark.

Still, he didn’t stop.

She choked, coughed, gagged. Her mouth opened wide in a silent scream. The agony in her chest built with every passing second—every moment she was denied air. Her nails bit into his arms, leaving trails of red. Her body convulsed, losing control.

Only then—at the edge of blackness—did he let go.

Only for the relief to be shattered by the brute force of his fist. It came from nowhere—sharp, sudden, merciless. Knuckles collided with her cheekbone, and the impact sent a white-hot shock through her skull. Her eyes rolled, vision flooded with bursts of blinding light, pain detonating behind her temple like fireworks gone wrong. The world canted sideways.

She dropped.

No control, no resistance—just the hollow weight of her body collapsing beneath her.

Her head slammed against the stone ledge with a dull, gut-wrenching thud. A breath caught in her throat, and then everything spun. The ceiling twisted. The lights blurred. The floor beneath her turned icy cold. A high-pitched hum rang out in her ears as her limbs sprawled, unresponsive.

And the darkness rose up to meet her.

Hermione's limbs wouldn’t move. Her jaw hung slack. Her good hand twitched toward her wand, useless.

Through the haze, a familiar flash of red ignited her clouded vision. Someone nearby screamed. So much screaming echoed all over the Atrium. A few seconds later, and it stopped.

"Stay back—all of you!” Ron screamed.

Her ears rang. She blinked. Slow. Shallow. Once. Again.

Ron’s wand hovered above her. His lips formed the start of a curse.

"Sectumsem—"

Her entire body seized. Her lungs spasmed, and a final sob tore from her throat.

Then—

“STUPEFY!”

Harry. His voice like thunder.

Ron dropped. Still. Unmoving.

She blinked. Her vision blurred. Light swirled. Hands—warm, urgent—cradled her shoulders.

“Hermione? Hermione! Stay with me, love!”

Her name, wrapped in his voice, pierced through the ringing in her ears—frantic, tender, raw. It was the sound of someone unraveling, the syllables splintering like glass under pressure.

Harry's hands shook where they clutched her shoulders, squeezing gently, then too hard, then gentle again—as if unsure how to hold her while she slipped away.

"I'm sorry!" he whispered in her ear. "I couldn't get here in time... I'm so sorry."

His breath came in harsh, uneven bursts, as though every inhale threatened to break him further. It stuttered across her cheek, shallow and sharp, as fragile as a dying star—burning out with every word he dared to speak.

But her strength was gone. Eyelashes fluttered once, twice, then drifted closed like wilting petals. Her chest rose shallowly beneath his hands. The world tipped.

One final murmur came. "I love you, Hermione…"

And then the dark took her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

When Harry found Hermione

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

HERMIONE

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

5 April 2002

The car door slammed with a metallic thud that rippled through the thick morning air. Dust puffed up in lazy spirals around Hermione’s ankles as she rounded the front of the car, one hand gripping the edge of the hood for balance. The passenger side door screeched open under her grip, resisting her like everything else this morning.

Inside, Severus was a mess of limbs and slumped weight. His head lolled to one side, mouth slack and eyes half-lidded. The seatbelt stretched over his chest like it, too, was tired of holding him.

Hermione bent her knees and ducked into the car, her brow furrowed and lips pressed together. With both arms braced under his, she let out a low grunt and heaved him upward. His body sagged against her, boneless and heavy.

"God, you stink," she muttered, breath catching on the edge of a gag.

Her foot kicked the door shut with a thump. The motion jolted Severus, who responded with a belch so foul it made her eyes water. The thick stench of alcohol and morning breath bloomed between them, sour and heavy.

She jerked her face to the side and lifted a hand to shield her nose. Her stomach lurched, breath shallow as she swallowed down the urge to gag again.

"You’re really not worth all this trouble, you know?!" The frustration flared in her voice, edged with something that sounded too close to helplessness.

He mumbled something unintelligible as his feet tangled. One boot skidded against the gravel. His knees buckled.

Hermione's body shifted quickly, muscles tight as she caught him again, her shoulder wedged beneath his.

From the porch, a voice called out. "Hermione?"

The sound stopped her mid-step. Her shoulders stiffened and her breath hitched. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Kingsley stood on the porch, still as stone for a beat too long. One hand hung loosely at his side, the other lifted an inch, fingers twitching as if unsure whether to intervene. His eyes swept across the scene, pausing on the weight sagging against her and the firm set of her jaw.

A slow exhale parted his lips. He descended the steps, one foot at a time, the line of his back straight and shoulders square. The soles of his shoes struck the wood with the soft, deliberate weight of a man choosing caution over urgency.

Hermione didn’t slow. She met his approach with a single, firm shake of her head. No words—just a warning.

He adjusted his pace at once, the next step coming slower. When she reached the bottom of the porch stairs, she shifted to the side and let go. Severus dropped with a graceless thud, his limbs sprawling where they landed.

She didn’t look back.

The front door creaked open as she stepped through it. Her steps carried her straight past the living room. Her gaze never lifted from the hallway ahead. The path to the kitchen was worn into her bones.

She dropped to one knee and wrenched open the cabinet beneath the sink. Her hand shot inside, fingers wrapping around cool plastic. The red airhorn came first, followed by the bucket’s rim. Her grip was firm but not careful.

The bucket thudded into the sink. Water rushed from the tap, fast and cold. She leaned into the counter, her weight resting on her forearms. Her knuckles tapped a restless rhythm against the edge—fast, then faster.

Floorboards behind her creaked. The shift in air told her someone had entered. Still, she didn’t turn.

"Why haven’t you told me about Severus—"

"What are you doing here, Kingsley?" Her voice cut through his, calm and sharp. It didn’t rise, but it halted everything.

The tapping stopped. Her arms stayed braced against the counter, eyes fixed on the growing waterline.

He didn’t answer right away.

When the water reached the halfway point, she turned it off. Lifting the bucket took both hands and all the tension coiled in her shoulders. She carried it outside in silence.

The sunlight was harsh. She blinked, adjusting. The airhorn dropped onto the arm of a nearby chair with a hollow thump. She didn’t hesitate.

One hand cupped the bottom of the bucket. With a swift motion, she hurled the contents over Severus’s slumped form.

"FUCK ME!"

The words tore from him as the water drenched him. He writhed and choked on a gasp, flailing weakly. The bucket clattered to the boards.

Hermione bent down and grabbed the airhorn. She looked at him the way one might a particularly stubborn infestation.

"You know, I don’t think I will," she muttered, her voice bone-dry. Her lip curled. "Dying a virgin is infinitely more appealing."

Severus groaned, curling in on himself. His hands came up to cradle his head, fingers pressed hard against his temples. When he finally managed to look up, his bloodshot eyes widened.

"Hermione, don’t—"

The witch pressed the button. The airhorn shrieked, a sound too loud and merciless for the hour.

He bolted upright and then collapsed again in the same motion, hands clasped over his ears.

"I’M AWAKE, GRANGER!"

She released the button, silencing the screech. Without a word, she tossed the horn into his lap and turned for the door.

It slammed behind her with the weight of finality.

Inside, Kingsley still stood near the entryway. His arms had crossed over his chest, but not in judgment—more like containment. His lips pressed together in a line that had started out composed and was rapidly thinning.

Hermione didn’t acknowledge him at first. She dipped a hand into her beaded bag and pulled out a flannel shirt. Tugging it over her tank top, she moved with the swiftness of someone trying not to be seen.

Her fingers worked the sleeves down to her wrists, covering the pale scar that curved along her forearm. She tugged at the hem again, harder than necessary.

Her eyes flicked downward to the tear along the thigh of her shorts. Her jaw clenched. Her arms folded tight across her chest.

The heat hung thick in the air, wrapping around her like a second skin. Her hair stuck to her face and neck in damp, frizzy strands. She made no move to fix it.

"Why are you here, Kingsley?" This time, her voice was quiet—tired. It landed softer but carried more weight.

Hermione stepped forward, the floor creaking faintly beneath her weight. Her gaze combed over the lines of his face—the slight tension in his jaw, the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his eyes flicked between hers and the floorboards. Each detail, each stillness or shift, she searched for something unspoken. Something that might give her a hint, a warning, a truth.

Her breath caught in her throat as she studied him, chest rising with a quiet urgency she didn’t voice. Her arms remained folded, though her fingers tapped against her sleeves, betraying the simmering need for clarity. Anything. Anything at all.

"Is it Harry? Is he alright? Has something happened?"

Kingsley raised his hand, palm outward, as if to slow her racing thoughts.

"You’ll find he’s… Well, he’s fine."

Pulling her head back slightly, she knit her brows together. Her mouth opened, then closed.

"I don’t understand. Why are you here? Has Severus asked you to come? You’re welcome, of course. But, surely, you’re needed back in London."

His lips flattened, then twitched at the corners—not quite a frown.

"I am not here because of Snape."

Hermione blinked slowly. Her mouth pressed into a thin line.

"When do you plan on actually answering my original question?"

"Your reports mention nothing about Snape’s… condition—nor the Dementors and other dark creatures lurking nearby."

Kingsley stepped forward, hands joined behind his back. He looked at her as if weighing something behind his eyes.

Before Hermione could respond, the door creaked again. Severus stumbled inside, one arm braced against the frame. His skin looked pallid, and sweat clung to his brow in a sheen.

"Granger does what she wants these days…" His words dragged behind him like a limp limb. He lifted one hand and extended it, palm up. "Give me my bloody wand."

"Like hell, I will!" Hermione pivoted toward him, her spine stiff. "Do you have any idea how long it took me to find you?"

The older wizard scowled, eyes narrowing into slits. "No doubt you’ll tell me whether I care to hear or not! My wand!"

"I haven’t slept but four hours in the past two days!" Her voice cracked, raw from more than fatigue. Her eyes blazed with heat that hadn’t cooled in hours.

The witch's fists clenched at her sides. Shoulders heaving, she stepped closer, the floor creaking beneath her weight.

"For someone who insists he can take care of himself, you do a rather laughable job at it!"

A humorless laugh escaped her, short and sharp. She threw her hands into the air, movements jerky and wide.

"I don’t have time to babysit a forty-two-year-old Potions master!"

She sucked in a breath and let it out through her nose, jaw tight. Her voice cracked again.

"I had to leave Kalli with the Tulsons." The name hit hard. She blinked rapidly, chest rising and falling. "They’re squibs, Severus. They have no means of protecting her."

Her voice dropped low.

"We’re meant to keep her safe."

Each word hit like a stone. Her gaze locked on his, unflinching. Behind her glare was a storm held just barely at bay.

Severus sneered. "We? Don’t make me laugh! What good are you to her? Or have you forgotten, Granger? You can’t use magic…"

A hiccup jarred his chest. He grimaced.

"And stop pretending safety means anything to you… Leaving the property is strictly forbidden; yet, you’re always coming and going!"

"Me bending rules isn’t anything new, Severus!"

Hermione’s voice pitched higher, cracking under the pressure building in her chest. Elbows drawn inward as if anchoring herself to the floor beneath her feet, she crossed her arms in a tight, vice-like grip. The breath she exhaled hissed out sharp through flared nostrils, nostrils that twitched with restraint she had no energy left to maintain.

"Besides, how I spend what little time I have left of this odious thing you call life is my bloody prerogative!"

Severus glowered, the shadows beneath his eyes deepening with every labored breath. His balance faltered, one hand fisting against the wall as he caught himself, shoulders hunched and spine uncooperative. The heat clung to his skin, turning the fabric of his shirt into something heavy and suffocating.

"I’ve decided, Granger… I’ve protected enough magical children for one lifetime. I’m done."

The words dripped from his mouth, bitter and final. His lips curled, not quite into a sneer—something more tired. More broken.

Hermione stood, her eyes narrow and fists whitening. Her chin trembled as she shook her head slowly, curls sticking to the sides of her damp face.

"You’re done?"

The words came out with a tremble—thin and brittle, like glass ready to crack. A pulse twitched at her temple. Both of her brows pinched inward, struggling to mask the fire swelling behind her eyes. Her shoulders rose a fraction too high. Tension coiled tight through her posture, but she held herself steady, voice brittle as frost.

"Quite."

The smugness in his tone didn’t match the tremble in his stance. His shoulders rolled back as if trying to rise to his full height, but his knees betrayed him with a slight buckle.

Hermione’s mouth parted slightly, then closed again as she struggled to choose her words. Words held weight, and she endeavored never to let any emotion run her control too thin. Her jaw tensed. When she finally spoke, her voice came low, each syllable carved from restraint.

"I pity you, Severus… I do."

"Is that so, Granger?" His spine snapped straighter with effort, like a soldier bluffing his strength on a failing battlefield. His lips twisted into a grimace. "In case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t give a bloody fuck what you think or feel!"

Hermione flinched—not from the words, but from the sheer force behind them. Her arms wrapped around her torso like armor. A single tear slipped down her cheek, but she didn’t blink it away.

"I pity you... Life hasn’t exactly gone the way you thought, and now you’re here."

The witch sniffled, dragging the oversized flannel sleeve across her nose. Her breath stuttered as she pulled herself upright.

"Perhaps in another life, you’d be dead—at peace and rid of me forever. Maybe I’d still have friends I didn’t fear, with a family of my own. But that world will never exist. No amount of liquor changes that."

Severus stepped forward, though the motion looked more like a stumble. His hand extended, not in plea, but demand.

"Give me my wand."

Hermione held her ground. Her breath caught, but her hands didn’t move. Her voice trembled, but the words didn’t waver.

"After too long, Kalliope will be all you have left, Severus…"

Her eyes glossed over, but she blinked rapidly, holding his gaze. Her voice softened, as if each word cost her something.

"I’ll be gone, and all she’ll have left is you—and mum and dad. She doesn’t know Harry. She doesn’t know Remus and Tonks or the Weasleys or Neville and Luna! You said you’d take care of her after I go… You promised."

The Potions master turned away. His hand rose to pinch the bridge of his nose. For a moment, his eyes fluttered shut.

"Hermione," he muttered. He moved past her, brushing her arm with his shoulder as he headed toward the kitchen. "I will not talk about this."

Footsteps sounded behind her. Kingsley stepped closer, one hand partially raised in mediation.

"Hermione, Snape… Perhaps we might speak of this—"

"Not now, Kingsley!" Her voice snapped across the space between them like a whip, sharp enough to make him pause.

He exhaled. "I really must insist—"

Hermione didn’t wait for another word. She stormed after Severus. "What in Merlin’s name do you expect to find in your bloody firewhisky?"

Severus didn’t turn. His hand reached for the nearest cabinet, but it trembled at the handle.

"Precisely nothing, Hermione! Nothing but peace and quiet—its illusion, perhaps, would suffice for a change. Anything is better than this!"

She stepped closer, her voice rising as her fists tightened again. "Better than what? Facing reality head-on?"

He spun toward her, one hand planted on the back of a chair for balance, the other trembling at his side. His eyes shone—not with tears, but something far more volatile.

"Watching you give up! So fucking willing to leave your sister—your parents—behind, aren’t you? Seeing the fight leave your eyes and being forced to stand by and watch you waste away!"

His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts. Sweat trickled down the side of his face.

"You and Potter deserve each other! Always overly aggrandizing your noble sacrifices like you’re owed an audience and their applause!"

His hand tore through his soaked hair. It stuck in unruly clumps, clinging to his temples. The effort it took to stand upright seemed to pull everything else down with it.

"Forgive me if I opt out precisely as you have!" The wizard's voice cracked. His arm gestured to the empty air beside him, hollow and desperate. "At the very least, this gives you something to do until you inevitably disappear."

Hermione’s breath hitched. Her fists opened, then closed again. Her lips trembled.

"So why save me?" She stepped into his path. Her voice dropped to a whisper sharp enough to cut. "All your troubles would have died with me if it weren’t for you."

He scoffed, shaking his head and muttering something too foul to repeat. As he turned, she grabbed his elbow. He jerked back, unsteady, stumbling against the wall.

"You, Severus Snape, are nothing but a bloody hypocrite—too hateful to have me around, too afraid of being alone to let me die."

The witch stepped back and dragged her eyes from his boots to his face. Her voice lowered, her tone bitter and trembling.

"Soon, there won’t be a choice."

He let out a strangled laugh and scratched the side of his head with slow, shaking fingers.

"That’s hardly the worst thing someone’s called me," he muttered. He tried to walk again, sliding a hand along the wall for support. "Try harder."

Hermione moved to block his path, chin lifted, eyes dark. 

"Wallowing in your own misery no longer offers you enough solace, so you want to drag me into it with you. It’s pathetic, and it won't work! You can say nothing to undo the fact that I accept my fate. If anything, I welcome it."

The louder her voice grew, the more he winced, rubbing his temples with a hiss.

"You will give me my wand." The words were growled, not shouted, low and charged like a threat.

Hermione shook. The scar on her arm pulled tight beneath the fabric of her sleeve. Her entire body seemed to vibrate from the inside out.

"No."

Severus leaned in. His breath was rancid, but her eyes didn’t flinch.

"Hermione Granger—the marvel of the Wizarding world. Not a single bloody friend to your name. Stuck with me…"

Tears burned her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She knew what he wanted—a fight, chaos, something loud enough to drown himself in.

He sneered.

"Not quite the drunken fool for whom you’ve simpered these past few years, am I? No matter how much you mewl, it will never be you who warms his bed, will it? Not when he’s got the pick of the world—from what little I care to hear of him."

Kingsley’s voice cut through the mounting tension. "This conversation must end. Now! We have much to discuss—"

Hermione’s voice stayed even. The tears slipped down her face, but her breath remained steady.

"It never fails to surprise me that you still believe that’s the worst to come of losing Harry—to come out of all of this."

She stared at Severus, daring him to keep going. Her voice didn’t rise.

"You want a fight, Severus. You do, but you won’t get it—not from me. Not when you can freely find it in a goddamn mirror."

The wizard snarled, the sound feral. His voice spat through his teeth.

"You think I want this?" His scowl traveled from the floor back to her face like a slow curse.

"Severus, I’m doing the only thing I have any measure of control over: making the best of our circumstances."

"You’re so fucking perfect, aren’t you, Granger?!" He laughed without humor, a sound scraped raw. "Everything comes so easy for you!"

The witch's mouth opened, but the Minister stepped forward again—not quite between them.

"Let’s just take a step back. Hermione, we really must discuss—"

But Severus was already moving again, bearing down on her. His steps were uneven, but his gaze burned with clarity. He looked at her—truly looked—and smiled. It wasn’t kind.

"You mended the Veil by simply correcting a long-accepted translation—brought dear Black back to the living. Gave Potter his blessed godfather."

Hermione shook her head, brows drawn. "What’s that got to do with anything?"

Severus' smile widened, cruel and bright.

"Perhaps before you finally croak, you’ll grace us with your abundance of talents and crack the mystery of how to create a time-turner. Perhaps then, you can erase the unbearable stain that is your presence from the timeline entirely!"

"Snape!" Kingsley barked.

Hermione’s hand rose, palm out, silencing them both. She held Severus’s gaze.

"Don’t," she whispered, wiping the tears from her cheeks with a trembling hand. "He wants to, but he doesn’t mean it."

Severus opened his mouth again, but his jaw flexed instead. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles pale.

Hermione took one final breath. Then, with a steady hand, she reached into her beaded bag. Her fingers curled around the wand inside. She pulled it out and pressed it against his chest—hard.

"It’s par for the course by now."

Rolling her eyes so hard it bordered on theatrical, she turned away from the two men without another word, the fabric of her shirt pulling tightly across her shoulders as she stalked to the fridge. With a sharp tug, she yanked open the door and grabbed the first bottle of water in sight.

The plastic crackled in her grip as she twisted the cap with more force than necessary and brought the bottle to her lips, gulping deeply. The cold rush down her throat made her eyes close for just a moment, her chest rising and falling as the worst of the burn behind her sternum began to fade.

Behind her, Kingsley glared at Snape. His posture was rigid, arms crossed as he leaned his weight from one foot to the other. The tight line of his jaw relaxed only when he finally looked toward Hermione, the faintest crease forming between his brows.

"You told me the part of the curse that affected others was contained."

"It is," she said, voice sharper than she meant. "Has been for nearly two years. You know the curse hasn’t ever influenced Severus, Kingsley."

The Minister’s brow furrowed deeper. He took a step forward, mouth parting. "Then why—"

Hermione spun on her heel. Her glare landed squarely on Snape, who raised a brow at her in return.

"Because he’s an emotionally constipated, miserable git poorly tempered by firewhisky and a cruel, choice vocabulary," she snapped. She gestured at him with the bottle in hand, water sloshing dangerously close to the edge. "The sharper his tongue, the more he cares for you, unfortunately."

Snape said nothing. His lips tightened. His fists shook. But he didn’t argue.

Hermione took another swig from the bottle, then moved across the kitchen, her boots padding softly against the worn tile. She leaned against the peninsula counter that split the open layout of the house, her spine pressing against the edge. With a sigh, she capped the bottle and set it beside her hip. Arms folding over her chest, she flicked her gaze between the two older men.

Severus sank heavily into one of the wooden chairs by the round table, legs splayed carelessly and hands resting palm-down on his thighs. Kingsley remained in the hallway threshold, his shoulder brushing the frame as he shifted his weight.

"Why are you here, Kingsley?" Hermione asked, her voice lower now, though no less firm.

The tension between the three of them settled like humidity in a storm. The Minister finally stepped away from the hallway, raking a hand down his face before folding his arms.

When he said nothing, Hermione sighed.

"You haven’t missed much, Kingsley. Severus is an alcoholic, and I'm still dying a slow, painful death I'm sure Bellatrix would be proud of."

Severus’s mouth twitched with discomfort. "Hermione, please—"

She rolled her eyes again—slower this time. Like the movement alone could scrape away his concern.

Kingsley’s gaze drifted to the living room, lingering there before snapping back to Hermione in an instant. His voice was quiet, but not soft. "This arrangement only works while we’re both honest with each other."

Hermione’s hands rubbed at her arms, a restless movement more for comfort than warmth. "This arrangement keeps Kalliope and my parents safe, Kingsley. They may not remember me, but she is a witch. My sister. There's a certain promise you swore to uphold well after my death that I expect you to honor..."

The Minister's face tightened. The stern look returned, hardening by something she could not discern. "Where are they, Hermione? If you mean to keep them safe within the confines of the Fidelius Charm, why, then, are they not here?"

She straightened her back.

"I pulled from my savings—sent them abroad for a few months. At least, until things calm down here a bit." Hermione tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, her fingers pausing for a second longer than necessary. "Kalli's especially clingy toward me after... Well, let's just say she wouldn’t leave me. Like I said earlier, she’s at the Tulsons’ home—an elderly squib couple who lives just down the road."

Kingsley’s arms unfolded slowly, his hands joining in front of him.

"There’s much you’re hiding, Hermione," he said softly. "Regrettably, I’ve taken some measures to ensure your continued safety."

The witch's spine stiffened. Her eyes narrowed. She tilted her head back as if trying to pull away from his words. "I’m perfectly capable of managing things here, Kingsley!"

The Minister’s sigh was long and weary. He scratched at the stubble along his chin, eyes cast briefly to the floor. "The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has encountered several cases against muggleborn witches and wizards in recent months."

Hermione’s face crumpled slightly, one hand lifting to rest over her chest. Her voice wavered. "That’s awful..."

Still, she drew in a sharp breath.

"What’s that got to do with us? We’ve been here for more than a year and a half."

The Minister’s jaw clenched before he spoke. "Bellatrix’s knife went missing some time ago. These attacks… The word carved into their skin? It all connects back to that bloody dagger."

Hermione reeled backward, her body striking the countertop as a hand flew to cover her mouth. Tears surged without permission, clouding her vision. Her other hand balled into a fist and gripped her shirt tight over her stomach. She shook her head, the gesture frantic. When she let her hand fall, she realized her arms, her legs—her whole body—trembled.

"You never told me it was missing, Kingsley!"

"You’re not an Auror, Hermione—nor a Ministry official."

"You know that hardly matters!" Her voice cracked like a fault line. "That knife obliterated my whole world in a matter of days! I lost everyone I loved because of it! I deserved to know this..."

Snape struggled to rise, groaning as his weight shifted precariously. But the moment Hermione flinched back, his movements stilled. Her eyes searched the floor for something steady—something solid that wasn’t there.

"Hermione—"

She shook her head hard. Her eyes met his. "Did you know, Severus?"

Snape held her gaze. "No."

The witch's hand flattened over her stomach, but the touch gave her no comfort. She felt hollow. Nothing filled the space anymore.

"Why are you here, Kingsley?" Her voice was soft, flat. "You’re stalling... I’m too tired. Just tell me... What aren’t you saying?"

Kingsley hesitated, then glanced again toward the living room. He dragged a breath through his nose and locked eyes with her. "The Australian Ministry of Magic has recently reported similar attacks."

Hermione closed her eyes and breathed in slowly, her ribs lifting with the effort. When she opened them, the tears were still there. She wiped them away with the heel of her hand.

"Of course, they have..."

"Granger cannot use magic," Snape muttered, voice gravel-thick with weariness. He pressed a hand to his forehead and sighed. "I’ve established a correlation between moments she uses it anyway and the number of creatures stalking these parts. They’re drawn to either her magic or the scar when it’s...actively harming her."

"Stop sugar-coating this." Hermione’s jaw clenched, and she exhaled. "The curse poisons my supposedly foul muggleborn blood..."

"We need more wands, Kingsley." Snape’s voice was thin now. He lowered himself back into the chair, shoulders sagging. "I’m capable of much, but we’re talking about dozens of the foulest creatures lurking about. I’m sure more will come."

Hermione rubbed her upper arm, fingers dragging up and down her sleeve in a vain attempt to calm the tremors beneath her skin. "They’re not a problem if you know how to evade them..."

Snape glared at her, his mouth drawing into a tight line. "And how exactly do you accomplish that without using magic, Granger?"

"Would you stop calling me Granger already? You sound ridiculous," she muttered, eyes narrowing. "And I have... Well, I have my ways of getting around safely."

The older wizard groaned again, dragging both hands over his face before slumping forward against the table. "You can’t use brooms. We have no Floo. And you cannot apparate."

"What’s it matter how I get around? The point is that I get by—"

Severus growled.

"Tell me, and I'll be sure to pass on that message to our neighbors who you actively endanger!"

"There's little need to—"

"Portkeys," Kingsley said flatly. His exasperation hung thick in the air. "You have Portkeys. Good, my Aurors can make use of them."

Hermione’s mouth fell open. "Aurors! Plural? You brought others?" She shook her head, curls bouncing with the force of it. "Kingsley, I’m fine! All of us are fine. I-I manage just fine alone!"

"But that’s the point! You’re not fine—or alone." Kingsley stepped closer, voice tight. "Remus and Tonks—Harry! Neville and Luna? For Merlin’s sake, even George and Bill and Fleur! Each of them wishes to help care for you!"

Hermione’s hand flew to her chest again, her breath coming fast and ragged. "I’m dying, Kingsley!" she shouted, voice cracking with the weight of it. "I'm not incapable—not yet!"

Kingsley’s head shook slowly, his brows lowered in a hard line as he stared down at her. His shoulders rose and fell with the weight of restraint, a pulse ticking visibly in his neck. "The curse does not influence others anymore, Hermione. You had to have known this would be the natural next course of action…"

Hermione scoffed, but the sound lacked fire. Her fingers tugged at the ends of her sleeves, twisting the fabric over and over until it puckered.

"I don’t need anyone," she said, chin raised in brittle defiance. "I haven’t for a very long time."

Severus muttered something low under his breath, voice like gravel, his arms folding tightly across his chest. "Hermione, you know that’s a lie…"

With a sharp intake of breath, Hermione brought both hands to the crown of her head, fingers diving into her hair and gripping tight. Her eyes flitted from one man to the other, wild with disbelief.

"Who babysits who here, huh? Part of why I leave so much is so I can work to keep food on the table when you piss away our monthly stipend at the pub! I look after the greenhouses, I prepare the ingredients for the potions that keep this curse manageable!"

Her voice caught for half a second, the breath behind it ragged. She wiped her palm down her thigh, fingers twitching with the force she kept bottled in.

"Beyond that, I take care of this entire bloody property, cook, and clean up after you. Now the knife is missing, and I’m finally close enough to gathering enough evidence to—"

Hermione stopped short, lips pressed into a trembling line. Her hand flew to her mouth.

Kingsley’s face darkened. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, and his chest visibly shook with each breath.

"Hermione, you’re not an Auror! You can't use magic! You should not be gathering any evidence whatsoever!"

The witch sighed. "Bollocks..."

The Minister's stare cut to Severus, jaw clenched. "You’re supposed to watch her, Snape! It’s your one real assignment here."

Severus sneered, shifting his weight and letting his arms drop to his sides. "I’ve got bigger problems than stalking a grown adult hellbent on meeting an early grave, Shacklebolt."

Kingsley’s voice thundered. "I’ll have you in Azkaban sooner—"

"Oh, please stop bickering!" Hermione’s voice cracked, her fingers now tugging at the hem of her shirt, twisting and untwisting as she stared down at the floor.

"My investigation doesn’t work without me," she said. "Whether you like it or not, I’m involved. I've established a connection to the only lead that makes sense. I've practically done all the work… I’ve just got to work out what he’s up to—and if he has the dagger now."

The witch grabbed the water bottle from the counter with shaking fingers and downed several gulps. Her hand trembled slightly as she wiped her mouth with the back of it. Her voice was quieter when she spoke again, breath still uneven.

"Kingsley, there’s no need for any Aurors—or extra wands." Her other hand combed through the tangled waves of her hair, fingers snagging near the back. "Everything is under control."

Kingsley exhaled through his nose, the sound heavy. He stepped forward slightly, glare still on her. "I’m the Minister for Magic and one of the three chosen to lead the Order—a group you’re sworn into. You will listen to me, Hermione."

"No, I won’t!"

Severus let out a low groan. "Granger—"

"This is ridiculous—all of it!"

Hermione’s laugh was hollow, her shoulders rising as if to physically block out the absurdity.

"I’m not a bloody child! I helped find and destroy Voldemort’s horcruxes. I’ve happily continued translating key texts once thought lost to history. In so doing, I mended the Veil—brought Sirius back. I’ve even helped in stabilizing my curse."

Severus’s expression twisted, eyes narrowing. "Is there a point to you blathering about your various accomplishments, Hermione?"

She rolled her eyes, jaw tight as she leveled a scowl at him. "You’re a drunk, Severus—not an idiot."

"Yes, well…" he muttered, eyes dropping to the floor before flicking back to her. "You’re a bloody fool if you believe we don’t need help."

“You say others suffer the same fate I did? I’ll document precisely how I think I contained it.” Hermione shoved her mouth to one side, pinching her brows together. “Consider it my parting gift to the Wizarding world who stood by and did nothing while my best friend tried to kill me.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “It’s far too early for that bleak humor of yours…”

The witch ignored the drunken wizard. Instead, she fixed her attention on Kingsley.

"I take care of myself without fail.” The witch took a step back, hands curling into fists at her sides. “More than that, how I die is my choice! Mine..."

Kingsley’s jaw tensed. He stepped forward, his voice low and sharp. "And how do you plan on dying, Hermione? That scar on your right arm—it’s new, isn’t it?"

Her eyes widened briefly before narrowing. She turned slightly, pressing her left hand over her right forearm. "How I die is none of your business."

The Minister closed the gap between them in a few swift steps. His hands lifted, but they hovered, unsure, before he cupped her shoulders gently.

At the touch, Hermione flinched. Her spine straightened, breath hitching, and her eyes filled with something dark and distant.

"Don’t touch me!"

Kingsley backed off immediately, his hands falling as he took two long steps back. Her hands moved to her throat, fingers brushing along the skin like chasing away a phantom memory. Her mouth parted, but no words came, and she looked down at her boots, blinking fast.

The silence pressed heavy in the space between them.

"And what about Kalli?" Kingsley asked finally.

Hermione whispered, "What about her?"

"She’s far too young to watch you waste away like this, Hermione…"

"I know that!"

Her voice cracked with the force of it. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks. She scrubbed at them with the back of her wrist, jaw clenched as she tried to will them away. Her fingers resumed their restless twisting at the hem of her shirt.

"When things take a turn for the worse, I’ve made arrangements to send Kalli and our parents back to London with Severus."

"No!" The voice was small, urgent. It cut through the tension like a blade. "I'm not ever leaving you!"

Hermione spun around, stunned. Kalliope darted toward her from the living room, her small feet thudding against the floor. Her eyes widened, her heart clearly lodged in her throat. She rushed forward, rounding the counter and dropping to one knee to meet the young girl at eye level.

The witch's gaze swept the room behind her, sharp and searching. However, she didn’t see the shimmer of invisible fabric drifting still by the armchair.

"Kalli! What on Earth are you doing here?" Her voice trembled now, the anger bleeding through. "You snuck out again—and all alone? The Tulsons will be worried sick!"

"I’m s-sorry!"

Kalliope flinched at the reprimand but lifted her chin with defiance. Her blue eyes stayed on Hermione’s, scanning her face as if trying to gauge how much trouble she was really in. The little witch shoved her thumb in her mouth, sealing her lips around it before she began sucking.

"Never mind all that!" Hermione’s hands cupped the girl’s slightly chubby cheeks. She turned, still crouched—eyes sharp as she spoke to Severus. "Send a Patronus message to the Tulsons. Now! Let them know she’s safe."

Though he grumbled, Severus lifted his wand, conjuring a non-corporeal Patronus charm. He quietly muttered a short message before summoning it away.

"How in Merlin's name did you get here?" Hermione pulled Kalli closer. Her arms wrapped tight around the small girl. "How did you make it back without—?"

"Harry Potter helped! Saved me in the cornfield!"

Hermione went still. Not a breath passed her lips. Her chest didn’t move.

"There was a-a creature! A Dim-manator… But he stopped it! Oh, Hem-mi-nee! You should have seen it! He was brilliant! Why did you never tell me about his beard!?" Kalli’s voice lowered conspiratorially. "And his Patronus… It’s just like yours! Antlers and all!"

The witch's eyes locked on Kalli. Only after a moment did she rise—slow and deliberate—as though afraid to participate in this moment any further.

Her gaze found Kingsley. "Harry's here?"

Kingsley’s face was already apologetic. "As are Remus, Tonks, Sirius, and Teddy…"

Her foot stepped back, then another, until the counter met her spine. One hand reached behind her blindly, finding the countertop edge and clutching it.

"No," she whispered. Her head shook slowly, then again—harder this time. "No, no!"

"Hermione—"

"NO! He shouldn’t—can’t see me…"

Hermione sobbed, the sound cracking from her like something torn loose. Her knees buckled slightly. She dropped to the floor with little grace, shoulders shaking as if her ribs could no longer hold everything in.

One hand gripped the fabric at her waist while the other curled over her mouth, a pointless attempt to muffle the raw, broken sounds spilling from her. Her breath came in short, uneven gasps. Her eyes remained wide and unfocused, bouncing all about the kitchen.

“Hem-mi-nee, don’t cry,” Kalli said. 

The little witch’s small voice sounded so sweet, yet so entirely far away. Each time she touched her older sister, Hermione fought to keep herself from batting her hands away. Alone. She had to be alone—before she saw Harry again. No one could see her break. Not like this. Not again. 

Not ever.

Swallowing hard, Hermione forced the breath through her lungs, though it scraped like gravel on the way out. Her eyes followed Severus’s hand as it closed around Kalli’s wrist, pulling the girl away with gentle insistence. The child whimpered, and Hermione’s mouth parted, but nothing came—not a word, not a cry. 

The witch’s face twitched once, the faintest tremor at the corner of her eye, before her features stilled. Her arms hung rigid at her sides, fists curled tight enough to tremble. The ache in her chest rose swift and sharp, curling upward like it meant to spill out through her throat.

So she buried it.

Her lashes lowered as her gaze dropped to the floor, and with it, everything else. She summoned the hollow, quiet place inside her where grief had long since taken root, the one she’d carved out carefully over time—pain compacted into something useful, something private. 

Occluding came with the practiced rhythm of survival: one breath in, one wall up. Her shoulders eased, not from comfort, but from discipline. Every wild thing inside her—rage, despair, fear—folded inward like a closing book, page after unread page. Her jaw slackened, her fists uncurled, but the numbness was far colder than anger ever had been.

When she lifted her eyes, they didn’t shine. They caught the light but gave nothing back. Just like frosted glass fixed in a frame. Her spine held steady, but not from strength—only from habit. The kind of balance born of too many years bracing for collapse with no one beneath her to soften the fall. A flicker of breath hitched in her throat, but she swallowed it down, slow and final, as if even that small betrayal might crack the surface.

The girl she’d once been—the one who wept, who hoped, who reached for help—pressed somewhere deep beneath the weight of silence. Hermione didn’t let her speak. Didn’t let her move. Didn’t let her bloody breathe if she could help it. 

And she was gone. In her place existed only someone who needed not a soul to keep upright even in the strongest of tempests.

Every time she shut the door on that softness, it knocked a little louder, but she turned the latch tighter, smoothed the seams with quiet precision. She couldn’t afford to falter. Not with the eyes on her, the lives that needed her standing. 

So Hermione stood, still and too quiet. Her gaze locked on Kingsley, her face calm in the way paper is calm before it burns. He watched her as if a curious horror grappled at his gut.

Narrowing his eyes, the Minister pinched his brows together. “You’re an Occlumens?”

Hermione’s gaze slid to Severus, then drifted downward to where Kalli stood. The girl scrubbed at her damp cheeks with the back of her hand before darting forward, legs quick and sure as she pressed her small back against Hermione’s stomach. 

Bringing her arms around the little witch, Hermione moved one hand over the other at the base of Kalli’s throat, fingers settling like a shield against her heartbeat. The little witch reached up without looking, her tiny hands curling tightly around her sister’s wrists, clinging as if they were the only things still keeping her upright.

“I cannot see Harry again.”

“Do not dismiss my question.”

“Yes. I’m also a very poor Legilimens…” Sighing, Hermione added, “It was the last thing we practiced before realizing it was less than practical for me to continue using magic.”

Kingsley narrowed his eyes. “You should have told me—”

Hermione shrugged. “It’s as you said—I am not an Auror.”

“Don’t patronize me!”

“You’re the Minister for Magic,” Hermione said, her voice monotonous and flat. No life or bite quite reinforced the sting in her words. “No one would dare try to do so.”

“You’re upset.” 

“I’m quite fine, really.”

Kingsley shook his head. Stepping forward once, he sighed. “Hermione, Occluding requires you to use magic.”

“I know.”

Shacklebolt gripped his fists at both sides until they shook. “If you’re truly so fine, then I invite you to end Occluding altogether.”

“The few potions I still take afford me a little freedom in this particular use of magic.”

“Hermione—”

“Quit while you’re ahead, Shacklebolt.” Severus grumbled a curse under his breath. “There’s no one alive more stubborn and set to die than Hermione Granger…”

Hermione scoffed. “That’s rich—coming from you.”

Kingsley gritted his teeth together. "Harry and Tonks have been the Aurors assigned to this case since the very beginning.”

Swallowing, the witch squared her shoulders, adjusting so she stood at her full height. “And which one of them ought I thank for losing track of the knife?”

“You know neither of them would have let it slip out of our hands.”

“It’s a comfort knowing that the Ministry is still corrupt at worst and incompetent at best…”

The older wizard stared at her for a beat. “The time it would take to brief others is simply time we do not have, Hermione."

“You promised me—"

"I know," Kingsley said, softer now. 

"Make them leave." 

The Minister closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling through his nose. "I can’t do that…"

“You could,” she muttered. “You could, but you won’t.”

“I won’t argue semantics with you, Hermione.”

“Semantics? Some would see the distinction as a violation of trust.”

“Trust?” Kingsley stepped closer to her, his eyes narrowing as the muscles in his face twitched. “You broke any trust between us long before I brought Harry here!”

“Though I may be dying, my instincts are still alive and well.”

Kalli tightened her grip on Hermione’s wrists. “You’re not going to die! Harry Potter is here! He saved the world, and he’ll save you. I’m sure of it!”

Hermione’s eyes watered, and she focused them on Severus’s cold, black stare. His face cringed.

“Don’t look at me like that, witch.” Severus rubbed at his temple with the heel of his hand. “You’re the one who insists on fantasizing the facts for her.”

The witch rolled her eyes. “She’s a child, Severus!”

“Harry Potter is not a fantasy, Uncle Sev!” Kalliope huffed, releasing her sister’s wrists in favor of crossing her arms over her chest for added, more dramatic emphasis. “He’s real, Hermione! He’s here! And he even promised he’ll be my best friend, too!”

Hermione hunched forward, bedding until she pressed a quick kiss to the top of Kalliope’s head. “That’s lovely, Kalli.”

Kingsley’s head shifted in a slow shake, the movement tight with resignation. His eyes drifted just past her shoulder, lingering a second longer than they ought to have. The small shift in his jaw gave him away before anything else. His mouth drew into a thin, reluctant line, and a flicker of softness settled behind his eyes. He swallowed hard, nodding once, then pulled his focus back to her like it pained him to do so.

Hermione scoffed, a bitter sound that cracked in her throat. Tears slipped down her cheeks, carving warm trails through the cold shock of her face. This time, she didn’t bother wiping them away. They fell freely, stubbornly—as if they had every right to exist.

“Harry’s been here this whole time, hasn’t he?”

Kingsley looked past her again, his gaze darting somewhere she couldn’t see, then snapped back to meet hers. He nodded, slowly.

“To be fair,” he murmured, his tone a poor attempt at levity, “I did try to stop you and Snape. You wouldn’t listen...”

“Try?” Her arms folded tightly over her chest, the motion rigid and sharp. “Is that what that was?”

“Hermione...”

Her name, spoken aloud for the first time in over a year and a half, hit her like a blow to the sternum. It wasn’t Kingsley. The voice was softer, layered with guilt and something heartbreakingly familiar. Harry. Her eyes closed before she could stop them, her brows pulling tight in a painful wince. Muscles that had been wound too tight for too long both locked and loosened at once. The air around her shifted, quieter somehow. Warmer.

Swallowing against the pressure rising in her throat, Hermione slowly turned. Her body twisted just enough to peer over her shoulder. She found him instantly—that same emerald stare she hadn’t been able to forget. Her breath caught. She looked up, seeking the ceiling as a safe haven, refusing to let his eyes undo her. But they already had. Within a few heartbeats, she couldn’t help herself. Her gaze found its way back.

Everything around her narrowed, squeezing tighter and tighter until the only thing that remained was him. She moved without thought—one step, then another, then five more as her feet carried her around the peninsula. He started toward her too, but when her boot hit the edge of the rug, she froze.

Harry faltered. His hands balled into fists, the tension stark in the tendons of his forearms, before he shoved them into the pockets of his worn trousers. His shoulders lifted with a shallow breath, then dropped. 

The longing on his face wasn’t masked. It clung to the corners of his mouth, pulling them down just slightly—like every smile he'd denied himself gathered into this single, aching expression. His brows were drawn together, tight and pained. His dark hair—still floppy and charming—obscured his forehead. His eyes—those bright, unmistakable eyes—shone too fiercely, too wet, brimming with a desperate kind of hope that made Hermione feel both adored and gutted.

His chest rose in shallow bursts, like each breath cost him something. One hand yanked out of his pocket, flexing at his side. Fingers twitching, he curled them into his palm before he stuffed it back into his pocket as if afraid of what it might do. 

Leaning slightly forward, he looked as though his entire body ached to eradicate the space between them. But he didn't dare cross it. He didn’t move another muscle. That restraint, that barely-restrained yearning, was its own confession. 

Every inch of him spoke without sound: he missed her. He had waited. And he looked like he didn’t know how to look at her without falling apart. She hated how she could discern what his body conveyed where words could not.

Hermione’s chest heaved as goosebumps skated down her arms. The ache in her belly grew unbearable, so she pressed a hand flat over it like it might ease it a bit. She stared at him, hardly breathing, stuck somewhere between disbelief and reverence. It was him—older now, stronger, familiar. 

His body had filled out since the war that had left them starving. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his short-sleeve navy blue shirt. Sharp, toned muscles replaced the boyish angles she remembered. 

The bloody shirt clung to him in all the right places—places she never spent much time adoring for anyone else. Short-sleeved and soft-looking, the blasted garment exposed the kind of forearms that made her pulse quicken with just a glance. The loose jeans he wore were well-worn and lived-in, like he’d found comfort in ordinary things while she'd been clawing her way through grief. He looked healthy, rested. Not whole, untouched. But certainly intact.

That beard snagged her undivided attention. It was trimmed close to his face—thick, dark, and maddening. It gave him an air of ruggedness she hadn’t expected; yet, it looked so unmistakably him. Her toes curled in her heavy boots. Her fingers itched to reach out, to brush along the strong line of his jaw and see if the warmth of his skin matched the fire in her chest. 

Merlin, he wasn’t just handsome. He was Harry—here and hers. He was beautiful in the same way old songs were—familiar, aching, eternal. He stood there as if no time had passed at all—and yet every second of the years they’d spent apart screamed in her blood. 

No. 

This man wasn’t hers. 

He couldn’t see her. Not now. Not like this.

Hermione's shoulders curled inward before she could stop it, instinctively trying to make herself smaller. Her arms drew tight around her flannel shirt, clutching both sides as if she could vanish inside the worn fabric. It wasn’t enough. The oversized sleeves slipped down her wrists as she pulled the shirt closed over her chest, hiding the modest tank top that suddenly felt far too revealing. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons, but she didn’t fasten any--just held it shut like armor against the weight of his gaze.

Posture stiffening, she shifted her stance, angling herself slightly away from him—like turning it might somehow soften the harsh truth of it. There was a tear at the hem of her shorts at the above her knee on the side, small but frayed. 

Earlier this morning, a half-asleep, half-drunken Severus tripped over his own feet, clinging to her shorts before his face collided with the pub’s gravelly car park. In the two days she’d gone searching for the Potions master, she’s slept but a few hours at most. Her heavy, brittle limbs barely felt like they belonged to her. 

A layer of sweat and dirt clung to her skin, and she wiped the end of her sleeve along her cheek as if that would wash any of it away. The witch’s hair! It was a halo of chaos—frizzed, unruly, and bushy in odd places. The humid air had done its worst. Every inch of her screamed of grime and grit—she didn’t need to see it to know it.

Her chin dipped ever so slightly, the effort futile as she tried not to meet his eyes again. Jaw tensing, her lips pressed together in a thin line while she drew a shallow breath. 

The bones in her chest protruded under the pressure of her own hand where it lay across her sternum. Physically, she hadn’t changed. Not much in any meaningful way, really. She was still slight—still boyish in shape. Her hips barely curved. Her breasts hadn’t filled out. Her bum hadn’t either. 

Everything about her still felt… lacking. And worse, visible.

Harry Potter looked like everything she wasn’t—clean, calm, certain. Those bold eyes still held stories she hadn’t finished reading: would never discover, if she had her way. She felt pieced together from scraps, barely stitched at the fraying seams. Her boots scraped against the ground as if searching for something stable to stand upon.

Every moment apart fractured the ground joining their paths until all that remained was an impassable, wide chasm no amount of magic could bridge. She shook her head, breath stuttering in her chest. Spinning around, she locked eyes with Kingsley again, a sharp glare brimming with betrayal.

“This is cruel,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “He should not be here.”

Kingsley’s gaze held steady, his posture unshaken. “Harry understands what it means to be here.” There was no apology in his tone. No hesitation. “He still came. He’s here.”

Hermione wiped at both eyes with the heels of her hands. Her breaths came too fast, one after another, shallow and incomplete. Her chin trembled as she tried to hold herself together, but the effort wore at her bones. There were no shields she could summon to undo the wreckage of what she felt.

“I would rather have Bellatrix alive again to scrape the skin clean off my body with that bloody knife than have him here.”

The witch’s knees gave a warning tremble, and she reached for the counter to steady herself. The cold edge met her palm, grounding her just enough to keep from collapsing altogether. 

Kalli appeared like a shot, rushing around to the other side and clutching Hermione’s free hand with both of her own. The pressure was fierce, desperate.

Goodbye. 

She’d done it once, and it had nearly split her in two. Kingsley endeavored to subject her to it a second time—this time more permanent than the last. This story ended when Hermione Granger stopped breathing and Harry Potter succumbed to far worse than a bottle of Ogden’s finest. And it would all be her fault.

“Hermione, you need him here...”

“You don’t know a thing about what I need, Kingsley!” Her voice shot out before she could stop it, ragged and cold. She shook her head, tone dropping to something hollow. “What I need doesn’t matter—not when it will destroy him…”

“But it does matter!” He stepped toward her, but she recoiled, retreating a full step back. His shoulders sagged. “It always has. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to see how much of you I’ve left to wither away.”

“I said I’m fine!”

The next breath she drew didn’t hitch. Her lungs expanded fully for the first time in what felt like years. When she lifted her head, her stare was all blade and frost.

“I’ll never forgive you for this.”

She didn’t wait for his reply. With quiet finality, she released Kalli’s hands, turned on her heel, and walked out the front door. It slammed behind her, the sound echoing through the house like a thunderclap.

The door flung open again almost instantly. Kalli darted out, her footsteps uneven and frantic.

“Don’t leave me!” she cried. Gravel crunched beneath her shoes as she sprinted after her sister.

Hermione stopped in her tracks. Her hand lifted to her mouth, covering it just long enough to keep the sob at bay. She lowered it, forced her face into something soft, and turned around. Kneeling, she opened her arms as Kalli barreled into her.

Her fingers found the child’s hair, stroking it gently. The strands were straight, fine, and warm beneath her touch. “I’m here, Kalliope. Right here—in this moment. We’re together. Okay?”

Kalli nodded, face lighting up with an exuberant grin that made Hermione’s chest ache. “Kay!”

“What shall we do today?”

Kalli giggled, inching closer with a mischievous gleam in her eye. She leaned in like she was about to whisper something scandalous. “Tonks said she’ll show me how to fly! With Teddy… Can I play with him?”

Hermione nodded, her lips twitching upward. “But only if you promise me you won’t sneak out again. Heroes like Harry Potter won’t always be around to save you.”

The little girl beamed. “Promise...”

Footsteps approached, steady and measured. Hermione glanced over her shoulder and saw them: Tonks, Teddy, Remus, and Sirius, moving closer. Her heart clenched at the sight of them together. She turned her attention back to Kalli, eyes wide, expression bright with exaggerated glee.

Leaning in, she pressed a kiss to the child’s cheek, then blew a raspberry there. Kalli squealed and squirmed, bursting into laughter that made the moment feel lighter, if only briefly.

“Go on, then...”

Kalli dashed off toward the group, who welcomed her with open arms and fond smiles. But one by one, their gazes slid past the girl, landing on Hermione. Then just over her shoulder.

Harry.

Footsteps crunched the gravel. Whether she was ready or not, he was coming. Hermione glanced over her shoulder, the breeze catching strands of hair and carrying them back toward the house. With a faint nod, she gestured toward the porch steps behind them.

Harry stopped mid-step, confused for a beat before slowly backing up with careful, hesitant strides. He didn’t turn away until she was beside him again, her arms drawn in close to her body as if warding off a chill that wasn’t there.

Her fingers twisted the end of her sleeve as she pressed her lips together, swallowing hard. Her gaze, however, remained fixed on the house, watching through the frame of the open door where Kingsley and Severus bickered in hushed but animated tones. Every so often, her thumb would rub a soft, repetitive circle along her wrist—an unconscious attempt to soothe herself as they made their way toward the steps.

When they reached them, Harry gestured to the weathered boards like an offering. Hermione sat first, folding herself neatly onto the edge, her knees angled slightly inward and her hands resting in her lap. 

Harry followed, lowering himself beside her, though he left a cautious distance between them—a narrow buffer of space that hummed with tension. Still, even from that gap, she could feel the warmth of his body like a flickering fire on a cold night.

Tucking a loose curl behind her ear, Hermione’s eyes flicked to her sister. The little girl clutched a child’s broom with both hands, excitement etched in every movement. "They had her on the fifteenth of May 1998," Hermione murmured, her voice soft and faraway. "She’ll be four soon."

She felt the weight of his stare before she saw it, heavy and unmoving, like it bore through her skin. She didn’t turn her head, but her eyes shifted sideways, flicking toward him quickly—nervously—before retreating just as fast. Her throat bobbed with a shallow swallow. 

"Found her in the cornfield yesterday while we waited here for you and Snape to get back…" Harry scratched absently at his beard, his fingers combing through the thick growth at his chin. "She’s rather excited about it—her birthday, I mean."

A long breath escaped her nose as she nodded faintly. Her fingers clenched tighter around her sleeves before relaxing again. "To be honest, I don’t know why I’m shocked that she snuck out."

"It’s happened before," he said, brows lifting just slightly.

"Many times—more often since January…" Her voice dipped near the end, almost as if the admission took effort.

Harry turned toward her more fully, his brows pinching with concern. "What happened in January?"

Hermione's mouth twitched to one side, and her gaze fell to her lap. With a slow, deliberate motion, she unbuttoned the cuff of her right sleeve and tugged the fabric upward. The scar ran the length of her forearm—a pale, thin line that stood out against her skin. She didn’t flinch under his stare but held it, unwavering.

"I tried to take back the nonexistent control I have left,” she answered. Her voice was flat. Quiet but grounded.

Harry’s expression crumpled at the edges. His lips parted as if to say something, but she beat him to it, shaking her head slowly. The handsome wizard’s eyes darted downward, blinking quickly. He looked at the scar like the weight of her pain stole all the air in the vicinity. He shifted where he sat, one hand gripping his knee so tightly his knuckles paled beneath the pressure.

"Oh, don’t look at me like that, Harry."

The witch slid her sleeve back down and began to rebutton it, her fingers clumsy with the effort. Her other hand drifted to the crown of her head, scratching at the roots, which only puffed her hair into a further mess. She couldn’t care. Perhaps, eventually, she wouldn’t.

The absence of caring was easier. Simpler.

“Did you ever feel like you had any measure of control after I… Well, after the war?” she asked. Pressing her lips into a thin line, she licked them before he could answer. "I’m sure it’s no accident you drank yourself silly and spent many a night with the witches you pleased."

"Hermione—"

"Don’t apologize—not to me," she said, barely above a whisper. “You don’t owe me a thing.”

Harry scoffed. Eventually, he sniffled and wiped at his nose. “I owe you everything.”

When her eyes flicked again to her sister, a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips for a fleeting moment. In the span of a single blink, it passed. Happiness of any kind only invited pain—opened up the wounds that had crippled her body and splintered her heart. 

Peace was all she could endure.

"I hope you know I don’t say things to make you feel any certain way.” Hermione joined her hands in her lap, dropping her eyes to them while they fidgeted with each other. “I only meant to show you I understand. You did what you felt you had to. Sure, it doesn’t fix anything you did or anyone you hurt, but I get it. That’s all…"

“You are the only one who would say that…” Harry dropped his hand from his lap to the wood step between them. It was an olive branch for which she did not reach. “If you knew everything I’ve done, you’d hate me, too.”

“I have an idea of it. I’m sure the truth lies somewhere between what I’ve read and what I…heard.” Finally, Hermione turned her head toward him. She offered him a shy, small smile she hoped gave him any measure of comfort. “Not for a single day in my life have I ever hated you, Harry. Breathing or not, that will never change.”

Silence stretched between them. Harry didn’t respond, didn’t nod, didn’t look away. He simply stared at her as if everything in the world had vanished—like all that remained was Hermione Granger. The weight of his gaze tightened the air between them like a net being drawn. She shifted, biting her lower lip in an effort to contain the shiver crawling up her spine.

When he still didn’t look away—when his eyes lingered on her lip like it tethered something loose in him, Hermione swallowed and rubbed both her arms, briskly. She hoped the effort would erase the way his stare made her feel.

Simple.

"At the very least, I thought we’d have a bit more control over our own lives after you won the war…"

Her thumb picked at the corner of her nail. Every breath she drew in was shallow. Entirely too unsteady to fool anyone she was, indeed, fine. Harry reached out, his effort tentative at first. His fingers brushed the edge of her hand. Like a whisper, he dragged them over her trembling skin so bloody slowly. Finally, he threaded them through hers. 

For a moment, the witch didn’t move—just stared at their joined hands. It was the first time they’d properly touched in almost four years. Before the joining’s warmth could cradle the hollow dread in her soul, she gasped and gave her head a soft shake, gently pulling her hand away.

"Hermione, we’d have lost the war without you."

"Stop it—"

Before she could withdraw further, he inched closer. She held her breath as he took her hand again. This time, her grip tightened around his. Her hold on him was hesitant, tender. Trembling. Something stilled inside her, like all the disjointed pieces of her nerves dulled under the heat of his hand. 

The world’s desaturated colors exploded all around her. Summer’s symphony of vibrant, bold hues painted the scenery in quick strokes. The sun dialed up its brightness so much that she squinted slightly as she swallowed, heart skipping and thudding against her ribcage.

Harry’s gaze roamed her face. Though his jaw remained set, his chin began to tremble with a barely visible effort to keep composed. His fingers twitched against hers, as if he ached to move but was unsure of his welcome.

"So much is lost without you…"

Hermione’s breath hitched as she lifted her free hand, slowly, cautiously. At first, she meant to use it to help pry her hand from his. However, the second’s panic eased almost in an instant. Searching his grounding green eyes, she lifted her hand, which trembled slightly. 

In the distance, Kalli and Teddy laughed. However, all she could focus on was this man—the one wizard who’d captivated her so thoroughly since they’d met on the train so many years ago. She brushed some of the unruly fringe from his forehead, revealing the scar beneath. 

Once, that scar had been the foundation of the bond of three young kids endlessly thrust into impossible odds. Her fingers ghosted up the curve of his glasses, nudging them back up the bridge of his nose with a reverent care.

Tears blurred the world. She blinked, and they fell. Harry swallowed, lifting the backs of his free hand and gently wiping them away. A sharp gasp sliced through her chest. She grimaced.

When she pulled both hands back, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Her gaze veered toward the group nearby, immediately finding her sister again—a desperate attempt to ground herself. She leaned forward slightly, palms pressing into her thighs in a futile attempt to anchor herself. 

It did nothing to help soothe away the clawing ache. It never did.

"Kalli and I—we’re so different in most ways." Swallowing, the witch cleared her throat. “She favors mum in looks, but she’s mostly dad…”

Harry let out a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. It softened something sharp inside her. Her shoulders lowered as he muttered, "She likes flying, for starters."

Despite her effort to stay composed, her eyes filled again. One blink, and the warmth streaked down her cheeks. She saw it in her mind—the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts, Ron’s grinning face after tryouts, the whoops of celebration.

"Oh, Merlin… She’s so much worse than any of you were about Quidditch and flying—back in school. She’s a nightmare about it…"

Hermione scoffed—half-laughing through her tears—and wiped at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. Her sniffle came unbidden, and she used the same sleeve to catch her nose.

Harry hummed in agreement, the sound rich but quiet. "She’s rather convinced you’ll take her to see a match between the Thundelarra Thunderers and Wollongong Warriors next month."

"Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn Kalli figured out the Owl system and ask Kingsley here herself if only to go. She’s so devious. I swear there’s some Slytherin in her."

They shared a quiet laugh. Then, silence settled between them—neither fully comfortable or awkward.

"A muggleborn witch in Slytherin. I’m sure the purebloods would love that…"

Hermione looked down again, fidgeting with her sleeves. Her voice turned soft. "She’ll be in Hufflepuff."

“So sure?”

"I’d stake my life on it…" She glanced sideways at him, brows raised as if daring him to challenge her.

The humor in Harry’s expression faded, and his eyes glistened. Tears threatened but didn’t fall. He shook his head slightly.

"That’s not funny, Hermione…"

The witch sighed. "I suppose it’s more than feasible to go to the match—now that we have so many bloody wands here."

"It’ll be good to go. Teddy’s not too interested in playing Quidditch, but he enjoys watching…"

"I suppose it’s all settled up, then…" Hermione nodded slowly. “At least Severus will have plenty of time to brew some Polyjuice. You’re quite famous over here. Boston would catch wind of you being here.”

“Boston? Who’s that?”

Hermione glanced at him. Reaching in her beaded bag, she quickly located the small green journal. Untying the wrappings, she flipped through some of the pages until she finally found a Polaroid photo.

“Your suspect number one…” Brushing some hair around her ear, she sighed. 

In the photo, a large, brawny man possessively embraced an unimpressed witch. His dark blonde hair caught the sun, softening the edges of his harsh form. 

“And the woman?”

 “That’s me—blonde, straight, and short hair with blue eyes.”

“Polyjuice?”

Hemrione shook her head. “Severus and I created a potion. Loosely, it’s similar, but it’s quite different. It adjusts specific features based on a few key components you switch out. It brews in days rather than a month… Though its ingredients aren’t any less expensive. It lasts for up to about eighteen hours.”

Hesitantly, the witch dropped her dull brown gaze to the journal. She took the Polaroid from Harry and slipped it back inside. Eventually, she took a breath and extended it to him.

“Take it. It has the majority of my notes.” She cleared her throat, combing her fingers through her hair and pretending to busy herself by inspecting the ends of her wild hair. “It’ll explain quite a lot.”

“Why are you being so accommodating to me with the case?”

Shrugging, Hermione watched Teddy and Kalliope hovering a few feet above the ground—giving each of the three adults some trouble. Folding her arms over her chest, she sighed. 

“Well you, I like… Tonks, too, of course. You are decidedly not Kingsley Shacklebolt.” After a beat, she met his stare. “It’s just one more circumstance I need to make the best of, I suppose. You’ll understand why I’m crucial to this mess once you read my notes. I’m on borrowed time, so it’s best we skip arguing and simply work together.”

“Thank you…”

“...Mhm.”

Quiet settled over them like a blanket. No one rushed to fill the silence. When Harry spoke again, his voice was lower.

"Your family…"

"When Severus and I found them, I knew instantly Kalli was a witch. A boy stomped on a neighbor’s garden…ruined a rosebush. When she thought no one was looking, she touched it and all the roses sprang back up in full bloom."

A smile pulled at her lips, soft and warm, and this time it lasted longer. She looked at him, holding his gaze with something gentle in her eyes.

"We helped reacquaint my parents with magic. Of course, they believe it’s the first time they’ve experienced any of it. They moved here to Madderweld with us so she would live amongst the magical community. Have you seen it yet—the village?”

Harry shook his head.

“Quite a few squibs live here—they welcomed my parents like they’d always belonged here. It’s a charming village—reminds me a little of Godric’s Hollow. I read you bought a home there. Is that where you live currently?"

“Merlin, no. Gin—Well, let’s just say I sold it quicker than it took for me to realize I was not, indeed, a father…”

“I… I was sorry to hear about that…”

“Don’t be. The thought of being a dad—” Harry said. His voice was so firm she nearly frowned. Looking at him longer than a second told her it was not she who earned his sudden ire. “It was the only reason I stayed with her. I was never happy with her, Hermione. I was never going to marry her—not in the end. Surely, you must know that?”

“You just got here, Harry.” Hermione inhaled, the effort slow and deep. Searching his lovely stare, she bit the inside of her cheek. “Can we pretend things are simple—even just for a little while?”

“I…” Harry sighed, frowning a bit and dropping his eyes to her fidgeting hands. “That I can do.”

She wiped her nose again with the sleeve of her jumper and exhaled slowly. Her attention returned to the threadbare edge of her sleeve, which she began to twist between her fingers.

"Anyway, it didn’t take long for Kalli to catch on that we’re sisters. I never told her, nor did I do anything at all to hint at it—she just knew it… And I couldn’t lie—not to her."

Harry's palm settled atop her bare knee, fingers warm and steady against her skin. The simplicity of the gesture unmoored her, caught her breath in her chest and tangled it somewhere behind her ribs. It offered more than comfort—everything she no longer believed she could have: safety, softness, a place to land. 

She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. Instead, she brushed her thumb across the back of his hand and gently nudged it off of her, the motion smooth but deliberate.

“She’s clever—as expected of any Granger,” Harry said, his voice unsteady as he cleared his throat.

The wizard didn’t look at her, not directly. His pinky shifted until it barely rested against hers where her hand clutched the wooden step below. That small touch, feather-light as it was, held her to the earth in a way that startled her. It felt like old magic. It felt like home.

“But she’s not one—a Granger,” Hermione murmured, her voice quiet and hollow. “She’s Kalliope Wilkins.”

His pinky hooked around hers. The second it did, something inside her fractured. Tears welled before she could stop them, then slipped hotly down her cheeks. She rolled her eyes at herself and wiped her face with the sleeve of her flannel shirt, as if she could scrub the softness away.

“When she goes to Hogwarts, she’s set on surpassing your glory as a Seeker. She says she’ll settle on Chaser if she must. But Kalli has a distinct obsession with beating the Chosen One.”

“Talk about me to her, do you?”

Silence settled between them like a thick fog. She didn’t look away, not this time. Her eyes locked on his, dull brown meeting emerald green. Her entire body tensed, spine stiffening, breath caught and lodged in her throat. 

Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She bit her bottom lip, holding it there for just a moment too long—long enough to draw his attention. He didn’t try to hide it; his gaze dropped to her mouth.

“Nothing’s changed, Harry,” Hermione whispered, the words heavy with weight she couldn’t shake. Her voice faded out as if her body didn’t have the strength to carry it.

He held her gaze, saying nothing. He didn’t have to. She could see it in the way his jaw slackened, in the way he leaned in ever so slightly—the way he always used to when words failed him. She exhaled sharply, a dry laugh that caught in her throat.

“That’s not true, of course. Everything’s changed.”

“Not everything, Hermione."

The witch's brows drew in as she studied him. There was a rawness to his face she hadn’t expected—a tender, open vulnerability that stole the air from her lungs. The chill that raced up her spine made her shift awkwardly, trying to mask the tremble in her limbs. She crossed one arm tightly across her torso, pressing her hand against the opposite elbow. Her throat bobbed with another swallow.

"Harry, this is hardly simple."

"Bugger, that. We've never been simple."

Still, he watched her. A quiet knowing in his stare pinned her in place and stole her breath. It pressed against the very parts of her she tried to keep hidden.

Before thought could catch up to her control, Hermione leaned in—just enough for him to notice. His pupils expanded, and his lips parted with a silent inhale. He edged closer without even seeming to realize it. Only then did she gasp and pull away, shuffling a few inches away to put space between them.

It wasn't far enough.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Hermione cast her gaze to the side. She spotted Kalliope out in the fields, her laughter floating in the air.

“Go home, Harry,” she said, her voice firm.

“I am home,” he answered, the words falling softly.

The witch scoffed, shaking her head and letting her eyes flutter closed for a breath. “Tell me… What happened to you after the first goodbye?”

When she looked at him again, she saw the strain in his expression. The way his lashes trembled, chin barely holding steady, as if the question alone threaten to eviscerate his insides a thousand times over. Her chest ached at the sight. She blinked several times, her own throat tightening.

“You know how this ends if you stay,” she whispered.

Harry turned his head away from her, eyes flicking up to the sky. His fingers wove together in his lap and twisted tightly. He ground his teeth and narrowed his eyes against the emotion that filled them. When he spoke, it sounded like something broken.

“I know how it ends if I go, Hermione.”

The wizard's spine straightened as he faced her, tension rippling down his back like a coiled wire finally finding structure. His face softened in some places and hardened in others—his eyes, sharp; his mouth, set.

The wind caught the edge of his fringe, but he didn’t so much as blink. Something behind his expression had locked into place, a choice made and fortified. He wasn’t just looking at her—he was standing beside whatever came next.

“I’m not leaving you to face this alone.”

Hermione sighed. “I’m fine—on my own, especially.”

“That’s a fucking lie,” he said, voice lower now, more tired than angry.

She straightened, her gaze sharp as it pierced him. “It’s the truth.”

“No, it’s not!”

“You don’t get to just change facts because it suits you, Harry.”

He let out a long, pained breath. “You know that’s not what’s happening.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

He shifted, turning to better face her. His shoulders slumped slightly under the weight of all he carried. She watched the rise and fall of his chest, how uneven it was, how strained. His eyes searched her face like he was trying to piece together a memory from scattered fragments.

“Hermione, I know you better than anyone.”

She huffed a laugh, bitter at the edges. “We’re practically strangers. The boy I knew, the girl you knew? They’re gone. We’re what’s left.”

“Drinking helped shut off all I felt after what happened,” he admitted. His voice was hollow and full. It shook in the places he tried to hide. “You’re able to bury your feelings so deeply without all of that—so deep you actually believe they’re gone.”

“You’re just like him—Severus,” she said, and her voice cracked under the bitterness. “Both of you are so certain you know me.” She shook her head, a sharp breath puffing from her lips. “Unlike the two of you, I’m not afraid of my feelings. I’ve learned to coexist with them. That’s all. That’s the big secret neither of you can seem to grasp or drink your way into.”

She stood suddenly, the motion abrupt enough to startle him. Her boots struck the dirt with purpose as she strode away, eyes set on the field. The children’s laughter rang through the air, but she barely registered it. Behind her, she heard his footsteps.

Of course, she did.

He caught up easily, even as she quickened her pace. Just as she neared the others, Harry reached for her elbow, his fingers curling around it gently. She spun around, breath catching when she realized how close he stood. His mouth hovered just inches from hers, his breath brushing her throat.

Hermione’s body tensed, shuddered. Her pulse drummed in her ears. His eyes dropped to her lips, and she shook her head, throat tight with restraint. The wizard lifted his other hand, cupping her jaw with a reverence that made her knees weaken. His thumb stroked her cheek, soft and slow. 

“Coexisting? Love, you’re running…”

Everything inside her cracked. The years of silence, the buried longing, the ache she refused to name—it all surged forward in a rush she couldn’t stop. Tears spilled over, and Harry brushed them away without a word.

“I’m allowed to run, Harry!” she choked out.

The witch's breath came short and shallow, her chest rising in quick, stifled bursts. Her hand flew to his wrist, fingers tightening as if bracing against a storm. Her grip was firm, almost desperate, but her knuckles trembled with the force of it. 

For a moment, she leaned into the steadiness of his skin. When he leaned in, their foreheads met—the tips of their noses brushing just slightly. Harry slipped his free arm around her waist so slowly: like he anticipated her to pull away. 

“Hermione…” he whispered, a low moan tickling his throat so much its vibrations resonated against hers.

Bowing her head, she lowered her forehead to the strong bridge of his nose, sobbing so quietly and delicately. He clutched the fabric of her flannel shirt at the small of her back like he meant to keep her in his arms for eternity. 

Harry pressed his lips against her head, then her temple. There, he lingered. He whispered promises she desperately yearned to believe. But when he assured her she was safe—that she was no longer alone, she snapped her eyes open, startled by a comfort she could never again know.

It scared her—how easily he steadied her.

Before she could draw another breath, she yanked his hand away and stepped back. Then another. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, as if it could silence the scream building in her chest. Her other palm flattened over her heart, willing it to slow.

“Hermione—”

“I’m allowed to run,” she repeated, the words more like an anthem than ever. “Especially when you taught me how!”

Turning away, Hermione clenched her jaw tight as her vision blurred. Off in the distance, she saw Sirius, Remus, and Tonks watching them—pretending not to notice the scene unraveling. Teddy and Kalli still floated a few feet in the air, their joy a stark contrast to her unraveling.

With a sharp scoff and a roll of her eyes, she veered toward the barn, its old wooden door cracked just enough to welcome her solitude. No one followed. No one called her name.

Good.