Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1 

The Aftermath 

After the war, Hermione spent three weeks in St. Mungo’s.

She had sixteen broken bones—arms, legs, ribs—a fractured skull, spell damage from dark curses, severe malnourishment, and the kind of trauma the Healers didn’t know how to treat. Sleep was the worst of it. Every time she closed her eyes, she was back there—screaming in the manor, the crack of bone under wandlight, the coppery tang of blood.

Harry and Ron had gotten off lighter. Ron left with a few scars. Harry had some bruised ribs, a couple of broken bones, and what the Healers quietly called a suspected case of survivor’s guilt. They were out in a day.

The funerals started the week Hermione was released.

She didn’t cry. She couldn’t.

Not for Colin.

Not for Lavender.

Not for Snape.

Not even for Fred.

Her grief was buried too deep, strangled by guilt and shock and the numbness that had settled like fog in her chest.

She wore the same black dress to every service—long-sleeved, high-necked, falling to her ankles. Knee-high black boots. Not a single inch of skin showed, except her face. She didn’t want anyone to see the scars. The long, jagged ones—some red, some purple—that ran from her jaw to her belly. The ones that trailed down her legs like cruel stretch marks, clearer and more visible than she could stand.

She knew they would stare. She knew they would whisper.

She could already hear them in her mind.

She didn’t want pity. She didn’t deserve it.

Not when so many others hadn’t made it home.

So she stood at the front, between Harry and Ron, for each funeral. Her hands trembled through every speech. Her voice never cracked, but her legs did, locking up sometimes without warning. She apologized to the families. She posed for the Daily Prophet’s camera with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

After each one, she left early. Too many people. Too many sudden noises. Too many chances for someone to brush her arm, and for her to flinch like she’d been hexed. Once, someone clapped her on the back, and she turned on them wand-first before realizing what she was doing. She told herself she was fine. She repeated it like a spell.

And then she went to the next.

And the next.

And the next.

Same dress.

Same speech.

Same apologies.

---

Hogwarts was rebuilding. But for Hermione, it was no longer home.

She stood at the edge of the Black Lake, a large coffee cup cradled between her hands. Her breathing was shaky.

She had thought she could do it—come back, help rebuild the walls of the castle she once loved. But every stone whispered old spells. Every hallway echoed with screams only she could hear.

She hadn’t set foot in the Great Hall. Couldn’t. The scent of smoke and blood still clung to it in her mind.

The war might be over, but the damage was immeasurable.

Hogwarts wasn’t her home anymore.

It was her battlefield.

—

“Hermione?”

She froze, turning slowly toward the voice—only to see Charlie Weasley standing at the edge of the lake.

“What are you doing in the water?” he asked, concern lacing his deep, smooth voice.

“What?” she whispered, frowning as she looked down.

She hadn’t noticed. Somehow, she had wandered waist-deep into the Black Lake. The November water bit at her skin, frigid and merciless, but she hadn’t felt it. Her coffee cup was still clutched tightly in her hands, gripped like a lifeline. The trembling in her fingers had stopped. She didn’t know when.

She didn’t remember walking into the water. She didn’t remember much of anything.

Then another voice, closer this time—gentle, warm in a way she didn’t think existed inside her anymore.

“I just want to take your hand, Hermione,” Charlie said softly, now standing beside her in the water. His hand was outstretched, but he didn’t touch her. “Walk back to the shore with me? Maybe we could talk.”

She nodded.

But still, she flinched when his hand met hers.

He didn’t let go. His hand was larger, calloused from years working with dragons, but careful. Steady.

He guided her back to the shore and conjured a thick blanket, obviously laced with heating charms. He wrapped it around her shoulders before settling down beside her on the grass.

They didn’t speak right away.

The silence didn’t feel heavy.

It felt like breathing room.

The blanket was warm, but Hermione still felt cold. Not in her skin—deeper. In her bones. In her blood.

Charlie sat beside her, close enough to share the silence, but not close enough to crowd her. He didn’t say anything at first, just let the quiet fill the space between them like fog.

Hermione stared out at the lake. Her coffee cup, still clutched in both hands, had gone cold long before she noticed.

“You used to hate being cold,” Charlie said eventually, his voice low and quiet. Not a judgment—just a memory.

Hermione blinked slowly, like waking from a trance. “Did I?”

“You used to cast warming charms before anyone else even thought to.”

She didn’t answer. Her throat was tight. She hadn’t noticed the water. Hadn’t noticed how far she’d wandered in. If he hadn’t called her name...

“I don’t feel things the same anymore,” she murmured. “It’s like... part of me is still there. Still back in the war. Still waiting for the next curse to fly. I don’t sleep. I barely eat. Half the time I forget what day it is.”

Charlie nodded. He didn’t look surprised.

“I didn’t think you’d notice,” she added, a little bitterly.

“I notice,” he said simply. “I notice you haven’t smiled. Not once. I notice how your eyes scan a room before you walk in. I notice how you flinch when people touch you, even the ones you love.”

Hermione’s grip on the mug tightened. She didn’t look at him. “It’s stupid. Other people lost more than I did.”

Charlie shook his head. “Pain isn’t a competition. You don’t have to bleed out just because someone else lost a limb.”

That made her laugh, sharp and almost involuntary. “That sounds like something Bill would say.”

Charlie smiled faintly. “He probably did. But it doesn’t make it less true.”

A gust of wind rolled off the lake. Hermione didn’t react.

He turned his head to watch her face. “You ever think about leaving?”

Her eyes flicked to his, cautious. “What do you mean?”

“Getting away,” he said. “Even for a little while. Somewhere no one knows you. Somewhere quiet.”

Hermione gave a bitter scoff. “And what, abandon everyone rebuilding? Leave Harry? Ron?”

“Harry’s barely here anymore,” Charlie pointed out gently. “And Ron’s drowning himself in trying to fix things he can’t. But you? You’re standing in freezing water and you didn’t even know it. That’s not rebuilding, Hermione. That’s surviving.”

“I am surviving,” she said, her voice suddenly sharp. “Isn’t that enough?”

“No,” Charlie said. “You deserve more than that. You deserve peace.”

She went silent. Her hands, still red from the cold, loosened slightly around the coffee cup. The lake rippled gently below them. For a moment, all she heard was the wind.

“I wouldn’t know where to go,” she admitted eventually. “There’s nowhere in the wizarding world I won’t be recognized.”

“Then don’t go to the wizarding world,” Charlie said simply.

She looked at him, confused.

“I’ve been working with a dragon sanctuary over in North America,” he said, watching her reaction. “It’s not a full post. Mostly field work. But there’s a town nearby—small place, tucked into the forests. Real quiet. Muggle. I passed through it once. Forks, Washington.”

“Forks?” she repeated, eyebrows lifting slightly.

He shrugged. “Odd name. Odd little town. Lots of trees. Constant rain. Not much else. But no one there would know who you are. Not unless you told them.”

Hermione stared at the horizon, letting the name settle.

“It wouldn’t be forever,” Charlie added, careful not to push. “Just long enough for you to breathe again.”

Hermione didn’t respond. Not right away. But for the first time in months, she considered the idea of leaving. Of not having to hold up the world on her own. Of being invisible. Of healing.

“I don’t even know what I’d do,” she murmured. “I wouldn’t be me anymore.”

Charlie leaned back on his hands, letting out a breath. “You’d still be you. Just... a different version. One who gets to choose who she is.”

She didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried in months. But something in her chest cracked, just a little. Enough for light to get in.

“I’ll think about it,” she whispered.

He smiled, but didn’t press her. “That’s all I ask.”

—

The castle was louder now.

Every day, more bricks were laid. More portraits returned. More laughter filtered through the halls — not like before, not really, but enough to remind her that time was moving forward, even if she wasn’t.

Hermione sat in the old library. The air still smelled like dust and ash, and though the walls had been scrubbed clean, she could still feel the smoke.

Her hands were shaking again.

She pressed them flat against the open page of a book she hadn’t been reading. Just holding it, pretending, like the rest of them — pretending to heal. Pretending to live.

But her mind kept drifting back to the lake. To Charlie’s voice.

You deserve peace.

She didn’t know what peace looked like. But maybe it sounded like rain.

Maybe it smelled like pine needles and earth. Maybe it was a quiet town no one had ever heard of, where no one whispered her name like it was a spell they didn’t understand.

Forks.

She didn’t even know what she’d do there. Who she’d be without war, without purpose.

But something inside her, long-buried and trembling, whispered:

Try.

---

It took her a week to gather the courage. Not her things — just her will. The thought of packing was unbearable, so she didn’t. She just walked.

Charlie wasn’t hard to find. He’d been helping reinforce the wards around the new greenhouses with Professor Sprout. His arms were coated in dirt and charm dust, but he looked up the moment she approached.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything. Just waited.

“I want to go,” she said, voice barely above a breath.

Charlie’s expression didn’t change. But something in his shoulders eased, just a little.

“To Forks?” he asked.

She nodded. “I don’t know how to do it alone.”

“You won’t have to.”

She looked down. “I don’t even know where to start. I don’t drive. I’ve never even been to America. I’ve barely left the U.K.”

Charlie wiped his hands on a rag and stood. “Then we start with the basics.”

Hermione blinked. “You’ll help me?”

“I’ll do more than that,” he said. “My work in the sanctuary is shifting. They’ve got a protected zone near Olympic National Park — I was already being asked to relocate to the Pacific Northwest.” He gave her a small, knowing look. “I just wasn’t sure if I’d go. But now…”

“But now?” she asked softly.

“I think you shouldn’t be alone,” he said simply. “And I think I’d like to help you figure out what peace looks like.”

For a moment, she didn’t speak. Her throat tightened. Her chest ached.

Finally, she gave a small nod, one hand curling in the hem of her sleeve. “I don’t want to be Hermione Granger there. Not the war heroine. Not the know-it-all. I just want to be... someone else. Someone quiet.”

Charlie smiled, warm and steady. “Then that’s who you’ll be.” 

Chapter Text

Gringotts: Two Weeks Before Departure

Hermione stood outside Gringotts with a folded list clutched tightly in her hand. It was early — the cobbled street outside Diagon Alley was still slick from last night’s rain, and most of the shops were closed. The bank doors loomed ahead, dark iron and etched stone, unmoved by the ghosts of the war that still lingered in her mind.

Charlie was already waiting by the steps, leaning against a pillar. He didn’t speak when she approached, just offered a slight nod. His eyes scanned her face — quietly, the way he always did now — as if watching her carefully for cracks.

“Ready?” he asked, voice low.

“No,” she said truthfully, brushing damp curls behind her ears. “But I’m going anyway.”

Inside, the goblin at the counter barely blinked as she approached.

“I’d like to empty Vault 793,” Hermione said, voice steadier than she expected. “All assets. I want most converted to Muggle currency — 150,000 in pounds, 250,000 in U.S. dollars. The remaining balance should be transferred into a private secure vault under a pseudonym — Jane Evans.”

The goblin’s eyes flicked over her war-worn face, to the faint, silvery scar curling behind her ear, and down to the burn-scuffed wand she placed on the counter as identification.

“Vault 793 currently holds 714,580 galleons,” he said after a pause. “A large amount, Miss Granger. We will need a few moments.”

Hermione nodded. She felt Charlie shift beside her, but he still said nothing.

They were led to a back office. Hermione refused the plush chair offered to her and stood, arms wrapped tight around her middle.

Charlie watched her from his spot near the window. He could see her hands shaking, her lips moving slightly — counting numbers or spells or maybe just her own breath. She did that sometimes when it got bad.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

“No,” she whispered, voice cracking like a snapped wand core. “But I’ll keep saying yes until I am.”

He didn’t push. Just nodded again.

She watched the money convert in stages. The stacks of galleons became paper and plastic — crisp pound notes, then tightly wrapped stacks of U.S. bills. It felt surreal, seeing so much power reduced to something so plain.

She took the money, sealed in an enchanted bag that shrank to the size of her palm, and tucked it into her coat.

Just before they left, she hesitated.

“I should feel something,” she murmured, staring back at the golden hallway that led to her family’s legacy. “That vault was filled with every knut I ever earned, everything I saved from my parents and the war. I should feel like I’m losing something.”

Charlie looked at her, then said gently, “Maybe it’s because you already lost too much. This is just paper now.”

---

The ID Forger – Camden Town, Later That Day

They slipped through the back entrance of a Muggle-Magic intermediary shop — a cluttered space hidden between a pawn broker and a newsagent, shielded by a Notice-Me-Not charm thick with grime and intention.

The man behind the desk looked like he belonged to another life entirely — yellowed teeth, a leather jacket patched with old motorcycle logos, and a magical quill bobbing beside him.

“Passports. IDs. Clean history, yeah?” he asked, eyeing Hermione first, then Charlie. “Paper trail or ghost?”

“Ghost,” Hermione said.

“Jane Evans. Age 21. American-born. Lived abroad. Returning home after a family loss,” Charlie added easily. “And I’m Charles Miller. Relocating for conservation work.”

Hermione blinked at him. “You already thought this through.”

“I knew the minute you asked me to help that we couldn’t half-ass it.”

She looked away, blinking fast. The man behind the desk didn’t ask questions. Just stamped, spelled, and printed.

When the documents were handed over, Hermione turned them in her hands — a passport that said she was someone else. A life she hadn’t lived yet. It didn’t feel real, but it didn’t feel like war either.

Maybe that was enough.

---

Internet Café – Near King’s Cross

Charlie watched Hermione try to buy plane tickets on an outdated public computer, one brow raised.

“It’s not responding,” she muttered, stabbing the keyboard like it had personally offended her.

“You have to press enter,” he said mildly.

She glared at him, then muttered something that sounded very much like a curse — magical and otherwise. Eventually, with a red face and gritted teeth, she managed to book them two one-way flights: Heathrow to Seattle, then a connecting puddle-jumper to Port Angeles.

Cash, untraceable.

Just two names, two seats. No return.

---

The Night Before

Hermione sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by a pile of things she hadn’t touched in months. A war-worn rucksack. A dress she wore to Fred’s funeral. A book once bloodstained in the Malfoy cellar.

She packed almost nothing.

One framed photo of Harry and Ron, from their sixth year.
Her wand.
A soft jumper Molly had made her that winter.
And a letter — folded, yellowing — from her mother, years ago.

Charlie entered the flat without knocking. He saw her sitting there, legs pulled up to her chest, eyes hollow. Her hands were curled into her jumper like she could hold herself together through cloth alone.

“Should I come back later?” he asked gently.

She shook her head.

“I can’t bring it all,” she said. “It feels… wrong.”

“Then don’t. Bring what makes you breathe easier. Leave what doesn’t.”

She looked at him, and for the first time that week, her lips quirked — not quite a smile, but close.

---

The Letters

That night, she wrote three.

To the Weasleys — short, honest, careful not to sound like goodbye, but still final.
To Harry — longer, messier, a raw thing full of love and apology.
And one to herself, unsigned. Just four words.

> “You are not broken.”

She folded them and placed them on the fireplace mantle. No owl. No charm to track them.

Just there. If they wanted to know, they’d find them.

---

Charlie’s Goodbye

Charlie hugged his mother at the Burrow, tousled Ginny’s hair, and told Bill he’d keep in touch.

“Relocating,” he told them. “Fieldwork. Pacific Northwest. Something quieter.”

“You sure?” Molly asked.

Charlie smiled that easy, half-smirk she remembered from his school days. “You always said I couldn’t sit still.”

No one asked about Hermione.

No one knew to.

—

Charlie stood barefoot on the damp grass, cold seeping through the soles of his worn trainers, soaking his socks and the hem of his jeans. Mist curled around the edges of the black lake, silvered by moonlight. The wind was wrong — not blowing, but howling, circling.

Above the center of the water, suspended unnaturally midair, floated Hermione.

She wore only a thin, white shift — translucent in the moonlight, billowing like smoke. Her hair was loose, wild curls whipping around her face like ivy in a storm.

Her expression was hollow. Blank.

Her cheeks were sunken, her lips pale. She looked like she hadn’t breathed in weeks — like a ghost, not a girl.

Charlie stepped forward, heart pounding. “Hermione!”

No sound escaped. The wind swallowed his voice whole.

She turned to him slowly. Her deep brown eyes — once warm like spiced cocoa, soft and curious — were pitch-black. Void. Endless. Not a trace of recognition, only pain, carved into every corner of her face.

Then she screamed.

The sound wasn’t human. It split the air like glass.

Her scars tore open, one by one, in vivid flashes — red lightning blooming across her skin, each wound replaying its history. Cuts. Burns. Curses. A kaleidoscope of agony painted across her body.

The sky lit up in shards of color — green, blue, red — like spells flaring during battle.

Then silence.

And she fell.

Her body dropped like a stone, vanishing into the freezing black waters below.

Charlie lunged—

“NO!”

Gasp.

He jolted awake.

The plane rumbled beneath him, steady and cold. A dim light buzzed overhead. Hermione was curled into the window seat beside him, asleep. Her hand twitched slightly, her brow furrowed — dreaming, maybe.

He swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair. Sweat chilled the back of his neck.

Just a dream.

But it didn’t feel like just a dream.

Chapter Text

The rain was already falling when they landed in Port Angeles — a slow, constant drizzle that misted over the windows and blurred the edges of the unfamiliar world outside.

Hermione stepped off the plane with her hood up, her shoulders tense beneath her coat. The air smelled different — wetter, colder, cleaner, in a way that made her stomach twist. Too clean. Like the kind of silence that comes after something has been wiped away.

Charlie didn’t speak as they collected their luggage. He’d rented a car — a boxy, slate-gray thing that looked like it had survived a few too many winters — and loaded their two bags into the back. Hermione’s was small. Too small, he thought, for someone who had once carried the weight of the world.

The drive was quiet.

The landscape rolled by in streaks of grey and green — endless pines, dripping ferns, and winding roads swallowed in fog. A world apart from the war-scorched fields of England.

Hermione watched the trees blur past, her forehead pressed to the window. She hadn’t said more than three words since they left the airport. Charlie didn’t push. He knew that silence from her — not stubborn, but fragile, like a spell she was holding in place to keep from shattering.

---

The house was small, tucked back from the road and partially hidden by a thick hedge of moss-covered trees. A wraparound porch creaked beneath their boots as they stepped up to the door.

Charlie unlocked it, pushing inside first. The place smelled like old wood and faint lemon — freshly cleaned but lived-in. Sparse furniture, pale light, a fireplace that hadn’t seen use in years.

Hermione stepped in behind him and paused in the doorway.

No wards. No alarms. No portraits on the walls. Just quiet.

Too quiet.

---

Charlie showed her around in silence — living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, the small loft where he’d likely work when his job started in a few weeks. Hermione’s room was at the back, with a wide window that looked out onto a thicket of trees.

She set her bag down at the foot of the bed and stood there, unmoving.

He waited in the hall, gave her a moment, then another. But when he heard the first sound — a muffled choke — he stepped in gently.

She was still standing. Her back was to him. Her shoulders shaking, hands clenched at her sides.

“Hermione—”

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” she whispered. Her voice was barely audible, cracked and low. “I thought… I thought if I just left, if I ran far enough, I wouldn’t feel it all the time. But it’s still here. It followed me.”

Charlie didn’t rush her. He stepped forward slowly, until he was beside her, not touching.

“I feel like a ghost,” she said. “Like I died there and just… kept walking.”

Charlie looked at her — her profile backlit by the grey light, her eyes wide and wet but refusing to fall.

“You didn’t die,” he said quietly. “You survived. And now you get to decide what comes next.”

She turned to him, finally, her bottom lip trembling. “I don’t know how.”

“Then let’s figure it out,” he said. “One day at a time.”

That was when she broke.

Her legs gave out, and Charlie caught her before she hit the floor. She buried her face in his chest, hands gripping the front of his coat like she was afraid the floor might swallow her whole. Silent sobs wracked her thin frame, and he just held her — steady, patient — like the earth under her feet she no longer trusted.

He didn’t offer platitudes. He didn’t try to fix it.

He just stayed.

And for the first time in a very, very long while…

She let herself be held.

—

Forks, Washington | 3 days after arrival

---

“I think we should go with the emerald green. It’ll make the armchair pop.”

Hermione stood in the middle of the small living room, sleeves rolled up, paint sample cards fanned out like spell parchments. Her curls were tied up in a messy bun with a quill, and a smear of paint clung to her cheekbone like war paint.

Charlie blinked. “You hate green.”

“I hated Slytherin green,” she corrected brightly. “This is moss green. Forest. Very Pacific Northwest, don’t you think?”

Her smile was too wide. Her voice too chipper.

Charlie nodded slowly. “Sure. Forest green it is.”

In three days, Hermione had:

Purchased an entire set of furniture from a local secondhand shop.

Grocery shopped so aggressively they now had four different brands of tea and more non-perishables than a survival bunker.

Repainted half the living room.

Put up at least a dozen layered magical protections around the perimeter of the property — a mixture of detection wards, repelling charms, anti-Apparition fields, and an aggressive Muggle Distraction hex so strong it made the postal carrier trip over his own feet twice.

She barely slept.

He could hear her in the loft at 3am, pacing, sketching spellwork in charcoal. A dozen unfinished enchantments scattered across parchment.

And she smiled. All the time. That brittle kind of smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

---

On the fourth day, she dragged him out to buy curtains.

“I’ve been thinking soft grey, to keep things calm,” she said, digging through fabric swatches. “Oh, and we need a new kettle. The one here whistles like a dying banshee.”

Charlie followed her through the aisles, mostly silent, watching.

She didn’t stop moving. Every moment, every breath, was filled with a task. It was as if stillness itself was the enemy.

And it worried him.

She had cried, once. Back in the house, that first night. But not since.

Now it was lists, receipts, color charts, and humming along to Muggle radio stations like nothing had ever happened. Like she hadn’t buried twenty-seven friends in three weeks. Like she didn’t wake up gasping some nights with the sheets tangled around her ankles.

“Everything okay?” he asked once, as she debated between vanilla or lavender candles.

She blinked, then grinned. “Perfect! Isn’t this exciting? A fresh start!”

He didn’t push.

But he watched.

Because the higher she climbed into this polished little illusion — this house made of paint swatches and spells — the harder she’d fall when the weight of it hit her.

And Charlie knew: it was coming.

He just didn’t know when.

So he stayed close.

—

The knock came just after noon.

Hermione had just finished charming the spice rack to alphabetize itself and was halfway through reorganizing the cutlery drawer by magical utility — teaspoons here, anti-venom stirrers there — when Charlie (Weasley) looked up from the newspaper he was pretending to read.

She was already striding toward the door, smoothing her blouse and tucking a loose curl behind her ear.

When she opened it, the cool scent of pine and rain drifted in — along with a tall man in a sheriff’s jacket, holding a box of doughnuts and looking mildly uncomfortable.

“Afternoon,” he said, giving a polite nod. “I’m Charlie Swan. I live next door.”

Hermione froze for half a second — enough that her Charlie noticed — but then her smile flickered to life like a well-practiced spell.

“Oh, hi! That’s so kind of you — come in!”

He hesitated, as though unsure if it was polite to accept the invitation, but Hermione had already stepped aside and ushered him into the kitchen.

Charlie Swan glanced around, taking in the freshly painted walls, the aggressively clean countertops, the smell of lavender and something very slightly burnt.

“This is lovely,” he said, genuinely. “Bit more life than the last folks had. They kept everything covered in plastic. Like a murder house from a TV show.”

Hermione laughed — too brightly.

Behind her, Charlie Weasley raised an eyebrow.

“We’re still settling in,” she said, tucking the box of doughnuts onto the table. “But I figured why not start with the kitchen? Nothing says new beginning like baking spices and clean surfaces.”

Charlie Swan gave her a slightly surprised look. “You’re British.”

“Yes,” she said, brushing invisible dust off her sleeves. “Born and raised. Just… looking for something quieter, I suppose.”

He nodded, his gaze kind. “You’ll find plenty of quiet here. Some might say too much.”

She smiled again. Charlie Weasley could practically hear it creaking.

---

They sat for tea, at Hermione’s insistence, and talked about the weather, Forks’ only grocery store, and how to tell when a deer’s about to cross the road (“They look guilty,” Swan deadpanned. “Like they know you’re coming.”)

Hermione laughed in all the right places. She made polite conversation. She handed Swan a mug of tea he hadn’t asked for and listened to him talk about his daughter’s recent move back to town. Every movement was smooth. Measured. Controlled.

But Charlie Weasley was watching her hands.

They were too still. Hermione’s hands were never still when she was truly relaxed. She wasn’t twirling her spoon. She wasn’t fidgeting with her hair or tucking a bookmark into her planner. She was holding the mug like it was a lifeline.

Charlie Swan, for his part, seemed to notice something too. His words slowed a little. His tone gentled.

“Well,” he said, finally setting his mug down and standing with a slight grunt. “Didn’t mean to take up your whole afternoon. Just thought I’d say hello. If you need anything, I’m right next door. House with the truck in the driveway and a slightly judgmental cat.”

Hermione smiled, standing to walk him out. “It was lovely to meet you. Thank you again for the doughnuts.”

Charlie Swan hesitated at the door. His eyes flicked briefly to Charlie Weasley — two men sharing a subtle, wordless understanding.

“Take care of each other,” he said simply. Then he tipped his hat and left.

---

When the door closed, Hermione turned, still smiling.

“Well, that went well, don’t you think?”

Charlie Weasley didn’t answer right away. He watched her turn toward the kitchen — already reaching for a cloth to wipe a perfectly clean surface.

“Hermione,” he said gently.

She didn’t turn.

“I’m fine, Charlie.”

The cloth scrubbed harder.

He didn’t push.

But he watched her hand start to shake.

—

Grimmauld Place | 3 days ago

The house was too quiet.

Harry sat at the old kitchen table, the one Molly had once filled with food and laughter, now scattered with opened envelopes and tea rings. A fire crackled softly in the grate, but it didn’t touch the cold he felt in his bones.

He’d read her letter twice already.

Hermione’s handwriting was shakier than usual. Still neat — it had to be neat — but Harry could see the pressure of the quill, the occasional smudge where she’d hesitated or wiped a tear that he knew she’d never admit to.

> Harry,
I need to go. I know you’ll understand why, even if it hurts. I can’t be here anymore. Every corner reminds me of someone I lost, of something I failed. And I can’t keep pretending I’m okay. I’ve done enough pretending to last me a lifetime.
I’m going to start over. Somewhere no one knows me. Somewhere I don’t have to be the clever one, the strong one, the survivor.
Charlie’s helping me. Please don’t be angry with him.
I’ll write when I can. I just… I need space to breathe.
I love you. Always.
Hermione.

Harry exhaled slowly, pressing the letter flat on the table like he could iron out the ache it left behind.

“I should’ve seen this coming,” he muttered aloud. “You were barely hanging on.”

He thought of the funerals. The way she stood like a statue. The dress that never changed. The way her eyes never met his.

Guilt rose like bile in his throat. He’d been too wrapped up in his own pain, too relieved to be alive to notice that she wasn’t living at all.

He reached for a piece of parchment and began to write.

---

> Hermione,
You don’t owe anyone an explanation, not even me. But thank you for giving one anyway.
I’m proud of you. For leaving. For choosing yourself, finally.
I miss you already. Ron’s trying to pretend he’s not mad, but he keeps burning toast and calling it “a tactical error.”
The Burrow’s quieter without you. The world is, really.
Just… be safe, okay? And don’t vanish completely. Write when you can.
You were never a failure. Not once.
You saved me. A thousand times over.
Love,
Harry.

---

Forks | Present day

The owl arrived just before dinner — a sleek barn owl with tired wings and Harry’s handwriting across the parchment.

Hermione’s fingers trembled when she took it. Charlie watched her from the doorway, silent, not intruding.

She didn’t open it right away.

She set the letter on the mantel. She lit candles. She stirred the stew she wasn’t going to eat. She adjusted the position of the lamp in the living room.

Finally, when the sky had gone completely dark, she sat on the edge of the sofa and opened the letter.

She didn’t cry at first.

She just read it. Once. Then again.

Her hands clenched around the edges. Her jaw tightened. And then—

The letter slipped from her fingers.

And she folded in on herself like paper in the rain.

Charlie didn’t ask. He just crossed the room and sat beside her, close but not touching.

She gasped once — sharp, like the first breath after drowning — and then the tears came, silent and violent, like a dam breaking.

“I couldn’t fix it,” she whispered, choking. “I couldn’t save them. And I left. I left you all behind.”

Charlie reached out, slowly, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“You survived,” he said. “You didn’t leave us. You’re just trying to find yourself again.”

“I don’t know who that is anymore.”

“That’s okay,” he said softly. “You don’t have to. Not yet.”

She leaned into him, finally, the first true movement of trust in days. Her sobs came in waves — messy, human, real — and he held her through every one.

Outside, the rain returned — quiet and steady. The house held its breath around them, and Hermione, for once, stopped pretending to be okay.

Chapter Text

It had been four days since the letter arrived.
Four days since Hermione had broken down on the living room floor, sobbing into Charlie’s jumper until she passed out on the couch.

She hadn’t left the house since.

She’d wandered from room to room like a ghost, tidying things that didn’t need tidying, reorganizing kitchen shelves she’d charmed to organize themselves. Her spellwork had gone sloppy — not dangerous, but absent-minded. The tea she summoned floated to the wrong hand. The candles she lit sometimes guttered out mid-incantation.

Charlie didn’t comment.

He just started making her a fresh cup of tea in the mornings. Ate breakfast at the kitchen island so she wasn’t sitting alone. Pretended to lose track of time reading on the couch so she wouldn’t notice he never really left her alone for more than twenty minutes at a time.

But this morning, he’d had enough of pretending.

She stood in front of the pantry, staring at three different boxes of oatmeal like one of them might blink first, when Charlie leaned on the counter and said, casually:

“I heard there’s a café in town that does decent coffee. Locally roasted. You in?”

Hermione didn’t look up. “I’m fine with the tea here.”

“Right. You’ve also had the same cup reheated three times today.”

She blinked, as if surprised to be called out. “I just haven’t been that hungry.”

He gave her a look — soft, but firm. “You haven’t been outside, Hermione.”

She set the oatmeal down. “I just… don’t feel ready.”

“I know,” he said. “And I’m not asking you to hike the bloody rainforest. Just a coffee. A twenty-minute walk. We sit, we people-watch, we come back.”

She hesitated. Her shoulders stiffened the way they always did when guilt tried to wear her skin like a cloak.

“What if I see someone?”

“In Forks?” he asked gently. “You’ve been here two weeks and talked to exactly one person not named Charlie — and that one wears a badge and brings doughnuts.”

A reluctant flicker of a smile touched her lips, brief and dim.

“Fine,” she said, after a long beat. “Twenty minutes.”

Charlie raised his eyebrows. “Make it twenty-five and I’ll pay.”

“Deal.”

---

The café sat at the corner of Main Street, tucked between a secondhand bookshop and an all-season fishing supply store. The kind of place that smelled like cinnamon and cedar and tried too hard with their chalkboard signs.

It was busier than Hermione expected — not crowded, but alive in the way she hadn’t been for weeks. She froze just inside the door.

Voices. A barista calling out names. The hiss of steam. A toddler giggling in a corner booth.

Her breath hitched.

Charlie touched her elbow lightly. “Window seat’s free.”

She nodded stiffly and let him steer her toward it. The table was warm from sunlight and the menu printed in curly font.

“I’ll order,” he said, not waiting for her to protest. “Your usual?”

“I don’t have a usual.”

“You will.”

She let him go, her eyes tracking the room without really seeing it. The clink of ceramic cups felt louder than it should. The laughter at the next table too sharp.

But then her coffee arrived — thick and dark and laced with something vanilla-sweet — and she focused on the warmth in her hands.

“See?” Charlie said, settling in across from her. “Just coffee. No dragons.”

She sipped.

It was good.

“I don’t know what to do,” she murmured, not looking at him.

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “You’re doing it.”

“Is this it? Just… breathing and pretending?”

“Some days, yeah.”

She stared into the swirl of cream in her cup. “I feel like I’m waiting for the guilt to go away.”

Charlie was quiet a moment. Then: “I don’t think it does. Not completely. But it gets… smaller. Less heavy. Especially when you stop carrying it alone.”

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t look away either.

Outside, someone walked by with a golden retriever wearing a yellow bandana. Hermione’s lips twitched.

“You thinking about getting a dog?” Charlie asked.

“Don’t tempt me,” she murmured. “I’d name it Regulus and teach it to bark in Latin.”

He grinned. “That’s the most Hermione Granger sentence I’ve heard since the war.”

And she laughed. Quietly. Honestly.

Just once.

But it was a start.

—

The day started well enough.

Hermione had woken up early, charmed the windows open, and made tea without spilling it. She'd even opened her notebook — the one she still hadn’t written a single word in — and scribbled a few sentences about the smell of rain in the Pacific Northwest.

Charlie had left for work reluctantly, pausing at the door.

“You’ll be alright for a few hours?”

Hermione rolled her eyes with a smile. “I’m not made of glass, Charlie.”

He didn’t look convinced. “Just… don’t overdo it.”

She had nodded. And then, the second he was gone, she'd started scrubbing the kitchen grout.

It had started small — just a little cleaning charm to freshen the sink. But then she saw a smudge on the tile, then a crooked floorboard near the pantry, and then…

Hours passed. She skipped lunch. The tea went cold. Her magic flickered unevenly with every spell — a warning she ignored.

When she stood too quickly after crouching near the baseboard, her vision went white. A wave of dizziness swept over her. She staggered, breath caught in her throat.

And then her legs gave out.

Hermione hit the hardwood floor hard, head cracking against the edge of the low cabinet. The world tilted, spun, and went black.

---

Charlie Swan was just stepping onto his porch with a mug of coffee when he heard it — a distant thud, followed by a sound like glass shattering.

He frowned, looking across the small strip of trees separating his house from the rental. Birds scattered from the treetops.

Instinct kicked in.

He set down his mug and crossed the lawn, badge tucked into his belt, hand already going for the front door.

He knocked — hard. “Hermione? You okay in there?”

No answer.

Something cold curled in his gut. He didn’t hesitate — the door wasn’t even locked. He pushed it open.

“Hermione?”

Still nothing.

Then he saw her. Crumpled on the kitchen floor, hair fanned around her face, blood from a shallow cut at her temple trailing down her cheek.

“Jesus—” He was at her side in seconds. “Hermione? Can you hear me?”

She didn’t stir.

He pulled his phone with a shaking hand and called for backup — but not the local ambulance. This needed someone who knew how to handle weird injuries. Someone quiet, trusted.

Someone like Dr. Cullen.

—

Hermione stirred again, slower this time. Her vision cleared enough to make out the high white ceiling and the steady beeping of a monitor beside her bed.

The scent of antiseptic filled the air — sterile and clean, with a strange undertone she couldn’t place. Something cold. Almost metallic.

Then she noticed the man beside her. Tall, still, unnervingly graceful. A doctor’s coat. Pale skin like porcelain. Gold-flecked eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the sterile light.

“Welcome back,” he said gently.

Her instincts prickled.

Most people had noise to them — twitches, scent, breath. This man had none. He moved without sound, stood without shifting weight. His smile was perfect.

Too perfect.

She blinked, schooling her face into neutrality.

“Where am I?”

“Forks General,” he answered. “You collapsed at home. Your neighbor heard the fall and brought you in. You’ve got a mild concussion, nothing serious.”

She blinked again. “How long was I unconscious?”

“Only a few hours. We’ve run scans. Your vitals are stable. But you were severely dehydrated.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying her. “You’re… new to town, yes?”

She nodded once. “Hermione Granger.”

He offered his hand. “Dr. Carlisle Cullen.”

His skin was cold when she touched it. Not cool — cold. Like marble left out overnight.

Hermione didn’t flinch. But her mind filed it away.

There was no trace of a pulse.

No sound of breath.

No heartbeat.

And his eyes — warm-colored but flat, like glass pretending to be honey.

She let go of his hand and gave him a polite smile. “I suppose I should thank Officer Swan, then.”

“He was very concerned,” Carlisle said. “He said your friend Charlie was out for the day.”

Hermione nodded absently.

Carlisle scribbled something on her chart with unnecessarily elegant handwriting. “You should rest a bit more before discharge. Try to take it slow. Don’t overdo it.”

“I wasn’t doing anything,” she muttered. “Just cleaning.”

He gave a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sometimes that’s worse than doing something.”

She tilted her head at him, watching the faintest twitch of discomfort. He didn’t like being watched too closely, she could tell.

“You’ve worked here long?”

“A while,” he said smoothly.

She narrowed her eyes, her voice casual. “You don’t sound like you’re from Washington.”

“I’ve moved around a lot. Spent time abroad.”

“Medicine?”

“Yes.”

She didn’t ask where — or when. But she noted the odd phrasing, the vagueness. His accent was neutral, old-school — too polished to be truly local.

Hermione smiled to herself.

Not a wizard. Not a Muggle, either. No scent. No heartbeat. Ageless.

She’d read about creatures like this. Heard whispered stories in the Restricted Section. Pale predators who walked among humans unnoticed — careful, elegant, deadly.

Her gaze lingered on him just a second too long. His golden eyes flicked to her, sharp.

Something unspoken passed between them.

She didn’t say a word. And neither did he.

---

Charlie Weasley arrived in a rush an hour later, all frantic hair and panicked muttering. He demanded a full explanation, which she gave — leaving out exactly what she’d felt about the doctor.

Once they got home, he helped her settle into the couch, pressing a mug of tea into her hands.

“You’re scaring me,” he said quietly. “You can’t keep burning yourself out.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers curled tighter around the warm ceramic. “I was trying not to think.”

Charlie sat beside her. “You’re not alone anymore, Hermione. You don’t have to carry all of it by yourself.”

She closed her eyes.

No. But some things she still couldn't say.

Not yet.

Especially not about the doctor with no heartbeat.

—

The house was still.

Charlie had finally gone to bed after making her promise she’d rest — which she had, just long enough for him to fall asleep. The minute she was sure he wouldn’t come check on her, Hermione slipped out from under the knitted blanket and padded barefoot into the guest room that was slowly turning into her study.

It was the only room in the house that truly felt like hers.

Stacks of books lined the desk and walls — mostly magically warded tomes she’d smuggled from the Room of Requirement during the battle, others she’d acquired after the war when she couldn’t sleep and needed something to do.

Tonight, her fingers hovered over one title in particular: The Hidden Ones: A Compendium of Preternatural Creatures.

She pulled it from the shelf and set it down gently, brushing her fingertips across the leather cover. Her heartbeat ticked louder in her ears, but it wasn’t fear — it was anticipation.

She opened it slowly, like meeting an old friend.

“There are creatures who walk among Muggles unnoticed. Some live quietly. Others hide in plain sight. Few are truly immortal. Rarer still are those who feed on life to sustain their own…”

Hermione flipped to a worn tab she remembered from her sixth year — the one she had marked during an obsessive month spent cataloging every non-human species known to exist.

The vampire section was long. There were countless regional variations, most of them monstrous, barely sentient. But then she saw the entry that caught her attention:

The Cold Ones
Known Names: The Pale Ones, The Silent Death, The Northwalkers
Notable Traits:
– No heartbeat
– Cold skin
– Preternatural beauty
– Exceptional speed and strength
– Gold or red eyes (depending on dietary choice)
– Strong resistance to detection charms
– Frequently mistaken for ghosts or fae
Feeding: Human blood (though rare cases of animal substitution have been recorded)
Known Covens: Olympic Range (disbanded, presumed extinct)…

Hermione paused.

Olympic Range.

She glanced toward the dark window. The towering shadow of the mountains loomed beyond the trees.

Not extinct, then.

She tapped her quill against her lips, the familiar rhythm grounding her. For the first time in days, she felt focused. Present. Alive.

Her mind spun with theories.

Was he the only one? Were there more? Did Forks know?

And most importantly… what did they want?

Her eyes flicked down to the paragraph again. A line near the end sent a chill down her spine:

“Some Cold Ones form long-standing covens, adopting mortal lives to blend into human society. These vampires may show signs of emotional evolution — remorse, restraint — but their nature remains unchanged. They are still predators.”

Hermione closed the book slowly and pressed her hands flat to the table.

She wasn’t afraid. Not yet. She had lived through worse than a quiet predator playing house in a rainy town.

But something ancient moved through this place.

And she was done pretending not to notice

Chapter Text

The soft pop of a magical light orb flickering to life filled the study, casting golden shadows across the room. It was nearing midnight, and the rain outside tapped rhythmically against the windows, but Hermione didn’t notice.

She was on her knees in front of the largest trunk in the house — the one she’d charmed to be featherlight, the one she hadn’t opened since the end of the war. The one labeled simply: H.

Inside were her books. Not just any books — her books. Charms, Transfiguration, Advanced Defensive Theory, Arithmancy, her self-annotated Magical Creatures Index, and half a dozen forbidden tomes she’d “borrowed” from the Restricted Section under a Disillusionment Charm in her sixth year.

She lifted each volume reverently, dust trailing behind them like memories. Her hands didn’t tremble this time.

They wanted to. But they didn’t.

She moved with purpose, placing volumes in neat piles across the floor: Known Magical Beings, Rare Dark Creatures, Animagus Registry Archives, Magical Anomalies, Unclassified Magical Threats, and finally, her own battered leather notebook — the one she'd kept through all seven years at Hogwarts, filled with spells, observations, theories, and hurried war-time scribbles.

Charlie leaned against the doorway, arms crossed loosely, watching.

He didn’t say anything at first.

He just watched her. Moving. Alive. Focused.

And not smiling, but not empty, either.

“I haven’t seen you pull out that notebook since… well. A long time,” he said quietly.

Hermione looked up, a strand of hair stuck to her forehead. She was surrounded by stacks of books and parchment rolls, her wand tucked behind her ear like a quill.

She looked like herself.

Or like a version of herself trying to crawl out of a cave.

“There’s something off about a man I met,” she said simply. “Something… old. Cold.”

Charlie arched an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt.

Hermione took a breath, her fingers brushing the edge of her Magical Beasts and Beings: Cursed or Coexisting? copy. “He was kind. Gentle, even. But there was no sound to him. No breath, no heartbeat, no warmth. His hands were like ice, and his eyes—” she paused, swallowing—“his eyes were gold.”

That made Charlie shift. “Not a wizard?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Not magical. Not like us. Not fae. Something else.”

“Dark?”

She hesitated. “Not necessarily. Just… wrong.”

Charlie pushed away from the doorway and stepped further in. “You want help?”

A soft smile tugged at her lips. “Only if you want to alphabetize the creature archive.”

He snorted. “That’s a no.”

But he sat down on the edge of the desk anyway, watching her page through her notes like a woman possessed.

---

Books were everywhere. Diagrams and etchings of ancient beings covered the walls. In the flickering firelight, Hermione looked like a war general planning her next move.

Charlie brought her tea. She didn’t notice until he pressed the mug into her hands.

“You’ve been quiet for a while,” he said, crouching down beside her. “Found something?”

Hermione’s voice was low. “I think I know what he is. But not who.”

She opened a page with a careful hand: The Cold Ones. Pale predators. Eyes gold with restraint. Quiet. Dead, but not decayed.

The words were haunting.

“I need to cross-reference with the Grimmauld Place library,” she said, almost to herself. “There were older tomes there. Pre-reform Ministry editions. Banned lore. I’ll have to ask Harry if I can go.”

Charlie stiffened slightly — not unkindly — and Hermione noticed.

“I haven’t written to him since we left,” she admitted softly. “I’ve tried. I’ve started letters. But…”

“He’s your best friend,” Charlie said. “He’ll want to help.”

Hermione nodded once. Then, quietly, “Do you think I made a mistake, leaving?”

Charlie didn’t hesitate. “No. I think you saved yourself.”

She exhaled slowly. “I’ll write him.”

---

She sat at the dining table, her best handwriting charm active but unused. She wanted this to be in her own hand — imperfect and real.

> Dear Harry,

I hope you're well — I know, we haven’t spoken since I left. I'm sorry for that.

I didn’t know how to be around anyone after the war. I still don’t. But I’m trying.

There’s something strange here. A man I met at the hospital. Not a wizard, not a Muggle. Something else. I’m researching, and I could really use access to the old library at Grimmauld Place — if it’s still intact.

You don’t have to respond. But I hope you will. I miss you.

Always,
Hermione

She sealed it with a charm and sent it off through the charmed parchment channel Charlie had set up for her in case of emergencies.

Then she sat back and breathed.

Charlie entered the kitchen quietly and placed another mug of tea beside her. “You look better,” he said.

Hermione smiled faintly. “I feel… not better. But awake.”

“That’s enough for now.”

And for the first time in weeks, Hermione slept dreamlessly.

—

It arrived two days later.

Hermione was sitting on the floor of her study, cross-legged with a book cracked open in her lap, when a folded parchment appeared midair with a soft pop. It hovered for a moment, then drifted gently down into her lap.

She didn’t move at first.

Her fingers stilled on the page. Her breath caught.

It was Harry’s handwriting on the outside. Instantly recognizable. Slanted, a little uneven, always too large.

She ran a thumb across her name before unfolding it with careful hands.

The parchment was warm, like it had been pressed close to his chest before he sent it.

---

> Hermione,

I don’t even know how to start this. I've written to you a dozen times since you left. None of them were good enough. None of them said the right thing. So I never sent them.

You don’t have to apologize to me — not for leaving, not for staying silent. I get it. I do. I haven’t really talked to anyone either. Ron's in Romania now, training with dragons. Ginny’s back with the Harpies. Everyone’s moving on and I’m... trying.

I miss you.

So much, it aches.

I'm glad you reached out. Of course you can use Grimmauld Place — it’s yours as much as it is mine. The library is still there, though Kreacher’s locked a few of the older rooms and won't let me in them. He might make an exception for you. He always liked you best.

If you're in trouble, tell me. I’ll come. You don’t have to face anything alone again.

Even if you're just researching something weird and want to pretend it's not about whatever’s hurting you — I’ll help. I want to help.

Just say the word.

Always,
Harry

---

The letter trembled in her hands.

Hermione hadn’t realized she was crying until one of the tear drops splashed onto the parchment. She wiped at it, almost frantic, as if she could undo the proof that she hadn’t healed as neatly as she pretended.

Charlie walked into the room then, holding two mugs.

He paused in the doorway, taking in the scene. Her crumpled shoulders, the shaking parchment, the single name whispered like prayer:

“Harry.”

He set the mugs down and sat beside her silently, not pressing, just letting her breathe.

Hermione finally exhaled. “He wrote back.”

Charlie nodded slowly. “That’s good, yeah?”

She gave a tight smile, still shaky. “It’s very good.”

He handed her a tissue, and after a moment, she chuckled — just once. “He said Kreacher locked him out of part of the library but might let me in.”

Charlie smiled. “I’d pay good money to watch you argue with a centuries-old house-elf about access to forbidden knowledge.”

Hermione folded the letter carefully and pressed it to her chest. “I think… I’m ready to go back. Just for a day. To London. To Grimmauld Place.”

Charlie’s brow furrowed, but he nodded. “Do you want me to come?”

“No,” she said gently. “Not this time.”

He didn’t argue.

---

Hermione sat alone by the window with a cup of peppermint tea, Harry’s letter resting beside her notebook. The stars were unusually visible through the trees.

She hadn’t realized how much she missed him.

Not just Harry the friend — but Harry the constant. The person who had stood beside her through war and heartbreak and loss. The one person who might actually understand why she didn’t want to be seen after the war.

She scribbled a note on the corner of her journal page:
Grimmauld Place — Tuesday. Search: Cold Ones / Immortal magic / Eastern European folklore / Magical resistance to detection spells.

Then underlined it three times.

She wasn’t just surviving anymore.

She had a purpose.

And tomorrow, she would follow the thread — back into the shadows of the past, and maybe, if she was lucky, closer to the truth.

The familiar crack of apparition echoed in the still London air as Hermione stepped onto the worn stone path of 12 Grimmauld Place.

It was darker than she remembered — or maybe it just felt that way because she hadn’t been back in nearly a year.

The old townhouse loomed in the narrow street, wedged between buildings that didn’t know it existed. Its bricks were soot-stained, windows shuttered. Grimmauld Place had never been welcoming, but now it seemed almost... expectant. Like it had been waiting.

Hermione took a breath and stepped forward.

The moment her foot touched the front step, the door swung open.

Kreacher stood in the doorway.

Older. More hunched. But unmistakably himself.

He squinted. “Miss Granger.”

His voice was rough but not unkind.

Hermione gave him a soft nod. “Hello, Kreacher. May I come in?”

He sniffed. “You were always welcome.”

The house groaned as she entered — floorboards creaking, air thick with old dust and magic. The portraits whispered behind covered frames. The chandelier above her head clicked softly as it swayed on its own.

Everything smelled of parchment and fire and something deeper — Black family magic still baked into the walls.

“Library?” she asked.

Kreacher nodded and led the way.

He stopped at the door and looked up at her. “Only you. No one else. Old house remembers.”

Hermione tilted her head. “Remembers what?”

Kreacher’s wrinkled eyes gleamed faintly. “Who fought. Who bled. Who stayed when others ran.”

Her chest tightened, but she said nothing. Just placed a hand on his shoulder in quiet thanks.

The door creaked open.

The library was untouched — as if the war had never touched it. A little dusty, a little cold, but brimming with the scent of knowledge and old spells.

Hermione inhaled it like oxygen.

She moved through the stacks like a woman possessed, her wand lighting sconces as she passed. Fingers trailing across bindings. Eyes scanning spines. She found what she was looking for quickly — a section of obscure magical creatures and historical myths that had been sealed behind a transparent ward.

She muttered a complex unlocking spell, and the shield shimmered out of existence.

Inside were several thick tomes.

“Bloodlines of the Undying,”
“Twilight Lore: Creatures of Cold and Silence,”
“Immortal Aberrations in Muggle Cultures,”
“Mors Vivens: A Treatise on the Living Dead.”

Hermione's hands trembled slightly as she pulled them out one by one and set them on the long, scarred table.

The house watched her work.
It remembered.
And she, for a moment, felt remembered in return.

---

Chapter: Ink and Dreams

Later that night, back in Forks, Hermione lay on the sofa wrapped in one of Charlie’s spare blankets, her fingers still ink-stained from copying notes.

Charlie had come home to find her surrounded by open books, candles melted down to stubs. He didn’t ask questions — just brought her tea and gently tucked a throw pillow under her elbow before leaving her to it.

She didn’t even realize she’d fallen asleep.

---

She stood in the Great Hall.

But it was wrong.

The tables were shattered. The ceiling cracked. Rubble dusted the ground like ash.

She was alone. Wand in hand. Her old Gryffindor tie knotted tight around her neck.

And then she heard it.

Footsteps.

Not Death Eaters. Not Voldemort.

Harry.

He walked toward her, young and scarred and somehow older than he’d been the last time she saw him.

“Hermione,” he said gently.

She turned, and tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them.

“I’m still here,” she whispered.

“I know,” Harry replied. “I am too.”

He held out his hand.

But she woke before she could take it.

---

Chapter: Tea and Letters

The morning sun filtered through the trees. Forks was cold but bright.

Hermione sat at the kitchen table, hair mussed from sleep, pen already in hand.

---

> Dear Harry,

Thank you for Grimmauld Place. It was everything I needed and more.

I found several volumes on Cold Ones — what Muggles might call “vampires,” but these are different. Older. More evolved. Less monstrous in some ways, more dangerous in others.

I think I’ve met one here. He works at the hospital. I don’t think he knows I’m magical. I’m being careful.

Researching again feels… like breathing. Like coming back to myself.

I dreamed of you last night. Of the war. I think it’s time I talked about it.

If you’re up for it, I’d love for you to come by. For tea.

I’ll explain everything.

Love,
Hermione

---

A small enchanted envelope arrived with a pop and Harry’s messy handwriting scrawled on it:

> You make the tea, I’ll bring the biscuits. Saturday?

Can’t wait to see you, Hermione. I’ve missed you more than I know how to say.

Always,
Harry.

Hermione smiled.

She didn’t know what this next chapter held, but for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like she was walking into the dark alone.

Chapter Text

The grocery store in Forks was small — the kind of place where you couldn’t walk three aisles without making awkward eye contact with the same person twice. Hermione wandered the store slowly, fingers grazing items she didn’t need, basket mostly empty. She wasn’t there for food — not really. She just needed to feel like she was doing something.

She was examining the back of a cereal box when a familiar voice called out.

“Hermione?”

She turned to see Charlie Swan standing at the end of the aisle, a bag of apples in one hand and a six-pack of root beer in the other. He wore his usual flannel, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly disheveled in a way that suited him.

“Hi,” she said, her smile tired but real. “Didn’t expect to bump into you.”

“Not a lot of places to hide in Forks,” he chuckled. “This store’s basically the town square.”

She blinked — and laughed. “Careful, you’ll get a reputation for being funny.”

He shrugged, mock-modest. “I do my best.”

His gaze drifted to her nearly empty basket. “Just getting the essentials? Or avoiding the house?”

Hermione hesitated, then offered an honest shrug. “A bit of both. Charlie’s working, and I needed air.”

There was a pause. Then Swan said casually, “How about dinner at my place? Tomorrow night. Just something easy — I cook better when I’ve got company to share it with. You and your friend are welcome.”

Hermione’s brows lifted in surprise. “That sounds lovely. Thank you.”

“Great,” he said. “Six o’clock? I’ll keep it simple — nothing fancy.”

He hesitated. “My daughter might be there too. Bella. She’s... well. You’ll see.”

---

The Next Night

Hermione followed Charlie up the steps to the Swan house, a bottle of wine in hand and polite curiosity in her eyes. Her Charlie had insisted on walking up, even though she could’ve Apparated to the porch from the house — not that anyone here needed to know that.

Charlie Swan greeted them at the door, smiling warmly. “Hey! Come in.”

Inside, the scent of grilled meat and warm herbs filled the space. At the kitchen table sat a girl — thin, pale, long brown hair tucked behind her ears. She looked up as they entered.

“Bella,” Swan said, “this is Hermione and Charlie. They’re new in town.”

Bella’s eyes flicked to Hermione. She gave a polite nod, but her expression didn’t shift into a smile.

“Oh,” Bella said flatly. “Hi.”

Hermione stepped forward, polite as ever. “Nice to meet you.”

Bella’s gaze moved to Charlie Weasley next. Her eyes lingered — just a second too long.

“You’re Hermione’s...?” she asked, trailing off, tone curious and just the faintest bit pointed.

“Friend,” Charlie Weasley answered easily, stepping beside Hermione. “We relocated together. She’s the brains of the operation, though.”

Bella tilted her head slightly, smile tight. “Right.”

Hermione caught the look — the lingering glance Bella gave her Charlie — and felt something twist behind her ribs. It wasn’t jealousy. Not quite. More like annoyance. Irritation at how predictable it was.

Charlie Swan waved them toward the table. “Come sit. Food’s nearly done.”

They sat. Bella said very little — not rude, but clearly uninterested in conversation that didn’t involve herself. She answered questions with clipped phrases and mostly watched Hermione, her eyes occasionally darting back to Charlie Weasley with a kind of calculated sweetness.

It was subtle.

But Hermione noticed.

Charlie noticed too. Halfway through dinner, he shifted his chair slightly closer to Hermione’s. Protective. Quietly possessive.

Bella’s gaze narrowed.

---

Later, Outside

As they stepped into the cool evening air, Hermione exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for hours.

“That,” she said dryly, “was... enlightening.”

Charlie raised a brow. “Bit frosty, wasn’t it?”

“She doesn’t like me,” Hermione said simply.

“No,” he agreed. “She really doesn’t.”

“Because I take up space she wants to own,” Hermione murmured. “And she’s not used to sharing attention. Or losing it.”

Charlie gave a low whistle. “You're a scary kind of observant, Granger.”

She smirked. “Unfortunately, so is she.”

—

The knock came just after noon.

Hermione was curled up in the living room, legs tucked beneath her, a half-read book balanced on her knee and a warm mug of coffee beside her on the windowsill. The clouds outside hung low and silver, and the faint drizzle made the house feel even quieter than usual.

She frowned at the sound — unexpected — and rose, wand discreetly tucked into her sleeve out of habit. When she opened the door, Bella Swan stood stiffly on the porch, holding a small brown envelope.

“Hi,” Bella said. “My dad asked me to drop this off. Said it’s something your friend Charlie left at the station.”

Hermione took the envelope with a polite smile. “Thanks. That was thoughtful.”

Bella lingered, not moving to leave. Her eyes scanned Hermione’s face, her house, then her face again. “You just moved here, right?”

“Recently, yes,” Hermione replied, keeping her voice light.

“From where?”

“London.”

“Why Forks?” Bella asked, arms crossed now. “Kind of a weird choice for someone from London.”

Hermione tilted her head slightly. “I wanted somewhere quiet. Somewhere far away.”

Bella squinted a bit. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” Hermione answered evenly.

Bella blinked. “Oh. You don’t go to Forks High?”

Hermione smiled faintly. “No. I already finished school.”

Bella frowned. “Early?”

Hermione paused, then added, “Officially. Although if you’re going off what my ID says…” She gave a knowing little shrug. “Then I’m twenty-one.”

Bella's eyes narrowed just a bit. “So, you use a fake ID?”

Hermione raised her brows in feigned innocence. “I didn’t say that.”

There was a long beat of silence.

Bella shifted awkwardly, trying to recenter the conversation. “So... how do you know my dad?”

“We met not long after I got here,” Hermione said. “He’s been kind. Helpful. Protective.”

Bella’s expression tightened. “Right. You two seem... close.”

Hermione gave her a look that was polite but not warm. “We understand each other.”

That landed like a brick.

“Anyway,” Hermione continued, gesturing subtly to the door. “Thanks again for bringing this by. I hope your day goes well.”

She stepped back and gently shut the door — not slamming it, but firmly enough to make a point.

---

Outside on the Porch

Bella stared at the closed door, jaw tightening. That had not gone how she expected.

Hermione Granger was more than just odd. She was older, self-contained, and unbothered by Bella’s probing questions.

And that made Bella hate her just a little more.

—

The door to the Forks police station clicked shut behind Bella, her boots clicking lightly across the tile floor.

Charlie Swan looked up from his paperwork. “Everything alright, kid?”

Bella hesitated before answering. “Yeah. I just came back from dropping that envelope off to Hermione.”

Charlie nodded. “Thanks.”

Bella lingered by his desk. “She’s... kind of weird, you know?”

Charlie glanced up again. “She’s new.”

“She told me she’s nineteen,” Bella added quickly. “But she said her ID says she’s twenty-one.”

Charlie raised a brow. “Did she say why?”

“She joked about it,” Bella said with a small shrug. “But it’s kind of suspicious, don’t you think? If she’s nineteen, shouldn’t she be in school?”

“She said she finished,” Charlie replied, voice neutral.

Bella pressed her lips together. “Still, Dad… fake IDs are a felony. And it just seems... strange she’d move here alone from London. At her age. With no job or school. Just… watch yourself, okay?”

Charlie leaned back in his chair. “I appreciate the concern, Bells. But Hermione hasn’t given me any reason not to trust her.”

Bella didn’t respond. She just huffed and left.

Charlie frowned slightly, turning the words over. He wasn’t worried, exactly. But something about Bella’s tone lingered in the air like damp fog.

—

Hermione sat across from Charlie Swan at her small kitchen table, the soft tick of the clock and the gentle rain outside the only sounds for a long moment. She sipped her tea, trying to ground herself, her fingers still cold from digging through her documents.

Charlie watched her patiently. Not pushing, not prying — just waiting. That made it worse somehow.

Finally, she spoke.

“Bella mentioned the ID.”

Charlie nodded slowly. “She said it didn’t match up with your age.”

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment. “It doesn’t. Not exactly.”

She reached down beside her chair and pulled up a thin lockbox. She placed it gently on the table between them and clicked it open.

Inside were several neatly arranged documents. A birth certificate, a few academic records, an international school diploma sealed with gold leaf, and a slim folder with references and legal identification.

Hermione laid them out in order, her voice steady — but low. “Here’s my real birth certificate. Hermione Jean Granger. Born September 19th, 1979.”

Charlie leaned forward slightly, scanning the page.

“I’m nineteen,” she continued, “but the ID I carry now says I’m twenty-one with a different name. It was made for... safety reasons. There were people back in London who knew my name. Knew what I’d done — who I was. Things got bad for a while. After the war.”

Charlie’s eyes flicked up at that. “War?”

Hermione smiled faintly. “Not the kind you’d have heard about. But real. And bloody. And full of losses I still carry.”

She pulled over the diploma next — cream-colored, formal, with the name Rosedale Academy for Gifted Youths in stylized print.

“I graduated already,” she said. “From a highly private boarding school. The kind that doesn’t exist on the usual records. This diploma was made to pass any casual background check or employment screening. The school name, the transcripts — everything is custom-made and cleared through international channels. It’s expensive. But effective.”

Charlie let out a low whistle, more impressed than suspicious. “So... you're saying someone built you a clean slate?”

Hermione nodded. “After everything that happened, a group of us were… helped. Smuggled out. Protected. We were just kids who’d lived through something we shouldn’t have. I don’t want to lie, Charlie. I just don’t want to be found by the people who might still be looking.”

Charlie rubbed his chin, studying the documents again. The seals were pristine. The formatting flawless. The kind of fake only someone with serious resources — or serious trauma — would ever need.

“Is that why you came to Forks?” he asked.

Hermione hesitated. Then: “Partly. I needed quiet. And I had someone nearby I trusted to help me get settled.” She didn’t say Charlie Weasley’s name. She didn’t need to.

Charlie Swan leaned back in his chair, giving her space. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of lies in my line of work. Sloppy ones. Scared ones. The kind that fall apart when you ask the wrong question.”

He tapped her birth certificate gently with one calloused finger. “This isn’t a lie. This is protection. And that’s different.”

Hermione’s eyes stung unexpectedly. She blinked fast.

“I’m not going to ask you to explain more than you’re comfortable with,” Charlie said, voice low. “But if something from that past ever comes knocking... just know I’ll back you up.”

Hermione exhaled shakily and nodded. “Thank you. That means more than I can say.”

A pause passed between them — thick with understanding, with the quiet weight of things not spoken but shared.

Then Charlie gave a small, lopsided smile. “Rosedale Academy, huh? Let me guess — full of secret tunnels, old teachers with weird hobbies, and a curfew nobody followed?”

Hermione laughed — really laughed — and the sound startled even her. “You have no idea.”

—

Bella slammed the fridge shut a little too hard, arms crossed, glaring at her dad like he’d just announced he was marrying a stranger.

“I’m just saying,” she huffed, “it’s weird. You don’t even know her.”

Charlie didn’t look up from his coffee. “I know enough.”

“She has a fake ID, Dad! What kind of adult pretends to be older than they are and hides where they’re from?”

“She’s not hiding anything that matters,” Charlie replied calmly, voice even and low. “She’s nineteen, Bella. She’s not some runaway kid or criminal. She’s been through something.”

Bella scoffed. “Oh, please. That’s what she told you. Maybe she’s just manipulating you. She barely even talks to anyone except her... whatever he is — redhead guy who barely makes eye contact. And don’t pretend you haven’t noticed how she acts.”

Charlie met her gaze then. Stern. Grounded.

“I have noticed,” he said. “I’ve noticed she’s respectful. Keeps to herself. Pays her rent on time and says good morning. That’s more than I can say for half the town.”

Bella flushed, indignant. “So you're taking her side now?”

“There’s no side, Bells. You just don’t like her. That’s fine. But it doesn’t make her suspicious. She’s not hurting anyone.”

“Except maybe lying to everyone?”

Charlie put his mug down a little harder than he meant to. “That’s enough.”

Bella blinked at the tone. Charlie rarely raised his voice. Rarely drew hard lines. But this one was there, firm and unwavering.

“She’s allowed to have a past. So are you.”

Bella looked away, stung and defensive.

Charlie stood, grabbing his keys. “I’m heading into the station. Try to do something useful with your day, yeah?”

---

Scene: The Cullen House — That Evening

Bella stormed into the Cullen living room like a thundercloud in skinny jeans.

Alice looked up from a stack of fashion magazines and grimaced. “You’ve got that ‘someone disagreed with me’ face again.”

“Dad is defending her now,” Bella snapped, tossing her bag onto the couch. “Like full-on protecting her. It’s creepy.”

Edward, who had been flipping through a weathered copy of Paradise Lost, lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. Emmett grinned from the corner.

“You mean Hermione?” Rosalie asked, her voice low and unreadable.

“Yes!” Bella threw up her hands. “She’s sneaky. And weird. She acts like she’s above everyone. Like she’s watching everything but judging it all silently.”

“Sounds familiar,” Jasper muttered under his breath.

Bella ignored him. “And now my dad is like, obsessed with her. He thinks she’s sweet. She has fake documents and some sketchy made-up school, and somehow he’s just okay with that?”

Alice tilted her head. “Maybe he sees something in her you don’t.”

Bella’s eyes snapped to Edward. “Well?”

He looked up slowly, unreadable. “I haven’t spoken to her.”

“But you’ve seen her, right? Read anything in her head?”

Edward blinked once. “No.”

Bella paused. “What?”

“I can’t read her thoughts.”

That landed like a dropped match in a dry forest.

The silence crackled for several seconds before Emmett finally said, “That’s... new.”

“She’s blocking you?” Bella asked, voice rising in disbelief. “How?!”

Edward looked at the window. “I don’t know. But it’s not the same as you. Yours is like... silence. Hers is like static. Controlled. Intentional.”

Bella’s jaw clenched. “Well, whatever. She’s obviously hiding something. And I’m going to find out what.”

Rosalie stood. “Or, you could let your dad be happy talking to someone who actually listens to him.”

Bella turned away, arms folded, fuming.

She wasn’t about to be replaced — not by some secretive English girl who acted like she knew everything. Bella Swan deserved answers. And she’d get them — no matter what it took

Chapter Text

The living room was silent except for the crackling of the fireplace and the rhythmic scratch of Hermione’s quill as she finished signing the letter.

She folded it neatly, sealed it with a charm, and tied it to the small object in her hand — an old bronze watch with a cracked face. A perfect portkey.

With a muttered incantation and a quick tap of her wand, the watch glowed faintly blue before settling into dormancy.

“Alright, Harry,” she whispered, setting the portkey inside the enchanted envelope. “Let’s see if you kept your curiosity after all this time.”

She sent it off with a soft pop, the magic pulling it through the wards. Then she waited.

It only took fifteen minutes.

With a sharp tug of magic and a bright pulse of light, Harry Potter landed awkwardly in the front hallway of Hermione's quiet home in Forks, slightly winded but smiling.

“You gave me a portkey and tea in the same day,” he said, straightening his glasses. “It must be serious or you missed me terribly.”

Hermione let out a small laugh — genuine and warm — the first in weeks. “Both.”

She wrapped him in a tight hug, and Harry hugged her back without question, eyes scanning her over her shoulder with quiet concern. She was thinner. Her eyes were tired. But she felt like home.

---

They sat in the kitchen with steaming mugs and a plate of fresh biscuits between them.

“I needed a connection,” Hermione said finally. “To... something safe.”

Harry tilted his head, brows drawn. “So this is where you’ve gone. Across the Atlantic. With Charlie Weasley?”

She nodded. “Not that kind of ‘with.’ Just... surviving. Starting over.”

Harry sipped his tea, considering. “It’s beautiful. Quiet. A little foggy.”

Hermione chuckled. “You would love that.”

There was a pause, and then Harry said, more gently, “You look better than you did in London, but you don’t look alright.”

She looked down at her tea. “I’m not. But I’m trying.”

Harry reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“I don’t need to fix you,” he said. “But I’ll always show up. Whenever you need me.”

Her throat tightened. “That’s why you got the portkey.”

---

Later that afternoon, they strolled through Forks’ tiny main street. The sky was overcast, and Hermione wore a grey wool coat, the hood up. Harry had his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, looking curiously at each shop window like a tourist.

“It’s almost... quaint,” he said.

Hermione smirked. “If you say rustic next, I’m pushing you into a puddle.”

They shared an easy laugh, their pace unhurried. They looked natural together — close, with that sibling comfort forged in fire and war.

Which is exactly what Bella Swan saw as she stepped out of the local bookstore and spotted them down the street.

Her eyes narrowed immediately.

Hermione Granger, the mysterious neighbour, was smiling. Smiling and talking to a dark-haired man who looked like he belonged in a movie — messy hair, broad shoulders, glasses slightly askew in a charming way.

And he touched her shoulder. Lightly. Casually. But intimately.

Bella stared, unmoving.

She didn’t recognize the man — which made it worse. Hermione never mentioned a boyfriend. Or family. Or anything personal.

So who was he?

Bella’s fingers twitched. She needed to know. And Edward? Edward would find out. He’d know. She could ask him tonight. Or maybe stop by Hermione’s tomorrow. Innocently, of course.

But deep inside, jealousy curdled like spoiled cream.

—
The soft amber glow from the living room lamp bathed the small cottage in warmth, casting flickering shadows across the walls. The scent of cinnamon tea lingered in the air, blending with the faint perfume of old parchment.

Hermione sat cross-legged on the sofa, a thick book open on her lap. Her head rested against Harry’s shoulder, eyes flicking across the page, the worn sleeve of his jumper bunched in her fingers.

Harry lounged beside her, long legs stretched out, his arm resting lightly around her shoulders. He wasn’t reading — he was simply present, his gaze occasionally drifting toward the fire, then back to her face to make sure she was still breathing a little easier.

The war had shattered so much — their innocence, their sense of safety, their families. What remained was this: touch, closeness, and wordless understanding. They weren’t lovers, never had been, but they clung to one another like survivors of the same storm.

Hermione turned a page and snuggled in closer. “You know, I never realized how much I missed this.”

“Being around someone who doesn’t ask if you’re okay every ten minutes?” Harry teased gently.

She smiled against his shoulder. “Exactly.”

Unseen by either of them, a pair of narrowed brown eyes stared through the window from the edge of the property. Bella stood half-hidden behind the hedge, arms crossed, jealousy simmering beneath her skin. The way Hermione leaned into Harry, the way he looked at her — it was too familiar, too affectionate. And she’d never heard of a Hermione in any of Charlie's stories.

“She's hiding something,” Bella whispered to herself.

Behind her, a twig snapped. She flinched, losing her footing on the wet grass and tumbling sideways into a small bush with a loud thud.

---

Hermione was mid-sentence when she sat up straighter.

“That’ll be Charlie,” she said, sensing the approach of his car down the quiet lane.

Harry gave her space to rise and stepped back toward the fireplace, smoothing his jumper. “Should I behave like a model citizen or subtly terrify your neighbor?”

“Try friendly first,” she said dryly.

A knock followed moments later.

Hermione opened the door to find Charlie Swan standing there, holding a six-pack of root beer and looking mildly sheepish.

“Thought I’d stop by like you asked,” he said. “Didn’t want to interrupt anything.”

“Not interrupting at all. Come in,” she said, stepping aside.

Charlie walked in, nodding at Harry as he took in the room. “You must be the friend from London.”

“Harry Potter,” he said, shaking Charlie’s hand. “Thanks for keeping an eye on Hermione.”

Charlie raised a brow. “She’s been easy to watch, hasn’t left the house since she moved in.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’ve been nesting.”

“Or isolating.”

“I prefer nesting.”

The three shared a quiet chuckle, the tension easing.

“Can I offer you some tea?” Hermione asked.

“I won’t stay long,” Charlie said, glancing at his watch. “Just wanted to meet the mystery guest before Bella asked too many questions.”

Hermione and Harry exchanged a glance.

“She’s been... curious,” Charlie added with a sigh.

---

Charlie stepped out of the cottage after a brief chat and handshake with Harry and a promise to stop by again later in the week.

As he reached the foot of the porch steps, he heard a loud crack to his right — the unmistakable sound of someone trying (and failing) to move stealthily through the bushes.

Instinct kicked in. His hand dropped to the torch on his belt, his steps silent as he rounded the side of the house.

“Who's there?”

A groan answered him.

He flicked on the torch.

“Bella?”

His daughter was half in a hedge, looking up at him like a deer caught in headlights.

“I—uh—I was just walking,” she said quickly, pulling herself to her feet. “I thought I saw a fox.”

Charlie’s brow furrowed. “In someone’s side yard?”

She smoothed her hair. “You said you were stopping by. I just… thought I’d say hi.”

His jaw tensed. “From the bushes?”

Bella didn’t answer.

Charlie looked at her for a long, heavy moment. “Get in the car. Now.”

“But—”

“We’ll talk at home.”

With one final glance back toward the warm light of Hermione’s living room, Bella stomped back toward the cruiser, anger and frustration twisting in her chest.

Inside, Hermione watched from behind the curtains, one hand still curled around her mug, the other resting lightly on Harry’s wrist.

“Think she heard anything?” he asked quietly.

“I think she saw enough,” Hermione murmured.

Harry’s lips curled in a faint smirk. “Let her wonder.”

—

The morning after Bella’s failed spying attempt was golden and mild. Sunlight streamed through the windows of the cottage in gentle patches, catching motes of dust dancing lazily in the quiet. It was a rare dry day in Forks — one of those fleeting moments when the world seemed to pause and let the light in.

Hermione stood barefoot in the kitchen, her hair twisted up in a messy bun, humming softly as she whisked eggs in a bowl. The radio murmured something classical in the background, blending with the bubbling of the kettle and the scent of cinnamon and cloves steeping on the stove.

In the living room, Harry sat cross-legged on the floor, halfway through organizing a stack of magical creature books Hermione had pulled from her trunk. He held up one particularly battered volume. “Why is this one labeled ‘Do Not Open While Drunk’?”

“Because the last time I did,” Hermione called over her shoulder, “a boggart took the form of Umbridge wearing my mother’s wedding dress and proposed to me.”

Harry gagged. “That is evil. That is dark magic.”

“Serves you right for touching things without asking,” another voice joined — this one more familiar and full of amused affection.

Charlie Weasley stood in the doorway, a brown paper bag of groceries in one hand and a sleepy grin on his face. His boots were muddy, jeans scuffed, and a streak of soot smudged across one cheek.

“You’re back early!” Hermione beamed, hurrying to the door to take the bag from him. “I thought you weren’t off shift until tonight?”

“Storm moved in over the range — flights got grounded. Figured I’d sneak home and check if you’d already set fire to the kitchen trying to feed this one,” he nodded at Harry, who threw a pillow at him without looking up.

“Good thing I’m the only responsible adult here,” Hermione sniffed, setting the bag down. “Besides, I’m making brunch. Sit.”

Charlie tugged off his boots by the door and made his way to the kitchen table. His eyes softened as he watched Hermione bustle around — charming the toast to flip itself, stirring two pans at once, lips pressed together in quiet focus.

It was a relief to see her like this. Her skin had more color than it had in months, her shoulders looser. There was still pain there — he could see it in the way she sometimes froze when caught off guard, or when her smile dimmed just a little too fast. But today... she looked more like the Hermione he used to know.

“Are we going to talk about Bella falling into a bush last night?” Charlie asked casually, stealing a piece of bacon from the plate.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Eventually. Today I just want one normal day.”

“Define ‘normal’ for us,” Harry muttered. “Because last time you said that, we ended up breaking into Gringotts.”

Hermione waved her spoon at him. “That was an unusual Tuesday.”

They laughed — a sound none of them had made often enough in recent years. It felt good. Easy. Like breathing without a weight on your chest.

Charlie leaned back in his chair, watching the two of them with fond exasperation. “I don’t know how I ended up as the only boring person in this house.”

“You’re not boring,” Hermione said, setting plates down. “You’re just... refreshingly normal.”

Harry added, “You’re like if a golden retriever learned to fly dragons and grill steaks.”

Charlie barked a laugh. “Is that a compliment?”

“Definitely.”

They settled into their meal, the conversation meandering between Hogwarts memories and stories from Charlie’s dragon post. Harry asked about American magical wildlife, and Hermione scribbled down a few ideas for researching local creatures, her eyes sparkling with purpose again.

Hermione laughed, and something inside her eased.

The war wasn’t over. Not really. But here, in this little house in a sleepy, rainy town, with pancakes on the table and people who loved her nearby — maybe she could start to heal.

Chapter Text

Bella paced the length of the Cullens’ sleek living room, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She was visibly agitated, cheeks flushed and eyes darting between her silent boyfriend and the increasingly disinterested faces of his family.

“I’m telling you — something’s off about her,” she said for the fourth time. “She shows up out of nowhere, moves in next to my dad, and suddenly she’s got him wrapped around her finger.”

Rosalie sighed audibly from where she lounged on the arm of the sofa. “We get it, Bella. You don’t like the new neighbor.”

“She’s not just a neighbor!” Bella snapped. “She’s living alone in that house, she has fake ID, claims she’s twenty-one but I know she’s not. She says she’s nineteen — which still means she should be in school — but nobody in town remembers her, she doesn’t have a job, and she acts like she’s some kind of... diplomat or something. It’s weird.”

“And you got all that,” Jasper said mildly, “from what — a single conversation?”

Bella turned to him, frustrated. “Yes! And the way she talks... so polished, like she thinks she’s smarter than everyone. She looked me up and down like I was the one who didn’t belong here.”

Edward hadn’t said a word yet. He sat beside her, jaw tense, hands clasped too tightly.

Jasper, watching closely, tilted his head. “You sure that wasn’t just... your own insecurity?”

Bella whipped around. “Excuse me?”

“I didn’t say you were wrong,” he replied evenly. “I said maybe you were projecting a little. You’ve barely spoken to the girl.”

“I’ve spoken to her enough,” Bella hissed. “She had some guy staying the night — and they were cuddling in her living room like a couple. He was British too. And hot. And my dad was just... fine with it.”

Rosalie raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re jealous because she has two guys' attention and you’re still trying to hoard Edward and your dad?”

Bella spun toward her, eyes narrowed. “I’m not jealous.”

“You keep saying that,” Rosalie said with a smirk, “but it sounds a lot like jealousy.”

“She’s manipulating people,” Bella said through gritted teeth. “Charlie talks about her all the time. He was practically glowing when he introduced us. She’s just some girl he met randomly, and now he’s inviting her and her mysterious British friend over for tea and dinner like we’re all one happy family.”

“And again,” Jasper said, his voice like velvet steel, “you’ve met her once. That’s not enough to start a witch hunt.”

Edward finally spoke, his tone soft but firm. “Bella, if something really is off about her, we’ll find out. But right now, you’re basing everything on a single interaction. You’ve got no proof.”

Bella sat down hard, her expression pinched. “You didn’t see them. The way she looked at him — at Harry — like he was the only person in the world. And they’re not even together, apparently. I asked.”

Rosalie scoffed. “And you believed her, right?”

“She had no reason to lie.”

Jasper raised an eyebrow. “Did you ask, or did you interrogate?”

Bella glared. “I was polite.”

“Right,” Rosalie said under her breath.

Bella turned her gaze to Edward. “Don’t you care that she might be lying to my dad?”

Edward exhaled slowly. “I care that you’re upset. But if Hermione’s done nothing wrong, then maybe she’s just... different. And maybe you’re reading too much into it.”

Bella stood again, pacing once more. “You’ll all see eventually. There’s something going on. I know it.”

She didn’t notice the way Rosalie and Jasper exchanged a look behind her back — half irritation, half concern. And neither of them said what they were thinking:

Bella was spiraling. And Hermione Granger might not be the threat here.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the thick pines, casting golden beams across the cracked sidewalk as Hermione and Harry wandered through Forks’ tiny main street. Hermione had her arm loosely looped through Harry’s as they walked, both sipping from paper cups of tea they’d picked up from the only café in town that knew how to brew something half-decent.

Harry looked sideways at her and smiled. “You look better,” he said softly. “I mean it. There’s color in your cheeks again.”

Hermione hummed. “It’s been nice… walking, being outside. Not being alone. Research helps too.”

Harry chuckled. “You? Finding comfort in books? I’d never have guessed.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but her smile was genuine. “It’s familiar. It makes sense when nothing else does.”

They turned the corner toward the park, where a few scattered benches sat beneath moss-draped trees. Hermione was mid-sentence — something about early magical migration patterns across the Pacific Northwest — when a smooth, calming voice broke through the quiet.

“Miss Granger?”

They both turned. A tall, impeccably dressed man stood just off the path. Dr. Carlisle Cullen looked every bit the model physician: polished, graceful, and unnervingly composed. His blonde hair glinted slightly in the light, and his eyes — golden and impossibly clear — fixed kindly on Hermione.

Hermione offered a polite smile. “Doctor Cullen.”

Harry blinked at him, instinctively straightening. Hermione’s grip on his arm tightened slightly, but she didn’t say anything else. The man gave them both a respectful nod.

“I wanted to thank you,” Carlisle said smoothly, “for the assistance the other day. Officer Swan mentioned how quickly you handled things. I hope you’ve recovered well.”

Hermione nodded. “I’m feeling much better, thank you.”

There was a brief pause. The birds chirped. Someone in the distance revved a lawnmower.

Carlisle glanced between them. “Forgive me — I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Dr. Cullen.”

“Harry Potter,” Harry said, shaking his hand. “Old friend. Visiting for a bit.”

There was the faintest flicker in Carlisle’s expression — gone in a blink, but Hermione caught it.

“Pleasure,” he said, smiling warmly. “You’re both always welcome at the hospital, should you need anything.”

“Let’s hope we don’t,” Hermione said dryly, and Harry chuckled.

Carlisle inclined his head and excused himself with a polite farewell, turning and walking down the path like he barely touched the ground.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Harry murmured, “That man is not normal.”

“Told you.”

“He’s cold,” Harry continued, rubbing his palm. “And no heartbeat. I checked during the handshake.”

Hermione smiled faintly, pulling him toward a bench. “I think he’s a vampire. I’m still narrowing it down.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Forks is weird.”

“It is,” Hermione said, sitting beside him. “But weird is manageable.”

There was a long pause while they watched the wind stir the grass. Hermione finally spoke again, softer.

“I’ve been thinking about applying to the local university. They have an anthropology program and an advanced bioethics module. I think… I think it could help. Ground me a bit.”

Harry looked at her, eyes thoughtful. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“No,” she said honestly. “But I want to try. I think… rebuilding my life might mean building something new.”

Harry nodded. “Then I’ll stay for a while. Help with the vampire research. Maybe sneak into some lectures.”

Hermione smiled, really smiled this time, her eyes lighting up with something brighter than survival.

“You’re going to be a terrible influence on the American academic system.”

“I’ll wear my glasses. They’ll never suspect.”

They laughed, and for the first time in weeks, the sound didn’t feel hollow.

Carlisle entered the Cullen house, his expression unreadable as he pulled off his coat. Mist clung to the hem, and there was a faint tension in his posture — the kind he only carried after encountering something that unnerved even him.

Esme looked up from the armchair. “Everything alright?”

“I met Hermione’s guest,” he said. “Harry.”

Edward looked over the top of his book, eyes narrowing. “The one she said was visiting?”

Carlisle nodded, placing his coat on the stand. “Yes. But he’s… different.”

“Different how?” Jasper asked, tone cautious. He sensed the tension too.

Carlisle paused for a moment before speaking again. “You remember how I once mentioned that there are other hidden worlds besides our own?”

Jasper nodded. Rosalie looked unimpressed. Edward leaned forward slightly.

Carlisle continued. “A world that exists in secret. Powerful. Ancient. Their kind walks beside humans, but outside their notice — veiled by enchantments and rules of secrecy. I’ve seen only traces of them in my lifetime, mostly from a distance. The Volturi tried to make contact centuries ago.”

“You’re talking about… people?” Edward asked slowly. “But not… human?”

“They're human,” Carlisle said carefully. “But not ordinary. They wield… abilities. Magic.”

The word hung in the air.

Esme blinked. “Magic?”

“Yes. And Harry is one of them. So is Hermione.”

Jasper stiffened. “You’re sure?”

Carlisle nodded. “There’s no mistaking it. I could feel it — not in a supernatural sense, but in how the world seemed to bend slightly around him. Not like our presence affects things. Deeper. Older.”

Rosalie frowned. “You’re saying they’re… witches? Sorcerers?”

Carlisle finally turned to face them, hands folded. “The word they use is wizard. The Volturi feared them. Not because of numbers — but because a single one could eliminate an entire coven. They command forces we don’t understand, and they know all about us.”

That got Edward’s attention. “They know about vampires?”

“They do. They’ve known for centuries. And more than that — they know how to kill us. They’ve studied us, written about us, cataloged every weakness. Fire. Decapitation. Sunlight illusions. Their spellwork could replicate all of it, and worse.”

Jasper leaned forward. “Why haven’t we heard of them before?”

Carlisle gave him a tired smile. “Because of a pact. The Volturi negotiated it after their failed attempts at control. A non-interference agreement — we don’t expose them, they don’t expose us. Stay hidden, stay separate. That’s how it’s worked for hundreds of years.”

Edward looked toward the window, frowning. “And now two of them are in Forks.”

Carlisle nodded. “Yes. And not just any two. The boy — Harry — is the one the Volturi whispered about. The one at the center of a war so fierce they refused to get involved. A conflict they feared would spill over into our world.”

Esme looked uneasy. “And now he’s… just having tea with Hermione?”

“They’re close,” Carlisle said softly. “They trust each other in a way I can’t begin to understand. And if we push too hard or let anyone, especially Bella, meddle—”

“She already doesn’t trust Hermione,” Edward murmured.

“Then she must be kept away,” Carlisle said firmly. “We don’t want them to think we’re enemies. Because if the magical world turns against us…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Chapter Text

The forest air was still, the scent of pine and damp moss thick around them. Hermione knelt near a shallow stream, fingers brushing the mossy stones. Harry stood just behind her, wand loosely gripped in one hand, the other resting on his hip as he stared into the woods.

“They don’t leave footprints,” Hermione murmured. “But the energy is unmistakable. Cold. Controlled. Purposeful.”

Harry nodded. “It’s like being near a Dementor, but muted. No soul-sucking—just… something ancient. Predatory.”

They’d both noticed the strange tension lingering in Forks since their arrival. After several magical probes and subtle observations, they finally saw it with their own eyes—blurs in the trees, too fast to be human. Golden eyes. Motionless stares. The Cullens.

“They’re vampires,” Hermione said softly. “But different from the ones in our texts. Controlled. Polished.”

Harry let out a breath. “Then it’s time we introduce ourselves. On our terms.”

---

They didn’t plan to sneak around. That wasn’t who they were. The next afternoon, they arrived at the Cullen household. The wind swept through Hermione’s curls as she stood beside Harry, head high, expression neutral.

Carlisle opened the door before they knocked. He looked more wary than surprised.

“May I help you?” he asked, voice perfectly measured.

“Yes,” Hermione said calmly. “We know what you are. We think it’s time for a conversation.”

The entire Cullen family was present, save for Bella. Edward stood close to the door, clearly tense. Jasper lingered near the window, arms crossed. Rosalie’s eyes narrowed as she observed them both. Emmett grinned, already intrigued.

Carlisle offered them seats, but Harry and Hermione remained standing.

Hermione spoke first. “We’re not here to threaten you. We’ve coexisted with your kind before—though not always peacefully. We’d like to avoid complications.”

Carlisle tilted his head. “And what exactly are you?”

Harry smiled faintly. “Wizards. Magical humans.”

Edward blinked. “You’re not... human?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “We are. Just not ordinary.”

There was a beat of silence before Alice whispered, “So that’s why I couldn’t see you.”

Hermione inclined her head. “Magic has a way of interfering with other supernatural gifts.”

Carlisle leaned forward slightly. “You said you’ve dealt with our kind before?”

“We have texts going back centuries,” Harry said. “Your strengths. Your weaknesses. Your names.”

Jasper tensed. “Are you threatening us?”

“No,” Hermione said evenly. “We’re warning you. We don’t interfere with your lives, you don’t interfere with ours. But if any of you feed on humans in this town—especially with school children or families—we will stop you. Forcefully, if necessary.”

Emmett chuckled, trying to ease the tension. “Alright, I’ll bite—so who’s the stronger one of you two?”

Harry smirked and nodded toward Hermione. “Ask her. She ended the largest magical war in living memory with her brain, wand, and bare hands.”

Jasper’s eyes flicked to Hermione—and froze. A strange pull twisted through him, something raw and foreign. It was bright so bright it hurt his head and for a vampire that was practically impossible he felt a bond to her like no other. That's when it clicked... mating bond. She noticed immediately.

Hermione’s expression softened but her wand hand didn’t twitch. “That’s unexpected,” she said quietly.

Edward’s eyes widened. “Jasper—”

“I know,” he interrupted, voice rough. “I feel it.”

Hermione didn’t flinch. “Don’t push it. I’m not interested in being claimed. We’ve survived too much to be anyone’s anything.”

Rosalie muttered under her breath. Emmett looked between them with the grin of someone watching a duel about to erupt.

Carlisle interjected gently. “You mentioned a war.”

Harry nodded slowly. “The Second Wizarding War. The enemy was something your kind would consider monstrous—a man who tore his soul apart to become immortal.”

Hermione added, “He committed genocide. Torture. Slaughtered entire families, magical and not. We stopped him.”

Alice spoke softly. “You were at the center of it?”

Harry’s voice was quiet. “I was the target. She was the mind that outmaneuvered him. We both carry the cost.”

The Cullens grew quiet. Even Edward didn’t speak. They could feel the weight of the memories lingering behind their words.

Finally, Carlisle said, “Then you understand secrecy. Loss. Survival.”

“We do,” Hermione said. “That’s why we want peace.”

Harry pulled a magically bound parchment from his coat. “A contract. Mutual non-interference. No humans harmed. We’ll protect our identities, and you’ll protect yours.”

Carlisle took it, reading it slowly. “You trust us?”

Hermione answered, “Not entirely. But we’re offering a choice.”

A long pause. Then Carlisle gave a single nod. “You have it.”

Hermione finally sat. “Good. Then maybe we can stop pretending and be neighbours instead of shadows.”

Later

Jasper approached Hermione cautiously as the others spoke quietly.

“You don’t… feel fear,” he said, voice rough. “Not like others.”

Hermione turned to him. “I ran through a battlefield with corpses burning on both sides. Fear is… manageable.”

He stared at her like she was the moon.

Meanwhile, Emmett tugged on Harry’s sleeve. “Spar. Come on. Just once.”

Harry laughed. “You really don’t want that. But if you do—ask Hermione.”

Emmett turned. “Hermione?”

Harry smirked. “She’s scarier than me.”

Emmett looked positively delighted.

The others slowly drifted to their own corners of the house—Emmett and Rosalie retreated upstairs in hushed whispers, Edward stayed near the piano pretending not to watch Hermione, and Carlisle reviewed the magical agreement once more in his study. Harry was outside on the back porch with Alice, quietly discussing magical concealment wards.

Hermione sat alone on the wide couch in the den, cradling a mug of tea she’d politely declined and then accepted from Esme out of courtesy. Her eyes watched the fireplace, though it was just for effect—no real heat, no real wood. Just ambiance.

She didn’t flinch when Jasper sat down across from her, hands on his knees, posture stiff but careful. She could feel his restraint, the way he kept his emotions tightly leashed. But more than that—she felt his effort. To be gentle. To not crowd her.

“I won’t claim you,” Jasper said finally, breaking the silence.

Hermione blinked, surprised by the directness, but relieved.

“I figured,” she said softly. “You strike me as the type to ask before binding someone to anything.”

He chuckled, a dry sound. “Some of our kind aren’t that considerate. The bond can be… primal. Aggressive.”

“Yours isn’t.”

Jasper hesitated. “No. It’s strong. But not consuming. It’s like a tether made of thread instead of iron. I feel it when I look at you, but I don’t feel the need to take anything from you. Just—stay close. Learn.”

Hermione looked into his golden eyes. “That’s the first time someone’s explained it without making me feel like property.”

He nodded. “You’re not. And you never will be. I’d like to know you better, but at your pace. No pressure.”

She studied him, tilting her head. “You were in a war.”

Jasper’s expression didn’t change, but his energy did. He didn’t have to say yes—she could feel it. The ghosts.

“Multiple, technically,” he said. “Confederate soldier. Then decades in the Southern Vampire Wars. I was used as a weapon. Trained to kill my own kind. My hands are stained.”

Hermione didn’t recoil. “Then we’ve both killed people we didn’t want to.”

He looked up, a flicker of genuine empathy passing over his features. “Did it change you?”

Hermione didn’t speak for a long time. Then: “It buried parts of me. And sharpened others. I think the only reason I’m still human is because Harry refused to let me go numb.”

Jasper’s voice dropped, quiet and reverent. “He’s not your bond?”

She shook her head, smiling faintly. “He’s my brother. Not by blood, but by choice. We saved each other in ways we don’t talk about.”

Jasper nodded slowly. “Then he understands.”

Hermione finished her tea and leaned back, finally relaxing into the cushions. “I don’t know what this—” she gestured between them “—means. But you’re not forcing it. That’s… comforting.”

“I’m not in a rush,” Jasper said. “I’ve waited over a century to feel anything real. I can wait longer to see if this turns into something more.”

Hermione looked back at the fire, her voice barely audible. “I don’t want to be owned. But I wouldn’t mind being understood.”

Jasper leaned back in the armchair, folding his hands together. “Then let’s start there.”

The moment the wards of the small, forest-shrouded house closed behind them, Hermione let out a long breath and sagged against the front door. Her head thudded gently against the wood as she shut her eyes.

"That went better than I expected," she muttered, her voice rough with exhaustion.

Harry dropped his satchel by the shoe rack, his lips quirking. “Define better. You mean the part where Emmett nearly broke a tree trying to wrestle me, or the bit where a vampire with Civil War PTSD told you he felt a tether to your soul?”

Hermione groaned. “Don't start.”

“Too late. I’m invested now,” Harry said, flopping onto the sofa and looking far too pleased with himself. “So. Jasper.”

She raised her brows and kicked off her boots. “So?”

“Don’t play innocent, Hermione. I saw the look he gave you. That’s not just ‘huh, interesting human’—that’s ‘I’ll stand in fire if she asked me to.’”

She shot him a glare. “It’s complicated.”

Harry smiled, but the teasing slipped from his eyes. He patted the cushion beside him, and Hermione padded over in her thick socks, curling up under a throw blanket.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the wind brush through the trees outside.

“He said he wouldn’t claim me,” she said eventually, voice small. “He wants to get to know me, but only if I want that too. No pressure. No expectations.”

Harry nodded, eyes still on the flickering fireplace. “He’s got good instincts. You’d hex him into the stratosphere if he tried anything else.”

Hermione huffed a quiet laugh, but it faded quickly.

“I didn’t think I’d ever…” She trailed off, staring at the pattern on the throw rug. “Feel seen again. Not after the war. People look at me and see headlines or scars. He didn’t.”

Harry’s expression turned solemn. “Because he has his own. He recognized yours.”

“I don’t know what this is,” she admitted. “And I don’t want to be swept up in something that’s not mine to carry.”

Harry leaned his head against hers. “Then don’t. You’ve carried enough. Let it be light this time. Let it be yours.”

They sat like that for a while, tangled in silence and understanding.

Eventually, Harry broke it with a grin. “He is quite fit though. For a corpse.”

Hermione elbowed him in the ribs and he wheezed dramatically.

"You're insufferable," she muttered.

"And you're glowing. Just a little. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone," Harry whispered conspiratorially.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered

Chapter Text

The storm cracked open the night like a curse being flung.

Hermione jolted upright in bed, her chest heaving as if she’d been drowning. The sharp snap of thunder echoed again, too close—too violent—and for a split second, she wasn’t in Forks.

She was back at Hogwarts.
The air reeked of burning stone.
Screams, howls, spells—every flash of lightning turned into green light.
The lake became the rubble of the Astronomy Tower.

Her hands were trembling as she threw off her blankets, her wand already clenched between white knuckles before she was fully awake.

Down the hall, a door slammed open.

“Hermione!”

Harry. His voice was panicked, matching the terror roaring in her blood.

She met him halfway down the stairs, both barefoot, both wild-eyed and already soaked with rain from the open door he hadn’t closed behind him. The forest loomed outside like a battlefield waiting to happen, lit up by streaks of lightning that painted the trees in sickly green and silver.

“He’s here. I felt it,” Harry hissed, his wand raised, scanning the trees.

“No one’s here, Harry. It’s just the storm,” she said, though her voice shook like the windows.

Another crack of thunder. Hermione flinched violently, and that was it—they ran.

Through the front yard. Past the garden wards. Into the dark trees like soldiers responding to a call to arms.

The wind howled. The ground squelched beneath their feet. Both had slipped into instinct—silent hand signals, flanking maneuvers, shields half-raised and eyes sharp.

They swept through the underbrush with mechanical precision.

There. A shadow moved.

“Hermione! Harry!” a voice called, low but firm.

They both whirled.

Wands leveled. Adrenaline peaking.

Then—

“Bloody hell, put the damn wands down. It’s me!”

Charlie Weasley emerged from behind a thick spruce, his coat soaked, his ginger hair plastered to his forehead. He looked between them with concern and confusion. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

Hermione staggered, her breath catching on a sob. “We thought—it was—it sounded like—”

Harry pressed a hand to her shoulder, grounding her. His own hand was shaking.

Charlie took one look at them and pulled off his coat, wrapping it around Hermione without hesitation. “C’mon. Back inside. You’re both half frozen.”

Neither noticed the shadow that lingered just beyond the trees, perfectly still.

Edward Cullen watched with narrowed eyes, unease curling in his gut. He hadn’t been able to hear a single thought. Not Hermione’s. Not Harry’s. And for the first time, not even Charlie Weasley’s—his mind was fogged and flaring like a shielded mirror.

He had no idea what just happened.

But he felt the danger thrumming from them. Not fear—power. Power wrapped in old pain and sharper instincts than any human should have.

---

Back inside the house, Hermione sat in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket, her knees pulled to her chest. Harry paced nearby, wand still in hand.

Charlie handed them both hot mugs of tea, lips pressed into a thin line.

“This happen often?” he asked softly.

Hermione met his gaze. “Not usually this bad. The storm…” Her voice cracked. “It felt like the war. I woke up there, not here.”

Charlie gave a silent nod. He didn’t press. He just sat nearby and waited for their breathing to settle, the tea to warm them, the fire to calm the echoes in their heads.

Harry finally sank down beside Hermione, their shoulders touching, sharing warmth like they always did. Wordless comfort between two people stitched together by war.

Outside, the storm raged on.
And in the trees, Edward slipped away, unsettled and deeply aware—

They were not normal humans.
And he was not prepared.

Somewhere inside Hogwarts. Final night of the war.

The castle groaned beneath the weight of battle.

Smoke thickened the air until it choked. Rubble lined every corridor. Screams echoed down the stone walls, far too many to count, and somewhere above them, a dragon roared.

Hermione’s ears were ringing—had been for minutes now, maybe longer. She couldn’t tell anymore.

All she knew was the crushing pressure in her lungs, the burn of spellfire singed into her robes, and the cold reality of blood soaking the front of her shirt. Not hers. Someone else's. She wasn’t sure whose.

A curse exploded near her left, shaking the wall and knocking her into Harry.

He caught her. Always did.

“Are you okay?” he gasped, green eyes wild and locked onto hers.

“I’m fine,” she lied, forcing her voice through a throat raw from shouting. “Where’s Ron?”

Harry shook his head. “We got separated. He was covering the entrance to the Great Hall. I couldn’t—Hermione, we need to move.”

They crouched behind the shattered remains of a stone pillar, the corridor ahead of them lit in flickering green. Two Death Eaters were patrolling, cloaks dragging across the ground like whispers of death. Between them and freedom was a blood-soaked hallway, echoing with distant screams and sharp cries.

Hermione’s wand trembled in her grip.

Not from fear. From exhaustion.

From three days without sleep. From healing others until her magic sparked and snapped painfully beneath her skin. From watching friends—children—fall and not being able to save them.

Harry laid a hand on hers.

It grounded her. Reminded her: We’re still alive.

“I’m not sure I can keep going,” she whispered, teeth chattering though the corridor was stifling.

Harry’s jaw clenched. “Yes, you can. You’ve kept all of us going, Hermione. We don’t stop now.”

He cast a silent Disillusionment Charm over her, his hand lingering on her shoulder a second longer than necessary, just to remind her: I’m here. I’m still with you.

Then he stood, wand raised.

Hermione surged forward with him. They moved like one—no spoken plan, just instinct carved by years of friendship and war. Two spells. Two Death Eaters down.

And then the corridor behind them erupted.

A wall shattered. Dust rained down.

A scream.

“Hermione!”

Flames exploded. She was thrown back, her shoulder smashing against a statue. Pain lanced through her body, but she didn’t let go of her wand. She never let go of her wand.

She tried to stand, her ears still ringing. Couldn’t see Harry.

Then—his voice. Hoarse, desperate. “Stupefy! Protego! HERMIONE!”

She found her footing, just in time to see him shield her from a Crucio with his own body.

He dropped.

She didn’t think. Didn’t breathe.

Magic exploded from her like a dam breaking—blinding white light that ripped through the hallway, sent stone flying, left the two remaining Death Eaters unconscious and twitching against the far wall.

She fell to her knees next to Harry.

He was breathing. Barely.

Her hands hovered above his chest, glowing softly as she pushed every last reserve of magic into him. Her vision dimmed at the edges. She didn’t care.

She would not lose him too.

---

Back in Forks. Present.

Hermione gasped awake, bolting upright on the couch, her book slipping to the floor.

Across from her, Harry stirred. He sat forward quickly, his voice hushed but steady. “Was it the storm again?”

She nodded slowly, her fingers digging into her palms.

“I remembered the corridor,” she whispered. “When you took the curse for me.”

Harry didn’t speak for a moment. Then, “I’d do it again.”

“I know.”

She leaned against him, letting her head fall to his shoulder. He tilted his head slightly to rest against hers.

No words. They didn’t need them.
The storm was over.
But the war had never left them.

Chapter Text

Hermione & Harry — Interwoven POVs

---

Hermione

The castle was burning.
Smoke curled through the corridors, turning the air into a choking haze. Her lungs screamed with every breath, but she couldn’t stop.

They were losing too many people.

She ducked behind a broken pillar, her heart hammering in her chest. The flashes of light outside the shattered windows reminded her of fireworks—but the colours were wrong. These weren’t celebrations. They were death.

“—Hermione!”

---

Harry

He saw her just in time—cornered, her back exposed as a curse streaked toward her.

Harry lunged, dragging her behind a crumbling wall. The green light hit the stone instead, showering them with shards.

She was pale, exhausted, but her eyes still burned. That stubborn fire had carried them this far.

“We have to keep moving,” he said, his voice rough from shouting over battle.

“Where’s Ron?”

“Holding the Great Hall entrance. We’ll find him. First, we get through this corridor alive.”

---

Hermione

Two figures moved ahead, their robes swaying as they stepped over the bodies of the fallen.

She recognised one of the faces—someone who’d once jeered at her in Diagon Alley.
Her stomach twisted, but she didn’t hesitate.

Harry’s Stunner hit the first.
Her own hex dropped the second.

They didn’t look at the bodies as they passed.

---

Harry

The wall exploded behind them.

He hit the floor hard, ears ringing. He saw Hermione thrown into a statue, her wand still clenched in her fist.

A flash of red light.
A voice dripping with cruelty.
Crucio!

He didn’t think—just moved, putting himself between her and the curse.

Pain like liquid fire tore through him. Every muscle locked, his body bowing under it, but he stayed upright because if he fell—it would hit her—

---

Hermione

The curse slammed into him and she froze for half a heartbeat—then rage consumed her.

Light erupted from her wand, blasting the Death Eaters into unconscious heaps.

She was beside him in seconds, her hands trembling as she pushed healing magic into him, ignoring how dangerously low her reserves were.

“Harry—Harry—stay with me—”

His lips moved, but no sound came out. Still, she kept working, because she refused to lose him.

---

Harry

Her magic was burning itself out, but she didn’t care.
He wanted to tell her to save her strength, but the look in her eyes—fear, fury, and something fierce—kept him quiet.

Somewhere distant, the castle shook with another explosion.
They didn’t move.

---

Present — Forks

Thunder split the night, rattling the little house.

Hermione jolted awake on the couch, her pulse racing. Lightning flashed, bright enough to paint the walls in white.

Harry was already awake, his arm still looped around her.

For a moment, they just looked at each other.
Neither of them said I dreamed about that night.
They didn’t need to.

Outside, the rain hammered on. Inside, they stayed close—because they knew what it was like to lose everything in a heartbeat