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Chapter Text

The castle was in ruins. The once-proud halls of Hogwarts were now a battlefield, littered with debris and the echoes of curses. Hermione Granger moved swiftly through the chaos, her wand gripped tightly in her hand. Her mind raced as she tried to keep track of her friends—Harry, Ron, the others. They had to hold the line. They had to win.

She turned a corner, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid smell of burning wood. Somewhere nearby, she could hear the clash of spells and the cries of the wounded. She had to keep moving. She had to help. But then she heard it—a low, guttural growl that sent a chill down her spine. She froze, her heart pounding in her chest. Slowly, she turned.

Fenrir Greyback stood at the end of the corridor, his yellowed teeth bared in a vicious grin. His eyes gleamed with a predatory hunger, and his clawed hands flexed at his sides. Hermione's stomach churned. She had heard the stories—the atrocities he had committed, the lives he had destroyed. And now he was here, in Hogwarts, hunting once again.

"Well, well," Greyback sneered, his voice a rasping growl. "What do we have here? The little Mudblood, all alone."

Hermione's grip on her wand tightened. She knew she was outmatched. Greyback was faster, stronger, and far more brutal than any opponent she had faced before. But she couldn't run. She wouldn't.

"Stay back," she warned, her voice steady despite the fear coursing through her. "I'm not afraid of you."

Greyback chuckled, a sound that was more animal than human. "Brave words, girl. But bravery won't save you."

He lunged. Hermione reacted instinctively, firing a Stunning Spell at Greyback. The spell hit him square in the chest, but it barely slowed him down. He snarled, swatting the spell aside as if it were nothing, and closed the distance between them in an instant.

She tried to dodge, but he was too fast. His clawed hand lashed out, catching her across the shoulder. Pain exploded through her body as she was thrown to the ground, her wand skittering out of reach. She scrambled to her feet, but Greyback was already on her, his weight pinning her down.

"Let's see how brave you are now," he growled, his breath hot and foul against her face.

Hermione struggled, her mind racing. She had to think. She had to fight back. But Greyback was too strong. His claws dug into her arms, drawing blood, and she cried out in pain.

And then, with a sickening grin, he leaned in close. "I'll make sure they remember you," he whispered. "I'll make sure they never forget."

His teeth sank into her neck. The pain was unlike anything Hermione had ever felt. It was sharp and searing, tearing through her like fire. She screamed, her voice echoing through the corridor, but no one came. No one could hear her. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the pain stopped. Everything stopped.

Hermione felt herself falling, but it wasn't like any fall she had ever experienced. It was slow, weightless, as if she were drifting through water. The sounds of the battle faded, replaced by a strange, echoing silence. She hit the ground—or at least, she thought she did—but there was no pain, no impact. Just a dull, hollow sensation.

She opened her eyes, expecting to see the familiar stone floor of the castle. Instead, she found herself standing in the same corridor, but something was... off. The colors were muted, the edges of the world blurred, as if she were looking through a fogged-up window. The air felt colder, though she couldn't quite feel it on her skin.

"What...?" she whispered, her voice sounding distant, almost foreign to her own ears.

She looked down at her hands. They were pale, almost translucent, and when she waved them in front of her face, they left faint trails of light in the air. Panic surged through her, sharp and sudden.

"No," she said, louder this time. "No, this can't be happening."

Hermione turned, her heart—or whatever was left of it—pounding. The corridor was empty now, Greyback gone. But she could still hear the sounds of the battle, muffled and distant, as if they were coming from another world. Hermione's gaze fell to the floor, and her stomach—or whatever passed for it now—lurched. There, lying motionless amidst the rubble, was her body. Her eyes were closed, her face pale but peaceful, as if she were sleeping. A faint trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth, and her wand lay just inches from her outstretched hand.

She stared at herself, her mind struggling to process what she was seeing. This wasn't possible. She couldn't be... dead. She had so much left to do, so much left to fight for. Harry and Ron needed her. The wizarding world needed her.

"No," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "Please, no."

She reached out to touch her own body, but her hand passed through it, leaving a faint shimmer in the air. The reality of her situation crashed down on her like a tidal wave. She was dead. Greyback had killed her, and now she was... what? A ghost? A spirit? She didn't even know.

Hermione ran toward the noise, her feet making no sound against the stone floor. She burst into the Great Hall, where the fighting was at its fiercest. Students and professors clashed with Death Eaters, spells flying in every direction.

Hermione called out to Harry, to Ron, to anyone who might hear her, but no one turned. No one seemed to notice her at all.

"Harry!" she shouted, rushing toward him. He was locked in a duel with a masked Death Eater, his face grim with determination. Hermione reached out to grab his arm, but her hand passed right through him, as if he were made of smoke.

She stumbled back, her breath coming in shallow gasps. "No, no, no," she muttered, her voice trembling. "This isn't real. This can't be real."

Hermione couldn't stand to watch her friends in the battle any longer, wondering whether or not any more of them would pass on or if she'd see them here in this limbo with her. She turned and walked back to the corridor her body lay motionless in, sinking to her knees—or at least, she thought she did. She couldn't feel the ground beneath her, couldn't feel anything at all. The sounds of the battle continued around her, but they felt distant, unimportant. She was adrift, untethered from the world she had fought so hard to protect.

She didn't know how long she sat there, staring at her lifeless body. But eventually, she forced herself to stand. She couldn't stay here. She couldn't just... fade away. There had to be something more. There had to be a reason she was still here.

So, with one last, lingering look at her body, Hermione turned and walked away, her ghostly form drifting through the castle like a shadow. She didn't know where she was going or what she would find.

__________

The battle was over. The castle was quiet, save for the occasional sob or murmur of voices. Hermione drifted through the halls of Hogwarts, her ghostly form gliding effortlessly over the rubble and debris. The world around her felt distant, as if she were watching it through a fogged-up window. Colors were muted, sounds were muffled, and the air carried a chill that she could sense but not feel.

She had tried to follow Harry and Ron after the battle, but they couldn't see her. She had called out to them, her voice echoing faintly in the empty corridors, but they hadn't heard her. It was as if she no longer existed to them—or to anyone. Her body had been found by Harry, she had watched him fall to the ground and pull her lifeless body into his arms. Ron hadn't found out until after Harry moved her body out of the ruin of the corridor. Whispers of sorrow from the two, tears and screams from the girls when they found out. A sobbing Draco Malfoy after he had found out, his silvery eyes filling with tears quicker than when he had found out about his father's passing.

Hermione found herself drawn to the Great Hall, where the survivors had gathered. The long tables were gone, replaced by rows of injured students and professors. The air was thick with the scent of blood and burnt wood, and the sound of weeping filled the room.

She hovered near the entrance, her heart—or whatever passed for it now—aching as she watched Harry and Ron. They sat together, their heads bowed, their faces etched with grief. Ginny was with them, her hand resting on Harry's shoulder, but even she couldn't seem to comfort him.

Hermione wanted to go to them, to tell them she was still here, that she hadn't left them completely. But every time she tried to speak, her voice faded into nothingness. Every time she reached out to touch them, her hand passed right through.

"I'm here," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'm still here." But no one heard her. Desperate for some semblance of connection, Hermione drifted through the castle, searching for something—anything—that might make her feel real again. She found herself in a forgotten corridor, where a familiar object stood propped against the wall: the Mirror of Erised.

She hesitated, then stepped in front of it. The mirror's surface shimmered, and for a moment, she saw herself as she had been in life—alive, vibrant, her bushy hair framing her face, her eyes bright with determination. But the image quickly faded, replaced by her ghostly reflection. Her form was translucent, her edges blurred, and her eyes... her eyes were hollow, filled with a sadness that she hadn't noticed before.

"Is this who I am now?" she asked her reflection, her voice barely a whisper. "A shadow? A memory?" The mirror didn't answer. Anger, sadness, and something she wasn't fully sure that she had ever felt before welled in her chest. Screaming into the nothingness of where she now was stuck. As she wiped her tear, Hermione left the mirror behind and made her way to the library, a place that had always brought her comfort. But even here, among the familiar shelves and the scent of old books, she felt a profound sense of loss. She reached out to touch a book, her fingers passing through the spine as if it were made of air.

"This can't be my life now," she whispered to herself, her voice echoing faintly in the empty room. "There has to be a way to fix this. There has to be a way back..." But deep down, she knew the truth. She was dead. There was no coming back from that. The realization hit her like a blow, and she sank to the floor—or rather, she hovered just above it—her head in her hands.

Determined to distract herself from her grief, Hermione began to explore the castle. She drifted through walls and doors, discovering hidden passageways and forgotten rooms. She found herself in the Room of Requirement, which had been reduced to ashes during the battle. The once-magical space was now a charred shell, its secrets lost to the flames.

She wandered into the Chamber of Secrets, where the air was damp and cold. The giant statue of Salazar Slytherin loomed over her, its stone eyes seeming to follow her as she moved. She thought of Harry and Ron, of the time they had fought the basilisk together, and felt a pang of longing.

Finally, she found herself in the Astronomy Tower. The night sky stretched out above her, the stars twinkling faintly in the darkness. She stood at the edge of the tower, looking out over the grounds. The world was still beautiful, even in death.

As she turned to leave, Hermione felt a strange sensation—a faint pull, like a whisper in the back of her mind. She hesitated, then followed the feeling, drifting through the castle until she found herself in a dimly lit corridor she didn't recognize.

At the end of the corridor stood a figure. He was tall and pale, with sharp features and a pair of milky white eyes that seemed to look right through her. His expression was unreadable, but there was a stillness about him that made Hermione pause.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other. Then the figure spoke, his voice soft and melodic.

"You're new," he said.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. "You... you can see me?"

The figure shook his head. "Not in the way you mean. I'm blind, even in death. But I can sense you. Your presence is... different. Stronger than most."

Hermione hesitated, surprised. "My name is Hermione," she said finally. "Hermione Granger."

The figure tilted his head, as if considering her name. "Hermione," he repeated. "I'm Ominis Gaunt. It's... interesting to meet you." Ominis studied her—or rather, seemed to sense her—with a thoughtful expression. "You seem... lost," he said. "It's not uncommon for new ghosts to feel that way. The transition can be... difficult."

Hermione nodded, her chest tightening with emotion. "It's just... I wasn't ready," she said quietly. "There was so much I still wanted to do. So much I still wanted to fight for."

Ominis's expression softened. "I understand," he said. "But death doesn't have to be the end. There's still much you can do, even in this form. Hogwarts is full of secrets, and as ghosts, we have the unique privilege of uncovering them."

Hermione looked at him, her curiosity piqued. "What do you mean?"

Ominis smiled faintly. "Come with me," he said. "I'll show you." Hermione hesitated, then nodded. She didn't know what to expect, but she was tired of feeling lost and alone. If Ominis could help her find purpose in this strange new existence, then she was willing to follow him.

Together, they left the corridor and began to explore the castle. Ominis moved with a quiet confidence, his steps sure despite his blindness. He seemed to know the castle intimately, guiding Hermione through hidden passageways and forgotten rooms. As they walked, he told her stories of the castle's history, of the ghosts who had come before her, and of the secrets that lay hidden within its walls.

For the first time since her death, Hermione felt a glimmer of hope. She might be a ghost, but she was still Hermione Granger. And if there was one thing she knew how to do, it was to learn, to explore, and to fight for what she believed in. The castle was quieter at night, its halls bathed in the silvery light of the moon. Hermione followed Ominis as he led her through a series of hidden passageways, his movements confident and deliberate despite his blindness. She marveled at how easily he navigated the castle, as if he could sense every stone and turn.

"How do you know where you're going?" she asked, her voice echoing faintly in the empty corridor.

Ominis smiled faintly. "I've had a long time to learn the castle's secrets," he said. "When you've been here as long as I have, you start to feel its heartbeat. The walls whisper to you, if you know how to listen."

Hermione frowned, intrigued. "What do they say?"

"Stories," Ominis replied. "Memories. Hogwarts has seen countless lives come and go. It remembers them all."

They turned a corner and found themselves in a narrow, dimly lit passageway. The air was cool and damp, and the walls were lined with ancient tapestries that seemed to shimmer faintly in the moonlight.

"Where are we?" Hermione asked, her curiosity piqued.

"This is one of the castle's oldest passages," Ominis said. "It leads to a place few living souls have ever seen."

At the end of the passageway was a small, circular room. The walls were made of smooth, dark stone, and the ceiling was so high that it seemed to disappear into shadow. In the center of the room was a pool of still, black water, its surface reflecting the faint light from above.

Hermione stepped closer, her ghostly form casting no ripples on the water's surface. "What is this place?" she asked, her voice hushed.

"The Chamber of Reflection," Ominis said. "It's said that the water here can show you glimpses of the past—moments that have been lost to time."

Hermione looked at him, her eyes wide. "Can it show us anything?"

Ominis nodded. "If you focus your thoughts, the water will respond. But be careful. The past can be... overwhelming."

Hermione hesitated, then knelt by the edge of the pool. She stared into the dark water, her mind racing with questions. What did she want to see? Her life? Her death? The faces of her friends?

The water's surface shimmered, and an image began to form. It was the Great Hall, filled with students laughing and talking. Hermione's breath caught in her throat as she saw herself—alive and vibrant, sitting at the Gryffindor table with Harry and Ron. They were younger, their faces free of the weight of war.

"That's... me," she whispered, her voice trembling. "That's us..."

Ominis stood beside her, his milky eyes gazing into the distance. "The past has a way of reminding us of what we've lost," he said quietly. "But it can also remind us of what we've gained."

Hermione watched as the image faded, replaced by another—a memory of her parents, smiling and waving as they dropped her off at King's Cross Station. Tears welled in her eyes, but she forced herself to look away.

"It's too much," she said, standing abruptly. "I can't... I can't do this."

Ominis placed a hand on her shoulder—or at least, he seemed to. His touch was faint, like a cool breeze, but it was enough to ground her. "It's alright," he said. "The past can be painful, but it's also a part of who we are. You don't have to face it all at once."

Hermione took a deep breath—or what passed for one—and nodded. "What about you?" she asked. "What do you see when you look into the water?"

Ominis was silent for a moment, his expression distant. "I see many things," he said finally. "My family. My mistakes. The choices I made in life. But I've learned to accept them. They've shaped me, just as your past has shaped you."

Hermione studied him, her curiosity growing. "What was your life like?" she asked. "If you don't mind me asking."

Ominis smiled faintly. "It was... complicated," he said. "I was born into a family with a dark legacy. The Gaunts were known for their cruelty and their obsession with blood purity. But I never shared their beliefs. I wanted to be different. To be better."

"And were you?" Hermione asked.

Ominis hesitated, then shook his head. "I tried," he said. "But the weight of my family's legacy was too heavy. I made mistakes. I hurt people. I hurt my friends. And in the end, I died alone, with nothing but my regrets."

Hermione's heart ached for him. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

Ominis shrugged. "It was a long time ago," he said. "But being here, in Hogwarts, has given me a chance to make amends. To help others, like you."

Hermione looked at him, a glimmer of hope stirring in her chest. "Do you think I can find that too?" she asked. "A way to make amends? To help others?"

Ominis nodded. "I do," he said. "But it won't be easy. The path to peace is rarely a straight one. Still, if you're willing to walk it, I'd be happy to guide you."

Hermione hesitated, then nodded. "I'd like that," she said. "Thank you, Ominis."

"You're welcome, Hermione," Ominis replied. "Now, come. There's much more to see."

Together, they left the Chamber of Reflection and continued their exploration of the castle. Ominis showed her hidden rooms and secret passages, places that even Hermione, with her extensive knowledge of Hogwarts, had never seen before. As they walked, they talked—about life, death, and the strange, liminal space they now inhabited.

Chapter Text

Hermione wandered the castle alone, her ghostly form drifting through the empty halls. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of stone or the distant echo of footsteps. She had tried to distract herself by exploring, by reading the few books she could still interact with, but the weight of her new existence was beginning to crush her.

She found herself in the Gryffindor common room, the familiar space now cold and lifeless. The fire in the hearth was dark, the chairs and tables empty. She sat—or rather, hovered—in her favorite spot by the window, staring out at the grounds below. The sun was rising, casting a pale golden light over the castle, but the beauty of the scene was lost on her.

"Why am I still here?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "What's the point of all this?" There was no answer, only the faint echo of her own words.

"Hermione?"

She turned, startled, to see Ominis standing in the doorway. His milky eyes were fixed in her direction, his expression one of quiet concern. He moved toward her, his steps sure despite his blindness.

"I thought I might find you here," he said, his voice soft. "You've been quiet lately. Is something wrong?"

Hermione looked away, her chest tightening with emotion. "I don't know," she said. "I just... I feel so lost. I don't know what I'm supposed to do now. I don't even know why I'm still here."

Ominis was silent for a moment, then sat—or hovered—beside her. "It's not easy," he said. "Being a ghost. It's a strange, liminal existence. But it doesn't have to be meaningless."

"How do you do it?" Hermione asked, her voice breaking. "How do you keep going, knowing that you'll never truly live again?"

Ominis sighed, his expression distant. "It takes time," he said. "And it helps to have a purpose. For me, that purpose is helping others—like you."

Hermione looked at him, her curiosity piqued. "Why do you care so much?" she asked. "Why are you helping me?"

Ominis hesitated, then smiled faintly. "Because I see myself in you," he said. "I was lost once too. And someone helped me find my way. I'm just paying that forward."

Hermione studied him, her mind racing with questions. There was so much she didn't know about Ominis—so much he hadn't told her. And suddenly, she couldn't hold back any longer.

"How did you die?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ominis froze, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he said nothing, and Hermione worried that she had crossed a line. But then he sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly.

"It's not a pleasant story," he said quietly.

"I don't care," Hermione said. "I want to know. Please."

Ominis was silent for a long time, his milky eyes gazing into the distance. Finally, he nodded. "Alright," he said. "But you might not like what you hear."

"I died alone," Ominis began, his voice soft and distant. "It was a long time ago, during a time of great turmoil in the wizarding world. My family—the Gaunts—were known for their cruelty and their obsession with blood purity. But I... I never shared their beliefs. I wanted to be different. To be better." He paused, his expression pained. "But the weight of my family's legacy was too heavy. I made mistakes. I hurt people. And in the end, I was betrayed by someone I thought I could trust."

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. "What happened?"

Ominis sighed. "I was lured to a remote part of the castle by someone I considered a friend. They knew about my family's dark history, and they wanted to use me to further their own ambitions. When I refused, they... they used unforgivables on me. Left me for the Rookwood's and Goblins."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Who was it?" she asked.

Ominis shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he said. "They're long gone now. But the betrayal... it stayed with me. Even in death, I couldn't let it go."

Hermione looked at him, her heart aching for him. "I'm so sorry," she said quietly.

Ominis smiled faintly. "It was a long time ago," he said. "But it taught me something important. Death isn't the end. It's just... another beginning. And it's up to us to decide what we do with it."

Hermione nodded, her chest tightening with emotion. "I just wish I knew what to do," she said. "I feel so... lost."

Ominis placed a hand on her shoulder—or at least, he seemed to. His touch was faint, like a cool breeze, but it was enough to ground her. "You'll find your way," he said. "It just takes time. And until then, you're not alone. I'm here."

Hermione looked at him, a glimmer of hope stirring in her chest. "Thank you, Ominis," she said. "For everything."

Ominis smiled. "You're welcome, Hermione."

__________

The castle was alive with activity once more. Weeks had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts, and now the survivors had returned to rebuild what had been destroyed. Hermione watched from the shadows as students, professors, and volunteers worked together to repair the broken walls, clear the debris, and restore the castle to its former glory.

She stood in the entrance hall, her ghostly form hidden from view, as Harry, Ron, and Ginny walked through the doors. Her heart—or whatever passed for it now—ached at the sight of them. They looked tired, their faces drawn and weary, but there was a determination in their eyes that she recognized.

"Hermione would've loved this," Ron said, his voice echoing faintly in the hall. "She'd have a plan for everything."

Harry nodded, a sad smile on his face. "Yeah. She'd probably already have a checklist."

Ginny placed a hand on Harry's arm. "She's still with us," she said softly. "In here."

Hermione's chest tightened with emotion. She wanted to reach out to them, to tell them she was still here, that she hadn't left them completely. But every time she tried to speak, her voice faded into nothingness. Every time she reached out to touch them, her hand passed right through.

"I'm here," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'm still here."

"It's hard, isn't it?"

Hermione turned to see Ominis standing beside her, his milky eyes seem fixed on the scene before them. His expression was one of quiet understanding.

"How do you do it?" Hermione asked, her voice breaking. "How do you listen to them move on without you?"

Ominis sighed. "It's not easy," he said. "But you learn to accept it. The living have their own path to walk, just as we have ours."

Hermione looked at him, her eyes filled with tears. "But I don't want to let them go," she said. "They're my family."

"You don't have to let them go," he said. "You can still be a part of their lives, even if they can't see you. You can watch over them, protect them, and guide them when they need it."

Hermione nodded, though the pain in her chest didn't ease. "It's just... so hard," she said. "I want to talk to them. I want to help them."

Ominis smiled faintly. "You can," he said. "In your own way."

__________

Over the next few days, Hermione watched as her friends worked tirelessly to rebuild the castle. Harry and Ron were often together, their bond stronger than ever as they tackled the physical labor of repairing the walls and clearing the debris. Ginny was everywhere at once, organizing volunteers and keeping spirits high with her infectious energy.

Hermione followed them, her ghostly form drifting through the halls as she observed their progress. She wanted to help—to offer advice, to lend a hand—but she was powerless to do anything but watch.

One day, she found herself in the library, where a group of students was working to repair the damaged shelves and restore the books. Hermione hovered near the back, her heart aching as she watched them work.

"This one's ruined," one of the students said, holding up a charred book. "We'll have to replace it."

Hermione's chest tightened. That book had been one of her favorites—a rare tome on advanced transfiguration. She reached out to touch it, her fingers passing through the spine as if it were made of air.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'm so sorry."

Ominis found her later that day, sitting—or hovering—in the Astronomy Tower. The sun was setting, casting a warm golden light over the castle, but Hermione's expression was one of deep sadness.

"You've been quiet lately," Ominis said, his voice soft.

Hermione looked at him, her eyes filled with tears. "I just... I feel so useless," she said. "I want to help them, but I can't. I'm just... a ghost."

Ominis sighed, his expression thoughtful. "You're more than that," he said. "You're still Hermione Granger. And even if they can't see you, you can still make a difference."

Hermione frowned. "How?"

Ominis smiled faintly. "You have knowledge," he said. "You have experience. And you have a connection to this castle that few others do. Use that. Guide them. Help them in ways they can't even imagine."

Hermione's eyes widened as his words sank in. "You mean...?"

Ominis nodded. "The castle listens to us," he said. "It remembers us. And if we're careful, we can influence it." Hermione felt a glimmer of hope stir in her chest. She might be a ghost, but she was still Hermione Granger. And if there was one thing she knew how to do, it was to learn, to explore, and to fight for what she believed in. The castle did have a sense of life to it, as if it had its own mind.

That night, Hermione returned to the library. The students had left for the day, but the work was far from finished. She hovered near the shelves, her ghostly form shimmering faintly in the moonlight.

"Alright," she whispered, her voice trembling with determination. "Let's see what I can do."

She focused her thoughts, reaching out to the castle with her mind. The walls seemed to hum in response, as if they recognized her presence. Slowly, carefully, she began to guide the students' work—nudging a book into place here, shifting a shelf there, and even whispering suggestions into their dreams. It wasn't much, but it was a start. For the first time since her death, Hermione felt a sense of purpose. She might be a ghost, but she was still Hermione Granger. And she wasn't going to let a little thing like death stop her from helping her friends.

__________

The castle was alive with the sounds of hammers, chisels, and murmured incantations. The rebuilding of Hogwarts was in full swing, and Hermione watched from the shadows as her friends and fellow witches and wizards worked tirelessly to restore the school to its former glory. She hovered near the edges of the Great Hall, her ghostly form shimmering faintly in the sunlight streaming through the shattered windows.

Harry and Ron were at the far end of the hall, levitating chunks of broken stone into place with their wands. Ginny was directing a group of students as they repaired the long wooden tables, her voice carrying across the room with its usual energy and determination.

Hermione was drifting through the entrance hall when she saw him—Draco Malfoy. He stood awkwardly near the doors, his pale hair gleaming in the sunlight, his expression unreadable. He looked different from the boy she had known—thinner, more subdued, his usual arrogance replaced by a quiet unease.

Harry was the first to notice him. He stopped mid-conversation with Ron and Ginny, his eyes narrowing as he approached Draco. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?" he asked, his voice cold.

Draco flinched but held his ground. "I'm here to help," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I... I owe it to the school. To all of you."

Ron stepped forward, his fists clenched. "You've got some nerve showing up here after everything you've done."

Ginny placed a hand on Ron's arm, her expression wary but not hostile. "Let him speak," she said.

Draco took a deep breath, his eyes flickering to the ground. "I know I don't deserve to be here," he said. "But I want to make amends. However I can."

Hermione watched the exchange, her chest tightening with conflicting emotions. She had every reason to hate Draco—he had called her a Mudblood, he had stood by while Voldemort rose to power, he had been a part of the world that had ultimately led to her death. But she also saw the guilt in his eyes, the weight of his choices bearing down on him. As the tension in the room grew, Hermione felt a surge of frustration. She couldn't stand by and watch this—not when she had the power to do something, however small.

She focused her thoughts, reaching out to the castle with her mind. The walls seemed to hum in response, and a faint breeze stirred the air, rustling the pages of a nearby book. The sound drew Harry's attention, breaking the tension.

"Enough," Harry said, his voice firm but not unkind. "If you're serious about helping, Malfoy, then prove it. But one wrong move, and you're out."

Draco nodded, his expression one of quiet determination. "Thank you," he said. Hermione let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

Hermione and Ominis worked together to guide the rebuilding efforts. They drifted through the castle, their ghostly forms shimmering faintly in the sunlight, as they whispered suggestions to the living and nudged the castle's magic in subtle ways.

Before they knew it, they found themselves in the Room of Requirement, which had been reduced to ashes during the battle. The once-magical space was now a charred shell, its secrets lost to the flames.

"This place was special," Hermione said, her voice filled with sadness. "It could be anything you needed. And now it's gone."

"It's not gone," he said. "It's just... waiting. The castle remembers. And with time, it will heal."

Hermione looked at him, her eyes filled with tears. "Do you really think so?"

Ominis nodded. "I do," he said. "But it will take time. And patience." Ominis had grown to enjoy Hermione's presence, although he had finally started to warm up to her truly, there was something that would pang in his chest when he was near her.

_________

As the days turned into weeks, Hermione watched Draco closely. He worked tirelessly, often staying late into the night to repair damaged walls or clean up debris. He kept to himself, avoiding confrontation and focusing on his tasks. Slowly, grudgingly, the others began to accept his presence.

One evening, Hermione found herself in the library, where Draco was carefully restoring a set of damaged books. She hovered nearby, her ghostly form shimmering faintly in the candlelight.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling. "For everything."

Draco paused, as if he had heard something, and looked around the room. For a moment, his eyes seemed to meet hers, and Hermione felt a flicker of connection. But then he shook his head and returned to his work.

Draco Malfoy stood in the dimly lit corridor, his wand clutched tightly in his hand. The castle was quiet now, the sounds of the day's work fading into the night. He had stayed behind, as he often did, to finish repairing a section of the damaged wall. The others had long since gone to bed, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He hated the silence. It gave him too much time to think—to remember. The weight of his choices pressed down on him, heavier than the stones he was levitating into place. He had spent so much of his life trying to live up to his family's expectations, trying to prove himself. And where had it gotten him? Alone, in a broken castle, surrounded by people who would never fully trust him.

"Pathetic," he muttered to himself, his voice echoing faintly in the empty corridor.

Hermione watched him from the shadows, her ghostly form shimmering faintly in the moonlight. She had been following him for days, observing his quiet determination and the guilt that seemed to haunt his every move. Part of her still resented him—for the way he had treated her, for the role he had played in the war—but another part of her couldn't help but feel a flicker of sympathy.

"He's trying," Ominis said, appearing beside her. His milky eyes were fixed on Draco, his expression thoughtful. "That's more than most can say."

Hermione nodded, her chest tightening with conflicting emotions. "I know," she said. "But it's hard to forget the past."

"The past is just that—past," Ominis said. "It's what we do in the present that defines us."

Draco paused, his wand lowering as he glanced around the corridor. For a moment, he could have sworn he heard voices—faint, whispering, almost like the rustle of leaves in the wind. He shook his head, trying to dispel the sensation, but it lingered, tugging at the edges of his consciousness.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice hesitant. "Is someone there?" HIs silver eyes flickering around the room at any noise.

Hermione hesitated, then stepped forward, her ghostly form shimmering faintly in the moonlight. She reached out, her hand passing through the air as if to touch him, but he didn't react. He couldn't see her—not yet.

"I'm here," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'm still here." Ominis felt a weight in his chest, something he hadn't felt in centuries.

Draco frowned, his eyes scanning the empty corridor. "I must be losing my mind," he muttered, turning back to his work. A sigh came from the two, almost defeated. Draco felt a sense of unease after the next few hours and decided to pack up, heading home for the night. Leaving Hermione with ideas racing in her mind on what she could do or how she could give him a sign.

__________

The next day, Draco found himself in the library, carefully restoring a set of damaged books. The work was tedious, but it gave him something to focus on—something to keep the memories at bay.

As he worked, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. He glanced around the room, his eyes narrowing as he searched for the source of the sensation. But the library was empty, save for the faint rustle of pages in the breeze.

"Who's there?" he called out, his voice sharp with frustration.

Hermione hovered nearby, her ghostly form shimmering faintly in the sunlight. She wanted to reach out to him, to tell him she was there, but she didn't know how. Instead, she focused her thoughts, reaching out to the castle with her mind. The walls seemed to hum in response, and a faint breeze stirred the air, rustling the pages of a nearby book.

Draco froze, his eyes widening as the book floated off the shelf and landed gently on the table in front of him. He stared at it, his heart pounding in his chest.

"What the...?" he muttered, reaching out to touch the book. It was real—solid, tangible. But how? Draco's awareness of Hermione's presence grew. He couldn't see her, but he could feel her—a faint, almost imperceptible presence that lingered at the edges of his consciousness. It was unsettling, but also strangely comforting.

One evening, he found himself in the Room of Requirement, which had been reduced to ashes during the battle. The once-magical space was now a charred shell, its secrets lost to the flames.

"This place...," he muttered to himself, his voice filled with regret.

Hermione appeared beside him, her ghostly form shimmering faintly in the candlelight. "It's not gone," she whispered, her voice trembling. "It's just... waiting."

Draco froze, his heart pounding in his chest. For a moment, he could have sworn he heard her voice—faint, whispering, almost like the rustle of leaves in the wind.

"Hermione?" he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. Draco knew she had passed during the battle, but it was as if he could hear her, daily. No matter where he was in the castle, it was like she was always there with him.

Chapter Text

The castle was quiet, the sounds of the day's work fading into the night. Ominis Gaunt drifted through the halls, his ghostly form shimmering faintly in the moonlight. He had been watching Hermione for weeks, observing her quiet determination and the pain that seemed to linger in her eyes. He admired her strength, her intelligence, and her unwavering sense of purpose. But lately, he had begun to notice something else—something that made his non-existent heart ache.

He liked her. More than he cared to admit.

It was a strange feeling, one he hadn't experienced in a long time. As a ghost, he had grown accustomed to the stillness of his existence, the quiet detachment that came with being neither fully alive nor fully dead. But Hermione... she was different. She made him feel something—something real. He had hated the thought of her constantly watching the boy named Draco, ever since she had discovered that he is closer to seeing her than anyone has in months.

Ominis found Hermione in the library, her ghostly form hovering near the shelves as she guided the restoration of a set of damaged books. She was focused, her brow furrowed in concentration as she whispered suggestions to the living. Ominis listened for her for a moment, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You're working late," he said, his voice soft.

Hermione turned, her expression softening as she saw him. "I couldn't sleep," she said.

Ominis nodded, his milky eyes fixed on her. "You're doing more than anyone could ask of you," he said. "But you need to rest, Hermione. Even ghosts need peace." Hermione giggled at the comment, she knew she still needed rest but when she was alive, she had never really thought that ghosts truly did.

Hermione sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "Fine, but only because I should try to see if Draco can see me when he returns tomorrow." Ominis turned his head away from hers, not exactly the fondest of the things he was told about Draco, considering he had to listen to the family line he was born into help begin this war. Draco being one of the followers of his horrible lineage, didn't fully sit well with him.

Hermione stood placing a hand on Ominis arm, "Goodnight, Ominis."

He couldn't tell if it was anger or jealously that welled in his chest every time he could sense that Hermione was around Draco, but he couldn't stand it either way. The library was silent now, the night had taken over and there wasn't a soul around to hear Ominis curse under his breath as he slammed the door behind him.

As the days turned into weeks, Ominis began to notice something else—Draco Malfoy. The boy was everywhere, working tirelessly to repair the castle and make amends for his past. Ominis could feel the guilt, the weight of his choices bearing down on him. But he also saw the way Hermione watched him, her expression filled with conflicting emotions. It made Ominis uneasy. He didn't trust Draco—not after everything he had done. And he didn't like the way Hermione seemed to linger near him, as if drawn to his presence. Ominis could understand the past is the past, and that sometimes that was enough, but that didn't mean everyone changed... he had to learn that the hard way when he was alive.

One evening, Ominis found Hermione in the Astronomy Tower, her ghostly form shimmering faintly in the starlight. She was watching Draco, who stood alone on the balcony, his face tilted toward the sky.

"You've been spending a lot of time near him," Ominis said, his voice careful.

Hermione turned, her expression guarded. "I'm just... curious," she said. "He's changed. I can see it."

Ominis frowned, his milky eyes fixed on her. "He's still the same person, Hermione," he said. "The same person who stood by while Voldemort rose to power. The same person who called you... that word. Let that woman scar you with it. "

Hermione flinched, her chest tightening with emotion. "I know," she said. "But people can change, Ominis. They can grow. And if he's trying to make amends, shouldn't we give him a chance?"

Ominis was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Perhaps," he said finally. "But be careful, Hermione. Not everyone deserves your kindness. The past may be the past...but sometimes people just aren't as they may seem." Ominis found himself pulling away from Hermione. He didn't want to—he wanted to be near her, to help her, to protect her. But the more she focused on Draco, the more he felt like an outsider. It was a strange feeling, one he hadn't experienced in a long time.

Ominis found himself sitting in the Chamber of Reflection, listening to the dark water. The pool's surface shimmered, and an image began to form—a memory of Hermione, alive and vibrant, her eyes bright with determination. Ominis watched her for a moment, his chest tightening with emotion. He could hear her laughter fill the room, making his cheeks flush.

"I can't do this," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I can't watch her... with him."

The water's surface rippled, and the image faded, replaced by his own ghostly reflection. Ominis stared at himself, his expression filled with pain.

"You're a fool," he muttered. "A fool for feeling this way." Ominis made a decision. He would keep his distance from Hermione—not because he didn't care, but because he cared too much. He couldn't bear to watch her grow closer to Draco, to see her kindness and compassion wasted on someone who didn't deserve it.

__________

Draco Malfoy stood in the dimly lit corridor, his wand clutched tightly in his hand. The castle was quiet now, the sounds of the day's work fading into the night. He had stayed behind, as he often did, to finish repairing a section of the damaged wall. The others had long since gone to bed, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He hated the silence. It gave him too much time to think—to remember. The weight of his choices pressed down on him, heavier than the stones he was levitating into place. He had spent so much of his life trying to live up to his family's expectations, trying to prove himself. And where had it gotten him? Alone, in a broken castle, surrounded by people who would never fully trust him.

As he worked, Draco noticed something out of the corner of his eye—a flicker of light, faint and fleeting, like the glow of a candle in the wind. He turned, his heart pounding in his chest, but the corridor was empty.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice hesitant. "Is someone there?"

There was no answer, only the faint echo of his own words. Draco frowned, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the corridor. He could have sworn he saw something—a figure, maybe, or a shadow. But there was nothing there. Shaking his head, he turned back to his work.

"I must be losing my mind," he muttered.

The library was quiet, the only sound the soft rustling of pages as Draco Malfoy worked on restoring a set of damaged books. He had been at it for hours, his hands steady but his mind restless. The flickers of light, the whispers in the wind, the faint chill that seemed to follow him everywhere—it was all starting to drive him mad. He couldn't shake the feeling that someone—or something—was watching him. He was different now though, and Hermione found herself drawn to him, not out of affection, but out of curiosity. She wanted to know if he was truly changed, if the boy who had once called her a Mudblood could ever become someone worthy of forgiveness. Hermione finally gathered the courage to reveal herself.

Hermione took a deep breath, though she no longer needed air, and stepped into the light.

"Malfoy," she said, her voice soft but clear.

Draco froze, his eyes widening as he turned toward the sound. For a moment, he simply stared at her, his face pale. Hermione felt a flicker of hope. Maybe he would understand. Maybe he would see her and realize that she was still here, still a part of this world, even if only as a ghost.

But then his expression twisted into one of horror.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head. "This isn't real. You're not real."

Hermione's hope faltered. "I am real," she said, stepping closer. "Or at least, as real as I can be."

Draco dropped the books, the sound echoing through the empty library. He backed away, his hands trembling. "You're dead," he said, his voice rising. "You're dead, and this—this is some kind of trick. A curse. It has to be."

"It's not a trick," Hermione said, her voice pleading. "I'm here, Draco. I've been here all along."

But Draco wasn't listening. His mind was spiraling, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. He had spent months trying to bury his guilt, to convince himself that he could move on. But seeing Hermione—her ghost, her spirit, whatever she was—was too much. It was a reminder of everything he had lost, everything he had failed to protect.

"Stay away from me," he snarled, his voice cracking. "You're not her. You can't be her."

Hermione reached out, her hand passing through his arm. "Draco, please," she said, her voice breaking. "I just want to talk. I just want—"

But he was already running, his footsteps echoing through the halls as he fled the library. Hermione watched him go, her heart—or whatever remained of it—aching with a pain she hadn't felt since the moment of her death. She had wanted to reach him, to make him see that she was still here, that she still mattered. But instead, she had driven him away.

As the sound of Draco's footsteps faded, Hermione sank to the floor, her spectral form flickering like a dying flame. She had hoped that revealing herself would bring her some measure of peace, but instead, it had only deepened her loneliness. She was a ghost, trapped in a world that no longer had a place for her.

And Draco Malfoy, the one person she had thought might understand, had run from her as if she were a monster.

Outside, the wind howled through the castle's broken walls, carrying with it the echoes of the past. Hermione closed her eyes and let the sound wash over her, wishing for the first time since her death that she could simply fade away.

A sigh escaped her, unsure of whether or not she just ruined the only link to the living she still had.

__________

The castle was cloaked in the soft glow of twilight, the air thick with the scent of rain and damp stone. Hermione drifted through the halls, her ghostly form flickering faintly as she followed Draco to the library. He had been working tirelessly to restore the castle, and she couldn't help but admire his determination.

But as she turned a corner, a cold presence stopped her in her tracks.

"You've been spending a lot of time with him," Ominis said, his voice low and edged with something Hermione couldn't quite place.

She turned to face him, her glow dimming slightly. "He's trying to make amends, Ominis. Isn't that what we're all doing? But even so, I think I've ruined it."

Ominis's milky eyes narrowed, his form shimmering with barely restrained frustration. "You don't know him like I do. The Malfoys—they're not to be trusted. Not ever."

Hermione crossed her arms, her ghostly form flickering with irritation. "You don't even know him. You won't even show yourself to him. How can you judge someone you refuse to see?"

Ominis stepped closer, his presence icy and imposing. "I don't need to see him to know what he's capable of. His family's legacy is written in blood, Hermione. And you're naïve if you think he's any different."

Hermione's glow flared, her frustration boiling over. "And what about your legacy, Ominis? You talk about trust and betrayal, but you've never told me how you died. What are you hiding?"

The air between them grew colder, the tension crackling like a storm about to break. Ominis's form wavered, his expression shifting from anger to something darker—something haunted.

"You want to know how I died?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Fine. I'll tell you."

Ominis turned away, his form flickering as if the memory itself was too painful to hold. "It was Sebastian," he said, the name heavy with regret. "My best friend. My brother in everything but blood."

Hermione's glow dimmed, her anger giving way to shock. "Sebastian? The same Sebastian who—"

"Yes," Ominis interrupted bitterly. "The same Sebastian who dabbled in dark magic, who believed he could control it. I tried to stop him, to make him see reason. But he was too far gone. And when I stood in his way... he killed me. He used imperio on me, forcing me to stay put while him and another ventured into something more dangerous than we could've ever imagined. Before I knew it, the Goblins that Rookwood had been working with...killed me."

Hermione floated closer, her voice soft. "Ominis, I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't," Ominis snapped, his form shimmering with barely restrained emotion. "Because I didn't want you to. I didn't want you to see me as... as broken. As someone who trusted the wrong person and paid the ultimate price."

Hermione reached out instinctively, forgetting her hand would pass through him. "You're not broken, Ominis. And you're not alone. Not anymore."

Ominis stepped back sharply, his voice hollow. "Aren't I? You've been so busy following Draco around, so eager to believe he's changed, that you've forgotten what it means to be cautious. To protect yourself."

Hermione's glow flickered with frustration. "This isn't about Draco. This is about you pushing everyone away because you're afraid of being hurt again."

Ominis's form wavered, his voice trembling with emotion. "And what if I am? What if I can't trust anyone—not even you?"

The words hung in the air, sharp and final. Hermione stared at him, her chest tightening with a mixture of hurt and understanding.

The days that followed were tense. Ominis retreated into the shadows, his presence a cold, distant echo in the castle's halls. Hermione tried to reach out, but he remained elusive, his form flickering in and out of sight like a ghost of a ghost. Hermione began to feel lost again, Ominis avoiding her and Draco hadn't returned to the school since she had spoken to him. The other ghosts that were frequent would eye Hermione in the more common areas of the castle, still waiting for her to introduce herself formally, or just watching her trying to see what kind of spirit she would end up being. Nearly Headless Nick, Peeves, and many others always showing themselves and interacting with others. Though Hermione struggled, she was unwillingly selective from what Nick said when they had a passing interaction.

Hemione sat down in the Great Hall next to Harry, Ron, and Ginny who had finally taken a break from finishing detail work in the hall. She only sat and listened to them go back and forth about all the new things they were doing. Luna and Harry had started dating, which was slightly surprising to Hermione- but it made sense, the two were a lot alike. Ron had begun helping George out at the shop, keeping himself busy since Fred had passed away too. Ginny finished her studies early, so that she could go onto her Quidditch try-outs. Hermione finally stood, having felt like this was just too much for her, walking away and off throughout the castle to get her mind off things.

That night, Hermione found Ominis in the Chamber of Reflection. He stood before the dark pool, his reflection rippling in the water. The room felt as if the tension could break bones.

"You were right," she said quietly. "About the risks. About everything."

Ominis didn't turn. "And yet you're still here to defend him."

"No," Hermione said. "I'm here to understand you."

He laughed bitterly. "There's nothing to understand. I'm a ghost, Hermione. A relic of regret. My story ended long ago."

"Then why stay?" she pressed. "Why help me?"

The question hung in the air, sharp and fragile. When Ominis finally spoke, his voice was raw. "Because when I am around you... I remember what it was like to hope."

Hermione drifted closer, her light brushing the edges of his form. "Then don't stop hoping now. Not for me. Not even for yourself."

Ominis turned, his milky eyes glistening with tears. "You ask too much." Before Hermione could say anything, Ominis disappeared from the room, leaving her to the silence of the water. The green soft glow of the water reflecting on the walls, making Hermione think of how far she may have just pushed, and how she was unsure if Ominis would ever show himself to her again.

__________

The castle was quiet, the kind of stillness that only comes in the deepest hours of the night. Hermione drifted through the halls, her ghostly form shimmering faintly in the moonlight. She had been avoiding Ominis since their last argument wanting to give him some space, the weight of their unspoken words pressing heavily on her. But tonight, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was calling to her—a faint, almost imperceptible pull that led her deeper into the castle’s hidden passages.

She found Ominis in the dungeons, his form barely visible against the dark stone walls. He was standing in front of a crumbling archway, his milky eyes fixed on something only he could sense.

“Ominis,” she said softly, her voice carrying on the breeze.

He didn’t turn, but his form flickered faintly, a sign that he had heard her. “I thought you were avoiding me.”

Hermione floated closer, her glow dimming as she settled beside him. “I was. I thought you were avoiding me too...but I couldn’t stay away.”

Ominis sighed, his form shimmering with barely restrained emotion. “Neither could I.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of their shared history pressing against the night. Then, slowly, Ominis reached out, his hand brushing against hers. The touch was faint, like the brush of a winter breeze, but it was enough to make Hermione’s glow flicker with emotion.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice trembling. “For pushing you away. For letting my fear control me.”

Hermione’s glow brightened, her chest tightening with a mixture of relief and sorrow. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard.”

Ominis turned to her, his milky eyes glistening with phantom tears. “You were right, Hermione. I’ve been hiding from the world—from you—for too long. But I don’t want to hide anymore.”

Hermione reached out, her hand brushing against his. The touch was faint, like the brush of a winter breeze, but it was enough to make Ominis’s form flicker with surprise.

“Then don’t,” she whispered, her voice steady, reassuring. Hermione's eyes traced the beauty marks that covered Ominis's face, his bright white eyes, and the dirty blonde hair that was neatly combed.

Ominis nodded, his form shimmering faintly in the moonlight. “Do you hear that?” She drew attention quickly from his features, glancing around the dungeons they had found themselves in. She had heard something, it was off sounding - almost like something flowing. As they drifted deeper into the dungeons, the air grew colder, the walls lined with ancient runes that pulsed with a faint, golden light. The pull Hermione had felt grew stronger, leading them to a hidden passage concealed behind a crumbling wall.

“This shouldn’t be here,” Ominis said, his voice tight with unease. “I’ve never sensed anything like this before.”

Hermione floated closer, her form flickering as she examined the runes. “These are protection spells. But they’re… different. They feel alive.”

Ominis’s form wavered, his voice trembling with emotion. “This isn’t just a vault. It’s a prison.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and foreboding. Hermione’s glow dimmed, her chest tightening with emotion. “A prison for what?”

Before Ominis could answer, a low, guttural growl echoed from the depths of the passage. The ground trembled again, the runes on the walls flaring with a sickly light.

“We need to leave,” Ominis said, his voice urgent. “Now.”

They barely made it out of the passage before the walls behind them collapsed, the runes shattering with a deafening crack. From the dust and debris emerged a creature—a shadowy, shapeless mass that seemed to writhe and twist as it moved.

“What is that?” Hermione asked, her voice sharp with fear.

“A wraith."

Chapter Text

The wraith lunged, its form shifting and contorting as it moved. Ominis stepped forward, his form shimmering with power as he began to chant in a language Hermione didn't recognize. The wraith recoiled, its form flickering as if struggling to maintain its shape. Hermione floated closer, her ghostly form glowing brighter as she focused her energy on the creature.

"We need to bind it," she said, her voice strained. "Before it breaks free."

Ominis nodded, his form flickering faintly. "On your mark."

The chamber was alive with chaos. The wraith—a swirling, shadowy mass of dark energy—loomed before them, its form shifting and contorting as it let out a guttural, bone-chilling roar. The air was thick with the stench of decay, and the ancient runes on the walls pulsed with a sickly green light, as if feeding the creature's malevolence. Hermione and Ominis stood side by side, their ghostly forms flickering with determination. The wraith's glowing, hollow eyes locked onto them, and it lunged, its claws—if they could even be called that—raking through the air like blades.

"Stay close!" Ominis shouted, his voice cutting through the cacophony. His wandless magic flared to life, a shimmering barrier of silver light forming just in time to deflect the wraith's attack. The creature recoiled, its form rippling like smoke, but it didn't retreat.

Hermione raised her hands, her ghostly glow intensifying as she summoned her own magic. "Ventus!" she cried, and a gust of wind erupted from her palms, slamming into the wraith and forcing it back. The creature let out an ear-piercing screech, its form twisting and writhing as it struggled against the force of the spell.

"It's not enough!" Ominis called, his voice strained. "We need to bind it!"

The wraith recovered quickly, its shadowy tendrils lashing out like whips. One struck Hermione, sending her sprawling across the chamber and into one of the walls. Her form flickered dangerously, but she gritted her teeth and pushed herself up, her glow dim but unwavering.

"I'm fine!" she shouted, though her voice trembled. "Keep it distracted!"

Ominis nodded, his milky eyes narrowing as he focused on the wraith. He began to chant in a low, guttural language—ancient Gaunt magic, passed down through generations. The air around him crackled with energy, and the runes on the walls flared brighter, responding to his incantation. The wraith turned its attention to Ominis, sensing the threat. It surged forward, its form expanding like a storm cloud, but Ominis stood his ground. With a sweeping motion of his hand, he conjured a swirling vortex of silver light, trapping the wraith within its confines.

"Now, Hermione!" he shouted, his voice strained with effort.

Hermione didn't hesitate. She floated into the air, her form glowing brighter than ever as she channeled her magic. "Vincularum Magicae!" she cried, her voice echoing through the chamber. Golden chains erupted from the ground, wrapping around the wraith and tightening with a metallic clang. The creature let out a deafening roar, thrashing against its restraints. The chains held, but barely, and Hermione could feel the strain of the spell coursing through her.

"It's too strong!" she gasped, her glow flickering. "I can't hold it for long!"

Ominis's form shimmered as he joined her, his hands raised as he added his own magic to the binding spell. The silver light of his magic intertwined with Hermione's golden chains, strengthening the bindings.

"We have to finish this!" he said, his voice tight with exertion. "On my mark, release the spell and step back!"

Hermione nodded, her chest heaving with the effort of maintaining the spell. The wraith thrashed violently, its form beginning to fracture as the combined magic overwhelmed it.

"Now!" Ominis shouted.

Hermione released the spell, and the two of them retreated as the wraith let out a final, ear-splitting scream. Its form collapsed in on itself, the shadowy mass dissolving into a swirling vortex of light and dark energy. The runes on the walls flared one last time before fading, the chamber falling into an eerie silence. Hermione's form flickered faintly as she floated back to the ground, her glow dimmed from the exertion. Ominis was beside her, his form shimmering with the same fatigue.

"Is it... gone?" Hermione asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Ominis waited a moment before turning to her, a solemn face quickly turning into an emotionless one.

"For now. But the magic that bound it is weakening. We'll need to find a way to reinforce it." Ominis knew his family was ruthless, leaving traces of horrid enemies all throughout the region, but he had never expected this from them. The worst part was feeling as if he couldn't tell Hermione that he knew it was his lineage that had done this. Put everyone in harms way for centuries. Ominis was beside himself, internally, surprised that all his years he had spent trapped here, he had never once known of the wraith that was trapped here. Just waiting for an unsuspecting student to find and release.

Hermione sighed, her chest tightening with a mixture of relief and unease. "This isn't over, is it?"

Ominis turned to her, his expression grim. "No." The guilt welling in his chest made him go even paler, knowing that at some point or another, this was going to have to come to a head.

Hermione's glow brightened faintly, and she reached out, her hand brushing against his. The touch was faint, like the brush of a winter breeze, but it was enough to make Ominis's form flicker with surprise. He didn't pull away from her, although he felt as if he slightly needed to. He hadn't fully came to grips with his feelings towards her or this situation he had found himself in. Feeling selfish for even being jealous that she was trying to reach out to the living people she once knew. Finally Ominis slowly began to drift away down the hall, unable to move through the walls of the chamber led him to realize just how awful of a predicament they had truly found themselves in. Ominis floated ahead of her, his form barely visible against the dark stone walls. He had been silent since they left the halls of the chamber, his expression unreadable.

"Where are we going?" Hermione asked, her voice soft but steady.

Ominis didn't turn, but his form flickered faintly, a sign that he had heard her. "Somewhere safe. Somewhere no one else knows about." Finally, they reached a heavy, iron-bound door. Ominis raised his hand, his form shimmering as he traced a series of intricate patterns in the air. The door creaked open, revealing a hidden chamber beyond.

The Undercroft.

The chamber was vast, its walls lined with shelves filled with ancient artifacts, books, and scrolls. A large, circular table stood in the center, its surface covered in maps and diagrams. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and magic, and the faint hum of energy filled the space.

Hermione floated into the chamber, her glow brightening as she took in the sight. "This is incredible," she said, her voice filled with awe. "How long has this been here?"

"Centuries," Ominis said, his voice low. "It was a sanctuary for my family—a place to practice their magic away from prying eyes."

Hermione turned to him, her ghostly eyes searching his face. "And you? Did you use it too?"

Ominis's form flickered, his expression unreadable. "When I was alive, yes. But not for the same reasons."

He drifted to one of the shelves, his hand brushing against an ancient, leather-bound book. "My family was obsessed with power. They believed that magic was meant to be controlled, to be wielded like a weapon. But I... I never agreed with them."

Hermione floated closer, her glow dimming slightly. "What did you believe?"

Ominis sighed, his form shimmering faintly. "I believed that magic was meant to be understood. To be respected. But my family... they didn't see it that way. They used this place to experiment with dark magic. To bind creatures, to twist the natural order of things. And when I tried to stop them... they turned on me."

Hermione's chest tightened with emotion. "Ominis..."

He shook his head, his voice trembling. "I don't want to talk about it. Not yet." Ominis collected himself quickly, swallowing the lump in his throat. The Undercroft was a place of secrets, of darkness and light, and Hermione could feel the echoes of the past all around them. She drifted through the chamber, her ghostly form casting a soft silver glow over the relics as she examined them. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and the faint hum of dormant enchantments. Ominis lingered near the entrance, his milky eyes fixed on the far wall, though she knew he wasn't truly seeing it. His form flickered faintly, a sign of his unease.

"This place is incredible," Hermione said, her voice filled with awe as she floated past a shelf lined with crystal orbs. Each one contained a swirling mist that seemed to shift and writhe as she passed. "How did you keep it hidden for so long?"

Ominis's voice was low, tinged with a bitterness she hadn't heard before. "The Gaunts were masters of concealment. They warded this place so thoroughly that even the most skilled witches and wizards couldn't find it. Not that they ever tried. Most people were too afraid to go looking for Gaunt secrets."

Hermione paused in front of a large, ornate mirror. Its surface was cracked, but the glass still shimmered faintly, as if it held some lingering magic. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the frame.

"Don't touch that," Ominis said sharply, his form flickering as he floated closer.

Hermione pulled her hand back, her glow dimming slightly. "What is it?"

"A scrying mirror," Ominis said, his voice tight. "My family used it to spy on their enemies. It's... not something you want to meddle with."

Hermione nodded, her curiosity piqued but her caution overriding it. She moved on, her gaze falling on a large, iron-bound chest tucked away in a corner. The chest was covered in intricate runes, and a faint, ominous energy seemed to radiate from it.

"What's in there?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ominis hesitated, his form shimmering faintly. "Nothing good," he said finally. "That chest contains some of the darkest artifacts my family ever created. Things I'd rather not see the light of day again."

Hermione's glow brightened with determination. "We can't just leave them here. If someone else finds them—"

"They won't," Ominis interrupted, his voice firm. "The wards on this place are still intact. No one can enter without my permission." Hermione turned to him, her ghostly eyes searching his face.

"But what about us? What if the wraith—or something worse—breaks free? We need to know what we're dealing with."

Ominis sighed, his form flickering with barely restrained emotion. "You don't understand, Hermione. The things in that chest... they're not just dangerous. They're cursed. Even touching them could have consequences we can't predict." She was a very persistent person in both life and now death. Ominis could feel her staring daggers into the side of his face, the weight of her silence feeling as if he was being crushed by a million stone pillars. He didn't relent though, making her sigh in defeat. The two of them stubborn as mules. Hermione drifted to Ominis, touching his arm causing a heat to his face he hadn't experienced in what felt like millennia.

"I'm sorry, I know this is all so much for you... being around your families history and all the horrible memories it's causing you to think about," She began, a small twitch at the corner of his lips giving her a cue to continue, "But if we want to protect the school and those who are soon to join as students then we need to know what's in there and see if we can use it to fend off the wraith."

The two of them stood in silence for a moment before Hermione could feel something inside herself pull towards Ominis, embracing him gently. Ominis stood as still as a stone statue, unused to physical contact over the centuries... but physical affection due to his family. For a moment, he was unsure of what to do, his breathing felt strained and what would've been his heart felt to him as if it were racing a million times faster than it ever had. Finally, Ominis placed a hand on her back, gently rubbing it to comfort her. He had spent most of his life touch starved and unable to show true affection to anyone, even before his death. But with Hermione, it seemed easier to feel human again.

"Fine... but you must promise to not touch any of it until we absolutely know for sure what contents are hidden." He finally spoke, breaking down a wall he had built. Hermione hugged him tighter, releasing him from her arms before grabbing his hands and squeezing them.

"Thank you," she breathed, a soft smile encompass her lips. Ominis couldn't help but feel his heart jump at the sound of her voice.

The two of them approached the chest, the runes on its surface glowing faintly as they drew near. Ominis raised his hand, his form shimmering as he traced a series of intricate patterns in the air. The runes flared briefly before fading, and the lid of the chest creaked open. Inside were a series of objects, each one radiating a faint, malevolent energy. A dagger with a blade that seemed to drink in the light, a necklace with a pendant shaped like a serpent's fang, and a small, intricately carved box that seemed to hum with power.

Hermione's glow dimmed as she stared at the objects, her chest tightening with unease. "What are they?"

Ominis's voice was low, tinged with regret. "Relics of my family's darkest magic. The dagger is imbued with a curse that drains the life force of anyone it cuts. The necklace... it's said to grant the wearer immense power, but at a terrible cost. And the box..."

He hesitated, his form flickering faintly. "The box is the most dangerous of all. It's a prison, designed to trap souls. My family used it to punish their enemies—and sometimes, each other."

Hermione's chest tightened with emotion, knowing exactly what he was meaning when he spoke about them using the box on each other. His family was never known to be kind, history books written about them and the horrid things they had done all throughout their family line... even to their own family members. "Ominis... I'm so sorry."

He shook his head, his voice weak. "Don't be. I'm not my family. But these relics... they're a reminder of what they were capable of. And what I have to protect the world from." Hermione nodded, closing the chest and standing quietly beside him, patiently waiting for him to decide their next move. She could tell how painful it was for him to be around these relics, reliving some of the worst memories from before he died. She quietly reached her hand out, her pinky finger resting on his before finally crossing hers with his to try to give him some semblance of peace. She could feel him physically shutter at her touch, but she refused to pull her hand back.

The Undercroft was silent, the air heavy with the weight of the secrets they had uncovered. Hermione and Ominis stood near the iron-bound chest, the relics within still radiating a faint, ominous energy. The tension between them had eased, but the unease lingered, a quiet reminder of the dangers they faced.

Hermione's glow dimmed as she turned to Ominis, her ghostly eyes searching his face. "It's late," she said softly. "We should rest."

Ominis nodded, his form flickering faintly. "You're right. But I need to check on the wraith. The bindings are holding, but I don't trust it to stay that way."

Hermione's chest tightened with concern. "Do you want me to come with you?"

Ominis shook his head, his voice firm but gentle. "No. You've done enough for one night. Go... rest. I'll keep watch."

Hermione hesitated, her glow flickering with unease. "Are you sure? I don't like the idea of you being alone with that thing."

Ominis's lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile. "I've been dealing with my family's messes for centuries. I can handle one wraith."

Hermione sighed, her form shimmering faintly. "Alright. But promise me you'll be careful."

Ominis reached out, his hand brushing against hers, enough to make Hermione's glow flicker with warmth.

"I promise," he said softly.

Hermione floated toward the entrance of the Undercroft, her form casting a soft silver glow over the ancient stone walls. She paused at the door, turning back to look at Ominis.

"Goodnight, Ominis," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ominis's form flickered faintly, his milky eyes fixed on her. "Goodnight, Hermione."

She lingered for a moment, her chest tightening with a mixture of emotions she couldn't quite name. Then, with a final glance, she drifted out of the chamber, the heavy door creaking shut behind her. Ominis waited until he was sure she was gone before turning back to the chest. His form shimmered faintly as he traced the intricate runes on its surface, reinforcing the wards with a whispered incantation. The relics within pulsed faintly, their malevolent energy subdued but not entirely silenced.

When he was satisfied, he floated out of the Undercroft, his form barely visible against the dark stone walls. The castle was quiet, the kind of stillness that only comes in the deepest hours of the night. He drifted through the halls, his milky eyes fixed on the path ahead.

The hidden chamber where they had bound the wraith was deep beneath the castle, its entrance concealed behind a crumbling wall. Ominis paused at the threshold, his form flickering faintly as he listened for any signs of movement.

The wraith was still there, its shadowy form writhing within the golden chains of Hermione's binding spell. The runes on the walls pulsed faintly, their light dim but steady. Ominis floated closer, his form shimmering as he examined the creature.

"You're not getting out," he murmured, his voice low and edged with determination. "Not while I'm here."

The wraith let out a low, guttural growl, its hollow eyes locking onto Ominis. But the chains held, and the creature's form remained trapped.

Ominis settled into a corner of the chamber, his form flickering faintly as he prepared to keep watch. The night stretched on, the silence broken only by the faint hum of magic and the occasional rustle of the wraith's chains.

As the hours passed, Ominis's thoughts drifted to Hermione. Her determination, her kindness, her unwavering belief in him—it was more than he had ever dared to hope for. And yet, the weight of his family's legacy pressed heavily on him, a constant reminder of the darkness he carried.

"I won't let it consume me," he whispered to the empty chamber, his voice trembling with emotion. "Not again."

The wraith stirred, its form flickering faintly, but the chains held firm. Ominis's form shimmered as he settled in for the long watch, his milky eyes fixed on the creature. The night stretched on, the castle silent and still. There was never rest for the wicked.

Chapter Text

The first rays of dawn filtered through the cracks in the ancient stone walls, casting a pale, golden light over the hidden chamber where the wraith was bound. Ominis sat in the corner, his ghostly form flickering faintly as he kept watch over the creature. His milky eyes were fixed on the writhing shadow, his expression unreadable.

He hadn't slept. He hadn't even tried. The wraith's presence was a constant reminder of the danger they faced, and Ominis couldn't bring himself to leave it unattended. Not even for a moment.

The sound of footsteps—or rather, the faint rustle of spectral energy—echoed through the chamber. Ominis turned, his form shimmering faintly as Hermione floated into the room. Her ghostly glow was soft in the morning light, her expression a mixture of concern and relief.

"You're still here," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ominis nodded, his form flickering faintly. "I told you I'd keep watch."

Hermione floated closer, her glow dimming slightly as she examined the wraith. The creature was still bound, its shadowy form writhing within the golden chains of her binding spell. But the runes on the walls pulsed faintly, their light dimmer than before.

"You didn't sleep," Hermione said, her voice tinged with worry.

Ominis shook his head, his form shimmering faintly. "I couldn't. Not with that thing so close to breaking free."

Hermione's chest tightened with emotion. "You'll burn yourself out." Ominis knew this, but he couldn't care much. "You're not alone, You don't have to carry this burden by yourself." She continued as she sat down next to time, leaning against the cold wall, letting their arms touch. Ominis enjoyed every time she let herself come close to him, the physical touch reminding him of how much he felt alive again with her. His chest feeling as if it was going to come out of his chest if it truly could.

"Maybe we should take a break," Ominis finally said after a moment of silence. A surprised look on her face to how he was willing to move away from the creature. He stood, grabbing her hand without a second thought to pull her up with him, finally pulling her out of the chamber once again. Never pulling his hand away himself. Hermione didn't mind the feeling of his hand in hers either, made her felt like she was truly alive again. Feelings welling up in her chest. She shook them away quickly, writing off his kindness for her for anything less than romantic. Before she had realized, her and Ominis were already in the main entrance to Hogwarts, listening to the newfound noises bellowing through the halls. New students? Hermione hadn't realized that her old friends had finished repairing the castle so soon, allowing new students to begin and those had had fought in the war could return.

Ominis could feel her grip tighten on his palm, he was unsure of how she was going to move forward seeing her friends and classmates return to the castle.

"Hermione?" He finally spoke, making her jump. Her nervous hand shifted now his his, sweaty and clammy. It was weird, seeing everyone smiling and acting as if nothing had happened.

"I'm fine," She swallowed hard, trying to compose herself. They were already so focused on the wraith, she couldn't lose sight of that. But now their break felt futile. Ominis pulled her forward, floating through the groups of students, all ranging from first years to seven years. Laughing, reuniting, and hugging one another. Hermione envied them. Had hoped that this would be her. She wanted to be returning to finish her studies, laughing with Ginny and Luna, running through the halls of Hogwarts making a mess with Harry and Ron as she always did. Arguing with Draco. And yet, she could feel her ghostly tears drop down her face as she knew that she could never do that now.

They floated into what looked like the start of the announcements, knowing the sorting ceremony was next Hermione couldn't will herself to float away. She stayed in the back of the room with Ominis, listening to the clatter of students sitting at their respective tables.

"It's strange, isn't it?" Hermione said softly, her voice barely audible over the chatter of the room. "Watching them all. It feels like just yesterday we were sitting there."

Ominis's form flickered faintly, his milky eyes fixed on the sea of students. "It feels like a lifetime ago," he murmured.

At the head of the hall, Headmistress McGonagall stood at the podium, her sharp eyes scanning the room with a mixture of pride and authority. She raised her hand, and the chatter died down almost instantly.

"Welcome," McGonagall began, her voice carrying through the hall with its usual crispness, "to another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." As McGonagall finished her speech, thanking those who had stayed to help rebuild and repair the castle. The Sorting Ceremony had The feast began, the hall erupted into laughter and conversation. The ghosts of Hogwarts—Nearly Headless Nick, the Grey Lady, and others—drifted among the tables, their presence a comforting reminder of the castle's enduring magic.

Hermione and Ominis lingered near the back, their forms shimmering faintly in the moonlight.

"Do you ever wonder what it would be like?" Hermione asked, her voice soft. "If we were still alive? Sitting at those tables, laughing with friends?"

"When I call your name," she began, her voice carrying effortlessly and distracting Hermione from her thoughts, "you will step forward, place the Sorting Hat upon your head, and be assigned to your house. Let the Sorting Ceremony commence."

The hat twitched, its brim splitting open in a wide grin as it launched into its annual song—a lilting tune that spoke of unity, courage, and the enduring legacy of Hogwarts. Hermione's glow flickered as she listened. This year, the hat's verses carried a cryptic warning:

"Beneath these stones, where shadows creep,
Old magic stirs in restless sleep.
But bonds of trust, both brave and true,
Shall light the path for all of you."

Ominis stiffened, his form shimmering faintly. "It knows," he muttered. "The hat senses the relics. The wraith."

Hermione nodded, her ghostly hands clenching. "It's warning them—subtly. But they'll never understand."

One by one, the first-years stumbled forward, their faces pale as the hat declared their destinies. A tiny girl with fiery red hair gasped when she was sorted into Gryffindor, sprinting to join the roaring table. A boy with ink-stained fingers trembled until the hat bellowed "RAVENCLAW!" The last student, a round-faced boy with mismatched socks, was sorted into Hufflepuff. The hall erupted into applause, but Hermione's attention snagged on the Sorting Hat. As McGonagall lifted it from the stool, its brim tilted slightly—toward them.

For a heartbeat, the hat's vacant "eyes" seemed to lock onto Hermione and Ominis. A faint, papery voice echoed in their minds, unheard by the living:

"Guardians of stone and spectral flame,
The path ahead bears both shadow and name.
Beware the rift where darkness breeds—
The key lies in forgotten deeds."

Then the moment passed. The hat went still, and McGonagall tucked it away as the feast materialized on the tables.

Ominis's form flickered violently. "Did you—?"

"Yes," Hermione breathed. "It spoke to us. It knows what we're facing."

Around them, students laughed and piled food onto their plates, oblivious to the storm brewing beneath the castle's foundations. Hermione turned to Ominis, her glow sharpening with resolve.

"We need to find how to destroy those relics. Now." He nodded, his milky eyes reflecting the candlelight like twin moons. Hermione had only ever done research on horcruxes, nothing in relation truly to a relic. Those were even more powerful then horcruxes, because they were generational, needing a piece of someone's soul to become something and then the added pieces from families members for those added generations. It was like destroying someone's entire family line. The more souls added to it, the harder these would be to destroy which was an added headache considering they were only mere ghosts. Their magic was still powerful, they could still constantly feel it pulsating through their figures, reacting to every emotion and movement they made.

"Are there any books on relics?" Hermione asked gently, knowing that they'd most likely have to venture into the restricted section and see if there was ever any writings from Ominis's time... or family since they seems to use this form of magic often. Ominis stirred for a moment, his hands fiddling together, as if the anxiety in his body could explode with any push. "Ominis, I know this may be very difficult for you.. but there are lives at steak here. We don't want anyone else to end up like...us." She continued, grabbing his hands and steadying them. Ominis could feel her gaze on him, there was no excuse for him to escape this.

"There is only one, but it's been lost in the Gaunt manor for a very long time. There would be no way for us to get to it." His voice almost trembling at every word.

"I may know someone who can get into the Gaunt Manor." Hermione broke the silence. The tension in the air became so thick that Hermione was glad she didn't need to breathe to live anymore, considering she wouldn't have been able to. The heat the rushed to Ominis's face was evident with how stiff he became at the notion of Draco Malfoy's help.

"No." Was all he could muster before disappearing from the hall they stood in. Hermione could feel her anger well in her chest. After all the warning signs, the apparent riddle from the Sorting Hat, and the encounter with the Wraith had not faltered any of Ominis's trust issues to even consider that they could attempt to ask for help.

__________

Hermione found Draco in the library, his platinum hair stark against the candlelight. He flinched when she materialized beside him—a reflex he'd never shaken.

"Granger," he muttered, snapping shut a tome on dark artifacts. "Here to haunt me into another suicide mission?"

"It's not a request, Malfoy. It's a warning." She floated closer, her voice low. "The Gaunt wraith—it's spreading. If it isn't stopped, it'll consume the castle. Again."

Draco's jaw tightened. He'd returned to Hogwarts as a professor of Alchemy, a penance disguised as a post. The students still whispered about him; the staff still watched him. But Hermione had seen the way he lingered after classes, repairing broken desks with a wave of his wand, as if rebuilding the castle could rebuild him. There was still something about Draco that Hermione knew she could trust.

"Why me?" he said flatly. Draco was never the fondest of the golden trio, but now it was like an itch he could never scratch away with the smartest girl of their generation haunting him everyday at the last place he thought he'd ever return to.

"Because you can see me. Because the relic's magic is Dark, and you... understand it."

He barked a laugh. "Ah, right. Former Death Eater. Expert in all things vile." Draco's eyes hardened at the comment. He'd never truly wanted to join the Death Eaters; only wanting to make his family... father happy. It was all his and his horrible aunt's idea.

"Former," Hermione stressed. "And the wraith isn't just Dark. It's sentient. It knows Ominis. It taunts him."

Draco's silver eyes narrowed even more at her. Her curls sitting nicely across her worried, almost annoyed face. "Where's Gaunt now? Why isn't he trying to stop it?"

"Hiding. Brooding. Being stubborn. We cant stop it without something from Gaunt Manor, this is where you'd come in."

A smirk tugged at Draco's lips. "Some things never die, do they?" Hermione quirked an eyebrow at him, her now paler tan skin glistening in the candlelight, making her look almost alive again to him. He shook his head and sat the book back into its spot on the shelf. "I'll think about it."

Hermione’s spectral form flickered with frustration. "There isn’t time to think about it, Draco. The wraith is growing stronger. The Sorting Hat warned us—"

Draco held up a hand, cutting her off. "I said I’ll think about it, Granger. Unlike you, I still have a body to lose if this goes wrong." His voice was sharp, but there was something else beneath it—hesitation, maybe even fear. "Besides, even if I agreed, the Gaunt Manor isn’t exactly open for visitors. The wards are… unpleasant."

Hermione floated closer, her glow dimming as she lowered her voice. "You’re a Malfoy. Your family has ties to the Gaunts. If anyone can get past those wards, it’s you."

Draco’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table. "Ties," he repeated dryly. "Yes, because that worked out so well for my father." His gaze flickered to the window, where the moon hung heavy over the Forbidden Forest. "Fine. But not alone. If I’m walking into that cursed place, Gaunt is coming with me."

Hermione hesitated. Ominis had stormed off for a reason—Draco’s involvement was the last thing he’d accept. But time was running out. "I’ll talk to him," she said finally. "But you have to promise me you’ll actually help. No tricks, no backing out."

Draco’s smirk returned, but it lacked its usual edge. "Wouldn’t dream of it, ghost girl."

__________

Ominis was in the Undercroft when Hermione found him, his translucent form hunched over an old, tattered map of Hogwarts. His fingers traced the lines of the castle’s foundations, where the Chamber of Secrets lay hidden. He didn’t look up when she entered.

"Draco agreed to help," Hermione said without preamble.

Ominis went very still, his form flickering is what had to have been frustration. "No."

"He’s the only one who can get into the Gaunt Manor safely. You know that."

Ominis turned sharply, his milky eyes burning with an intensity that made Hermione’s glow waver. "I wouldn't set foot in that place again. And I certainly won’t let him in there."

Hermione floated closer, her voice softening. "Ominis, the wraith is tied to your family’s magic. If anyone can find a way to destroy it, it’s you. But we need that book."

Ominis’s form flickered violently. "You don’t understand what you’re asking. The Gaunt Manor isn’t just unpleasant—it’s alive with Dark magic. It remembers me. And it hates me. It will know exactly what Malfoy is there to get."

Hermione reached out, her ghostly fingers brushing his. "Then we face it together. All three of us."

Ominis let out a hollow laugh. "You trust Malfoy too easily."

"And you don’t trust him enough," she countered. "He’s not the same person he was during the war."

Ominis turned away, his voice barely audible. "Neither am I."

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken fears. Finally, Ominis exhaled—a habit he’d kept even in death. "Fine. But if he betrays us—"

"He won’t," Hermione said firmly.

Ominis didn’t look convinced. But he nodded.

__________

The Gaunt Manor loomed before them, its crumbling walls veiled in mist. The air smelled of damp earth and something sharper—old magic, sour with neglect. Draco stood at the gates, his wand raised as he muttered under his breath. The wards shimmered, then parted with a reluctant groan.

"Charming place," Draco drawled to himself barely above a whisper, though his knuckles were white around his wand. His form was rigid, his eyes fixed on the manor’s silhouette. He shuttered for a moment as if ghostly hands were covering his eyes, blinking slowly, Draco's eyes had changed... one a milky white and the other a hazel brown.

"Stay out of sight," Draco repeated to himself.

"And don’t touch anything." Ominis added. The door creaked open before he reached it. A whisper of wind, or something else, beckoned him inside. The moment Draco crossed the threshold, the air shifted. Shadows coiled along the walls, and a voice—thin and cruel—echoed from the depths of the house.

"Welcome, traitor."

Ominis’s breath hitched. Hermione’s hand found his, squeezing tightly. As if they could see through Draco's eyes and speak to him from Hogwarts.

Draco’s wand lit with a sharp Lumos. "Cheery," he muttered. "Where’s the book?"

Ominis swallowed hard. "The study. Upstairs."

They moved as one, the floorboards groaning beneath their steps. Portraits of long-dead Gaunts leered at them, their eyes tracking Draco with undisguised malice...like they knew exactly who sent Draco here. One—a gaunt-faced man with Ominis’s sharp features—hissed as he passed.

"You should have stayed dead."

Ominis didn’t flinch. But Hermione felt his hand tremble.

The study was a tomb of dust and decay. The book lay on a pedestal, its cover bound in what looked like flesh. Draco reached for it, then hesitated. "You’re sure this is it?"

Ominis nodded. "Secrets of the Darkest Arts. The Gaunts’ personal copy. It’ll have what we need."

Draco searched for a moment before grabbed the book, tucking it into his robes. "Then let’s go."

They turned—and froze. The wraith stood in the doorway. Not the shadowy, half-formed thing they’d bound beneath Hogwarts. This was whole. A skeletal figure draped in tattered robes, its hollow eyes fixed on Ominis.

"You came back," it rasped. "Just like I knew you would."

Ominis’s voice was raw. "Marvolo."

Hermione’s blood ran cold. Marvolo Gaunt. Ominis’s father.

The wraith smiled. "Did you miss me, son?"

Draco’s wand was up in an instant. "Protego!"

Marvolo lunged. The skeletal fingers raked against Draco’s shield, sending jagged cracks spiderwebbing through the air. The force of the impact threw Draco back into the rotting bookshelf, dust and debris raining down as he gasped for breath.

Ominis didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, his ghostly form blazing with an eerie silver light. "You don’t belong here," he snarled, his voice laced with a power Hermione had never heard before.

Marvolo Gaunt’s wraith let out a rasping laugh. "And you do? You, the coward who let his family die?" Hermione’s hands clenched into fists. She could feel the dark magic pulsing through the room, suffocating, hungry. She had no wand, no body—but she wasn’t powerless.

"Ominis," she said sharply. "The book. We need to get it out of here."

Draco staggered to his feet, clutching the tome to his chest. His eyes darted between the door and the wraith. "We can’t fight him here. The manor feeds him." Ominis knew he was right. The Gaunt Manor was a well of dark magic, and Marvolo was drawing strength from it. His spectral form flickered, torn between fury and something deeper—fear.

Marvolo’s grin widened. "Running away again, boy?"

"No," Ominis said coldly. "But I won’t let you manipulate me a second time."

He raised his hands, and the air rippled as Draco's eyes both became milky white, his arms also raising as if Ominis had become alive again. Hermione recognized the magic instantly—a banishment charm, but twisted, amplified by Ominis’s own spectral energy. The wraith shrieked as the force of it tore at his form, but he didn’t dissipate. Not completely. The moment Ominis’s magic struck, Marvolo’s form warped—his skeletal face contorted in rage as the spell forced him back, but he didn’t vanish. Instead, his voice slithered through the air like a curse.

"You think a half-blood’s pathetic magic can destroy me? I am Gaunt—my blood built these stones!"

Draco didn’t wait. He took control of his body—ignoring the unnatural chill of Ominis's spectral form once there—and ran toward the door. Hermione surged ahead, her glow flaring as she passed through the decaying walls, scouting their escape. The manor reacted—floorboards splintered beneath their feet, portraits screamed obscenities, and shadows lashed out like living tendrils. Marvolo’s laughter followed them, echoing through the halls. "Run, little traitor! But you cannot outrun your blood!"

They burst through the front doors just as the wards snapped back into place behind them, sealing the manor shut with a thunderous crack. Draco stumbled, nearly dropping the book, his breath ragged.

Ominis whirled around, pulling from Draco sight, his milky eyes burning with fury. "We should have finished him!" Hermione turning to Ominis with worried eyes.

She shook her head. "He’s tied to the manor. We’d need to burn the entire place down to truly banish him."

Draco’s grip tightened on the book. "Then we burn it."

Ominis went still. The idea wasn’t just destruction—it was erasure. The end of the Gaunt legacy.

For the first time in decades, he felt something like relief.

"Yes," he said softly. "We burn it all." Before Hermione could protest, Draco raised his want toward the house, letting Ominis take over his body wholly.

"Incendio."

Chapter Text

The book lay open in the Undercroft, its pages brittle and stained with dark incantations. Hermione traced the faded script with a ghostly finger, her brow furrowed. She hadn't seen any magic this old or this dark ever. The horcruxes that Voldemort had created weren't even this dark.

"It says here that to sever a wraith's tie to its relic, we need three things:

The blood of the one who bound it.

A living anchor tied to the wraith's magic.

A sacrifice of equal weight to the souls trapped in the relic."

Ominis's form flickered. "That's impossible. The relic contains generations of Gaunts. We'd have to—"

"Offer something just as old," Draco finished quietly. He reached into his robes and pulled out a silver locket—the Malfoy family crest etched into its surface. "This has been passed down since the Crusades. It's soaked in centuries of magic."

Hermione's glow dimmed. "Draco, that's a family heirloom—"

"And if we don't stop this, there won't be a family left to pass it to," he snapped. Hermione's cheeks flushed, red with slight anger but quickly shoved away at the hurt that took over.

Ominis stared at the locket, "Why are you helping us?" Hermione turned to stare at Ominis who did not once look back at either of them. Draco didn't move an inch as Hermione stared between the two blondes. One alive, one dead.

Draco's jaw tightened. "Let's just say I owe a debt." Ominis snapped his neck to stare directly at Draco, his eyes piercing through him as if he could truly see through him. Ominis extended his hand out, dropping the locket into the latter's hands. Draco stood still, mouth slightly agape.

"I don't care who you owe or whatever you've done. You are a snake in it's true form. You could've been a Gaunt; should've taken my place in the family even." The words slithering from him as if he could bite through the veil at Draco to strike. The air in the Undercroft grew thick with tension as Ominis's words hung between them. Draco's fingers tightened around the locket, his knuckles whitening. For a moment, Hermione thought he might throw it back—but then his expression hardened into something unreadable.

"You're right," Draco said, his voice dangerously calm. "I could have been a Gaunt. My father certainly wished it—would have traded the Malfoy name for yours in a heartbeat if it meant more power." He stepped closer, silver eyes locked onto Ominis's milky ones. "But here's the difference between us, cousin. I don't hide behind bloodlines or ghosts. I pay my debts."

Ominis's form flickered violently. "You dare—"

"Enough." Hermione's voice cut through the room like a whip, her glow flaring bright enough to cast their shadows against the stone walls. "We don't have time for this." She floated between them, her spectral hands pressing against their chests—cold enough to make Draco flinch, firm enough to make Ominis still. "The wraith is getting stronger. The castle is getting weaker. If we don't act now, there won't be a Hogwarts left to save."

Silence. Then—

Draco exhaled sharply, shoving the locket back into his pocket. "Fine. But when this is over, Gaunt? We're settling this."

Ominis's smile was razor-thin. "Looking forward to it."

_________

They chose the Chamber of Secrets—the heart of Slytherin's legacy, where the relic's power would be weakest. Draco drew the ritual circle in his own blood, the symbols glowing an eerie crimson as Hermione recited the incantations from the book. Ominis stood at the center, his ghostly hands pressed against the relic, its dark energy writhing like a living thing.

"Ready?" Hermione whispered.

Draco nodded, his eyes reminding her of a glacier, gripping the locket. "Do it."

The moment the spell was cast, the Chamber shuddered. The relic cracked open like a rotten egg, and the voices of a thousand Gaunts screamed into the void—Then, cutting through them all:

"Ominis."

Marvolo's wraith materialized before them, his skeletal face twisted in fury. "You would destroy your own blood?"

Ominis didn't hesitate, not this time. "Gladly." He plunged his hands into the relic's core. The world shattered white around them all. When the light faded, the relic was dust. Draco's locket lay in pieces. And Hermione—She was almost solid. Not alive. Not dead. But there, her fingers trembling as she touched Ominis's arm—and he felt it.

Ominis's breath caught. "Hermione...?"

Before she could answer, the ground lurched. From the shadows, a new voice hissed:

"Foolish children. Did you think it would be that easy?"

Salazar Slytherin's wraith uncoiled from the darkness, his eyes burning like embers. And this time—he wasn't alone. Behind him, the specters of every Gaunt who'd ever lived stirred, their hollow gazes fixed on Ominis. The family had come to collect. The Gaunt ancestors encircled them, their spectral forms flickering like candle flames in a tomb. Ominis stood frozen, his breath coming in sharp, useless gasps—he shouldn't be able to feel this, he was dead, why did it hurt so much?

Salazar Slytherin's wraith loomed above them all, his voice a serpent's hiss.

"You have spilled your own blood, Ominis Gaunt. Broken the chains that bound us. Now, you will answer for it."

Hermione reached for him, her newly solid fingers brushing his wrist—warm. How was she warm?

"Ominis," she whispered, "look at me."

He couldn't. His gaze was locked on the specter of his father, who smiled with rotting teeth. Trembling now at the sight of all the people he had always hated, loathed both in life and in death. Like a waking nightmare.

"Come home, son."

Draco's wand was raised, but his hand shook. "Don't listen to them. They're just echoes."

"Echoes?" Ominis laughed, hollow. "They're real. And they want me back."

The Gaunts stretched out their hands. Ominis closed his eyes. He saw the Gaunt Manor, its halls choked with darkness. Saw himself as a boy, small and trembling, pressed into a corner as his father whispered:

"You will be great. You will be terrible."

Now—A different memory.

Hogwarts. The first time Sebastian had dragged him into the Undercroft, laughing. The first time Anne had shared her sweets with him, her smile brighter than the sun.

The first time Hermione had looked at him—really looked—and seen him, not his name.

Ominis opened his eyes.

"No."

The Chamber shook. The Gaunts shrieked as Ominis's magic surged—not the cold, creeping Dark Arts of his bloodline, but something brighter. Something his own.

"I am Ominis Gaunt," he snarled. "And I choose who I belong to."

The wraiths scattered like smoke. Salazar Slytherin's specter lingered longest, his hollow eyes burning with something like pride.

"Interesting."

Then he, too, was gone. Silence.

"Well," Draco drawled, lowering his wand. "That was dramatic."

Hermione punched Ominis in the arm.

"Ow—!" He rubbed his shoulder, stunned. "Did you just—?"

"Yes," she said, eyes blazing. "And if you ever consider joining a legion of evil ancestors again, I'll do worse."

Ominis stared at her—at the way her chest rose and fell with breath she shouldn't have, at the flush in her cheeks—and felt something crack inside him.

"Hermione," he said slowly. "What are you?"

She looked down at her hands—semi solid, almost alive—and whispered: "I don't know."

The moment the Chamber fell silent, Draco staggered back against the stone wall, his breath ragged. His left hand—the one that had held the locket—was shaking violently, black veins creeping up his wrist like ink spilled under his skin. His left eye doing the same, causing his left eye to shut tightly, a scream ripping from his throat.

"Draco!" Hermione's voice was sharp with alarm.

He clenched his fist, turning away from the two, hiding the corruption. "I'm fine..."

Ominis wasn't fooled. He stepped forward, his milky eyes narrowing. "You're lying. That locket wasn't just a family heirloom, was it?"

Draco's laugh was bitter, finally the pain subsiding enough for him to open the now glassy white eye and stare at the two. "Nothing's ever just anything with pure-blood relics."

A cold draft swept through the Chamber. The torches flickered, and for a heartbeat, the shadows on the wall twisted into the shape of a hooded figure—tall, skeletal, its presence making the air taste like iron.

Hermione's breath hitched. "Draco... what did you do?" Stepping towards him, her breath hitched, her spine lurching upwards and then she was there:

Draco stood in the Malfoy vault at Gringotts, the family locket heavy in his palm. He'd come to retrieve it—to study it—but the moment his fingers closed around the silver, something had closed around him. A voice slithered through his mind:

"A trade, little Malfoy. The locket... for a favor."

He'd tried to drop it. Couldn't.

"The Gaunt wraith must be destroyed. You will help the ghost girl. And in return..."

The vision that flooded his mind was of Hogwarts in ruins, of students screaming as the dead clawed their way up from the Black Lake. Of his mother's corpse, her silver hair fanned out in dark water. Hermione's brown curls sprawled on the bridge, her lifeless eyes staring upwards.

"You save them all."

The voice had laughed.

"Or you die trying."

Draco's knees gave out. He caught himself on the Chamber's damp floor, his blackened fingers scraping against stone. "It wasn't a debt to Longbottom," he admitted hoarsely. "It was to Death."

Hermione's hands flew to her mouth. "The Deathly Hallows?"

Ominis went rigid. "No. Older." Hermione eyed Ominis, as if she knew what truly had been done.

The shadow on the wall moved, its hollow eyes fixed on Draco. Always watching now. The shadow's laughter slithered through the Chamber, making the very stones tremble. Draco clutched his blinded eye, black veins now pulsing like living things beneath his pale skin. The corruption had reached his cheekbone, spiderwebbing toward his temple in grotesque patterns.

"Not the Hallows," Ominis whispered, his spectral form flickering violently. "The original bargain. The one my ancestors made."

Hermione's glow intensified as understanding dawned. "The Peverell Pact."

Draco choked on a strangled laugh, blood trickling from his nose and hitting the stone below him. "Of course the Golden Girl knows."

The shadow on the wall stretched taller, its form resolving into something more defined - a gaunt figure in tattered robes, a twisted mockery of the Grim Reaper. But this was no mere psychopomp. This was the First Debt Collector, the entity the Peverells had tricked and bound long before the Hallows were forged.

"The locket was my anchor in your world, little Malfoy," the shadow crooned. "And you just handed it back to me."

Ominis stepped forward, his milky eyes blazing with sudden recognition. "You're no Death. You're the Warden - the jailer my ancestors trapped when they stole your power."

The shadow's grin widened impossibly, splitting its face like a cracked eggshell. "And now I collect what's owed. Starting with you, last son of Gaunt."

Draco's body convulsed as the black veins surged upward, branching across his face like dark lightning. His breathing came in ragged gasps as he managed to rasp out: "The ritual... wasn't just... to destroy the relic..."

Hermione's hands flew to her mouth. "It was to free him."

The Chamber shook as the Warden's laughter grew deafening. "All debts come due. The Gaunts' power. The Malfoys' blood. And you, little ghost... you're the final payment."

Ominis moved without thinking, placing himself between the entity and Hermione. His voice, when it came, shook with centuries of buried fury:

"Not while I still exist."

The Warden's smile turned hungry. "Exactly."

The Warden loomed over them, its shadowy form drinking the light from the Chamber. The black veins had reached Draco's temple, his breath coming in shallow, pained rasps. His right eye—still clear, still defiant—locked onto Hermione's.

"Don't," he choked out. "Whatever you're thinking—don't."

But Hermione was already stepping forward, her form shimmering with that strange, new solidity. She could feel the magic in her—not just ghostly echoes, but something older, something that had been waiting.

"You want payment?" she said, her voice steady. "Then take me."

Ominis's hand shot out to stop her. "Hermione, no—"

But she was already whispering "Immobulus," towards Ominis and walking into the Warden's outstretched grasp.

"Granger," Draco rasped hoarsley. His pained expression was more than enough to keep her in step towards the Warden. Hermione Granger had always been 'The Golden Girl", the only person who would've truly sacrificed herself for the sake of her friends, for anyone for that matter. Draco was always difficult, but she always cared for him. Through all the evil words, snide looks, everything. So Draco was her friend, and that made her feet glide towards the Warden as if she were skating on ice.

"Hermione..." he finally whispered, his good eye welling with tears. A small break in her step, locked on the glacier she had always seen as the softest snow in winter, not the icy peak of a mountain he led on. She stopped in front of the Warden, hand outstretched, "Take me."

The moment the Warden's skeletal fingers closed around her wrist, the Chamber screamed.

Hermione's body burned—not with pain, but with memory.

She saw: Herself, lying broken in the Battle of Hogwarts, her last breath leaving her lips. The moment between life and death, when something reached for her—not to claim her, but to offer. A bargain unspoken: Live again, but not as you were.

She had never been just a ghost. She had been a vessel.

The Warden's hollow eyes widened. "You."

And then— Hermione smiled.

"Me."

She pulled. The Warden howled as the curse inside Draco began to reverse, the black veins retreating, flowing back—not into the locket, but into Hermione.

Her body lit up like a star, her form flickering between solid and spectral as the Warden's power flooded into her. Ominis shouted her name. Draco gasped as the darkness left him, his vision clearing. And Hermione—She burned. The Golden Girl. When the light faded, the Warden was gone. Hermione stood in the center of the Chamber, her form changed—no longer a ghost, not quite alive. Her skin glowed faintly, her eyes shimmering with something otherworldly.

Draco touched his face—the black veins had vanished from his hand, though his left eye remained milky-white, blind. Slight gray veins around his eye. Damage no doubt.

"What... are you?" he breathed.

Hermione flexed her fingers, watching as silver light trailed from them. "I don't know."

Ominis stepped forward, his voice raw. "You took its power."

"No," Hermione whispered. "I remembered mine."

A beat of silence. From the shadows, a new voice:

"And now, little keeper, you must choose."

Salazar Slytherin's wraith emerged, his spectral form regal, ancient.

"Will you use that power to walk again among the living?" His gaze flicked to Ominis. "Or will you stay here, with the dead?"

The Chamber held its breath. Salazar Slytherin's wraith watched her, his hollow eyes unreadable. Ominis stood frozen, his spectral form flickering like a candle in the wind. Draco, still on his knees, wiped blood from his ruined eye, his gaze locked on Hermione. She didn't hesitate.

"I stay."

The words rang through the Chamber, final as a tomb sealing shut.

Ominis's breath hitched. "Hermione—"

She turned to him, her new form glowing softly—no longer a ghost, not quite alive, but something else. Something more.

"I'm not leaving you," she said simply. And that was it. No grand speeches, no regrets. Just a choice, made without hesitation.

Draco exhaled sharply, dragging himself upright. "Of course you'd pick the brooding ghost over the dashing hero," he muttered, but there was no bite to it.

Hermione shot him a look. "Your eye's healed enough for sarcasm, I see."

"It's my good eye now, Granger. I have to make it count."

Ominis, meanwhile, was still staring at Hermione like she'd hung the stars. "You could have gone back," he whispered.

She reached for his hand—solid, warm—and laced her fingers through his. "I am back."

The moment Hermione's decision settled, the Chamber shifted.

Salazar's wraith inclined his head.

"Then the balance is kept."

With that, he dissolved into mist, his presence fading from the stones. But the magic in the air didn't fade with him. Hermione could feel it—the Warden's power, humming beneath her skin. She wasn't just a ghost anymore. She was the Keeper of the Veil.

Ominis squeezed her hand. "What does this mean?"

"It means," Hermione said slowly, "that I can walk between worlds. That I can protect them."

Draco groaned. "Merlin, you're going to be insufferable with heroics now, aren't you?"

Hermione smirked. "You have no idea."

Chapter Text

The door to the Undercroft sealed shut behind them with a soft click, muffling the distant echoes of the castle. The air here was still, thick with the scent of old stone and lingering magic. Hermione exhaled—a habit, not a need—and let her fingers trail along the rough-hewn wall. She could feel the magic in the stones now, humming beneath her touch. Ominis stood a few paces away, his back to her, shoulders tense. His spectral form flickered faintly, the edges of him blurred as if he wasn't quite sure how to be anymore.

"You should have gone back," he said again, voice low.

Hermione crossed the space between them in three strides. "Look at me."

He turned, reluctantly. His milky eyes were storm-dark, jaw clenched.

She reached up, cupping his face—solid, real—and let her thumb brush the sharp line of his cheekbone. "I chose this. I chose you."

Ominis shuddered. "You don't know what it means to be trapped between worlds, Hermione. To never quite belong."

"Then show me."

His breath hitched. And then—He kissed her. Not the hesitant brush of lips she might have expected, but something hungry, desperate. His hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer as if he could fuse their very souls together. Hermine melted into it, her fingers clutching at his robes. She could feel him—the cold of his spectral form, the warmth of his magic, the way his heartbeat should have been but wasn't—and yet, somehow, it was enough. When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, Ominis let out a ragged laugh.

"You're maddening."

Hermione grinned. "And you're stuck with me."

"Good," he whispered.

And for the first time in decades, Ominis Gaunt felt alive. The Undercroft was quiet, the dim torchlight flickering against the ancient stone walls. Hermione floated beside Ominis, her fingers still interlaced with his—solid, warm, real—when a thought struck her.

"You know," she mused, a playful lilt in her voice, "Nearly Headless Nick mentioned something about the annual Deathday Party next month."

Ominis stiffened. "Absolutely not."

Hermione arched a brow. "Why not? It's tradition!"

"It's a room full of ghosts wailing about their unfinished business while the Bloody Baron glowers in a corner," Ominis deadpanned. "It's depressing."

She grinned. "So we'll liven it up."

Ominis turned to face her fully, his milky eyes narrowing. "Granger, are you suggesting we crash the Deathday Party?"

"I'm suggesting we attend," she corrected primly. "As Hogwarts' newest spectral residents. And maybe—just maybe—we'll improve the entertainment."

Ominis sighed, long-suffering. "Fine. But if the Grey Lady tries to drag me into another poetic lament about lost love, I'm leaving."

Hermione laughed—bright, alive, happy—and Ominis found himself smiling despite himself.

"Deal," she said. "You know, I've been to it before, when I was alive." Ominis turned his head to her slightly, an eyebrow raised. "I don't recall you ever being there."

"I've only ever gone once, I had only been dead a few years when some of the others talked me into it. I never went again." He replied, not daring move his hand away from hers. Hermione understood, feeling the thrumming of his magic fasten as he began to speak. Hermione's fingers tightened instinctively around his as she felt the shift in his magic - that sudden tension like a violin string pulled too tight. The torchlight flickered oddly across his sharp features as he continued, his voice dropping lower.

"It was 1923," he said, and Hermione nearly startled at the date. "Nearly thirty years after my death. The others thought it would... help. A way to make peace with being stuck between worlds." His thumb traced absent circles against her knuckles. "The Baron spent the whole evening glaring at anyone who came near me. Nick kept trying to get me to join some ridiculous ghostly conga line. And Helena—" He broke off with a quiet huff of laughter that held no real humor. "She cornered me by the rotten hors d'oeuvres table and spent forty-five minutes comparing my tragic backstory to some medieval troubadour's ballad."

Hermione couldn't help the small snort that escaped her. "That does sound like the Grey Lady."

Ominis tilted his head, his unseeing gaze somehow still piercing. "And you? What horror drove the great Hermione Granger to swear off Deathday parties after just one attempt?"

The memory surfaced unbidden - the chill of the dungeon, the way the ghostly orchestra's off-key wailing had set her teeth on edge. "Peeves," she admitted with a grimace. "He crashed it and spent two hours pelting everyone with moldy cheese wheels. One went straight through Moaning Myrtle, which set her off wailing for the rest of the night. Then Nick and the Fat Friar got into an argument about proper 14th century jig techniques—"

"—and suddenly spending the night alone in the library didn't seem so terrible?" Ominis finished, his mouth quirking.

"Exactly." Hermione grinned, then hesitated. "Though... it might be different this time. With you there."

The air between them shifted, charged with something more potent than the usual spectral energy. Ominis went very still, his thumb pausing its movement against her hand. When he spoke, his voice had dropped to something barely above a whisper.

"Careful, Granger. That almost sounded like sentiment."

Hermione leaned in until their foreheads nearly touched, her glow pulsing gently in the dim space between them. "And if it was?"

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Ominis exhaled - a soft, unnecessary breath that ghosted across her lips. "Then I suppose I'll have to endure Helena's ballads after all."

The torchlight caught the silver edges of their intertwined fingers as laughter bubbled up between them, bright and alive in the quiet dark of the Undercroft. Somewhere above them, Peeves cackled as he upended a suit of armor, the crash echoing faintly through the stones. Hermione found she didn't mind so much anymore.

__________

The Undercroft's torches flickered as Hermione adjusted the delicate lace cuffs of her pale blue Edwardian gown, a hue reminiscent of delicate morning mist or the faint glow of twilight. The embroidery and embellishments would shimmer subtly, their intricate details standing out in quiet elegance against the cool-toned fabric. The puffed sleeves even more ethereal, like wisps of cloud gently adorning the shoulders. The skirt's graceful flow would take on an airy, dreamlike quality, trailing behind like the whisper of a forgotten melody.. The high collar brushed her jaw, intricate beadwork catching what little light there was, while the skirt's subtle train pooled elegantly around her spectral form. She'd charmed a few forget-me-nots into her curls—small, glowing things that pulsed softly with her magic.

A rustle of fabric.

Hermione turned—and froze.

Ominis stood in the doorway, dressed in formal 19th-century black tailcoat robes, the silver embroidery at the cuffs and high collar catching the dim light. His usual disheveled white-blond hair had been tamed slightly, though a few defiant strands still fell across his forehead. But what truly stole her breath was the thin silver chain around his neck—a small, ornate pendant resting just above his heart. He stood for a moment, as if he had been stunned.

"Hermione... I know I'm blind, but truly, you are... absolutely breathtaking." He breathed, his cheeks flushing. Hermione's face returning the sentiment.

"Thank you," was all she could mutter back, "Is that—?"

"My mother's," he said quietly, fingers brushing the jewelry. "One of the few things I kept after... everything."

Hermione's throat tightened. "You look..."

"Like I've been stuffed into a costume by an overenthusiastic portrait?" he drawled, though the effect was ruined by the way his fingers fidgeted with his cuffs.

"Like you stepped out of a Victorian novel," she corrected, stepping closer. "The brooding, tragically handsome sort."

Ominis scoffed, but a faint silver flush tinged his cheekbones. "And you look—" His hand lifted, hovering just above the delicate beading at her waist, "—like someone who's about to be very disappointed when I step on her toes all evening."

Hermione laughed, catching his hand and lacing their fingers together. "I'll consider it part of the experience."

A beat of silence. Then—

"We don't have to go," Ominis murmured. "We could stay here. Light some candles. Let Nick and the others assume we got lost in some haunted corridor. Enjoy this, just us..."

Hermione tilted her head, considering. "Tempting. But then who would scandalize the Bloody Baron by attempting to waltz?"

Ominis groaned. "You're going to make me dance, aren't you?"

"Oh, absolutely."

With a long-suffering sigh, he offered his arm. "Then let's get this over with."

But as they stepped through the stone wall into the torchlit corridor beyond, Hermione caught the way his fingers tightened around hers—like he was afraid she might slip away. And she knew, with sudden certainty, that this—the party, the laughter, the way Ominis's breath hitched when she leaned into him—was worth every second of their strange, half-existence. Even the moldy cheese wheels.

The Great Hall had been transformed into a spectral ballroom, draped in silvery cobwebs and illuminated by floating, ghostly blue flames. The orchestra—composed of transparent musicians playing instruments that hadn't existed for centuries—sighed into a slow, melancholic waltz.

Hermione had spent the evening politely enduring Nearly Headless Nick's dramatic retelling of his botched execution, smirking as Ominis heckled the Bloody Baron from a safe distance, and nearly choking on spectral laughter when Peeves attempted to poltergeist his way through a somber violin solo. But now, as the music softened into something slower, more intimate, she felt a familiar presence at her side.

"You're staring," Ominis murmured, though his lips quirked.

"I am not," Hermione lied, even as her gaze traced the way the pale light caught the sharp angles of his face.

He held out a hand. "Dance with me." It wasn't a question. Hermione placed her fingers in his, and the moment they touched, the world seemed to still. Ominis's other hand settled at her waist, warm even through the layers of her gown. "I should warn you," he said, voice low, "I haven't done this in over a century."

Hermione stepped closer, until the space between them was nothing but a breath. "Neither have I."

And then—

They moved.

It wasn't perfect. Ominis stepped on the hem of her skirt twice, and Hermione nearly elbowed a passing Sir Nicholas in her attempt to avoid his trailing head. But as the music swelled around them, something shifted.

Ominis's grip tightened, pulling her just a fraction closer. Hermione's breath hitched as his forehead brushed hers, their steps slowing until they were barely swaying.

"This is nice," she whispered.

Ominis hummed, his thumb tracing idle circles against her back. "It's tolerable."

Hermione laughed, the sound bright even in the haunted hall. "Admit it. You're enjoying yourself."

A pause. "...Perhaps a little."

The music faded, but neither of them pulled away. Around them, ghosts drifted in and out of conversations, the party carrying on without notice.

But here, in this quiet corner of the dancefloor, time seemed to stop.

Ominis's voice was barely a whisper. "Stay with me."

Hermione didn't hesitate. "Always."

And as the first light of dawn filtered through the enchanted ceiling, painting them both in pale gold, they danced on.

__________

The morning after the Deathday Party, Hermione found Draco lounging in the sunlit corridor near the Charms classroom—looking far too pleased with himself for someone who had spent half the night heckling ghosts. His left eye, still milky-white from the Warden's curse, glinted in the light as he smirked at her. "Granger. You're glowing."

Hermione resisted the urge to adjust her spectral form—she was glowing a little brighter than usual, a soft silver shimmer clinging to her edges. "And you look like you swallowed a jar of Cockroach Clusters."

Draco waved a hand dismissively. "Firewhisky and poltergeists don't mix. Who knew?" He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Though I did notice you and Gaunt sneaking off before the waltz ended."

Hermione's glow flickered—damn him. "We didn't sneak—"

"Please. You were practically fused at the hip." Draco's grin turned wicked. "I'd say 'get a room,' but given your current state of existence, I'm not sure how that would—"

"Malfoy," came Ominis's dry voice from behind them. "Are you harassing my witch?"

Hermione's entire form flared gold at the words my witch, but Draco only looked delighted.

"Oh, Salazar, it's worse than I thought," he crowed. "You've gone full tragic romance. Next, you'll be reciting sonnets under the Astronomy Tower."

Ominis crossed his arms. "I'd rather let Peeves drag me through the Forbidden Forest."

"Liar," Draco and Hermione said in unison.

A beat of silence. Then—Draco sighed dramatically. "Fine. I'll leave you two to your hauntingly domestic bliss. But mark my words—he pointed at them both—I will be insufferable about this."

Hermione rolled her eyes as he sauntered off, whistling a horribly off-key rendition of The Ghost of You Lingers.

Ominis pinched the bridge of his nose. "We should have left him cursed."

Hermione laughed, tangling her fingers with his. "Come on. Let's go haunt the library before he comes back with more commentary."

And as they drifted down the corridor, the morning sun painting their silhouettes in gold, Draco's voice echoed after them:

"USE PROTECTION! ...Wait, can ghosts even—?"

Ominis flipped him off without looking back. The two were off, something feeling off between the two now.

"No, Hermione... ghosts do not need protection." Was all a red-faced Ominis would state. Hermione's face turning the same crimson color. Glances towards Ominis, as if to ask how he knew. "Peeves." he continued.

"Ominis, how old are you... were you? When you died?" She'd never asked, but something in her brain told her to ask. Not because she didn't think about things with Ominis, but because she felt horrible for not knowing.

"I was nineteen, I hadn't realized I never told you." Silence.

"I was only eighteen," She replied, breaking the silence between the two. "I had just turned eighteen, and I hadn't even thought to celebrate or tell anyone because of the war that we were going through... Harry danced with me though without even realizing it had been my birthday. But who can blame him, we were out hunting down the horcruxes, Ron..."

"It's okay, I am here to listen. We have all of eternity together to learn about one another and the friends we once had." The comfort of his voice helped her shoulders release, sliding her fingers into his hand. With a shakey breath she continued, explained everything that she'd gone through till the moment she had died.

"I'm sorry, this may not be a comforting sentiment, but I am glad to have met you no matter the circumstances. I wish your friends had cared for you enough to know to celebrate your birthday with you. I understand the...issues with friends." A squeeze to his hand and Ominis knew that she understood.

"Would you like to speak about it?" She asked softly, a small wince hitting his face before he buried it. The two entering the Undercroft. The torchlight in the Undercroft guttered violently as Ominis's words landed between them like a curse.

"He used Imperio on Sebastian."

Hermione's breath caught—not that she needed to breathe anymore, but the instinct remained. "Your father... made Sebastian—?"

Ominis's spectral form flickered, edges fraying like old parchment. "Not at first. First, he tried to convince him. Promised him power, a way to save Anne." A hollow laugh. "Sebastian was always so... loud with his love. My father knew exactly how to twist it." The air grew heavy, thick with the weight of memories better left buried.

"When Sebastian refused, my father didn't hesitate." Ominis's voice dropped to a whisper. "I remember the exact moment the curse took hold. One second, Sebastian was shouting, calling my father a monster—the next, his eyes went blank. And then..."

He didn't need to finish. Hermione could see it—the horror of watching someone you love raise their wand against you, their face empty of all recognition.

She reached for him, her fingers passing through his at first before solidifying, gripping tight. "You fought back."

"I ran," Ominis corrected bitterly. "Straight into a cursed relic. Poetic, really." His free hand gestured to his ghostly form. "This was the result. Sebastian broke free just in time to watch me die."

Hermione's glow pulsed angry gold. "What happened to your father?"

Ominis smiled—a sharp, vicious thing. "Sebastian saw to him. Tore through every dark artifact in the manor until he found one that could unmake him."

A beat of silence. Then—

"Good," Hermione said fiercely.

Ominis huffed a surprised laugh. "No arguments about morality? No 'violence isn't the answer,' Granger?"

"Not for him." Her spectral form crackled with magic, the torches flaring higher. "Some people don't deserve redemption."

Ominis studied her—the way her curls sparked with barely contained magic, the righteous fury in her eyes—and felt something unknot in his chest.

"No," he agreed softly. "They don't." He pulled her close, their forms shimmering where they touched. In the quiet dark, the Undercroft was bathed in the soft glow of enchanted candlelight, the flames flickering in slow motion as if time itself had stilled just for them. The usual chill of the dungeon seemed to fade, replaced by a warmth that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the way Ominis was looking at her. Hermione hovered near the center of the room, her spectral form shimmering with a golden hue that seemed brighter tonight—more alive. She wore the same pale blue Edwardian gown from the Deathday Party, the delicate lace sleeves catching the candlelight as she nervously smoothed the fabric. Ominis stood by the far wall, his usual disheveled appearance replaced by an uncharacteristic neatness—his white-blond hair tamed, his high-collared black robes perfectly tailored to his lean frame. The silver pendant around his neck glinted as he took a step forward, his milky eyes fixed unerringly on her.

"You're nervous," he observed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Hermione huffed. "I don't get nervous."

"Liar." He closed the distance between them, his movements slow, deliberate. When he was close enough that she could see the way the candlelight caught the silver flecks in his irises, he stopped. "You're glowing."

"I always glow," she retorted, but her voice was softer now, barely above a whisper.

Ominis reached out, his fingers brushing the curve of her cheek—solid, warm. "Not like this."

Hermione's breath hitched. She could feel the thrum of his magic against her skin, a steady pulse that matched the rhythm of her own. Without thinking, she leaned into his touch.

"Ominis," she started, but he shook his head.

"Don't." His thumb traced the line of her jaw. "Just... let me." It wasn't hesitant, nor was it rushed. It was perfect—a slow, burning press of lips that sent sparks dancing behind her closed eyelids. His hands slid into her hair, tangling in her curls as if he could anchor her to this moment forever. Hermine melted into him, her arms winding around his neck, her form solidifying against his. When they finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, Ominis let out a shaky breath. "I've wanted to do that for a very long time."

Hermione laughed, the sound bright and breathless. "Took you long enough."

He grinned—actually grinned—before capturing her lips again, pouring a century's worth of longing into every touch. Ominis crowded her against the shelves, one hand braced beside her head, the other tracing the delicate lace of her bodice with fingers that had learned exactly how to be solid when it mattered most.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured against the shell of her ear, his breath cool but his touch burning through the thin fabric of her gown.

Hermione arched into him with a gasp, her fingers twisting in his robes. "You know I won't."

His lips curved against her throat—sharp, knowing—before he dragged his teeth over the spot where her pulse would have been. Her knees buckled, but Ominis caught her, his arm sliding around her waist to press her flush against him.

"You feel that?" His voice was rough, his normally composed demeanor fraying at the edges. "The way your magic aches for mine?"

Hermione could only nod, her breath coming in short, unnecessary gasps as his hand slid lower, following the curve of her hip with deliberate intent.

"Say it," he demanded, his fingers tightening possessively.

She moaned as his magic sparked against hers, a shock of silver and gold that lit up the darkened room. "Ominis—"

"Say it."

"I want you," she gasped, her form flickering wildly between spectral and something more. "In every way a ghost can."

His answering growl sent a thrill down her spine as he captured her lips in a kiss that was anything but ethereal—all teeth and tongue and centuries of pent-up longing. The torches flared violently, their light catching the wicked glint in his milky eyes as he whispered against her mouth:

"Then take what's yours."

Ominis's hand fisted in the delicate lace of her bodice, the fabric tearing with a sound that echoed through the silent Undercroft. His lips crashed against hers with none of his usual restraint—this was hunger, pure and desperate, centuries of longing poured into every bruising kiss. Hermione gasped as his fingers found bare skin beneath the ruined fabric, his touch igniting trails of golden fire across her spectral form. She could feel him everywhere—the cool press of his body pinning her to the shelves, the sharp edge of his teeth at her collarbone, the way his magic coiled tight around hers like a vice.

"Look at you," he breathed against her throat, his voice raw. "Falling apart at my touch like you were made for it."

Her answering moan was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against hers in a rhythm that left her dizzy. When his hand slipped between her thighs, she jolted, her form flickering wildly between corporeal and not—

"Ominis—!"

"I know," he growled, his fingers working with wicked precision. "I can feel it too." And Merlin, he could—every shudder, every gasp, every desperate roll of her hips against his hand. The connection between them burned brighter with each passing second, their magic intertwining until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. When he finally thrust into her with a groan that shook the very stones beneath them, it wasn't just pleasure—it was consumption. Her name on his lips was a prayer and a curse, his hips snapping against hers with a ferocity that bordered on violence.

"Mine," he snarled, his fingers tightening in her hair. "Say it."

Hermione could barely think, let alone speak, but the word tore from her anyway—"Yours!"—as she shattered around him, her magic exploding in a shower of golden sparks. Ominis followed with a broken groan, his forehead pressed to hers as the aftershocks rocked through them both. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was their ragged, unnecessary breathing. The Undercroft lay in ruins around them—tables overturned, books scattered, and the torches flickering weakly as if even they were exhausted. Hermione lay half-sprawled across Ominis's chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns over the now-faded silver scars that marred his spectral skin—remnants of the magic that had torn through them both.

Ominis's hand carded lazily through her curls, his breathing (unnecessary, but habitual) slowly steadying. "Well," he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction, "that was—"

"—long overdue?" Hermione supplied, tilting her head to press a kiss to his collarbone.

"I was going to say cataclysmic," he corrected, but the smirk in his voice was unmistakable.

A beat of comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the distant drip of water against stone. Then—

"We should do that again," Hermione mused, propping herself up on one elbow to study him.

Ominis's brows arched. "Now?"

"Preferably."

His laugh was low, warm, as he rolled them over in one smooth motion, pinning her beneath him. "Demanding, aren't you?"

Hermione grinned, sharp and hungry. "You love it."

"Merlin help me," he sighed, leaning down to capture her lips once more, "I do."