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Chapter Text

The forest closed in around them, damp and silent. After the desperate escape from the Ministry, the three of them moved like ghosts, setting up camp beneath the heavy branches. Hermione worked quickly, casting protective charms with her usual precision, though Harry noticed the faint tremor in her hands.

On the little table inside the tent, the stolen locket lay gleaming faintly. None of them wanted to touch it. Yet its presence seemed to thrum through the air, waiting.

"I'll take the first turn," Harry said quietly.

Hermione's head snapped up. "Harry, you don't have to—"

"Yes, I do," he insisted, before she could argue further. "We don't know what it'll do if it's left alone. And someone has to bear it."

Ron shrugged, clearly relieved. "Fine by me."

Hermione still looked unconvinced, but she stepped forward, lifting the chain with careful fingers. She fastened it around his neck, and Harry felt the weight at once: cold, suffocating, as though shadows were pressing into his chest.

But then he saw her — standing so close, her hair brushing her cheeks, eyes determined despite her fear — and for an instant, the whispers quieted.

Hermione sat down by the fire, opening one of her books. Harry joined her, the locket cold against his skin. His thoughts were restless, wandering. He thought of Ginny — but the image slipped away quickly, replaced by the girl sitting beside him now. Hermione had been with him through everything. She was the one who stayed, who fought, who believed.

A pang of regret tightened in his chest. Why hadn't I seen it sooner? Before Ron… before Ginny? I should have told her first. I should have asked her before anyone else.

The words slipped out before he could stop them.
"You know, Hermione… I don't think I ever said this, but I like the way you're always two steps ahead of me. Makes me feel like I've got a chance at surviving."

Hermione blinked at him, startled. "No—Harry." But a faint color rose in her cheeks, betraying her.

Hermione sat with a book open across her lap, her brow furrowed as she read.

"If this is right," she murmured, "the Horcrux can only be destroyed by something strong enough to break beyond ordinary magic. Basilisk venom, or—"

"—or Gryffindor's sword," Harry finished, leaning closer to look at the page. He was listening, but not only to her words. Her voice steadied him, even with the cold weight of the locket pressing on his chest.

Hermione nodded, chewing her lip thoughtfully. "Exactly. If we can find the sword, we can—"

Harry tilted his head, pretending to study the page but really studying her. The way her hair fell across her cheek, the way her fingers lingered on the parchment.
"You know," he said lightly, "if Voldemort knew how dangerous you are with a book, he'd have tried to ban you from libraries years ago."

Hermione looked up, startled, color rushing to her cheeks. "Harry—honestly. This isn't the time."

He smirked. "What? I'm just saying — you've already saved me more times than I can count. Maybe I should start carrying books instead of a wand. Might impress you more."

Her mouth opened — then closed again, a reluctant laugh slipping out despite herself. "You're impossible."

"Maybe," he said, eyes gleaming, "but I'm glad you're stuck with me anyway."

From the corner, Ron groaned loudly. "Oh, give it a rest, both of you. I'm starving, and you're making jokes about books and… whatever this is."

Harry's patience snapped, sharp and quick. "Is that all you ever think about, Ron? Food? We just stole a Horcrux out of the bloody Ministry, and you're whining about your stomach?"

Ron's ears burned red. "Sorry for being hungry like a normal person! Not all of us can survive on flirting!"

Hermione's cheeks flamed. She shut the book with a snap. "Enough. Both of you. Harry, take it off — you've worn it long enough. Give it to me."

Harry hesitated, but the irritation pulsing in him made him obey. He tugged the chain over his head, relief washing through him the moment the locket left his skin.

As Hermione leaned forward to take it, her fingers brushed his collarbone. The briefest touch — but it sent a spark through him that no cursed locket could smother. Their eyes met, and Harry almost forgot to breathe.

Hermione quickly fastened the chain around her own neck, her voice steadier than she felt. "My turn," she said, adjusting it, though a faint tremor touched her hands.

The fire crackled. Ron glared at the both of them, saying nothing.

But Harry was still smiling faintly to himself. For the first time in weeks, the shadows inside him seemed just a little lighter.

The locket was colder than Hermione expected. It seemed to press against her collarbone, heavy as guilt, heavy as secrets she had buried for years.

She pretended to return to her book, but her mind wandered — and always toward Harry. The way he'd smiled when he teased her. The way his green eyes softened whenever she spoke.

How did I let this happen? she thought bitterly. First Cho, then Ron, then Ginny… and all the while it should have been me. I've been at his side from the start — I helped him through the Tournament, I believed him when no one else did, I loved every second of DA because it was his idea, his fire.

Her chest tightened. But Ron was always there. Always in the way. Always making it seem impossible to say what I really felt.

She looked up suddenly, meeting Harry's gaze across the flickering fire. He was still watching her, curious, as though he sensed something shifting.

"You know, Harry," she said, her voice soft but deliberate, "sometimes I wonder… did you ever notice me, back then? First year, even. When I fixed your glasses on the train? I thought you might have."

Harry blinked, caught off guard. "Of course I noticed. You practically saved me from walking around blind."

She smiled faintly, leaning just a little closer. "And second year… you went into the Chamber. Not Ron. You saved me. You've been doing that for years."

Harry felt heat rise in his face, but he grinned anyway. "Maybe I just couldn't stand the thought of you being gone. Hogwarts would be boring without you correcting everyone."

Hermione laughed softly — a real laugh, warm, not the forced one she sometimes used to cover nerves. The locket was twisting her thoughts, loosening her guard, but she didn't fight it. For once, she let the truth edge closer to her lips.

"And the lake," she murmured, eyes fixed on him. "Everyone thought you'd save Cho, but you didn't. You chose me. You always choose me, Harry. Even when you don't realize it."

Harry swallowed hard, the air suddenly thick between them. He remembered her face underwater, the way relief had surged through him when she gasped alive again. He wanted to tell her that yes — maybe he had chosen her, even back then.

Ron shifted noisily in his bunk, muttering under his breath. Hermione's smile vanished into a glare in his direction. Always in the way, she thought furiously, clutching the locket. Always making it harder for Harry to see me.

But when she turned back, her expression softened again. She tilted her head at Harry, almost shy but with a spark in her eyes.
"Maybe you should have asked me to the Yule Ball," she teased quietly.

Harry chuckled, though his pulse was racing. "Maybe I should have."

For a long moment, silence hung heavy, charged with things unsaid.

The locket burned cold against Hermione's skin, but for the first time, she didn't feel its poison dragging her down. She felt… lighter. As though speaking these truths, even cloaked in teasing, was breaking a chain she had bound herself in for too long.

She shifted closer, lowering her voice. "I think you underestimate how much I need you too."

Their eyes lingered, unspoken words hanging between them.

Finally, Ron snapped, "My turn." His voice was harsh. Hermione stiffened, but she pulled the chain over her head and thrust it toward him.

The moment it left her, relief flooded her face — and Harry smiled at her, openly, warmly, as if she had just lifted a mountain from his shoulders. She smiled back, cheeks glowing, the tension between them soft but undeniable.

Ron snatched the locket and shoved it over his head.

Instantly, the Horcrux hissed into his mind: Look at them. Look at the way they see each other. You've already lost her. He's stealing her from you. Harry Potter — the thief of everything.

Ron's vision blurred with heat. He glared at them — at Hermione's soft laughter, at Harry's steady eyes fixed on her.

"The thief," he muttered under his breath, voice shaking.

Neither of them heard him.

Chapter Text

Ron hunched by the fire, the locket glinting darkly against his chest. His shoulders were tense, jaw set, eyes fixed on the flickering flames as though they might answer the questions clawing at him. The Horcrux's whispers were relentless, crawling into his mind like poison.

Look at them… laughing together while you starve. She doesn't need you. She never did. You're nothing beside him. Harry Potter — the chosen one, the hero, the thief.

Ron's spoon clattered against the rim of the pot. The stew barely deserved the name — watery, thin, the flavor of roots and bitterness. His stomach growled, but worse than hunger was the ache that hollowed his chest.

Hermione's voice carried through the tent, low and certain, as she explained something in one of the thick tomes she pored over daily. Harry leaned closer, his brow furrowed, hanging on every word. And she — she smiled, that quick, proud smile she wore when she knew she was teaching someone something important.

She's brilliant, Ron thought bitterly. Brilliant enough for Harry. Always clever, always right. She doesn't deserve someone like me — thick-headed, slow, just… ordinary. She's wasted her time with me.

The locket hissed in agreement. She knows it too. She would never choose you, not really. You're the Weasley boy, the shadow. In your family, in your friends. Look at you, always second-best, always trailing behind. She'll leave you for him. They all will.

Ron's grip tightened on the spoon until his knuckles went white.

"You two finished plotting yet?" he snapped suddenly, the words spilling out like venom.

Harry looked up, startled. "We're just—"
"Just what? Whispering? Planning something without me?"

Hermione's head jerked up, eyes flashing. "Don't be ridiculous, Ron. We're trying to figure out how to destroy the Horcruxes — the very thing you've been sulking!"

Ron's face darkened, but he turned back to the fire, muttering under his breath.

The locket pulsed cold against his skin. She defends him. Always him.

Harry's Turn with the Locket

The morning was grey, a thin drizzle pattering against the tent. Harry pulled the locket over his head, the heavy chain dragging against his skin. A chill spread through his chest the instant it touched him, like ice seeping straight into his blood.

Hermione sat by the flap of the tent, her quill scratching furiously across parchment as she tracked their route again. Stray curls framed her face, lips pursed in thought, her eyes fierce and determined.

Harry caught himself staring.

She's always been like this… clever, stubborn, beautiful—
The thought came unbidden, sharp enough to make him wince. His stomach twisted with guilt. Ginny's face flashed in his mind — laughing at the Burrow, fire in her eyes. But the memory slipped away like smoke, paling against the warmth of Hermione's presence in front of him.

The locket pulsed against his chest. She's here, not Ginny. She understands you in ways no one else can. She's fought beside you, bled beside you. Isn't she the one you trust most?

Harry swallowed hard. He forced his eyes down to the map, but the words slipped out before he could stop them.
"You're… brilliant, you know that?"

Hermione looked up, startled, a faint blush blooming across her cheeks.
"Harry—" she began, but her voice faltered. For once, she didn't scold or lecture. She just looked at him, eyes wide, lips parted as though she wanted to say something but thought better of it.

Ron shifted noisily by the fire, his shoulders tense. He stabbed at the stew pot with unnecessary force, the ladle clanging against the rim.
"Yeah, brilliant," he muttered under his breath. "We all know that."

Harry blinked, guilt burning hotter than the locket's chill. He wanted to snatch the words back, but the damage was done. Hermione ducked her head quickly, scribbling on her parchment as though nothing had happened, though her hand trembled slightly.

The silence that followed felt heavier than the rain outside.

But later that evening, when Ron disappeared outside to gather wood, Harry drifted to Hermione's side. He sat close enough that their shoulders brushed as she scribbled furiously in the margins of maps and reference guides.

"See? If we cross-reference this with Bathilda Bagshot's notes, there might be a pattern," she said, eyes shining despite the shadows under them.

Harry leaned over the parchment, his messy hair falling into his eyes. "I'll take your word for it. Honestly, Hermione, half the time I think you're making up new kinds of magic just to keep me impressed."

She rolled her eyes but her lips twitched upward. "Don't be ridiculous. You've done enough impossible things without me inventing more for you."

"Impossible things, right," Harry said, grinning. "But none of them would've happened without you. You saved me in first year, in second year, in… actually, I think you're my permanent lifesaver."

Her cheeks warmed despite herself, and she bent over her notes to hide it. "Flattery isn't going to get you out of helping me cross-check the references."

Harry chuckled, bumping her elbow lightly with his own. "Worth a try."

The days blurred together, cold winds sweeping through the forest, the air always heavy with hunger and silence. But in those silences, something began to shift.

When Harry returned from scouting the perimeter, the first thing he always did was glance at Hermione. She would look up from her notes, her brow furrowed in concentration, and the tension in his chest eased. He didn't notice at first, but Ron did.

At night, when the cold seeped through their blankets, Hermione would press a steaming cup of tea into Harry's hands, her fingers brushing his longer than necessary. He caught her gaze once, steady and warm, and for a moment neither of them spoke.

The locket whispered in his ear. She sees you. She trusts you. She belongs with you.

Harry shook it off, swallowing hard. But when Hermione leaned over his shoulder to check the Marauder's Map, her hair brushed against his cheek and he forgot to breathe.

Hermione, too, felt the pull. Sometimes, when Harry was bent over his notes, lips pursed in concentration, she would catch herself staring — at the scar that cut across his forehead, at the weariness in his green eyes, at the quiet strength he carried like armor. Guilt twisted in her stomach, but the thought refused to leave: He needs me. More than anyone else ever could.

Their shared glances grew longer. Their laughter, rare as it was, came easiest with each other. And when one faltered, the other was always the first to notice.

Ron saw it all. And with the locket burning against his chest, every look, every quiet word, every brush of fingers was magnified into betrayal.

Chapter Text

The fire was low, shadows creeping along the canvas of the tent. Ron had finally drifted into a restless sleep. Tonight, though, it wasn't Ron's turn — it was Hermione's.

She sat curled up on her blanket, the cursed chain heavy around her neck. Her fingers twisted anxiously in her lap, her shoulders trembling as though with a chill.

Harry moved closer when he saw her bite down on her lip hard enough to whiten it.
"Hermione?" he asked gently.

Her eyes lifted to him, already wet with tears. "I… I can't stop thinking about them," she whispered, her voice shaky. "My parents. I erased myself from their lives, Harry. They don't even remember their own daughter. What if they never—what if I never get them back?"

The locket hissed in her mind, its voice cruel and cold: You'll never see them again. You chose this war over them. You'll lose everything… just like Harry lost everyone. And he'll lose you too.

Hermione's chest hitched with a sob, and before she could stop herself, she pressed into Harry's side. He reacted instantly, slipping an arm around her shoulders, holding her close. She buried her face against him, the tears hot and raw.

"You didn't do it because you didn't care," Harry murmured firmly, stroking her back in soothing circles. "You did it because you love them. You protected them the only way you could. That's the bravest thing noone could've done."

Hermione let out a broken laugh against his shoulder. "Brave… or selfish." Her hand tightened in the fabric of his jumper, clinging. "What if it was all for nothing?"

Harry leaned down, his cheek brushing her curls. "It won't be. I promise. We'll finish this, and you'll put everything right." His voice shook, but the conviction in it burned.

Slowly, Hermione shifted, laying her head against his shoulder, nestling closer than she usually would.

For a moment, he froze — aware of her, of the faint tremble of her breath, of the way she seemed to lean into him not just for comfort but… something more. His heart raced, guilt tightening in his throat at the thought of Ginny, but when he glanced down, Hermione's eyes were closed, her face peaceful at last.

Harry swallowed hard, forcing himself to simply stay still, to let her rest against him. But the thought lingered, sharper than ever: What if she wasn't just my friend?

Harry's turn with the locket came the following evening. The chain felt heavier than usual as he fastened it around his neck, the cold of it biting into his skin. He paced just beyond the firelight, his eyes scanning the treeline, every rustle of leaves sharper, every shadow darker.

Inside the tent, Ron leaned over the table, his freckled face drawn. "Hermione, this isn't working," he said in a low, urgent voice. "It's eating at us, all of us. You see it, don't you? Harry's different when he wears it — quieter, sharper, like he's… somewhere else."

Hermione's quill stilled against the parchment. She looked at him, torn. "I know," she admitted, voice tight. "But we can't just take it off and ignore it, Ron. It's a Horcrux. We need it with us if we're going to destroy it."

Ron's hands curled into fists. "And in the meantime it destroys us instead? Look at what it's doing! You're exhausted, I can't think straight, and Harry—"

A voice cut across the canvas.
"Hermione!" Harry's tone was urgent, but not alarmed. "Come here a second — you've got to see this!"

Hermione glanced at Ron, guilt flickering across her face, before setting down the quill and stepping outside.

Harry was standing a few yards from the tent, pointing toward the underbrush where a small badger nosed through the leaves. His eyes, however, were fixed not on the creature but on her.

She followed his gaze, smiling faintly. "A badger? Really, Harry, you dragged me out here for—"

"I thought you'd like it," he said quickly, then softer, "Hufflepuff's mascot, isn't it?"

Hermione shook her head, a laugh slipping out despite herself. "Only you would spot that connection right now."

Harry grinned, though the locket thrummed against his chest, twisting his thoughts. The Horcrux whispered: She laughs for you. She leaves him for you. She belongs here, at your side.

"I like hearing you laugh," Harry blurted before he could stop himself. His voice dropped as his eyes lingered on her, warm despite the winter air. "It's… it makes everything feel less impossible."

Hermione's breath caught, the cold night forgotten for a moment. Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down quickly. "You shouldn't say things like that."

"Why not?" Harry asked, stepping just a little closer, his heart thudding.

Because it's wrong, her mind screamed. Because Ron is inside. Because Ginny is waiting. Because this is dangerous. And yet… standing under the stars with Harry watching her as though she were the only light left in the world, Hermione couldn't quite bring herself to pull away.

Hermione folded her arms, trying to mask the way her pulse had quickened. "Honestly, Potter," she said with mock severity, "dragging me out into the freezing night to look at a badger. You're impossible."

Harry smirked. "You've been saying that since first year."

"Well," she sniffed, lifting her chin, "you've given me plenty of reasons."

"Still here though, aren't you?" Harry shot back, his grin tugging wider.

Hermione rolled her eyes but felt the corners of her mouth betray her. "That's only because someone has to keep you alive."

"Oh, come on. Admit it," Harry leaned a little closer, his voice dipping playfully, "you'd miss me if I wasn't around."

She let out a small laugh, feigning exasperation. "You're insufferable."

"Didn't deny it though," Harry teased, nudging her shoulder lightly.

Hermione swatted at his arm, though she was laughing now, her breath clouding in the cold air. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're smiling," Harry said softly, his eyes lingering.

Her laughter faltered, and for a moment, the night went quiet except for the soft rustle of the badger scurrying away. Hermione looked at him, wide-eyed, the firelight from the tent behind them casting a halo on her curls.

She forced a teasing note back into her voice. "If you keep talking like that, Harry Potter, people will think you've been hit with a Confundus Charm."

Harry chuckled, but the locket whispered insistently: Not a charm. Just her. Always her. He shook it off, smiling instead. "Then let them. You confuse me plenty anyway."

Hermione flushed, shaking her head, but she didn't step back. Their shoulders brushed again as she turned toward the tent. "Come on, before Ron thinks we've vanished."

Harry lingered a second, watching her, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Maybe I don't mind vanishing. Not if it's with you."

Hermione's step faltered at the words, and though she kept walking, her cheeks burned all the way back to the firelight.

Chapter Text

Harry with the Locket

The three of them were huddled around a patchwork of maps, scraps of parchment pinned down with mugs. Hermione leaned forward, brow furrowed, quill racing across the margin as she cross-checked notes against one of her books.

Harry, half-distracted from the map itself, found his gaze snagging on her instead—the way her curls spilled loose around her face, how her lips pursed when she was deep in thought. Before he realized it, the words slipped out:

"You're beautiful when you're concentrating."

The quill froze mid-stroke. Hermione's head jerked up, eyes wide.

"What?" she asked, voice soft but incredulous.

Harry blinked, heat rushing to his face. "I—uh—I meant—you look… focused. Smart. I mean—you always do, but—" He fumbled hopelessly, ears going red.

Ron, who had been slumped at the far side of the map, straightened sharply. "You're clever, Hermione. Always have been," he said, forcing a grin. "That's what I've always thought about you."

But his words fell heavy, awkward. Hermione gave him a quick, polite smile before her gaze slid back to Harry. His compliment had come unbidden, natural, carrying no expectation.

For a moment, the air between them shifted—Hermione's lips curved in the faintest, private smile, the quill once again scratching across the parchment.

Harry swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus on the map, though his heart thudded louder than any footsteps outside.

The lantern light flickered low, shadows stretching along the canvas walls. Ron's soft snores filled the silence. Hermione sat upright, scribbling one last note in the margins of her map. Harry, with the Horcrux heavy around his neck, shifted closer until their knees brushed.

Hermione blinked, surprised. "Harry?"

He gave a half-smile, eyes on her instead of the parchment. "I meant what I said earlier… about you being beautiful."

Her breath caught. She tilted her head, studying him. "You really think so?"

Harry leaned in just slightly, voice low. "I don't just think so. You're… more beautiful than Ginny ever was."

Hermione's cheeks flamed, and she opened her mouth—but Harry continued, almost as if he couldn't stop.

"Your eyes…" His gaze lingered, soft but intense. "They're so full of fire and kindness. Your nose—adorable when you wrinkle it at me. And your lips…" He swallowed, suddenly aware of the heat building between them. "…they make it very hard for me to think straight."

Hermione's heart pounded. She looked down, biting her lip, her curls falling forward to hide the flush rising in her face. Still, she whispered, "Harry…"

The locket pulsed cold against his chest, but Harry barely noticed—caught instead in the warmth radiating from her, in the way she leaned ever so slightly closer, as though drawn by the words he shouldn't have spoken.

He almost reached for her hand, then stopped himself, dragging in a shaky breath. "Sorry," he muttered. "I shouldn't—"

But Hermione shook her head quickly, eyes shining. "Don't apologize."

For a long moment, they simply looked at each other, the air thick with something unspoken.

Hermione's hand brushed his chest. "Give me the locket a moment," she said softly.

Harry hesitated, then lifted the chain over his head. The instant she clasped it around her own neck, her breath hitched. Shadows pressed at her mind — doubts, insecurities — but she pushed them aside and turned back to him.

"Well?" she asked, voice quieter than she meant. "Do you really think I'm… beautiful?"

Harry didn't even blink. "You're not just beautiful. You're the most beautiful witch in the world."

Hermione flushed, trying to mask it with a laugh. "Oh, really? The whole world? Harry, you've barely seen more than a handful of witches. Hogwarts doesn't count as a global sample."

Harry grinned, leaning closer. "I've seen enough. Trust me — it's you."

Her lips curled into a teasing smirk. "So… all those famous witches you've met — Fleur Delacour, Cho Chang, Ginny Weasley… and you still pick me?"

Harry's gaze didn't waver. "Every single time."

Hermione's heart skipped. She tilted her head, eyes sparkling with mischief now. "You'd better be careful, Potter. Flirting with your best friend in the middle of a freezing tent? People might talk."

Hermione unclasped the chain, the locket slipping heavy into her palm. She placed it carefully on the table and turned back to him, her cheeks still warm from before.

"So," she said, folding her arms with mock sternness, "that was while I was wearing it. The Horcrux could've been twisting what you said."

Harry frowned. "No, Hermione, that wasn't the locket."

She raised a brow, leaning closer. "Prove it, then. Say it again now."

Harry blinked, then gave a small, crooked smile. "You're beautiful."

She rolled her eyes. "That's too easy. Everyone says that. Beautiful how?"

He hesitated, but his voice was steady. "Your eyes. They're… fierce when you're determined, but soft when you're not looking at anyone but me. And your smile — it makes me feel like I've actually done something right. Your hair—" he grinned, almost embarrassed "—it's wild and brilliant, like you."

Hermione's teasing smirk faltered into something softer, but she tried to keep it playful. "Oh? And you've studied me that closely, have you? Noticed all my little features?"

Harry's ears turned pink. "I'd have to be blind not to."

She laughed under her breath, nudging his shoulder. "Careful, Potter. If you keep talking like that, I might start believing you."

Harry's gaze lingered on her, quiet but unshakable. "You should."

Her heart gave a sharp twist. She looked away quickly, biting her lip, pretending to busy herself with folding the map. But the corners of her mouth betrayed her — curling upward, unable to stop the warmth spreading through her chest.

Ron's hand shot out before either of them could stop him, yanking the chain from the table. The locket was cold, pulsing faintly, and for a moment it almost felt like it clung to his skin as he slipped it around his neck.

"You two should get some rest," Ron muttered gruffly, not meeting their eyes. "I'll take first watch."

Harry frowned, half-ready to argue, but Hermione placed a hand on his arm, sensing Ron's mood. "Fine. Wake us in a few hours."

They retreated to their bunks, the tent dim except for the faint glow of the fire. Ron sat stiff-backed, his face half-shadowed, and tried to focus on the flames. But the whispers were already there, slick and venomous.

Look at them. Always together. Planning without you. Whispering in corners. You see how she looks at him. You know she'll never look at you like that.

Ron's jaw tightened. He told himself it wasn't true, but the locket's hiss slipped under every defense. You're the spare. The tag-along. Harry's shadow. Even your family chose him over you.

From behind, there was a muffled sound. Harry tossing in his sleep, muttering broken fragments of nightmares. Ron turned just enough to see Hermione slip from her bunk. Barefoot, her curls falling loose, she knelt beside Harry.

"Shh…" she whispered, brushing damp hair from his forehead. Harry's breaths came ragged, pained. Hermione stroked his temple with a tenderness that cut straight through Ron's chest.

"You're safe, Harry. It's just a dream. I'm here," she murmured, her voice low and soothing. She stayed there until his breathing eased, until his body went slack against the pillow.

Her hand lingered, tracing gently through his messy hair. Then, almost without thinking, she bent forward and rested her head against the edge of his pillow, close enough that Ron could see her lips moving — not spells, not plans, but words of comfort.

Ron's fists curled in the blanket draped around his shoulders. The locket throbbed cold against his chest.

See? She's already chosen. She always has. You're not the hero. You're not the one she wants.

Ron bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper. He didn't move, didn't breathe, watching the fire flicker while the weight of the Horcrux gnawed at every raw place inside him.

Chapter Text

Hermione adjusted the locket against her chest, the metal biting cold through her jumper. Its whispers slithered at the edges of her mind, feeding her unease. She caught herself staring at Harry as he poked the fire, his face lit gold and shadow.

The thought rose unbidden: He still belongs to Ginny. He must think of her, even now.

Her throat tightened. She hated the way the locket twisted things, but it dragged her doubts to the surface. What if Harry only leaned on her because Ginny wasn't here? What if she was simply filling a gap until this was all over?

"Come on," Harry said suddenly, tugging on his cloak. "Let's get some air. You look like you've been buried in books too long."

Hermione hesitated, then nodded. The cold might clear her head.

The forest outside was hushed, the world softened under thick snow. They crunched side by side through the white silence until Hermione bent quickly, scooped up a handful, and let fly. The snowball caught Harry squarely in the chest.

His stunned expression made her laugh for the first time in days. "First strike," she declared.

"Oh, is that how it is?" Harry grinned, already crouching to arm himself.

They darted between trees, breath clouding in the frosty night, snowballs flying wildly. Hermione's cheeks burned with cold and exhilaration, curls bouncing as she ducked and threw. For once, she wasn't worrying about Horcruxes or danger — just him.

Harry charged around a trunk just as she did the same, and they collided with a muffled whump, tumbling into the snow.

Hermione ended up sprawled across his chest, her hair spilling around them both in a halo dusted with white. Harry's hands instinctively caught her waist and stayed there, warm even through layers of clothing.

Her laughter faded into shallow breaths. His green eyes locked on hers, and the locket against her sternum seemed to pulse: See how he looks at you. He isn't thinking of Ginny now.

Hermione's lips parted, but no words came. Harry swallowed, the air between them suddenly thick with unspoken things.

Neither pulled away immediately. The world was quiet, their hearts loud.

Finally, Hermione pushed herself up, brushing snow furiously from her cloak, her cheeks hotter than before. "Childish," she muttered, though her smile betrayed her.

Harry sat up beside her, grinning, his own pulse racing. "Maybe. But you've got a wicked aim, Granger."

They laughed, but the closeness lingered — fragile, dangerous, unforgettable.

They pushed through the tent flap, boots dripping, cloaks damp and dusted with snow. Hermione shook her curls, scattering melted droplets onto the rug. Harry tugged off his gloves, still grinning despite the flush in his cheeks.

Ron glanced up from where he was huddled by the fire, eyes narrowing. "What've you two been doing?"

Hermione, still breathless, laughed lightly. "Snowball fight. Harry's terrible at dodging, in case you wondered."

Harry opened his mouth to protest but caught Ron's expression — tight-jawed, stiff — and shut it again. A pang of guilt twisted in his chest. He shouldn't look so happy. Not when Ginny wasn't here. Not when Ron was sitting right there.

But later, as the fire crackled low and the night stretched on, guilt gave way to something else. Harry found his gaze wandering toward Hermione again and again. The way her hair curled at her temple as she bent over a book. The way her laughter still lingered in his ears from outside.

Every time she glanced back at him, something wordless passed between them — brief, sharp, charged.

At one point she looked up suddenly, catching his stare. Hermione simply arched a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching into a secret smile. It was small, but it set Harry's heart pounding.

Ron's voice broke the charged silence.

"Oi, Hermione," he said quietly, softer than Harry expected. "Why don't you… take that thing off for a bit? Put it on the table, yeah? We'll all think clearer without it choking us."

Hermione blinked, realizing she was still clutching the locket against her jumper. She slipped the chain over her head and laid it gently beside the book. For a moment the tent felt lighter, as if the air itself sighed in relief.

Ron leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. His face was pale but earnest. "Look, we've been trudging around these woods for weeks, and we're no closer to figuring this out. We can't just wander forever. We need to… I dunno, think bigger."

Hermione frowned, guilt pricking her features. "I know, Ron. But every text I've checked only hints at the enchantments. Nothing about the destruction. I should've—"

"Don't," Ron cut in quickly. "Don't blame yourself. You've done more research than anyone could. It's not you." He rubbed his temples, frustration edging his words. "It's this quest. It's impossible without help."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. Ron's words hit too close. He remembered Dumbledore's grave face, the quiet charge: Find them. Destroy them. It was his duty — the task laid at his feet. And yet, sitting here in the flicker of firelight, Harry felt more lost than ever.

Ron's voice softened. "What about that portrait? Sirius's granddad — Phineas Nigellus. He hated Dumbledore, but he knew more about old magic than we do. If we can get him to talk—"

Hermione froze, then slowly reached into her beaded bag. From its depths she pulled the gilt frame, small enough to carry, its surface dulled from weeks of neglect. She set it down carefully by the fire.

The canvas was empty. The chair in the painted office sat vacant, the shadows still.

Hermione's face fell. "He isn't here."

She tapped the side of the frame with her wand, whispered a few charms — coaxing, summoning — but nothing stirred. The silence from the portrait felt heavier than any answer.

Ron's shoulders slumped. "Figures," he muttered. "The one time we actually want him to insult us."

Hermione pressed her lips together, guilt tugging at her features. "If I'd… if I'd thought sooner—"

"No," Ron said quickly, shaking his head. "Don't start. It's not your fault. It's just—" He broke off, staring into the fire. "We're running out of places to turn."

Harry sat rigid, his chest tight. The empty portrait felt like a cruel mirror of their search — chasing shadows, coming up empty. He heard Dumbledore's voice in his memory: It is your task, Harry. No one else's.

Her eyes lingered on Harry, just long enough for him to see the same doubt and burden in her expression. For a heartbeat, they were perfectly in sync — the weight of what lay ahead pressing down on both of them.

A crack echoed in the night, sharp against the stillness of the woods. Harry's hand went to his wand instantly, Ron's following a heartbeat later.

"Did you hear that?" Ron whispered, eyes darting toward the flap of the tent.

Hermione stiffened, her hand already on the locket resting on the table. "It's happening again," she said urgently, voice low. "Every time we leave it aside, something stirs. It's calling to them."

Harry frowned, glancing at the dark, pulsing metal. "Then what do we do? We can't risk—"

"I'll wear it," Hermione cut in, her tone brisk, decisive. "You two are more vulnerable to it. You know that. I've seen it—how it… twists you. Better I bear it."

Ron gave a short, bitter smirk. "Right. Because you're perfect at resisting everything, aren't you?"

Hermione's eyes flashed, but before she could retort, another faint rustle came from the trees. Ron's attention snapped outward again. "Come on, Harry. Let's check the perimeter."

Harry hesitated, glancing at Hermione, but she waved him off with a firm nod. "Go. I'll be fine."

When the boys left, the tent seemed to grow quieter, the crackle of the fire and the faint chill of the locket the only companions. Hermione sat down heavily, the chain biting cold against her neck.

Ron was right, a part of her whispered. The locket twisted everything, dragged up things they didn't mean to say, didn't want to feel. It was dangerous to think otherwise. Dangerous to let her mind drift…

Yet even as she tried to ground herself in logic, her thoughts betrayed her. She saw Harry's grin in the snow, his hair sticking out at all angles, the warmth of his body close against hers when they fell laughing, breathless. She had felt his eyes on her — lingering, unguarded — and it had sent something fluttering through her that had nothing to do with the locket's poison.

Hermione pressed her lips together, staring into the fire, trying to push the thought away. But the image wouldn't fade.

And worse — she didn't want it to.

Chapter Text

The cold bit at their faces as Harry and Ron circled the tent, breath steaming in the night air. Their wands cast thin beams of light across the snow, catching on skeletal branches.

Ron broke the silence first. "You know… Ginny still talks about you. Always has." His voice was flat, but edged, like a knife dragged over stone. "Even when you weren't there, she'd go on about what you'd do, what you'd say."

Harry stiffened, the guilt already curling in his stomach. "Ron—"

"She likes you. Always liked you. Not me telling tales, just… facts." Ron glanced sideways at him, his jaw tight. "Same way Hermione… well, she's with me. Don't forget that."

Harry swallowed hard, shame burning his cheeks. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out — only the guilt written across his face.

"Harry!" Hermione's voice cut sharp through the night. She stood at the tent's entrance, arms crossed tight against the cold, her breath fogging in the air. "Come inside before you freeze."

Harry exhaled, almost in relief. He gave Ron a wary glance before striding toward her, drawn to the warmth of her presence like a tether. Hermione's eyes softened briefly when he reached her, though her expression was guarded as she held the flap open.

Ron stayed there, silent but simmering.

Inside the tent, the warmth of the small fire wrapped around them. Harry lowered himself onto one of the worn cushions, still uneasy from the sharp exchange outside. His guilt for Ginny pressed at the edges of his thoughts.

Hermione followed him in, a steaming cup in her hands. "Here," she murmured, pressing the tea into his palms. Her fingers brushed his, lingering longer than they needed to.

Harry looked up at her. The firelight flickered against her face, softening her features.

Hermione sat down beside him, closer than usual. For a moment she said nothing, just watched the flames. Then, in a quieter tone, she began, "You know… Ginny wasn't always strong around you. Remember second year? The Chamber… how easily Tom Riddle got to her."

Harry stiffened, but Hermione's voice was calm, thoughtful, not cruel

"She adored you because you're Harry Potter," Hermione said, almost spitting the name. "She's always liked whoever was famous, whoever had a name." Her lip curled.

"She wasn't ready for… all this."

Her hand lifted almost without thought, brushing at his messy fringe. Fingers smoothed down his hair, lingering a second on his temple. "But you've never needed someone to idolize you, Harry. You've needed someone to stand beside you, even when it's terrifying." Her eyes found his. "That's what I've always tried to do."

Harry swallowed hard. The guilt for Ginny was there, yes — but it was blurred now by the warmth at his side, the brush of her hand, the quiet intensity of her words.

He opened his mouth, but no words came.

Hermione only gave a small, almost sad smile, her fingers retreating from his hair. She leaned back slightly, as if nothing had happened — but the air between them was thick, charged, undeniable.

"I…" he started, then faltered. His eyes found Hermione's again. She was watching him so closely, her expression open, vulnerable, but expectant too.

"You're right," he admitted quietly, the words dragged out of him. "You've always been there, even when I've been too thick to see it. I don't… I don't even know if what I had with Ginny was—" He stopped, his throat tight, uncertain if finishing the thought would make it real.

Hermione tilted her head, her lips curving with a small, almost knowing smile. Her voice dropped into a teasing whisper. "She used to go on about Fred and George's love potions, you know. All those chocolates she kept talking about." Her eyes sparkled with the faintest mischief. "You didn't eat one of those, did you?"

Harry blinked, caught off guard. "What? No! I'd know if I had…" But even as he said it, a flicker of doubt slid across his face. Had it been real, the pull he felt toward Ginny? Or was it something simpler — easier, safer, a distraction from everything else crashing around him?

Hermione's gaze softened. She reached out, just briefly, to steady his hand around the cup when it trembled. "I just wondered," she murmured. "Because the Harry I know… he doesn't need potions to make someone love him."

The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Harry could feel his heartbeat in his throat, the warmth of her so close beside him. For once, he didn't look away.

Later, the flap of the tent rustled and Ron stepped in. His face was pale, almost greenish in the lamplight.

Harry frowned, glancing up from where he sat. Did he hear us earlier? The thought prickled uncomfortably at the back of his mind.

"You all right, mate?" Harry asked carefully, watching him.

Ron waved a hand dismissively, but his lips were pressed tight. "Fine." His voice was flat, unconvincing.

Before Harry could press further, Hermione snorted suddenly, a mischievous spark in her eyes. "Honestly, Ron, you look like you've been sick. Exactly like when you vomited slugs in second year."

Her laugh spilled out before she could stop it — bright, genuine, unguarded.

Ron gave them both a wounded look, muttering something under his breath as he slumped onto his cot, but Hermione was still giggling, covering her mouth with her hand. Harry, shaking his head, tried to smother his grin but failed.

Hermione was still laughing softly, wiping the corner of her eyes, when Ron suddenly shot upright. His pale face twisted, his voice breaking through the fragile warmth in the tent.

"Give it here, Hermione."

She blinked, startled. "What?"

"The locket," Ron snapped, stepping forward. His hand was already outstretched, fingers trembling with impatience. "You've had it long enough. Give it to me."

The mirth drained from Hermione's face. For a heartbeat, she looked ready to protest, but something in Ron's tone silenced her. Wordlessly, she unclasped the chain and held it out. He snatched it from her hand, his grip tight as though afraid it might be taken away.

As the cold metal pressed against his chest, Ron's thoughts swirled dark and fast.

They laugh at you. They share their secrets when your back is turned. She defends him, not you.

His jaw clenched.

You've always been the sidekick, the one left behind. But you don't have to be. You could be stronger than both of them. You could end this war yourself. Imagine it — Ron Weasley, the one who destroyed Voldemort. The true hero. Not the Chosen One, not the golden witch. You.

The firelight flickered against his hollow eyes as he sat heavily by the flames, clutching the chain at his throat. His knuckles whitened, his breaths uneven.

Harry, still catching his own breath from laughter, frowned as the shift in the air became clear. "Ron?"

But Ron didn't answer. His eyes were far away, fixed on some vision only he could see, and in the silence, the Horcrux whispered louder.

Chapter Text

Ron's eyelids drooped, though he wasn't asleep. The locket's cold pulse thrummed against his chest, steady, insistent. Then the tent dissolved around him, shadows peeling back to reveal another world.

He saw Harry — taller, stronger, smiling — with Hermione at his side. Her hand was looped through Harry's arm, her head tilted toward him with that tender look Ron had once thought belonged only to him. They weren't just together; they were bound. Married. Happy. Hermione laughed at something Harry whispered, her eyes soft with devotion.

And Ron wasn't there. Not in their plans, not in their smiles, not even in their thoughts. Forgotten. Cast aside.

The vision twisted. A cold battlefield opened beneath a blackened sky. Voldemort stood before him, pale and terrible, wand raised. But instead of fear, Ron felt fire flood his veins. He moved faster than he'd ever dreamed, his wand steady, his voice loud. Spells clashed like thunder — and then Voldemort fell.

The Dark Lord crumpled to ash, and silence swept the field. Then a roar rose, deafening, triumphant. Witches and wizards surged forward, cheering. Ron Weasley! Ron the hero! The boy who killed the Dark Lord!

He saw the Daily Prophet front page blazing with his name, the Minister clasping his hand, crowds chanting for him. No shadows of Harry, no trace of Hermione's pity. Only glory. Only victory.

The Horcrux's voice coiled around the vision like smoke. See? This is who you could be. Not the sidekick. Not the forgotten. The hero.

Ron jerked awake, sweat slick on his brow, breath ragged. He shoved himself upright on his cot, eyes darting as though the shadows in the corners of the tent still whispered to him. The locket hung heavy and cold against his chest.

Hermione stirred, pushing back the blanket. Her gaze fixed on him, sharp even in the dim light. She saw it — the flicker in his eyes, the hollow look as though something had been gnawing inside him.

"Ron," she said softly, sitting up. "Take it off. Please."

Ron's hand shot to the chain, clutching it protectively for a heartbeat. But then his grip slackened. He tore it from his neck and thrust it into Harry's hands with sudden force.

"I'm not wearing that horrible thing again," he muttered, his voice low but firm. "Not ever."

Harry glanced between them, brows furrowed. He closed his fist around the locket, feeling its chill seep into his skin, but his eyes stayed on Ron — his friend's face pale, jaw tight, as if refusing to admit how close he'd come to being consumed.

Hermione's expression softened. For a moment, she almost reached out, but Ron turned away, sinking back onto his cot, his back to them. The tent went quiet again, but the unease lingered, heavier than the silence.

The locket was cold against Harry's chest, whispering thoughts that curled like smoke through his mind. She deserves you. She's always chosen you. You're the one who understands her, not Ron. He hated himself for half-listening, yet his eyes kept drifting toward the tent flap where Hermione had stepped out moments ago.

A sudden thud. A sharp gasp.

Harry was on his feet before Ron even stirred. He burst through the flap, wand raised—then froze.

Hermione was sprawled awkwardly on the frosted ground, her hair tumbled loose, a thin scrape on her palm where she'd tried to catch herself. She pushed herself up quickly, cheeks flushed.

"Harry—nothing happened," she said quickly, half-laughing, embarrassed. "I just slipped, really. I can walk."

But Harry was already crouching beside her, his hands sliding carefully beneath her shoulders and knees. He lifted her as though she weighed nothing, cradling her close against his chest.

"Harry! Put me down, I'm fine," she protested, but her voice lacked conviction.

"No chance," he said firmly, jaw set. "You're not walking back on ice when you've already fallen once."

Her breath caught. From this close she could see the fierce concern etched in his face, the stubborn determination in his eyes. His arms were steady, strong, and the warmth of him against the cold night air made her cheeks burn hotter.

She let her head tip lightly against his shoulder, smiling despite herself. "You're insufferable, you know that?"

Harry glanced down, lips twitching in the smallest of grins. "Yeah. You remind me often enough."

Inside the tent, Ron sat up straighter as Harry ducked through the flap, Hermione still in his arms. Harry lowered her gently onto her cot, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders before she could object.

Hermione's eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than they should have, soft and searching. "Thank you," she whispered.

Harry gave a curt nod, but his heart hammered as he turned away, the locket cold and heavy against his chest — and for once, he wasn't sure how much of what he felt came from it, and how much was just… him.

Ron's voice cut through the tense silence of the tent.

"She's not some fragile Muggle, Harry. She's a brilliant witch—our best. How many times has she patched us up, saved us when we were hopeless? You're making a scene out of nothing."

Harry's fists clenched at his sides. His voice came low but fierce. "I don't care. I can't stop caring for her. More than anyone, Ron. I can't just… stand by."

Ron's gaze snapped toward Hermione, eyes blazing, jaw tight. She flinched under the intensity, her lips parting to defend Harry. "Ron, it wasn't—he just—"

But Ron shook his head sharply. "Don't. Don't make excuses for him. Or for yourself."

The tent felt suddenly smaller, the silence too loud. Hermione's heart pounded as she saw something breaking in his face—years of friendship, brotherhood, trust unraveling.

"I can't stay here," Ron said finally, voice rough. His hand brushed the locket at Harry's chest, as though blaming it, yet his eyes burned deeper than cursed metal ever could. "I can't handle this. I'm leaving."

He turned and shoved through the tent flap into the freezing night.

Harry half-rose, torn between fury and guilt, but stayed rooted, breath ragged.

"Ron—wait!" Hermione scrambled after him, the snow crunching beneath her boots as she caught up. "Please, don't go. It's the horcrux. It twists things, makes them worse—"

Ron spun on her, eyes glistening. His breath came out in a white cloud. "Don't you dare tell me this is just the horcrux. It's not. There's something more between you two. I've seen it."

Hermione froze, words caught in her throat. She could have denied it, could have laughed it away, but instead… her face betrayed her. The silence, her soft trembling lips, her lowered eyes—an unspoken acknowledgement.

That was enough.

Ron's voice cracked, heavy with grief. "I thought—Merlin, I thought we were stronger than this." His eyes lingered on her, desperate, wounded. Then he looked at Harry's shadow in the tent, and tears blurred his vision.

Without another word, Ron turned and Disapparated, the sharp crack echoing through the trees, leaving only the bitter wind behind.

Hermione stood alone in the snow, her chest aching as though something vital had been ripped away.

Chapter Text

Hermione pushed back the tent flap slowly, her hands trembling as she entered. The silence hit her harder than the winter air outside. One missing presence, and everything felt colder.

Harry was sitting on his camp bed, elbows on his knees, hands tangled in his hair. He didn't look up immediately, as though afraid of what he'd see on her face.

"He's gone," she whispered, her voice breaking. She dropped onto the chair beside the fire, her cloak still dusted with snow. "Harry, I couldn't… I couldn't stop him."

Harry finally lifted his head. His eyes were red, not from crying but from the weight of something heavier—guilt. "It's my fault," he muttered. "If I hadn't—if I didn't—"

"Don't," Hermione cut in sharply, then softened. "Don't you dare blame yourself for Ron's choice."

He gave a humorless laugh. "Ron was right though, wasn't he? About us. About there being… something."

Hermione's breath caught. The fire popped in the grate, the only sound in the tent. She opened her mouth, closed it, then finally whispered, "The horcrux twists things. We know that. It makes us feel what we shouldn't."

Harry leaned forward, his gaze fixed on her face. "Hermione… you really believe it's just the horcrux?"

Her throat tightened. She wanted to say yes, wanted to tell him it was all dark magic and lies. But instead, her voice came out small, trembling: "I don't know anymore."

For a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them felt charged, fragile, dangerous.

Harry swallowed hard, staring at her hand, then at her face. The weight of Ron's words still pressed between them, but so did something undeniable, raw and unspoken.

After a long silence, Hermione spoke, her voice steady though her eyes shimmered.
"We'll wait here for Ron," she whispered, almost to herself. "He'll come back. He just… needs time. He'll understand."

Harry nodded, though doubt gnawed at him. He didn't want to take that small flicker of hope away from her. So he stayed quiet, letting her lean gently against his shoulder, both of them staring into the fire, waiting for a friend who might never return.

The lanterns flickered weakly in the tent, shadows stretching along the canvas walls. Hermione sat curled on her cot, face buried in her hands, shoulders trembling. She had kept it in all day—Ron's absence, the gnawing guilt, the fear for her parents—and now it was too much.

"Hermione?" Harry's voice was low, hesitant. He crossed the small space in two strides and knelt in front of her.

She tried to shake her head, to say I'm fine, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, tears spilled freely down her cheeks. "It's all wrong, Harry. Ron's gone, my parents don't even know me anymore, Ginny—Ginny deserves better than this—than us…"

Harry's chest clenched. The guilt was still there, heavy as the locket he carried—about Ron, about Ginny, about the Weasleys. Yet it also whispered—she needs you, she's yours, she's always been by your side.

She leaned forward, almost collapsing into him, her forehead pressing into his shoulder. His arms went around her instinctively, holding her tight. She sobbed against him.

She lifted her face, tears streaking her cheeks.

"I can't, Harry. I can't… it's too much. All of it. I've made the wrong choices, I've driven Ron away, and if Ginny knew—if anyone knew—they'd never forgive me. How could they?"

"it feels like I've ruined everything."

Harry's throat tightened. "Hey. Don't say that. You haven't ruined anything. You've kept me alive, kept Ron alive, kept this whole bloody hunt from falling apart."

Her shoulders shook. "Then why does it feel like everything's slipping through my fingers?"

"Because it's hard," Harry admitted, voice low. He stared into the fire for a long moment, then turned to her, eyes burning with quiet conviction.

"But listen to me, Hermione, I don't care what Ron thinks. Or Ginny. Or anyone. It's just us now, Hermione. Just us."

"we deserve each other. Not deserve like a prize. Deserve because… because we're the ones still here, fighting, holding on. You and me. Together."

Hermione stared at him, wide-eyed, as though the ground had shifted under her feet. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she leaned her forehead against his shoulder. Not because she had broken — but because she had chosen.

Harry closed his eyes, breathing her in, the weight of her head a fragile, dangerous comfort. The fire popped, and outside the wind howled, but inside the tent the silence was louder, charged with everything they hadn't said.

The fire burned low through the night, crackling softly in the silence. Neither Harry nor Hermione said another word after his confession. They simply sat shoulder to shoulder, listening to the wind buffet the tent walls. Sleep came only in fragments, broken by shivers and restless turns, yet neither of them pulled away. It was as though moving apart might break something fragile they weren't ready to name.

By morning, a thin grey light seeped through the canvas. Hermione was already up, hair tied back hastily, her eyes still rimmed with red but steadier than before. She moved about the little table with brisk, deliberate motions, stacking parchment, closing books—actions that looked more like armour than necessity.

Harry watched her from his cot, silent, the words from last night echoing in his chest. He wasn't sure whether she'd pretend they hadn't been spoken, or if she expected him to say them again in daylight.

Finally, Hermione spoke, her voice carrying a brightness that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I think I need a break from all this reading," she said, nodding at the pile of notes. "It's not… it's not helping to stare at the same words over and over."

Harry pulled on his jumper, grateful for the excuse to look down while his heart settled. "That's fair," he said quietly. "You've been pushing yourself too hard."

Her lips twitched, almost a smile. "That's what you always say." She hesitated, fingers lingering on a rolled map before letting it go. When she turned, her gaze softened. "But thank you—for last night. For… everything."

The fire popped softly. Harry met her eyes and gave a small, crooked smile, the kind that said more than he dared in words.

The guilt was still there, heavy as the locket he carried—about Ron, about Ginny, about the Weasleys—but beneath it stirred something neither of them could deny. A thread pulling them closer, fragile and inevitable, weaving itself into the silence as they pretended nothing had changed.

Chapter Text

Harry adjusted the locket against his chest—it felt heavy, pressing down on his thoughts—but he forced a small smile. "Come on," he said, reaching for Hermione's arm. "We've been stuck in the tent too long. Let's walk… clear our heads."

Hermione hesitated, her red-rimmed eyes showing the weight of last night's tears, then nodded. "All right."

The air outside was crisp, biting their cheeks, but it felt fresher than the stifling silence inside the tent. They moved between the trees, boots crunching over frost-hardened leaves.

When they came to a fallen tree blocking the narrow path, Harry stepped forward at once. "Here—" He took her hand, steadying her as she climbed onto the trunk.

Hermione gave him a look as if to say she could manage, but she didn't let go of his hand. Instead, she balanced carefully, walking along the trunk while Harry walked beside on the ground, their fingers still joined.

"See?" she said, forcing a faint laugh. "Not so difficult."

"Right," Harry muttered, eyes fixed on her hand in his. "Still—just in case."

Hermione's smile wavered into something softer, more private. For a heartbeat, the heaviness of the locket and the guilt of everything else melted away. There was only the cold air, the woods around them, and the warmth of Harry's grip anchoring her steady.

Hermione hopped down from the trunk, brushing leaves from her cloak, and they continued walking. The woods thinned slightly until the trees opened into a clearing. A small pool lay ahead, fed by a trickle of water from the rocks, its surface dark and still except for faint ripples from the wind.

Harry grinned despite himself. "Well, look at that. We've found the Black Lake's little cousin."

Hermione pulled her scarf tighter. "It looks freezing."

"All the more reason to try it," Harry teased, eyes glinting as he nudged her elbow. "Bet you wouldn't dare."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me? You think I wouldn't?"

"You wouldn't." Harry crossed his arms, smirking, though his heart was thudding faster than it should.

Hermione tilted her head, lips twitching in challenge.

For a moment they just looked at each other, standing at the water's edge, the air thick with something unspoken. Hermione bent down, cupped her hand in the pool, and flicked the icy droplets right at Harry's face.

"Oi!" He sputtered, brushing his glasses. "That's cheating."

She laughed, the sound bright and real after days of heaviness, and before Harry could think better of it, he splashed back, sending another spray toward her boots. Hermione gasped, swatting his arm playfully.

Hermione, still laughing. "Honestly, for the so-called bravest Gryffindor alive, you're too scared to even test the water."

Harry raised his brows, feigning indignation. "Scared? I'm not scared."

"Prove it then," she teased, hands on her hips. "Go on, Potter. Take a dip. Or are you all talk?"

Harry narrowed his eyes at her grin, a spark of mischief lighting in him. "You forget, Granger—Gryffindors never back down from a dare."

Before she could step away, he lunged forward, catching her wrist and tugging her against him. Hermione gasped, clutching at his arm for balance.

"Harry!"

"Too late," he laughed, and with one reckless motion, he pulled them both forward. They toppled into the pool with a splash that echoed through the clearing.

The water was like knives against their skin, stealing the air from their lungs. Hermione shrieked, half from the cold, half from the sheer absurdity of it, her laughter ringing out bright and unguarded. His chest aching with mirth he hadn't felt in weeks.

They splashed each other recklessly, boots sloshing, clothes dragging heavy in the water until their arms grew tired. At last they stumbled toward the edge, collapsing against the slick stones, still gasping between bursts of laughter.

Hermione braced herself with one hand, the other clutching her soaked scarf, shivering but glowing all the same. Harry leaned back beside her, water streaming down his fringe, his glasses fogged uselessly. For a few heartbeats, they were simply two teenagers again, not fugitives, not soldiers. Just Harry and Hermione, laughing until their sides hurt.

But then the laughter ebbed.

Her shoulder pressed lightly into his, and in the silence that followed, Harry became aware of everything—the rise and fall of her breath, the wet curls stuck to her cheeks, the way her lips parted as though she might say something but didn't.

He turned his head. She turned hers. Their eyes met, closer than either expected.

The clearing was silent but for the trickle of the stream. Harry's heart hammered, and though his body shook with cold, there was a warmth curling in his chest that had nothing to do with the fire they'd left behind.

Hermione's lashes fluttered, water beading along their tips. A shiver passed through her, and Harry, without thinking, reached out, brushing a droplet from her cheek. His fingers lingered a fraction too long.

Neither of them moved away.

Hermione's breath came out in a puff of mist between them, her voice dropping low.
"You're staring, Harry."

Harry blinked, caught, but didn't look away. "Maybe I am."

Her lips twitched, half a smirk, half a challenge. "Careful. People might think you're enchanted."

"Not enchanted," he murmured, his voice steadier than he felt. "Just… can't help it."

Hermione's cheeks flushed hotter than the cold water could explain. She tilted her head, droplets sliding down her jaw as she leaned ever so slightly closer. "And what exactly can't you help?"

Harry swallowed hard, eyes darting between her eyes and lips. "Noticing… how you look right now."

Her laugh was soft, breathless. "Drenched and shivering? That's hardly flattering."

Harry's mouth curved into a small, crooked grin. "You could be covered in pondweed and you'd still…" He trailed off, realizing how close he'd come to saying too much.

Hermione didn't let him retreat. Her hand brushed his arm under the water, feather-light. "Still what?" she teased, her voice just above a whisper.

Harry's heart thudded against his ribs. "Still be the most beautiful witch I've ever seen."

The silence that followed was thick, charged, broken only by the rippling water. Hermione's lips parted slightly as though to answer, but instead she gave him the smallest, knowing smile—one that promised she'd remember.

Hermione finally broke the stillness by flicking her wand, warmth rushing over them as clothes and hair dried in an instant. She didn't quite meet his eyes as she said, a little too briskly, "We should… we should go back."

Harry only nodded. The playful spark from moments ago lingered in his chest, impossible to shake. As they began the walk through the trees, the silence between them wasn't awkward—it was heavy, full of thoughts neither dared speak.

Harry's mind replayed the way she had laughed when he pulled her into the pool, how her hair had clung in wild curls, how close she had been when she whispered back at him. He'd never seen her like that—unguarded, radiant, daring. He realized, with a twist of guilt and longing, that he didn't just enjoy it… he wanted more of it.

Beside him, Hermione walked with steady steps, her expression composed, but her thoughts were anything but calm. She kept remembering the way Harry's eyes had locked on hers, how he hadn't looked away, how his words had slipped out so unfiltered. Most beautiful witch. She shouldn't have wanted to hear it. She shouldn't have let it matter. But the memory burned warm in her chest, even stronger than the drying charm.

Neither spoke as the tent came into sight. Both carried the same secret weight—the pool hadn't been just play, and neither could pretend otherwise.

Chapter Text

The Suffering

That evening passed in near silence. Harry set about cooking, stirring the pot with more concentration than the task required. Hermione moved around him, fetching plates and arranging things with practiced precision. They didn't speak, but every movement seemed to pull them into each other's orbit.

When Harry passed her the ladle, their fingers brushed. Neither pulled away too quickly. Hermione's eyes flickered to his for a heartbeat before dropping again.

At dinner, they sat across from one another. The clink of spoons was the only sound for a long while. Harry kept catching himself looking at her, the firelight softening the strands of hair that had escaped her bun. Once, she reached forward absentmindedly to straighten the edge of the parchment near him, and her knuckles grazed his hand. He didn't move.

Later, when she rose to tidy away the bowls, Harry quietly draped a blanket over her shoulders. She turned, surprised, their faces close for a moment in the dim glow. Hermione whispered, "Thank you," too softly, as though even words might break the fragile balance between them.

The first thing that jolted Harry awake was the sound of Hermione's breathing—shallow, uneven. He turned sharply. She lay curled beneath her blankets, her face flushed, eyes half-closed, lips parted as if even speaking would take too much strength.

"Hermione?" he whispered, panic tightening his chest. She stirred but didn't answer properly, only mumbled something incoherent.

Harry's throat went dry. He had fought dragons, dementors, even Voldemort—but the sight of Hermione so weak made him feel helpless. He grabbed the nearest cloth, dampened it with conjured water, and pressed it gently against her forehead. "It's burning," he muttered to himself, his hands trembling.

He tried everything he remembered from the Muggle world—lifting her head to sip water, cooling her fever with cloth after cloth, rubbing her hands between his palms to keep her warm. His hair kept falling into his eyes, sweat stinging, but he refused to stop.

"Come on, Hermione," he whispered fiercely, as though sheer will could keep her here. "You've dragged me through worse—you don't get to give up now."

Hermione's eyes fluttered open faintly, watching him struggle. A weak smile tugged at her lips. He looked so desperate, so determined. She wanted to tell him she wasn't going anywhere, that she trusted him more than anyone. But her voice wouldn't work.

Then it struck him—their books. The beaded bag. He scrambled to pull it close, rifling through page after page, muttering spells under his breath until he found one for fever and infection. His wand shook as he tried it.

A faint cooling relief spread across her chest, and Hermione's breathing steadied a little. Still, her magic was stronger. She placed her hand over his, whispered the incantation properly, and at once the fever began to break.

Harry slumped beside her cot, drained with relief. Hermione turned her head weakly toward him, her eyes clearer now.

"You… never give up, do you?" she murmured, voice hoarse but soft.

Harry swallowed hard, brushing her damp curls away from her face. "Not on you. Never on you."

And for a long moment, he just sat there, watching her breathe, realizing with startling clarity that nothing—not the Horcrux, not the war, not even Ron—could make him stop caring for her.

Hermione, still weak, lifted her hand and brushed his wrist lightly, as if to reassure him.

That tiny touch broke the dam inside him. Harry leaned forward suddenly and pulled her into his arms. Not a quick, gentle hug—but desperate, crushing, as though he needed to feel she was real, alive, warm against him.

Hermione let out a small gasp at his strength, but then melted into him, burying her face against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat pounding wildly, faster than her own.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again," he whispered into her hair, his voice ragged. He didn't loosen his grip. He couldn't.

She didn't reply with words. Instead, her arms wrapped slowly around him, holding just as tightly, as if she understood exactly what he needed. For a long while they stayed like that—two weary figures clinging to each other in a silent war against the cold, the loneliness, the world outside.

And in that quiet, with no words spoken, both of them felt it: the undeniable truth that they belonged closer than either had ever dared to admit.

Hermione's voice was soft, almost delicate. "I'm… tired. I think I should sleep."

Harry nodded, but his arms refused to let her go right away. Slowly, reluctantly, he loosened his hold, letting her lie back onto the thin blanket. He sat on the edge of her cot, still close, as if moving any further would somehow break the fragile thread between them.

Her eyes fluttered half-closed, her breathing uneven. Harry reached down without thinking, tucking the blanket higher over her shoulder. His fingers brushed against her collarbone for the briefest second. He pulled back as if burned, guilt tightening in his chest—yet he couldn't stop himself from lingering.

Hermione shifted, her hand slipping just enough that her fingertips grazed his sleeve. She didn't open her eyes, but the faintest curl of a smile tugged at her lips, as though she'd felt the contact and welcomed it.

Harry swallowed hard. His hand hovered, uncertain, then finally settled lightly on her arm. Not a grip, not even a caress—just contact. Something real.

Minutes passed in silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Hermione's lashes trembled, but she didn't pull away. If anything, she seemed to lean ever so slightly closer.

Harry sat there, his mind warring between guilt and the impossible pull he felt toward her. He told himself he should move, give her space. But he stayed, watching the way the firelight danced across her face, memorizing every line as if she were the only thing in the world worth holding onto.

And though neither spoke a word, both of them felt it—their closeness deepening in the quiet night, the stolen touches louder than any confession.

Hermione shifted in the cot, her breathing shallow but steady now. Harry's hand still rested lightly on her arm, the warmth of her skin seeping into his fingertips. His chest ached with everything unspoken—every glance, every near-touch that had grown between them in these endless days.

Her lips parted slightly, as though she were about to whisper something. Instead, she only breathed out, soft and trusting. Harry's eyes drifted down, tracing the curve of her cheek.

For a heartbeat, he leaned closer. The world seemed to still—the fire's crackle faded, the cold forgotten. He could feel her breath, warm against his skin. His lips hovered just above hers, trembling with the weight of the choice.

And then—

A sudden shimmer of light cut through the tent's shadows. Silvery radiance spilled across the ground, ethereal and pure. Hermione stirred, eyes blinking open in confusion as the brilliance grew.

Harry jerked back, heart slamming against his ribs. His hand flew to his wand before his mind caught up, but his breath caught when he saw it: the luminous form of a doe, its hooves silent, its eyes calm, its glow filling the night like moonlight made flesh.

Hermione sat up, clutching the blanket around her shoulders, staring in awe. "Harry…" she whispered.

The moment between them shattered, replaced by something larger, something undeniable.

Harry's lips were still tingling with the kiss that almost was, his heart torn between the pull of Hermione and the summons of this mysterious Patronus. He stood slowly, torn apart by the timing, by destiny intruding just as his heart had dared to break its silence.

The silver doe turned its head, as if beckoning.

Chapter Text

The silver doe glided ahead, its glow pulling Harry through the snow-darkened forest. His breath came fast, white clouds in the cold air, but his feet kept following until the trees parted to reveal a frozen pool glistening like black glass.

The sword of Gryffindor gleamed faintly at the bottom.

"Stay back, Hermione," Harry said firmly, turning as she caught up, pale and wrapped in a blanket. "You're not well. I'll do this."

He took a deep breath, shivered before diving in.

The icy water closed over him like knives. Every nerve screamed as he pushed downward, eyes locked on the sword's glimmer. His fingers brushed it—just as the chain of the Horcrux locket snapped taut against his throat.

Panic. The locket coiled, dragging him down, its weight crushing, choking. His chest burned as he clawed at it, but his hands were sluggish, his vision dimming.

Above the surface, Hermione's heart lurched. She'd been coughing, fever still burning through her, but the instant Harry stopped thrashing her scream tore through the night.

"Harry!"

She didn't think—only moved. She flung off the blanket, teeth clenched against the cold, and dove into the pool. The shock of it stole her breath, but she fought through, her fingers cutting through the freezing dark until they found him—his arm, limp and heavy. With her arm locked around Harry, Hermione's free hand snatched the hilt of the sword.

With a strength born of desperation, Hermione pulled, kicking upward, lungs burning until they broke the surface. She dragged him, coughing, half-conscious, back to the shore. Her body shook violently, but she refused to let go until he was on the snow, his chest heaving as he spat out water.

She collapsed against him, shivering, her cheek pressed to his.

"Don't—" Her voice shook as she whispered into his ear. "Don't ever do that alone again. Not when I can save you."

Harry turned his face toward her, breath ragged, eyes wide not just with shock but with something deeper—a raw recognition of how much she had just risked, how close he'd been to losing her in that moment too.

The sword lay gleaming on the ground beside them, but for Harry, all he could see was Hermione, soaked, trembling, yet fierce enough to dive into death's cold grip for him.

Harry's chest still heaved from the pool, but his grip was steady as he set the sword between them. The locket glimmered darkly on the snow, pulsing as though it had a heartbeat.

He whispered in Parseltongue, the eerie hiss cutting the night: "Open."

The locket sprang apart with a metallic snap, and at once a great shadowy vapor spilled out, swirling into cruel, familiar shapes.

Hermione staggered back, her body trembling not only from fever but from the icy fingers of fear wrapping around her heart.

"Hermione—" Harry reached for her, but she raised her hand.

"No. This time… it's me," she whispered, clutching the sword of Gryffindor so tight her knuckles whitened.

The Horcrux laughed, a low mocking hiss.

"You? You've always been second. Second to the boy who lived. Second to Weasley's girl. Second to everyone who truly mattered."

The smoke twisted, forming Ginny's face—smiling, glowing with a kind of effortless charm.

"Harry doesn't want you," Ginny's voice sneered. "He wants me. The pretty one. The one he kissed under mistletoe. You were never enough."

Hermione shuddered, her grip faltering, eyes glistening with tears.

"Don't listen to it!" Harry's voice was sharp, desperate. "It lies!"

But the Horcrux wasn't finished. The smoke shifted, revealing Ron's face now, eyes blazing with betrayal.

"You think you're better than me, don't you? But you chose me—then you threw me aside. You don't know loyalty. You don't know love."

Hermione's lip trembled. "No—I…"

The smoke swirled again, swelling, distorting, until Mrs. Weasley stood before her, gaze stern, disappointed.

"You've ruined my family. My boys, my daughter. You've taken what doesn't belong to you."

Hermione stumbled back a step, sword quivering in her hands. Tears spilled freely now.

Harry moved closer, voice breaking. "Hermione—look at me. Look at me, not at it. You've always been the bravest person I know. You're not second—you're everything."

The Horcrux hissed furiously, its shadows pressing closer. "Lies. He pities you. He'll never choose you."

Then Harry's voice, cruel and mocking: "I chose Ginny, didn't I? You were never enough."

Hermione faltered, sword shaking. Her lips parted, breath ragged. Harry caught her wrist. Before she could raise the sword again, her gaze flicked downward…

But before she lifted the sword again, her gaze flicked downward, unable to hold his for a heartbeat. And in that instant, without thinking, Harry leaned forward and pressed a short, trembling kiss to her lips.

It was quick — almost clumsy — but it was real.

Hermione froze, eyes wide. The sword shook in her hands. And then, with a gasp, she turned back to the locket and, with a cry of fury, drove the blade down.

The locket shrieked. Smoke and twisted visions spewed into the chilled air, whispering cruelties — but Hermione struck again, Harry's kiss still burning on her lips, giving her strength.

The final blow shattered the Horcrux. Its scream split the night, then faded into nothing. Two broken halves lay lifeless on the snow.

Hermione stood, chest heaving, sword falling from her hands.

For a moment there was only silence—then the crunch of snow as Harry moved closer. He reached out, his hand hovering as though afraid she might break. But it was Hermione who closed the distance, falling against him, her icy fingers framing his face.

She kissed him—not trembling this time, but certain. Alive

When she pulled away, their breath misted between them in the frosty air, mingling as one.

The locket was dead. But something else had awakened.

Then light stirred in the clearing.

The Silver Doe returned once more, gliding across the snow as though it had been waiting. Its glow bathed the broken locket, then turned to them, its radiance sinking into Hermione's trembling body, filling her fevered skin with warmth.

Hermione leaned into Harry's chest, whispering, "Do you feel it?"

Harry tightened his arm around her. "It's protecting us."

She raised her wand with a weak hand, muttering a charm. At once, their soaked clothes dried, heat spreading through them like a quiet embrace.

The Doe lifted its head, luminous eyes fixed on Harry. And then, for the first time, it spoke. The voice was soft, echoing, neither man's nor woman's, but something older and gentler:

"Harry… go to Godric's Hollow."

The words shimmered in the snowbound air. The Doe dipped its head, then dissolved into silver mist, scattering like stars into the night sky.

Chapter Text

The pale light of dawn slipped weakly through the cracks in the tent, painting the air in muted gray. Harry stirred, breath fogging faintly in the chill, and for a moment he thought the heaviness in his chest would return — the ever-present thrum of the Horcrux.
But it was gone.
For the first time in months, he felt… lighter. Not free, not yet, but as though the constant whisper pressing against his mind had finally fallen silent.

He blinked and turned his head.
Hermione was still beside him, curled beneath the blankets, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Strands of damp hair clung to her temple, and her lips were parted slightly, the exhaustion of fever and cold keeping her in deep sleep. She looked fragile, her hand half-clenched against his sleeve—as though even in dreams she refused to let him go.

Memory surged back — the silver glow of the doe, the bite of the frozen water, her arms pulling him up from the dark, the locket shattering beneath her fury… and that kiss.
He swallowed hard, lying still, the sound of her breathing the only rhythm in the room.

They had barely spoken on the walk back. He'd asked her once about the Patronus, but she had only shaken her head, lips pale and trembling, admitting she had no idea. After that, her strength had faltered, and she'd leaned against him heavily, too tired to fight her own weariness.

At the tent, she had whispered, "Stay… don't go far. Just… lay down with me, Harry. Please."
And so he had. He'd slipped under the covers, careful not to crowd her, but she had instinctively drawn closer anyway. The warmth of her body had pressed against him, grounding him more firmly than any spell could.

Now, in the fragile hush of morning, Harry let himself simply watch her for a moment longer. His chest ached with gratitude, guilt, and something else he couldn't yet name.

The smell of something warm and faintly spiced filled the tent. Harry bent over the small pot, stirring carefully, trying not to clatter. His hands moved almost automatically; his thoughts, however, kept circling back to the night before.

Behind him, there was a soft rustle.
"Harry…?"

He turned quickly. Hermione was shifting upright, her hair tangled, her face still pale but a little less fever-flushed than before. She rubbed her eyes, blinking at the faint steam curling up from the pot.

"You're awake," Harry said, a little too quickly. "I—I made stew. Thought you'd need it."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips, though it faltered just as quickly. She sat back against the pillow, eyes heavy.
"Always taking care of me," she murmured, before her expression tightened. "And that's the problem, isn't it?"

Harry frowned. "Problem?"

Her gaze dropped, fingers knotting in the blanket. "I can't stop thinking about last night. About all of it. Ron leaving… that's my fault. I drove him away. And then you and I—" her voice caught, almost breaking. "We grew closer. Too close."

Harry set the spoon down, turning fully to her. "Hermione—"

"No, let me say it," she whispered, almost frantic. "When I held the sword, Harry, I thought I'd lost. The Horcrux almost won. It knew every doubt, every fear, every weakness. I felt myself slipping into it, almost… surrendering."

Her hand trembled as she pressed it to her chest. "But then—you kissed me. And I don't know if you meant to, but it… it pulled me back. I felt alive again. Like I wasn't just fighting for survival but for something real."

Her eyes shimmered and longing. "It's wrong, Harry. Isn't it?"

Harry's chest tightened. He crossed to her slowly, crouching so his eyes were level with hers. His voice was low but steady.
"Nothing is wrong if it saved you. Nothing is wrong if it made you feel alive. We've both made mistakes, Hermione… but last night wasn't one of them."

Her breath hitched, but she shook her head stubbornly. "What about Ron? What about Ginny? Don't they deserve better than this… than us?"

Harry's jaw worked, guilt flashing across his face, but his voice remained quiet, firm.
"They deserve the truth. And maybe the truth is that what we feel isn't something to hide behind guilt. Maybe the mistake would be pretending it never happened."

Hermione looked down at her hands, her shoulders trembling. "I don't know if I can forgive myself. For Ron. For Ginny. For wanting this when I shouldn't."

Harry reached, gently covering her hand with his. His voice was quiet, almost raw.

"If we were back at Hogwarts, with everything normal, no war, no Horcruxes… this still would've happened. You and me, we would've found each other. Maybe slower, maybe hidden. Ron and Ginny would've hated us for it, but it wouldn't have changed what's between us. The Horcrux didn't create it—it just forced it to the surface sooner."

Hermione's lips parted, a faint tremor in her breath as though she wanted to argue but couldn't. The truth of it sat heavy between them.

For a long moment, she only stared at him, her hand tightening under his, before she whispered, "That almost makes it worse."

Harry gave a faint, broken smile. "Or maybe it makes it real."

Hermione drew in a shaky breath. "The Horcrux twisted everything. It made Ron hate us… and it made us hate him back, even if just for a while." Her voice broke faintly. "But it couldn't make us hate each other. Not once. Even with him gone, even when we should've fallen apart… we only became closer. Maybe… maybe it was inevitable."

The words lingered in the air, heavy and undeniable.

Harry's chest rose and fell, his throat tight. After a long pause, he found his voice, quiet but certain.
"I like you very much, Hermione."

Her eyes widened, then softened, glittering with something fragile yet fierce. She moved closer, so close he could feel her breath against his cheek.

For once, Harry didn't second-guess. He leaned in, heart pounding, and kissed her. Not the desperate brush of lips from the night before—but a long, trembling, unbroken kiss that tasted of warmth and fear and truth.

Hermione didn't pull away. Her hands rose, clutching at his shoulders as if anchoring herself, and she kissed him back with all the things words couldn't carry.

Hermione's lips lingered close to his, but when she finally pulled back, her voice came in a whisper.
"I know we shouldn't… but I can't stop myself, Harry."

Harry's hand brushed against hers, hesitant but firm. "Neither do I."

Silence stretched, filled only by the crackle of the stew simmering over the fire. At last Hermione drew in a steadying breath, her tone shifting back toward the practical, though her cheeks still glowed faintly.
"The Silver Doe… it wasn't just a Patronus. Whoever sent it, they knew exactly where to find us. And the sword. That can't be coincidence."

Harry frowned, the weight of the mystery settling on him. "D'you think… it was Dumbledore? Or someone he trusted?"

"Maybe," Hermione said softly, though her brow furrowed in doubt. "But the way it guided you… the way it spoke at the end. It wanted us to go to Godric's Hollow."

Harry's heart clenched at the name. "My parents' grave. Bathilda Bagshot too. If there are answers anywhere, they're there."

Hermione nodded faintly, brushing damp curls back from her face. "And maybe the one who conjured the doe will be waiting. Someone who knows the truth about the Horcruxes."

Harry leaned forward, lowering his voice. "We've destroyed the locket. That leaves the three more horcruxes. We can't waste time."

Hermione met his eyes, fierce even through her exhaustion. "Then Godric's Hollow is our next step."

Chapter Text

Harry reached across the small table, brushing a lock of damp hair away from her temple. His voice was quiet but firm.
"You take rest today, Hermione. Sleep. We'll leave for Godric's Hollow this evening. I'll pack everything into your bag."

She looked at him, tired but glowing, eyes shimmering with something warmer than fever. Instead of answering right away, she leaned forward and gave him another soft kiss — gentle, fleeting, but enough to make his chest tighten.

Then, without a word, she turned back to the bed, curling into the blanket. As she settled, her thoughts swirled. Her heart felt impossibly light with Harry near — his care, his steady hands, his voice that anchored her. Yet guilt pressed in at the edges: Ron's face when he left, Ginny's laughter echoing in her mind.

Ron… Ginny… I never meant for this. But here, now… it feels like it was always meant to happen.

She remembered Hogwarts, all those years walking side by side with Harry, every late-night study session, every moment he'd leaned on her without realizing how much she leaned on him too. A flush crept to her cheeks. If we'd been braver, maybe even back then… the whole school would have known. And maybe it wouldn't feel so wrong now.

Her gaze softened as she watched him from the bed. Harry was crouched near the tent's corner, carefully folding their meager belongings, placing them one by one into the enchanted bag. He looked so determined, so gentle in the smallest movements, as though each item mattered.

A little smile tugged at her lips. She pulled the blanket tighter and let her eyelids fall, warmth flooding her chest. For the first time in weeks, she sank into happy dreams, dreams filled not with fear or Horcruxes, but with Harry — only Harry.

Harry folded another shirt slowly, every sound in the tent sharp in the quiet — the rustle of fabric, Hermione's steady breathing. He remembered the very first time he'd ever heard the name Hogwarts. Hagrid's booming voice, the letter that had changed his life. Back then, everything had felt so impossible, like magic was too good to be real. But then there was Hermione.

Hermione, with her fierce eyes and endless answers. Hermione, who scolded him, saved him, stood by him. She wasn't just part of Hogwarts anymore. She was his happiness, She was the ground beneath his feet — the one thing that couldn't be compared to anything else.

A pang of guilt cut through him. Ron. Ginny. Their faces rose unbidden in his mind. Ron's anger, Ginny's smile. They'll never forgive me, will they? He tightened his grip on the folded shirt. No, maybe they would. Someday. Maybe they'd understand. He'd have to explain it to Ginny somehow — how his heart had shifted, how it wasn't a betrayal but a truth he couldn't fight. That talk loomed like a stormcloud on the horizon.

His gaze lifted and settled on Hermione. She had curled into the blankets, her hair spilling across the pillow, her face soft in sleep. The fever seemed to have eased a little; her lips were curved in the faintest smile.

Harry let out a slow breath. The task before him — Horcruxes, Voldemort, the endless shadows — was bigger than anything he had ever faced. But when he looked at Hermione, he knew one thing with utter certainty.

Only with her did the just because she was clever, not just because she was brave. But because only with her did he feel alive, human, whole enough to face what was coming. She was the one giving him the heart to finish this fight.

He pressed the last of their things into the bag, sat back for a moment, and whispered so low it was almost a prayer:
"With you, Hermione… I can do anything."

Godric's Hollow

Snow crunched softly beneath their boots as Harry and Hermione Apparated into the quiet village. Frost clung to rooftops and bare branches, and the cold air smelled faintly of wood smoke. The streets lay hushed, as though the whole village held its breath beneath the winter sky.

Hermione's hand slipped into his, warm against the chill. "It's beautiful," she whispered. "Peaceful… hard to imagine what happened here."

Harry nodded, his eyes tracing the narrow lanes he'd pictured a thousand times in dreams. "Yeah. I've thought of this place for so long… but never like this. Never with you."

Her cheeks flushed in the lantern glow, though she only smiled softly and squeezed his hand.

They turned down a lane that opened into the small churchyard. Snow blanketed the graves, but Hermione raised her wand and flicked it gently. A small bouquet of bright flowers bloomed in her palm, defying the frost with soft colors. She held them out. "For your parents. I thought they might like to see something alive here."

Harry's throat tightened. He took the flowers carefully, as though they were more fragile than glass, and pressed them to his chest. "Thank you," he murmured, voice thick. "You don't know what this means."

They knelt before James and Lily's gravestone. The cold stone bit into Harry's gloved fingers as he brushed snow from the carved names. Hermione knelt close enough that her shoulder pressed gently against his, grounding him.

"Mum… Dad…" Harry's voice was barely audible. His chest ached with words he'd never had the chance to say. I wish you could see me now. I wish you could meet her. She's the reason I'm still standing. You'd understand… you'd like her. You'd know why I can't let her go.

Hermione's fingers brushed over his hand, her voice quiet but firm. "You're not alone, Harry. Not now, not ever."

He swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in his eyes. "Sometimes I forget… that it's all right to lean on someone."

Her hand lingered, covering his. "Then lean on me. Always. Even if I'm scared, even if I stumble… I'll still be here." The last words trembled, but she didn't pull away.

Harry turned to her then, truly looking. The lantern light caught her face — pale with cold, framed by dark curls, eyes shining with tears she refused to let fall. His heart clenched with an ache he couldn't name, part grief, part longing.

"Thank you," he whispered again, but it wasn't just for the flowers. It was for her, for everything.

The silence was thick, filled only with snow and stillness. The flowers at the gravestone seemed to glow faintly against the frost, untouched by winter's bite — a small, impossible defiance.

Harry squeezed Hermione's hand, holding it longer than he should. For a heartbeat, he almost told her everything — that she was his hope, She was the one steady thing in the storm, the only light strong enough to keep him going. The words pressed at his lips, but he let them rest unspoken, carried instead in the way his thumb traced against her hand.

Hermione didn't ask. She only gave him a small, knowing smile, as if she understood anyway.

And in that quiet graveyard, with snow falling gently around them, Harry realized that as long as she was beside him, he could face anything.

Chapter Text

Snow drifted lightly through the night as Harry and Hermione made their way down the narrow lane. At the very end, half-hidden behind overgrown hedges, stood the house. Or what was left of it.

The front gate creaked as Harry pushed it open, his heart hammering. The garden lay untended, wild with frost-bitten weeds, but his eyes were drawn past it—straight to the ruin. The roof sagged on one side, the walls charred and crumbling. And there, like a scar that refused to heal, was the gaping hole torn open by Voldemort's curse.

Harry stood frozen, breath caught in his throat. He had imagined this place so many times—his first home, the place where everything began—but seeing it now, broken and hollow, made his chest ache in a way he couldn't put into words.

Hermione's hand found his sleeve. "Harry…" Her voice was hushed, reverent, as though she feared to disturb the silence. Her wide eyes traced the ruined bricks, the shattered windows, the scar that Voldemort had left on more than just Harry. "I've read… I've read about that night a hundred times," she whispered. "How you survived, how the Dark Lord fell. But I never imagined it like this. The books can't… they can't capture this."

Harry swallowed, his gaze fixed on the jagged ruin of the nursery window. He could almost hear echoes—his mother's scream, his father's shout, a baby's cry. His scar prickled faintly, a dull reminder of that night. "This was their house. Their home. And he destroyed it… like it was nothing."

Hermione's eyes shimmered with tears. Without thinking, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms tightly around him, pulling him against her. Her cloak brushed against his, her warmth cutting through the chill.

Her whispers were soft, steady, grounding. "Harry… it doesn't matter what he destroyed. He couldn't destroy you. He couldn't destroy the love your parents gave you. It's still here. It's in you."

Harry closed his eyes, breathing her in, letting her voice wrap around the hollow ache inside. His hands trembled, but he clung to her, letting her words steady him.

For a long moment, they stood there in the snow, framed by the wreckage of the past. Harry with his ghosts, Hermione holding him through the weight of them.

The ruined house loomed behind them as Harry and Hermione stood in the snow, their breaths mingling in the frigid air. Hermione slowly pulled back from the embrace, brushing a tear from her cheek before Harry could see.

"Come on," she whispered, her hand lingering in his. "It's freezing. Let's… let's walk a bit further."

Harry nodded, though his gaze lingered one last time on the wrecked nursery window before he turned away. They moved down the street together, snow crunching beneath their boots, the village wrapped in midnight stillness.

That's when Harry saw her.

An old woman, hunched and thin, stood just beyond the crooked fence line of the churchyard. She seemed to have appeared from nowhere, her shawl drawn tightly against the cold. Her eyes, shadowed beneath her hood, locked onto Harry's.

Hermione stiffened beside him. "Harry…"

But Harry felt something stir deep in his chest — not quite recognition, but something close. The woman raised one gnarled hand, beckoning silently.

"That's her," Hermione whispered. "Bathilda Bagshot."

Harry's eyes widened. "The historian? The one who wrote A History of Magic?"

"Rita Skeeter said she knew Dumbledore… maybe she knows about the Horcrux. Maybe more."

Bathilda turned, shuffling toward the shadows of her house without a word, leaving the door ajar as if expecting them to follow.

Hermione's hand clamped tighter on Harry's. "Something's wrong. She didn't speak, Harry. Why didn't she speak?"

Harry's chest tightened, but he pulled gently at her hand. "We need answers. This could be it."

Reluctantly, Hermione followed as they crossed the threshold into the darkened, musty house.

The air inside Bathilda's house felt colder than the night outside. Dust hung thick, and a faint, acrid stench made Hermione wrinkle her nose. Harry tried not to breathe too deeply, his heart hammering as he followed the old woman's slow, shuffling steps.

Bathilda didn't speak, didn't look back. Her frail frame seemed almost too fragile to move at all.

Hermione's hand trembled slightly in his, though her wand never wavered. She leaned closer, whispering so softly Harry barely caught it. "Something isn't right. I don't like this."

He squeezed her hand in answer, though dread had already crept into his gut.

Bathilda stopped before a shadowy doorway. She turned, those deep-set eyes locking onto Harry's face. For a breathless second, Harry thought he saw something like hunger there. Then, without warning, she beckoned him forward — only him.

Hermione's grip tightened. "No, Harry. Something's wrong—don't go!"

But Harry felt pulled, almost compelled. Slowly, he stepped closer, into the darkness of the room beyond. Bathilda shuffled in after him.

And then it happened.

The air shifted, thick with the stench of decay. Bathilda's head tilted at an unnatural angle, her jaw opening wider, wider, until with a sickening rip her body seemed to collapse in on itself — and from within, a serpent uncoiled.

Nagini.

Chapter Text

Nagini.

Hermione screamed his name. "Harry!"

The walls groaned under the weight of Nagini's massive coils as the serpent struck, faster than either of them could react.

Harry barely managed to raise his wand, shouting, "Stupefy!" The spell ricocheted uselessly off the serpent's glistening scales. Nagini twisted, her tail lashing out with bone-cracking force.

"Protego!" Hermione cried, but the tail smashed through her shield and slammed her to the floor. Her wand skidded away, clattering against the rotted boards.

"Hermione!" Harry shouted, panic flaring. He fired another hex, then another — nothing pierced the serpent's enchanted hide.

Nagini reared back, jaws wide, the stench of rot filling the air.

With shaking hands, Hermione scrambled for the enchanted bag. Her fingers found the cool hilt of the Sword of Gryffindor. She dragged it free, the steel gleaming even in the dim light. With a cry, she swung upward and slashed across the serpent's tail.

The blade bit through, cutting deep. Black blood hissed as it splattered the floor.

Nagini shrieked, a sound that rattled the very walls. The serpent coiled violently, hurling Hermione backward. She hit the ground hard, the sword wrenched from her grip, clattering across the room into the shadows.

Harry's chest seized in terror. He lunged for Hermione, but Nagini struck first, her massive head darting toward him. He dove aside, the fangs grazing his arm as he crashed into the wall. Pain burst across his skull as he crumpled, dazed, vision swimming.

Through the blur, he saw it — Nagini rearing again, her body blotting out the ceiling. Her head loomed over him, fangs dripping venom, every muscle poised for the killing strike.

Harry tried to lift his wand, but his arm felt heavy, his magic sputtering against the suffocating pressure of Voldemort's will.

The serpent lunged.

And then — steel flashed.

A hooded figure surged from the shadows, sword in hand. With one swift, perfect arc, the blade cleaved through Nagini's neck.

The serpent's shriek was cut short, her massive body thrashing wildly before crashing lifeless to the floor.

The house fell silent, broken only by the ragged breaths of Harry and Hermione.

Harry blinked, heart pounding, vision blurring at the edges. The hooded figure stood over Nagini's corpse, the blade dripping black blood. Silent. Unmoving. Watching.

Harry's hand tightened weakly on his wand. "Who—?" he rasped.

But the figure did not answer.

The silence after the battle was almost unbearable, broken only by the hiss of black blood eating into the wooden floor.

The hooded figure lowered the sword, its gleaming edge still dripping. Slowly, he pulled back the hood.

Snape's black eyes glittered in the dim light. His voice was calm, even cold.
"Slytherin can handle the Sword of Gryffindor, Potter. Surprised?"

Harry's pulse roared in his ears. "You—You killed Dumbledore!" he shouted, the words ragged, broken. "Don't you dare act like you're helping us now!"

Snape's gaze flickered, just for an instant, with something unreadable.

"Dumbledore begged for it," he said, the words precise, sharp as steel. "It was his idea, his plan. You know nothing of what he asked me to do."

Harry froze, shock colliding with fury. His wand wavered, his breath ragged. Hermione, pale and bruised, reached shakily for Harry's arm, as if to hold him back.

Snape ignored Harry's turmoil. His voice dropped lower, clipped, urgent.
"There's no time. One Horcrux is with Bellatrix Lestrange. You will find her at Malfoy Manor. Do not waste time here."

Harry narrowed his eyes, trying to read him, but Snape's expression was impenetrable.

"You can trust no one," Snape continued. "But if you need refuge… seek out Longbottom. Neville's house, close to Malfoy Manor. It is safe, for now."

The name hit Harry like another shock. "Neville—? Why—"

"Go!" Snape snapped, his robes swirling as he turned. "Every second you stay, you risk being found. You're not ready for Him yet."

And before Harry could demand more, before Hermione could ask the questions burning on her lips, Snape swept his wand through the air. Shadows engulfed him, and with a crack of displaced air, he was gone.

The ruined house was silent again, save for the heavy breathing of Harry and Hermione, and the corpse of Nagini cooling between them.

Harry's grip tightened on his wand, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. "I'll never forgive him," he whispered. Yet the words rang hollow, tangled with confusion, fear, and the tiniest flicker of doubt.

Hermione's trembling hands moved swiftly, wand tracing faint blue light over Harry's wounds. The gash on his forehead knitted closed, the bleeding slowed, and the worst swelling along his ribs eased.

Nagini's tail had left a jagged bruise along her ribs, every breath stabbing at her chest, but she ignored it. She reached for Harry's hand, gripping it tightly.

"Hold still," she whispered, voice breaking.

Harry winced as the magic sank into his skin. The sharp agony dulled, but the heaviness stayed—a deep, dragging ache in every muscle. He drew a ragged breath, eyes fluttering open to meet hers.

"You… you did enough," he murmured, his voice hoarse.

Hermione shook her head fiercely. "Not nearly enough. But it'll hold, at least until we're safe."

He tried to sit up, teeth clenched against the pain. Hermione slid an arm under him, steadying his weight, her jaw set. The broken house groaned around them, shadows pressing in.

She took his hand in both of hers, bracing herself. With a whispered spell and a twist, the wreckage of Godric's Hollow vanished around them as she Disapparated them both into the night.

Chapter Text

After the chaos of Godric's Hollow, Harry and Hermione knew they needed somewhere hidden, somewhere no one would think to look — a place that felt safe. They decided on a quiet city hotel, tucked away on a side street where hardly anyone lingered.

As they stepped into the softly lit lobby, Harry's eyes darted warily to every corner, but Hermione placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "Let me handle this," she whispered.

The receptionist, a sharp-eyed woman with a clipped voice, looked up as they approached. "Do you have a reservation?"

Hermione smiled gently, her tone polite but firm. "Not exactly — but I know this hotel. I stayed here years ago with my parents. We'd like a suite, please. Somewhere private."

The woman hesitated, glancing between them. Hermione's wand, hidden discreetly in her sleeve, traced the smallest of charms to ease suspicion, nothing more than a gentle nudge. "We can pay upfront," she added smoothly.

The tension in the receptionist's face softened. She tapped a few keys, then slid a key card across the desk. "Suite 602. Sixth floor."

Hermione thanked her, slipping the card into her pocket before leading Harry toward the lift.

Inside the elevator, Harry raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "So… you've been here before?"

Hermione nodded, her expression softening with memory. "Yes. Once, with Mum and Dad. Just a holiday. I thought… if there's any place in the Muggle world where I feel safe, it's here."

The elevator doors opened, revealing a wide hallway. Their suite was spacious and elegant, the soft glow of lamps bouncing off polished wood. A private pool shimmered in the next room, steam rising faintly from the warm water.

Harry let out a low whistle. "I think this is… more than we need."

Hermione set her bag down and gave him a small, tired smile. "Maybe. But after everything, Harry, don't you think we deserve at least one night of comfort before we go chasing Horcruxes again?"

Harry paused, then nodded. "Yeah… we do."

The suite door shut behind them with a soft click. The city lights glowed faintly through the curtains, but inside the room it was quiet, warm, safe.

Hermione guided Harry toward the couch and set her bag down with care. Her eyes scanned him quickly — the bruises along his jaw, the faint cut above his eyebrow, the stiffness in his shoulder. She bit her lip, wand already in hand.

"Sit," she ordered softly, though her voice carried more concern than command. "You need mending before anything else."

Harry gave a weak grin but did as told. Hermione crouched before him, her hands surprisingly steady. "Shirt off," she said gently.

Harry hesitated, cheeks warming. "Hermione…"

"Don't argue. I need to see what I'm working with." Her tone was firm, but her eyes softened when she met his.

Slowly, he pulled the shirt over his head. Faint purple bruises mottled his ribs, a gash ran along his side, and his shoulder was dark with swelling. Hermione's breath caught. She'd seen Harry injured before — always on the battlefield, always with Ron beside them. But here, in the quiet, it felt different. More human. More vulnerable.

Her hand hovered just above his chest before she whispered the first spell. Warm golden light sank into his skin, closing a cut, easing a bruise. She brushed away the dried blood with the back of her hand, slower than necessary.

"Better," she murmured. "Your ribs might be bruised lower. I'll need to check"

Harry froze, eyes wide. "You—what?"

Hermione's lips twitched, but her voice stayed calm. "Bruised bones can't be ignored, Harry. Do you want to walk tomorrow, or not?"

He hesitated, then sighed, fumbling with the clasp. His ears burned, but he let her ease the trousers down enough to reveal the ugly marks blooming along his hips. Hermione's wand swept over them, muttering a soft charm. She didn't comment on his blush, though her own cheeks were tinged pink.

When she finished, Harry caught her hand. His gaze sharpened. "What about you?"

Hermione blinked. "What about me?"

"You're hurt. I saw Nagini throw you. Don't think I didn't notice."

She shifted uncomfortably. "It's nothing."

"Hermione." His tone was low, insistent.

She sighed, biting her lip, and turned her back to him. Slowly, she slipped the zipper of her dress down just enough to reveal her ribs, where deep bruises painted her skin in cruel purples. Harry's breath caught. She pulled the fabric down further, showing the angry welts on her back, the faint slash across the top of her thigh.

"And here," she whispered, tugging the fabric just below her collarbone. A faint cut ran above her breast. Her voice trembled. "I didn't want you to worry."

Harry's chest tightened. He'd never seen her like this — not just her body, but her vulnerability, the quiet courage it took to bare herself to him.

Harry swallowed, raising his wand as she pressed his hand against her ribs. He whispered the spell she had taught him, his voice low but steady. A faint golden glow spread from the tip, seeping into her skin. Slowly, the angry purple bruises began to fade, her breath hitching with every wave of warmth.

Hermione's lips parted, a soft sigh escaping as the pain dulled. She leaned slightly into his touch, as though trusting him completely.

Harry shifted, tracing the wand gently across her back. He moved slower this time, afraid of hurting her, but the cuts knit together under the soft glow, leaving only smooth skin behind. His chest ached with each mark he erased — every injury a reminder of how close he'd come to losing her.

Finally, he hesitated at her collarbone. The small cut above her breast caught the light, stark against her pale skin. His hand trembled as he lifted the wand closer. "Here too?" he asked softly.

Hermione's eyes fluttered closed, and she gave the faintest nod.

He whispered the incantation again, the glow spilling gently across her skin. The wound sealed, and his hand lingered a moment too long, not out of hesitation, but out of something unspoken that neither dared to name.

When she opened her eyes again, Harry was looking at her with a mix of awe and fear, as if he had crossed a line he could never go back from.

"You did it," she breathed, her voice thick with something more than relief.

Harry lowered his wand, his hand still hovering close, his cheeks flushed.

Harry had never seen her like this — not as the clever witch with her hand always in the air, not the friend who always pulled him back from despair — but as someone unbearably real, flesh and breath and warmth before him. His eyes traced the soft curve of her shoulder, the faint blush across her collarbone, the way her chest rose sharply as she realized he was looking.

Hermione's cheeks flushed deeper, and she tugged her dress up an inch, suddenly self-conscious. But before she could retreat, Harry caught her wrist — not forcefully, but with a gentleness that stilled her.

"Don't," he whispered, his voice rough. "You don't have to hide from me."

Her eyes searched his, wide and uncertain, until she saw it: the raw honesty in his expression, the way he wasn't staring in hunger but in reverence, as though every mark of her struggle made her more beautiful.

She let the fabric fall back, her breath trembling.

Then Harry moved — slowly, hesitantly — and set his forehead against hers. His hand brushed her arm, sliding up to her shoulder, anchoring himself there as if she were the only thing holding him steady.

Hermione's lips parted in a small gasp, her eyes half-closed. The air between them hummed, taut and fragile, until Harry finally leaned in. His lips brushed hers — not urgent, not demanding, just a soft, aching kiss that carried all the words neither of them had been brave enough to say.

Hermione responded instantly, her hand rising to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. The kiss deepened, still tender but no longer hesitant, both of them clinging to the fragile miracle of this moment.

Harry kept his arms around her long after the kiss ended, feeling the rapid thrum of her heartbeat against his chest. It was strange and new, yet it felt inevitable — like all the years of friendship had been leading them quietly here.

Hermione didn't pull away. Instead, she let out a shaky breath and leaned further into him, her body melting against his. His hand rubbed small circles against her back, careful not to touch where she'd been hurt, protective without even realizing it.

The tension in the room shifted, softening, as the adrenaline of their battle finally gave way to exhaustion. The firelight cast a gentle glow across their faces, and the suite felt warmer, safer, with the two of them simply holding onto each other.

"Harry…" Hermione whispered, her words slurred with fatigue. "Stay close tonight. Please."

He nodded without hesitation. "I'm not going anywhere."

They slipped beneath the covers together, shy but wordless, too drained for doubts. Hermione curled instinctively toward him, her head fitting against his shoulder, her hair brushing his cheek. Harry draped an arm around her waist, drawing her close until their bodies fit as though they'd always belonged like this.

For the first time in weeks, Harry felt truly at peace. Her warmth, her breathing, the quiet trust between them — it was all he needed.

Within minutes, sleep claimed them both, tangled together in the same bed, holding tight as if the world outside no longer existed.

Chapter Text

Golden light filtered through the tall curtains, spilling across the bed where Harry and Hermione lay, still close, still sharing the same warmth as the night before. Harry stirred first, blinking against the brightness. The first thing he noticed wasn't the light, or the room — it was Hermione, curled against him, her hand resting lightly over his chest as though it had been there all night.

For a long moment, he just smiled. The memory of the previous night — her trust, her closeness, the way her lips had brushed his — replayed in his mind like a spell he never wanted to break.

Hermione's eyes fluttered open, meeting his. She looked at him, then gave a small, soft smile that made Harry's chest tighten. "Morning," she whispered.

"Morning," he murmured back, brushing a bit of hair from her face.

With a flick of her wand, a tray appeared at the foot of the bed — fresh bread, fruit, and warm tea, conjured up from the hotel's unseen kitchen. "We'll need the energy," she said with a grin, settling the tray between them.

They ate together in easy silence at first, stealing glances, small smiles, the kind that said more than words could. But the shadow of last night's encounter in Godric's Hollow eventually crept back into the conversation.

"Snape," Harry said at last, setting down his cup. His jaw tightened. "I still don't trust him. He's hiding something."

Hermione, however, shook her head slowly. "He could've let Nagini finish us, Harry. Instead, he saved you. That isn't chance. I think… I think Dumbledore trusted him for a reason."

Harry frowned, his instincts warring with her certainty. "He still killed Dumbledore."

"Because Dumbledore asked him to," Hermione countered gently. "It makes sense now. Snape has always been on a knife's edge between both worlds. Maybe he's still playing his part."

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. He didn't want to believe it, but Hermione's conviction stirred something inside him. She leaned forward, brushing her fingers over his hand. "We don't have all the answers yet. But for now, Snape isn't our enemy."

Harry nodded reluctantly, though unease lingered. "So… what do we do next?"

Hermione's eyes darkened with thought. "Snape said Bellatrix has a Horcrux. That means Malfoy Manor… but we don't know where exactly to go, or how to get in. Neville's house might be close, but—" She paused, shaking her head. "We need more time to plan."

Harry exhaled, his shoulders heavy. "Then we wait."

Hermione's lips curved in a small smile, breaking the tension. She pushed the empty tray aside, her gaze flicking toward the private pool where steam still curled lazily above the water. "In that case," she said softly, eyes sparkling now, "let's enjoy what we have. For once."

Harry followed her gaze, then looked back at her, the corners of his mouth tugging upward despite himself.

"You mean the pool?"

Hermione laughed lightly. "Yes, Harry. The pool."

The private pool shimmered under soft light, steam curling in the air. Hermione stood by the edge, wand in hand, her lips quirking in a mischievous smile.

With a flick of her wand, her clothes shimmered, shifting into deep blue fabric that hugged her curves.

Harry froze mid-step. His mouth opened, then closed again. "Er—Hermione—"

She arched an eyebrow, a hint of triumph in her grin. "What? Too much?"

Harry swallowed, ears burning. "No. I mean—no, it's just—wow." His voice cracked, and Hermione laughed, delighted.

"You're terrible at hiding what you're thinking, Harry Potter," she teased, slipping into the pool with a graceful splash.

Harry was still staring when a flick of her wand sent a sudden wave crashing over him, soaking his shirt completely through.

"Hermione!" he gasped, dripping.

She giggled, backing into the water. "Well? Are you going to just stand there, or join me?"

Harry grinned, tugging his shirt off and tossing it aside. "You asked for it." He jumped in with a huge splash, sending water flying everywhere.

What followed was chaos — Hermione darting away through the water, Harry chasing after her, waves rising around them with every flick and splash.

Harry lunged and caught her ankle under the water, but she kicked free with a squeal of laughter. He reached again, fumbling — his hand brushed against her chest in the scramble. He froze instantly, mortified.

But Hermione only darted away with a mischievous look over her shoulder, clearly deciding not to dwell on it.

Red-faced, Harry surged forward again. This time, his hands found her waist, firm and sure, and she gasped in surprise as he pulled her close. Their laughter stilled in that moment, breaths mingling, water streaming down both their faces.

Hermione leaned closer, brushing her arm against his, eyes sparkling with teasing delight. "I always wished," she murmured softly, almost shyly, "that I could enjoy a pool like this… even back in the prefect bathroom, with you."

Harry felt heat rush to his cheeks. "You… you mean—"

Hermione's smile was playful and knowing. "Yes, you. Don't blush, Harry Potter."

His grip on her waist tightened just slightly, the warmth between them far hotter than the pool.

Hermione's words lingered in the humid air, her eyes locked on his, daring and soft all at once. Harry's pulse hammered in his ears, louder than the splashing water around them.

"Don't blush, Harry" she whispered again, though her own cheeks were tinged pink.

He didn't think. He couldn't. The laughter, the teasing, the way her body fit so close against his in the water — it all collided at once.

His hand slid higher along her waist, steadying her as if she might slip away again. And then, almost without realizing, he leaned in.

Hermione's breath hitched, her lashes fluttering as his lips brushed hers — tentative, shy, but charged with everything they'd never said.

She kissed him back instantly, melting against him, her fingers curling into his shoulders. The warmth of her mouth, the taste of salt and steam, the closeness of her body pressed to his — it stole every thought from his mind except one: her.

The kiss deepened, clumsy and perfect, water rippling around them as if the whole pool had stilled for this moment. When they finally broke apart, breathless, their foreheads rested together, eyes searching each other in stunned silence.

Hermione gave a small, incredulous laugh, her lips still brushing his. "So much for just enjoying the pool."

Harry grinned, dazed. "Best swim I've ever had."

She kissed him again, softer this time, as if sealing a promise neither of them wanted to put into words yet.

Hermione flicked her wand and in an instant both their clothes dried with a warm shimmer. She remained in her bikini though, water-dark curls tumbling down her shoulders, her bare thighs brushing close to his as they sat at the small dining table. Harry tried not to stare, but the warmth in his chest kept tugging his eyes back to her.

Minutes later, a warm tray of food appeared between them, dishes steaming invitingly. Hermione conjured plates and napkins with practiced ease, but there was a spark in her eyes, playful and unguarded.

They ate slowly, sharing bites, feeding each other with grins that turned into laughter. At one point, Hermione flicked a tiny piece of pastry at him, and Harry caught it in his mouth, victorious. He leaned over and stole a kiss in return, quick and cheeky, making her swat at him with mock annoyance.

Their legs brushed constantly under the table, neither of them pulling away. When their fingers finally found each other's, they stayed laced together, warm and certain. Harry felt the quiet weight of it settle inside him: this wasn't just comfort, it was belonging.

"Do you ever think about Hogwarts?" Hermione asked softly between bites, a teasing glint in her eyes. "All the times we could have… all the moments we missed?"

Harry smiled, squeezing her hand. "All the time. But now… now we get to make our own moments. Without Horcruxes. Without danger. Just us."

They lingered long after the food was gone, savoring the glow of the firelight and the closeness of each other.

Chapter Text

Harry leaned back on the couch, Hermione curled beside him, her head still against his shoulder. But his thoughts turned heavier — to the mission, to what lay ahead. He drew a deep breath and murmured, "Dobby."

With a sharp pop, the air shimmered, and there he wasa — small, wide-eyed, and beaming from ear to ear.

"Harry Potter! Miss Hermione!" Dobby squeaked, hopping with excitement. "Dobby is happy to see you both together!"

Harry blinked, then laughed softly, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. "You always pop up at the right time, Dobby."

The elf's enormous green eyes twinkled as they flicked between the two of them on the couch, sitting close, their hands still entwined. "Dobby always says… Harry Potter and Miss Hermione are very close! Very close indeed!"

Hermione's cheeks flushed pink, and she ducked her head quickly, half embarrassed and half amused. "Dobby!" she chided gently, though her lips twitched with a smile.

Harry chuckled at her reaction, then leaned forward, more serious now. "Dobby… we need your help. Do you know anything about Malfoy Manor? Or… about where the Longbottoms live?"

Dobby's long ears perked, and he nodded so vigorously they flopped about. "Oh, yes! Dobby knows both places! Malfoy Manor is a very bad house… dark, cruel… Dobby does not like it. But Longbottom House, oh, yes, very kind people there. It is near, not far at all from the Manor."

Hermione's brows furrowed, her mind already spinning with possibilities. Harry's heart, though, beat faster at the thought. They had a lead now — a direction.

But Dobby stepped closer, his eyes wide with earnestness. "Harry Potter must be very careful. Malfoy Manor is dangerous… more dangerous. But "Dobby will help. Always help Harry Potter and Miss Hermione."

Harry met the elf's gaze, grateful beyond words. "Thank you, Dobby. I don't know what we'd do without you."

The elf's ears glowed pink with pride as he bowed low.

Harry's hand tightened gently around Hermione's. "Dobby… can you take us there? To Neville's house?"

The elf nodded furiously, his ears flapping. "Oh yes, Harry Potter! Dobby can take you to Longbottom House. It is hidden well, safe from bad wizards."

Hermione gave Harry a thoughtful glance. "It makes sense, Harry. If it's close to Malfoy Manor, we'll be nearby when the time comes."

Harry exhaled slowly.

"All right," he said at last, steady, decisive. "Let's go."

Hermione smiled softly, though her hand lingered on his, as if savoring the last quiet moment in their city hideaway. "We'll come back to this," she murmured, her eyes holding his.

Dobby clapped his hands excitedly. "Harry Potter and Miss Hermione must hold on to Dobby! Dobby will take you safely, very safely!"

He met Hermione's eyes, and she gave a small nod. They both reached for Dobby, their hands pressing against his small arms.

In an instant, with a sharp crack, the warm glow of the hotel suite vanished.

Before them stood a grand but weathered home, hidden among overgrown hedges and tall trees. Warm light spilled from its windows, a stark contrast to the looming darkness in the distance — and Harry knew without being told that somewhere out there, Malfoy Manor awaited.

Hermione whispered, almost reverently, "Longbottom House."

A wide garden stretched out before it, with rows of hedges and small flowerbeds — some still alive with blooms, others wild and untended, as if half-abandoned.

The air itself shimmered faintly. Harry could feel it — wards, strong ones, humming with protective magic.

Hermione's eyes softened. "This is… beautiful. Neville never said it was this grand."

They stepped cautiously forward, the grass crunching under their shoes. Suddenly, a voice rang out from the air — sharp, commanding, unmistakably female:

"Who goes there? Speak, or be cursed where you stand!"

Harry froze, his wand raised. But Hermione gasped, whispering, "That's Augusta Longbottom."

The voice seemed to see them, though it was no more than a recorded echo, etched into the wards. It boomed again:

"This house is protected. Only friends may enter. Enemies will find nothing but stone and thorns. If you hear this voice, know that Augusta Longbottom has gone into hiding — fighting Voldemort where he least expects. This home belongs now to my grandson's cause… and to his friends."

The words hung in the air like a vow, before fading back into silence.

Hermione's hand clutched Harry's arm. "She knew. She prepared for this. She's out there, still resisting…"

The wards pulsed once, as if recognizing their presence, and with a shimmer like water, the front door appeared.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of old wood and lavender. The hall was lined with family portraits — stern-faced witches and wizards of the Longbottom line, and some showing a younger Neville smiling awkwardly in his school robes. One photograph caught Harry's eye: Neville as a baby, held proudly in the arms of a younger Augusta.

Harry swallowed hard, his chest tight. The house felt warm and proud, even though it was empty. "She left this for him. For us," he murmured.

Harry turned to Dobby as they stepped deeper into the hall, the warmth of the place settling around them.

"Dobby… I need your help," Harry said quietly, his voice steady. "We need to know what's happening at Malfoy Manor. If Bellatrix has something hidden there, we need to find out. Can you spy for us? Carefully?"

Dobby straightened, his big eyes glowing with determination. "Dobby will do anything for Harry Potter, sir. Dobby will sneak, quiet as a shadow. If Dobby hears about Bellatrix or Malfoy Manor, Dobby will come straight back!"

Harry gave a small, thankful nod. "Thank you, Dobby."

With another quick bow, the elf vanished with a soft pop.

The house was silent again, only the creak of old wood and the faint rustle of garden leaves drifting through the open window. Hermione touched Harry's hand. "Come on… let's look around."

They wandered from room to room — through tall sitting rooms lined with dark bookshelves, past a dining hall with a great oak table that looked as though it had hosted generations of Longbottoms. The kitchen smelled faintly of herbs, as if someone had only just left.

When they finally stepped outside, the garden stretched before them like a hidden paradise. Roses curled along iron arches, and untamed green grass spilled over the paths. Toward the far end, half-hidden by flowering trees, Harry spotted a wooden swing dangling from an old oak branch.

Hermione laughed softly. "Neville never mentioned this."

"Maybe it was his secret place," Harry said, grinning as he motioned for her to sit.

Hermione slipped onto the swing, her hair tumbling down her shoulders, bare legs brushing the grass. Harry moved behind her, hands gently gripping the ropes as he pushed her forward. The swing creaked, drifting higher with each push, Hermione's laughter bright and unguarded in the evening air.

Harry couldn't look away.

Her smile, the way the wind tugged at her hair, the soft glow of sunset on her skin — it was a side of Hermione he had never been able to stop and notice before.

When the swing slowed, Hermione twisted slightly to glance at him, her cheeks warm with color. Harry stepped closer, letting the ropes fall from his hands. For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the rustle of leaves.

Harry's voice was low, almost a whisper. "We need a house like this… for us. Somewhere safe. Somewhere that's ours."

Hermione blinked, caught off guard, but her lips curved into the softest of smiles. She stood from the swing, stepping close until the scent of her hair, the warmth of her breath filled his senses.

"Then maybe," she whispered, eyes shimmering, "this is the beginning."

Her hands lifted, brushing his jaw as she leaned up and kissed him — slow, tender, and certain — beneath the open sky of the Longbottom garden.

Chapter Text

Hermione's kiss lingered, soft at first, until Harry drew her closer, and the weeks of danger and unspoken longing rushed between them in a single breath.

The ropes of the swing creaked against his arm as the kiss deepened. His fingers traced the line of her back, hesitant at first, then surer, while she clung to him as though he might vanish if she let go.

The garden was hushed around them, the air touched with roses and cool night breeze. Her lips parted, her breath catching, and Harry's chest tightened with a heat that had nothing to do with fear. He pressed his forehead to hers, voice rough with everything he hadn't dared to say.

"Hermione…"

Her eyes met his, wide and unguarded, and for the first time he saw the same fire burning there that had lived in him for so long. She traced his jaw with trembling fingers before kissing him again, urgency sparking between them.

Harry's hand slid to her hip, then lower, brushing the edge of her dress. She gave a sharp breath, but instead of retreating, leaned into him, her heartbeat drumming against his chest.

"Harry… I want this," her words broke the silence. "I want you."

The words nearly undid him. Every nerve in his body seemed to spark alive.
"Are you sure?" he whispered, his voice rough, afraid he'd shatter the fragile spell between them.

Hermione nodded, her fingers already tracing down his chest, tugging at the hem of his shirt. "We've faced death together, Harry. Don't you see? There's no one else I'd ever want to give this to."

The night air felt electric as she drew his shirt over his head, her hands gliding over his skin. Harry, in turn, slid his palms down her back, finding the zipper of her dress. Their eyes locked one last time — a silent promise — before he slowly pulled it down, letting the fabric slip away.

She gasped softly as the night air touched her bare skin, and his arms encircled her instantly, shielding, warming. "You're beautiful," he whispered, reverent, as though the stars themselves had bent closer to watch.

They sank onto the grass together, the swing swaying empty behind them. The garden smelled of earth and roses, the sky alive with stars. Hermione pulled him down with her, fingers tangled in his hair, lips guiding him from jaw to throat and lower still. She arched into him, every touch a mixture of urgency and awe.

When they finally surrendered to each other, it wasn't rushed — it was inevitable. A joining forged in trust, fire, and years of silence broken at last. Every kiss, every touch carried the weight of all they'd endured, and the relief of finally belonging.

The world outside ceased to exist. There was only breath and warmth and the sound of names whispered against skin.

Afterward, they lay tangled together on the grass, her hair spilling across his chest, stars wheeling silently above. For the first time in forever, Harry felt whole.

Hermione traced soft shapes on his skin, her voice drowsy. "This… this is our safe place now. Not walls. Not spells. Just us."

He kissed her forehead, holding her tighter. "Just us," he echoed. Then, heart pounding with something larger than words, he whispered, "Hermione… I love you."

Her eyes opened, shimmering in the moonlight, and a soft smile curved her lips. "I love you too, Harry."

Wrapped in each other's arms beneath the stars, they drifted into sleep, the war beyond forgotten, their hearts finally aligned.

the house was quiet except for the bubbling of a pot on the stove. The smell of herbs and simmering stew filled the air, warm and homely in a way Harry hadn't felt in years.

He stood beside Hermione at the counter, clumsily chopping vegetables while she stirred with practiced ease. Their shoulders brushed now and then, and each touch lingered longer than it needed to.

"Careful with that knife, Harry," Hermione teased, nudging him lightly. "You'll cut yourself—or me."

"I think I can manage," he said with a grin, though his eyes kept drifting toward the way her hair tumbled forward, catching the glow of the fire.

When the stew was nearly ready, Hermione held out a spoon. "Taste?" she asked, her tone soft, teasing.

Harry leaned closer, brushing against her arm as he took the spoon — but instead of tasting the stew, he stole a quick kiss.

Hermione's eyes widened, then she laughed, shaking her head. "You're impossible."

"And you love it," Harry murmured, sliding the spoon back into her hand.

"Fine," she gasped softly, her hands resting on his chest as she guided the spoon into his hand again. "But then—stir!"

As he reached over to stir the stew, Harry rolled her gently into his arms, laughing. She squirmed just enough to make it a game, brushing her hand over his shoulder, letting the warmth of their bodies press together.

Finally, the stew simmered and they set the table. Hermione perched on the edge of a chair, her legs brushing his as he sat close beside her. This time, the touches weren't shy or accidental — they were deliberate, daring. Her knee pressed against his under the table and didn't move, making Harry's pulse skip.

He offered her a spoonful, but instead of taking it, she leaned forward and nipped playfully at his lower lip before stealing the bite straight from the spoon. Harry nearly choked on a laugh.

"You're supposed to eat," she scolded, voice low, her eyes glinting with mischief.

"I am," he murmured, leaning closer, lips brushing her ear. "But I'm more interested in dessert."

Hermione's cheeks flushed, though her smile was wicked. "You'll have to earn it," she teased, letting her fingers drift along his thigh under the table, slow enough to make him squirm.

Harry grinned, his hand sliding across her waist and tugging her closer on the chair until she was practically in his lap. "Not very fair, is it? You know exactly how to distract me."

"That's the idea," she whispered, her breath warm against his neck. She took another bite, then deliberately licked the spoon with a sly glance that made Harry's mouth go dry.

The stew sat mostly forgotten as their game escalated — stolen bites turning into kisses, teasing nudges turning into lingering touches. Hermione traced circles on his arm with maddening slowness, then slipped her hand higher just to watch him flush scarlet. Harry retaliated by brushing his lips along the curve of her shoulder, making her gasp and swat him half-heartedly.

By the time the bowls were empty, neither cared about food anymore. Hermione pushed the dishes aside and swung a leg across his lap, straddling him right there at the table with a smirk that made Harry's head spin.

"Still need hands-on instruction?" she asked, voice breathless, taunting.

Harry laughed softly, kissing her hard enough to silence the smug grin. "Always."

The kitchen, warm with food and laughter, had become their playground — a private world where teasing blurred shamelessly into desire.

When they finally dragged themselves to bed, neither expected sleep to come quickly. Every brush of skin, every whispered joke turned into another kiss, another daring touch. They explored each other with the same mix of tenderness and boldness that had carried them through the garden — fumbling, laughing, then gasping as play dissolved into passion again.

Hours later, exhaustion finally claimed them, tangled together in quiet, contented sleep.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a soft glow over the bed where Harry and Hermione lay tangled under the blanket. The warmth of their bodies pressed together, a comfortable cocoon after the intimacy of the previous night. Hermione's head rested lightly on Harry's chest, fingers tracing idle patterns over his skin.

A sudden, high-pitched giggle broke the quiet.

"Dobby?" Hermione whispered, lifting her head, cheeks flushing as she realized how exposed they were.

"Master Harry! Miss Hermione!" The tiny elf popped into the room, bouncing on the edge of the bed with a wide grin. "Dobby is very happy to see you both… together! But Dobby has something very important to tell Master Harry!"

Harry laughed, running a hand through his messy hair. "Dobby… you're interrupting," he said, still half-lounging under the blanket.

"Yes, yes!" Dobby chirped, flapping his hands. "But it is urgent! Dobby will wait outside if Master Harry must speak privately, but… Dobby insists!"

Hermione's cheeks burned crimson as she slid further under the blanket, curling closer to Harry instinctively. "I'm going to pretend I don't exist," she muttered, voice muffled into his chest.

Harry chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss to her temple. "We'll be quick, Dobby. Don't worry."

Dobby clapped his tiny hands, clearly delighted at the intimacy he had stumbled upon. "Very good, Master Harry! Dobby waits outside! Hurry!" With a small pop, he vanished, leaving a faint scent of sock polish and excitement lingering in the air.

Hermione exhaled, still pressed against Harry. "I… I hope that was urgent," she murmured, her voice teasing despite the blush creeping across her cheeks.

Harry and Hermione slid out from under the blanket, the warmth lingering between them even as the crisp morning air filled the room. Hermione wrapped a robe around herself, still glancing at Harry with that quiet, lingering look.

Before they could speak, Dobby appeared again, but this time his eyes were wide and urgent.

"Master Harry! Miss Hermione! Dobby has news!" he chirped, his eyes wide and serious now.

Harry nodded, already sensing the urgency. "Go on, Dobby."

"Master Ron is held at Malfoy Manor!" Dobby squeaked. "In the dungeon cell! Very tightly guarded! Master Harry cannot go alone! Dobby can take you quickly into the dungeon… but must be fast! Before anyone comes!"

Hermione's hand instinctively found Harry's, gripping it tightly. "Ron… is he alright?" she asked, her voice tight with worry.

Harry's jaw set. "We don't know. But we can't waste time thinking. We need a plan." He turned to Dobby. "Can you take us there safely, into the dungeon?"

"Yes! Very fast! Dobby can!" the elf confirmed, bouncing slightly.

Hermione drew a deep breath, her fingers still entwined with Harry's. "We have to be quick, Harry. If we're caught…"

Harry shook his head. "No time for what-ifs. We go, get him, come back. That's it. Dobby can bring us straight in and back out before anyone notices."

Dobby jumped up and down, nodding furiously. "Yes, yes! Master Harry, Miss Hermione! Dobby will guide! Very fast! Very safe!"

Harry squeezed Hermione's hand, his gaze lingering on hers for a brief heartbeat of reassurance. "Ready?"

Hermione nodded, determination hardening her features. "Let's save him."

The cold, damp air of the dungeon pressed around them as Harry, Hermione, and Dobby appeared in a sudden pop. A loud bang echoed off the stone walls, sending a shiver down Harry's spine.

In the flickering torchlight, they saw him—Ron, bruised and battered, slumped against the bars of his cell. His eyes widened in disbelief and relief when he saw them.

"Ron!" Hermione shouted, moving like lightning. She raised her wand, muttered a swift spell, and the cell door blasted open with a shower of sparks and splinters. She rushed forward, helping Ron to his feet, steadying him against her shoulder.

Dobby's ears twitched. "Dobby will take Master Ron and Miss Hermione safely!" he squeaked. In a blink, the elf vanished, carrying Ron and Hermione away to the safety of their hideout.

The noise, however, had drawn attention. From the shadows, Pettigrew appeared, wand in hand, his gaze glinting with malice. "Going somewhere, Potter?" he hissed.

Harry sprang forward, wand raised. "Not if I can help it." A tense duel flared briefly, spells flying in the narrow corridor. In the chaos, Harry snatched Ron's wand back from Pettigrew's grip.

The rat-faced Death Eater lunged, his steel hand shooting toward Harry's throat. Pain flared as his fingers closed around him, but before Pettigrew could tighten further, a strange magical force took hold. The grip wrenched and twisted unnaturally, loosening in Pettigrew's control—and then, with a sharp, choking squeal, it turned back on him, gripping his own throat instead.

Harry froze, watching as Pettigrew's own hand crushed his throat. The echo of betrayal twisted in Harry's chest — disgust, pity, and the faintest flicker of grim justice

Harry staggered back, eyes wide, heart hammering. Fury and disbelief coiled in his chest. "You forgot," he spat through gritted teeth, "I saved your life. You still owe me." Pettigrew gasped, clawing at his own wrist as the enchanted grip refused to release.

Before Harry could fully recover from Pettigrew's magical mishap, a harsh, metallic clang echoed from another cell. "Griphook!" Harry exclaimed, recognition sparking. The goblin had been captured, trapped in the damp, dim dungeon.

Without hesitation, Harry moved forward. "Hold on, I've got you!" he called, wand at the ready. A precise spell struck the lock, freeing Griphook from his confinement. The goblin's eyes darted around nervously, but he immediately understood the urgency.

"Quickly," Dobby chirped, appearing in a shimmer of magical light. "Dobby will take you both out safely!"

With a blink and a soft pop, Harry and Griphook vanished from the dungeon, leaving chaos and Pettigrew behind.

Harry reappeared in the safehouse, breath ragged, chest pounding. Hermione and Ron were already there, shaken but unharmed. The brief relief hit him, mingled with rage at what had just occurred—and the knowledge that the fight was far from over.

Dobby again disappeared with the goblin.

Ron rubbed at his bruised arms, voice low but steady. "I… I left the woods and ran right into the Death Eaters. I misled them about your whereabouts, but Bellatrix—she caught up with me anyway." His jaw tightened. "She… she tortured me, trying to get information about you two."

Hermione's hand found his arm instinctively, steadying him, while Harry's eyes hardened with quiet fury.

Ron shifted uncomfortably, his voice rough with exhaustion.
"I regret it all, Harry. Leaving. Running. I told myself it was the Horcrux, and it was — it twisted everything inside my head. It made every doubt, every fear feel ten times worse. But the truth is… part of me wanted to go. I thought if I walked away, I could escape the weight of it all."

He dragged a hand through his hair, eyes lowering.
"It wasn't just the locket. It was seeing how close you two were getting, and thinking there wasn't room for me anymore. That hurt worse than the Horcrux. I let it fester until I couldn't stand it, so I left. I thought I'd feel free. But all I felt was empty. And then Bellatrix found me, and I realized there's no escaping any of this. Not the war. Not Voldemort. Not what we're fighting for."

Ron's gaze flicked between them, raw and unguarded.
"The world's falling apart, and I was supposed to be with you through it — no matter what. That's what friends do. Instead, I left you to carry it alone. And that's the part I'll never forgive myself for."

Ron's gaze shifted between Harry and Hermione, taking in the closeness they shared — the subtle touches, the quiet understanding, the unspoken bond.

He exhaled slowly, a mix of resignation and clarity settling over him. "I… I get it," he said quietly. "I see how close you two are."

Harry's chest tightened. He swallowed, then spoke boldly, his voice firm despite the lingering tension. "I love her, Ron. I can't… I can't hide it. And maybe… maybe it would have happened anyway, no matter what."

Hermione reached out, taking Harry's hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. Her eyes glimmered with both regret and certainty.

"What happened between us, Ron… the fighting, the way I hurt you — that was the Horcrux twisting us. But my feelings now? They're real. I love Harry."

Ron nodded slowly, a faint, understanding smile tugging at his lips. "I understand. And you're right… it probably would have happened anyway. I can face this. I'll be bold enough to accept it."

A silence fell over them, heavy but honest, full of unspoken respect and enduring friendship. Despite the turmoil, there was relief in Ron's acceptance — a quiet confirmation that their bond could survive everything, even love and regret intertwined.

Ron's expression tightened, a mix of frustration and relief crossing his face. "I overheard Bellatrix talking," he said, voice low but urgent.

"She hid something… a cup, in a bank locker. It has to be a Horcrux."

Chapter Text

Harry took a deep breath, glancing between Ron and Hermione, who squeezed his hand lightly as reassurance. "Ron… you need to know everything," he began, voice steady but heavy with emotion.

"Hermione destroyed the locket. She—she faced it herself, even with the Horcrux trying to manipulate her. I… I watched, but she had the courage to finish it."

Ron's jaw tightened, his green eyes wide with a mixture of awe and guilt.

Harry continued, his voice low, tense. "After that, Nagini attacked us. I—" He paused, remembering the cold thrill of danger.

"We couldn't stop her entirely, but then… Snape appeared."

Ron's eyes snapped to Harry, confusion and shock blending. "Snape?"

"Yes," Harry said, his hands gripping Hermione's a little tighter. "He killed Nagini. It was fast, precise… like he knew exactly what to do. He didn't explain much, just told us to leave immediately, that one Horcrux is with Bellatrix at Malfoy Manor. He said we could stay at Neville's house."

Hermione added softly, her voice trembling slightly, "It was… frightening, but he saved us."

Ron let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "I… I see now. You both… you've been through hell. And you did it together."

Ron's jaw set, determination flaring in his eyes. "We'll head to Shell Cottage first — Bill and Fleur are there. They can help us regroup."

Hermione nodded, eyes scanning the surroundings. "This house is closer to Malfoy Manor. We can plan without drawing attention."

Dobby bounced excitedly. "Dobby will help, yes! Dobby will make sure you travel safely!"

With a flick and a pop, the trio — Harry, Hermione, and Ron — followed Dobby. Moments later, the air shifted, and they landed softly on the sandy beach near Shell Cottage. The waves lapped quietly at the shore, moonlight glinting off the water, giving the place an almost surreal calm after the dangers they'd faced.

Harry immediately turned to Dobby, his voice low but firm. "Dobby… we need something from Bellatrix. Her hair. But you must be careful — any sign of her noticing, and we're done for."

Dobby's eyes sparkled with seriousness. "Oh yes, Harry Potter! Dobby will be very careful. Dobby will not fail!"

Hermione stepped closer, brushing Harry's arm. "Once we have it, we can figure out the next step."

The little elf saluted sharply, already plotting the safest route to infiltrate Malfoy Manor and retrieve the hair — the crucial piece they would need to destroy Bellatrix's Horcrux.

The moonlit beach stretched silently around them, waves whispering against the sand, a brief moment of peace before the next storm of action.

The three of them strolled along the sandy shore, the waves lapping gently at their feet. Hermione's fingers intertwined with Harry's, her grip warm and steady. She tilted her head slightly to look at him, the moonlight catching the soft lines of her face. Harry met her gaze, smiling with quiet affection, his eyes reflecting the love and relief he felt.

Ron trailed slightly behind, shoulders tense, awkwardly shuffling his feet through the sand. He kept glancing at Harry and Hermione, unsure how to breach the comfortable closeness they shared.

As they approached the small, warmly lit cottage, a familiar voice called out. "Ron!" Bill's voice carried across the beach, strong and cheerful.

"Harry!"

A moment later, Ginny's softer call reached them:

Hermione instinctively tightened her hand around Harry's, a mixture of excitement and protective instinct. Harry gave her hand a reassuring squeeze in return, a silent promise that they'd face whatever came next together.

Ginny came sprinting across the sand toward Harry, her hair whipping in the sea breeze. As she drew closer, her eyes fell on Hermione, and for a moment, she froze, uncertainty and hurt flickering across her face. She stopped a few steps away, unable to move further.

Harry didn't say a word, his gaze dropping, caught between relief at seeing Ginny and the silent tension of the moment.

Harry's stomach twisted — guilt and longing colliding in his chest. He wanted to run after her, to explain, but Hermione's hand in his grounded him.

Hermione's voice cut softly through the air. "Ginny…" she murmured, gentle, almost pleading.

That broke something. Ginny's shoulders shook as tears spilled down her cheeks. She turned abruptly and ran into the cottage, the door closing behind her with a soft thud.

Hermione instinctively stepped forward, ready to follow. "I should—"

Ron's hand on her arm stopped her. "No. I'll go," he said firmly, determination in his voice. "It's me she needs to see first."

Hermione looked at him, a flicker of relief and trust in her eyes, and nodded. Ron exhaled, then strode toward the cottage, ready to face the emotions inside.

Harry's stomach twisted — guilt and longing colliding in his chest. He wanted to run after her, to explain, but Hermione's hand in his grounded him.

Bill's eyes softened as he took in the scene, clearly understanding the delicate tension. He clapped Harry lightly on the shoulder. "Looks like some things… just happen, eh?" he said with a knowing grin.

Fleur, radiant as ever, beamed and wrapped Harry in a warm hug. "Harry! It's so good to see you!" she said, her voice full of genuine joy. Harry grinned back, feeling the comfort of familiar faces.

Hermione's gaze snapped sharply to Harry, a flicker of possessiveness in her eyes. Her jaw tightened ever so slightly, and she crossed her arms, standing close by his side.

Fleur noticed immediately and let out a playful laugh, a teasing lilt in her voice. "Hermione, you look far too serious for someone so beautiful. Don't be jealous now," she said, winking subtly.

Hermione's cheeks colored slightly, and she muttered under her breath, "I'm not jealous…"

Fleur leaned in slightly, her gaze flicking between Harry and Hermione, her voice teasing yet melodic. "Ah, Hermione… you are practically vibrating with love—and something a bit more… passionate, yes?" She smirked knowingly, letting the words hang in the air like a playful spell.

Hermione's cheeks burned hotter than before, and she glanced at Harry, mortified yet unable to deny the truth in Fleur's observation.

Harry, caught mid-glance, felt a flush rise to his ears, but he couldn't hide the way he instinctively moved closer to Hermione, his body responding before his mind could intervene.

Fleur's grin widened. "And Harry, it seems you have fully surrendered… entirely to her."

Bill, leaning back and shaking his head, chuckled softly.

"Ah, Hermione… don't fret. Bill will take care of Ron and Ginny. Love always comes with a bit of… heartache, oui? But for tonight… you two, it is your time."

Fleur's eyes twinkled mischievously as she waved a hand toward a small room with a wide window framing the moonlit beach.

She stepped aside, letting them in, laughing as she motioned to the cot. "And look here! A magical couple's cot—shrinks perfectly to fit the two of you, until you are done enjoying yourselves."

Her grin was teasing, and her tone danced with innuendo. "It is like… a honeymoon room, no? The sea, the stars, the breeze… everything is ready for you to… relax."

Hermione's cheeks flushed, eyes darting to Harry, while he couldn't hide a small, amused grin.

Fleur leaned closer, her voice teasing again, "And do not be shy… it knows when to give you space and when to… help you get closer."

Bill, standing nearby, smirked quietly, clearly entertained by Fleur's bold teasing, while Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance — shy, flustered, but undeniably excited at the playful invitation and the magical intimacy awaiting them.

Chapter Text

He sank onto the edge of the cot, running a hand through his hair. "Hermione… how do I… handle Ginny? I don't want things to be awkward, but I also don't want to hurt her." His voice was quiet, almost vulnerable.

Hermione moved closer, sitting beside him, her hand brushing his. "Harry… don't worry. I'll talk to her first. I'll explain everything, it's about… us finding our way." Her eyes met his, calm and reassuring. "Then you can talk to her. Be honest, be gentle… just like you always are."

Harry let out a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "You really think she'll understand?"

Hermione smiled faintly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "She will. It might take a little time, but she cares about you — and she'll see.."

The door clicked shut, and the room seemed to stir to life around them. Moonlight spilled across the floor, catching the carved posts of the great four-poster cot. The runes glowed faintly, a hum of enchantment in the air like laughter waiting to be heard.

Hermione arched an eyebrow, her voice wry. "The magical couple's cot. I read about these once. They're… designed to encourage—"

The mattress gave a sudden bounce, cutting her off. With a startled laugh she toppled forward, colliding with Harry chest-to-chest.

Harry caught her by the waist, grinning into her hair. "Encourage what exactly?"

Before she could answer, the cot lurched again. The sheets curled like eager fingers, tugging at seams and ties. Hermione gasped as her robe slipped free, whisked aside by the mischievous fabric.

"Merlin's beard—Harry, it's undressing us!" she half-laughed, half-protested, her cheeks aflame even as she clung closer to him.

Harry smirked, brushing his lips along her temple. "Not sure I should be offended or grateful."

The sheets bound them tight for a heartbeat, then slithered away, leaving them tangled, flushed, and laughing. As the fabric retreated, it snagged hems and fastenings, tugging them loose with a will of its own. Robes slipped down, clothes unraveled. A cool sea-breeze drifted through the window, brushing against bare skin. Hermione inhaled sharply at the chill, but Harry pulled her closer, warmth answering cold in a rush that made them both shiver with delight.

"This cot is cheekier than I imagined," she whispered, half-laugh, half-breathless.

Harry kissed her temple, his grin audible in his voice. "Or maybe it just knows us too well."

Hermione pressed her forehead against his, still laughing. "This bed is incorrigible."

"Sounds like someone else I know," Harry teased, sliding his hands lower as the mattress rocked beneath them.

Hermione swatted his shoulder, though her smile betrayed her. "Honestly, Harry—"

Her words broke into a gasp as the bed tipped them sideways, rolling her astride him. Harry's laugh faltered when she leaned down, kissing him with sudden heat. The cot seemed to approve, rocking more insistently, sheets rippling like waves around them.

The enchantment teased without mercy: each time their hands slowed, the mattress nudged them closer; each time they tried to part, the curtains swept inward, pushing them together again. Even Hermione's protests dissolved into helpless giggles, her hair brushing Harry's face as his lips found her throat.

"Harry," she whispered, voice low now, threaded with laughter and desire, "I think it's daring us."

"Then we shouldn't disappoint it," he murmured against her skin, his hands sliding beneath the folds the sheets hadn't stolen yet.

The bed rocked gently, coaxing them closer until laughter gave way to whispers and whispers to sighs. They no longer held back—every touch sure, every kiss deepened with the thrill of rediscovery. The magic heightened it all, turning each caress into something brighter. They belonged wholly to one another, as though the night itself had bent to grant them its blessing.

This time there was no awkwardness, no frantic urgency—only the ease of two people utterly at home in each other. The bed's playful swaying blurred into genuine heat, until time itself seemed to dissolve in a haze of laughter, gasps, and whispered names.

At last, when they lay tangled in the sheets, flushed and breathless, the enchantment stilled. The runes on the posts dimmed to a faint glow, as though satisfied.

Harry kissed her cheek, his voice husky but edged with humor. "If we ever get a house of our own… we're stealing this bed."

Hermione laughed softly, curling into him, her voice drowsy but certain. "We don't need the bed, Harry. We never did. But… I suppose it doesn't hurt."

They drifted into sleep wrapped in each other's arms, the mischievous cot quiet at last, moonlight spilling across their skin like a blessing.

The sound of gulls and the steady crash of waves drifted through the half-open window. The magical cot had finally released its enchantments sometime after dawn, and Harry and Hermione slept deeply, wrapped around each other, utterly spent.

It was well past midday when Hermione stirred, blinking against the brightness pouring into the room. Harry groaned softly, burying his face in her hair.

"Harry," she whispered, amused. "We've overslept."

He cracked one eye open, squinting at the sunlit room. "Overslept? More like… slept enough for a week." His arm tightened around her, clearly unwilling to move.

But eventually, they rose, dressed in what remained of their rumpled clothes, and slipped out of the room. The scent of sea salt and warm bread filled the cottage as they padded down the hallway.

In the sitting room, Fleur and Bill were already settled comfortably—Bill with a parchment in hand, Fleur sipping tea, her posture elegant as always. At the sound of footsteps, Fleur's head lifted. Her eyes sparkled, and a slow, knowing smile spread across her face.

Fleur's eyes sparkled, a knowing smile tugging her lips. "Ah, so the enchanted cot finally decided to release you."

Harry coughed, ears pink. Hermione ducked her head, cheeks burning.

"You both look positively glowing," Fleur added with a wink, sipping her tea. "Tell me, was it the magic… or something else entirely?"

Bill chuckled softly behind his parchment, pretending to read but clearly entertained.

Hermione sputtered, "Fleur!" her voice caught between embarrassment and indignation.

Fleur tilted her head, eyes sparkling as she pressed on. "Do not be shy, chérie. Everyone in this house heard the cot rocking half the night. It was most… enthusiastic, non?"

Harry's ears turned scarlet. "We— it— it was the cot's magic—" he began, flustered.

Fleur laughed, a light, melodic sound. "Oui, oui, of course, Harry. The magic." She winked, taking another delicate sip of her tea.

Bill finally set aside his parchment, shaking his head fondly. "Fleur, don't torment them too much. Let them breathe."

Hermione, still red-faced but smiling now despite herself, slid her hand into Harry's. "Come on," she murmured, tugging him toward the kitchen.

As they passed, Fleur called sweetly after them, "Enjoy your breakfast, lovebirds!"

Hermione groaned and buried her face against Harry's shoulder while he laughed, shaking his head. For the first time in days, the air around them felt light—teasing, warm, and filled with the quiet certainty of love that no magic could manufacture.

The small kitchen at Shell Cottage smelled of freshly baked bread and herbs. Sunlight poured through the window overlooking the sea, casting golden warmth across the table. Hermione busied herself with plates and mugs, grateful for the distraction from Fleur's mischievous grin.

But Fleur glided in after them, her steps unhurried, her smile still playing at her lips. She leaned against the doorframe, arms folded gracefully. "Mon dieu, Hermione… you try to hide, but you cannot escape me so easily."

Hermione stiffened, setting down the mugs with a little more force than necessary. "I wasn't hiding," she muttered, eyes on the table.

Fleur chuckled softly and stepped closer, lowering her voice to something more conspiratorial. "You know, I recognize that look in your eyes… the softness, the little glow in your cheeks. It is the look of a woman who has found her heart's companion."

Hermione's blush deepened, but her lips curved in spite of herself. "Fleur…" she warned gently.

But Fleur only smirked and reached to brush a strand of Hermione's hair back with sisterly ease. "Do not be ashamed, ma chère. Last night… it was not only magic that held you together. It was love. And love—ah, it shows."

Hermione let out a soft laugh, half-nervous, half-accepting. "You're impossible, Fleur."

"Non," Fleur corrected smoothly, pouring tea into Hermione's mug before her, "I am simply observant. Bill was the same when we first truly found each other. It is written all over you—your body leans toward him, your voice softens when you speak his name." Her gaze flicked meaningfully toward Harry, who was still pretending to be engrossed with bread knives. "And Harry, he looks at you as though the world finally makes sense."

Hermione's eyes softened despite herself, and she followed Fleur's glance. Harry looked up just in time, caught her gaze, and smiled faintly.

Fleur's smile gentled, losing some of its playfulness. She touched Hermione's arm lightly. "It is a beautiful thing, Hermione. Do not hide from it. You have both fought, suffered, sacrificed so much… If happiness has found you, take it."

Hermione swallowed, her heart full. "Thank you, Fleur."

Fleur's eyes twinkled, mischief returning at the edges. "Besides," she added, lowering her voice into a sly whisper, "I think Bill rather enjoys watching me tease you. It keeps him amused."

Hermione laughed outright this time, shaking her head. "You're incorrigible."

"Oui," Fleur replied with a proud little tilt of her chin. "And you, my dear, are finally learning to stop being so serious."

At that, Harry slid plates onto the table, giving Fleur a half-smile. "I don't suppose you'll ever let us live this down?"

"Never," Fleur said brightly, kissing Bill on the cheek as he joined them. "That is what sisters are for, non?"

Hermione glanced at her, startled by the word, but Fleur only winked knowingly.

As they finally settled, Fleur leaned close and whispered to Hermione, "Ginny… she's still in her room, crying."

Chapter Text

The hallway to Ginny's room felt longer than the beach they had crossed the night before. Harry's steps were heavy, every instinct telling him to turn back, but Hermione's hand in his steadied him.

They paused outside the door. Behind it, silence—yet the silence itself was thick, expectant, like a spell waiting to be broken.

Hermione knocked gently. "Ginny?"

For a long moment, nothing. Then a muffled voice came, sharp and brittle: "Go away."

Harry's throat tightened. He leaned closer, speaking quietly through the wood. "Ginny… it's me. Please. We need to talk."

Another pause. Then the sound of quick footsteps, the door unlocking, and suddenly it flew open. Ginny stood there, her eyes rimmed red, her hair tangled from restless sleep. The moment she saw Hermione beside him, her face hardened.

"So it's true," she whispered, her voice trembling with contained fury. "I didn't want to believe it… but you couldn't even wait, could you, Harry?"

Harry opened his mouth, but no words came. Guilt weighed heavy in his chest. Hermione stepped forward carefully. "Ginny, please. Let us explain."

"Explain?" Ginny's laugh was sharp, bitter. "What's to explain? I see it every time you look at each other. Merlin, I saw it last night when you came in holding hands as if the rest of us didn't matter. Do you know what that felt like, Harry? After everything?"

Harry winced. "Ginny… I never meant to hurt you. You were—are—important to me. You gave me hope when I needed it most. But…" He faltered, his voice dropping. "My heart's changed. It isn't fair to you if I pretend otherwise."

Ginny's eyes blazed, and for a moment she looked ready to strike him. "So that's it? You throw me aside because Hermione's convenient? She was always there, wasn't she? Waiting?"

Hermione's cheeks flushed, but her voice stayed calm, steady despite the sting. "Ginny, that isn't fair. This wasn't planned, it wasn't something either of us expected. It just… happened, when everything else in our lives was falling apart. And believe me, we tried to fight it."

Ginny's fists clenched at her sides. "So what am I supposed to be? The girl you practiced on until you found the real thing?"

"No!" Harry stepped forward, his voice urgent, raw. "You were never that. You mattered—more than I can ever tell you. But what I feel for Hermione… it's different. Deeper. I can't deny it, not anymore."

The words hung heavy in the air. Ginny's breath hitched, tears welling again despite her fury. She turned sharply, pacing the small room as if trying to outrun the ache in her chest.

Hermione swallowed hard. "Ginny, I'll never be able to make this fair to you — but I can promise it wasn't betrayal. It was love, and it terrified us both."

Ginny stopped, her back to them, shoulders trembling. For a long moment, she didn't speak. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, "Do you know what it's like? To imagine your future with someone, to hold on to it through war and fear and loss… only to have it vanish overnight?"

Harry felt his heart break. He took a slow step closer, but not too close.

Silence. Only the faint crash of waves outside the window.

Ginny turned at last, her face wet with tears, but her anger dimmed into something more fragile—hurt, yes, but no longer burning, only aching.

Ginny stared at them for a long time, torn between resentment and reluctant understanding. At last, she let out a long, shuddering breath and shook her head. "I can't look at you right now. Either of you."

Hermione reached for Ginny's hand, but Ginny pulled it back gently. "Not yet," she said softly. Then, turning away, she sank onto her bed, facing the window.

Harry and Hermione exchanged a pained glance, then quietly backed out of the room, closing the door with care.

Outside in the hallway, Harry leaned against the wall, eyes shut, breath unsteady. Hermione slipped her arms around him, holding him close.

"She'll come around," she whispered, though her own voice wavered. "She's strong."

Harry pressed his face into her hair, murmuring, "I hope so."

Together they stood, silent, holding on to each other as the waves outside echoed Ginny's storm inside.

Harry and Hermione stepped outside into the sunlight, walking down the worn path toward the beach. The sea breeze was cool against their faces, carrying the scent of salt and freedom, but the heaviness in their hearts lingered.

On the sand, Ron was waiting. He stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders squared, but his eyes—red-rimmed and tired—betrayed the weight he carried.

When he saw them, he gave a short nod, though his gaze flicked briefly to their joined hands before he looked away. Pain still lived in his expression, but there was something else too: resolve.

"Dobby came back," Ron said, his voice rough. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial, inside which shimmered a single dark hair. "Bellatrix's. He did it without her noticing. Risked everything again."

Harry felt a pang of pride for the elf, mixed with worry for how dangerous the task must have been. "He's incredible," Harry murmured.

Ron nodded curtly. "And that's not all. I spoke with Griphook last night. He agreed. He'll help us get into Gringotts."

Hermione's eyes widened. "You actually convinced him?"

Ron gave a humorless laugh. "Convinced is a strong word. Let's just say… he sees a chance to settle his own scores. But he's not doing it for us—he's doing it for goblins. Don't mistake that."

Harry frowned, a dozen questions rising, but Ron pressed on.

"It sounds mad, I know… but there's no other way. We're breaking into Gringotts tomorrow." Ron said bluntly.

"Gringotts. Bellatrix's vault. That's where the Horcrux is. We can't wait—every day we delay, You-Know-Who grows stronger." His voice shook slightly, but he steadied it. "You two… you've done enough. Take the rest of today.

Hermione started to protest. "Ron, we're in this together—"

But Ron cut her off, his tone firm, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of old pain. "I know. And tomorrow, we'll all go in. But tonight… I need you both clear-headed. You've been through enough already."

The waves crashed against the shore, filling the silence that followed. Harry studied his friend, recognizing the quiet sacrifice in his words. Ron was hurting—still raw from what he had seen between Harry and Hermione, still carrying his own wounds—but he was here. Loyal, determined, ready to fight beside them.

Harry nodded slowly. "All right. Tomorrow, then."

Ron's mouth twitched in something that almost resembled a smile. "Tomorrow."

The three of them stood there for a long while, the sea stretching endless before them, the horizon already holding the shadow of the danger to come.

Harry and Hermione lingered by the water long after Ron left them. The tide was low, the waves lapping gently at their feet as the horizon burned gold with the sinking sun. Neither spoke much—words felt too heavy, and the silence between them was enough.

Hermione slipped her hand into Harry's, and he squeezed back, both of them drawing strength from the touch. Tomorrow loomed before them, full of danger and uncertainty, but here, on the quiet sand, it was just the two of them.

As twilight deepened, a voice carried across the beach.

"Harry! Hermione!" Fleur's graceful figure approached, her hair catching the last streaks of light. She waved, her smile soft and welcoming. "Come, dîner is ready."

Back at the cottage, the meal was small and intimate. Only four places were set at the table—Bill, Fleur, Harry, and Hermione. Ron had stayed in his room and Ginny had kept to her silence behind closed doors. The absence pressed in, but Bill and Fleur did their best to ease the mood.

Bill raised his goblet slightly, his expression calm but edged with concern. "Tomorrow will be dangerous. Gringotts isn't a place to take lightly. Be careful. All of you."

Harry and Hermione nodded, the weight of his words sinking in.

Fleur reached across the table, touching Hermione's hand lightly with sisterly warmth. "Do not let worry steal this night from you," she said gently. Her lips curved in a playful smirk as she added, "rest well, you'll need strength"

Hermione choked on her drink, flushing crimson, while Harry gave a helpless laugh, ears burning. Fleur only laughed softly, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Later, when they stepped back into their room, the weight of tomorrow returned, heavy and unshakable. They closed the door behind them, standing in the dim glow of moonlight.

The cot gave a sudden shiver, its enchantments stirring like a heartbeat beneath the sheets. Harry and Hermione exchanged a knowing glance. Their faces carried worry, but their eyes betrayed a spark—they both knew the mischief the magic was inviting, and they let it pull them in.

Chapter Text

The morning broke heavy with tension, and by the time they reached Gringotts, every nerve in Harry's body was taut. With Griphook's aid and Hermione's quick-thinking spells, they slipped past the goblin guards, descended into the vaults, and braved the shifting enchantments of Bellatrix's treasure hoard. The cursed gold burned to the touch, multiplying with every movement, but in the chaos Harry's hand closed around the gleaming cup—the Horcrux. Alarms shrieked, the tunnels trembled, and with curses raining down from furious goblins, they mounted the chained dragon guarding the lower depths. The beast, sensing its freedom, surged upward with an earth-shaking roar, smashing through the domed ceiling and blasting into the open sky.

Clinging to the dragon's scales as the wind tore at their clothes, the three of them held on for their lives. The city below shrank away, and the open sky stretched endless before them.

Harry turned, his hair whipping in the gale, his voice resolute as he shouted over the thunder of wings.

"Next is Hogwarts."

The dragon left them miles from the city, battered and breathless, but alive. By the time they regrouped in the shadow of a wooded hillside, Ron's face had changed—pale, then thoughtful, then firm.

"I've got it," he said suddenly. "Ginny told me once—about a secret way in. From Hogsmeade. There's a passage, hidden, that leads straight into the castle. Not even the professors know about it."

Harry blinked. "From the Hog's Head?"

Ron nodded, grim determination in his eyes. "Aberforth Dumbledore keeps it. Ginny swore it was safe."

They wasted no time. By nightfall, the trio slipped into Hogsmeade's crooked streets, cloaked in shadows. A few whispers with Aberforth later, and the passage opened before them, a long, winding tunnel that smelled of stone and damp earth. Every step echoed with the weight of destiny.

When they emerged, it was into the familiar-but-changed walls of Hogwarts. The room was crowded—faces they hadn't seen in months turned at once, and a hushed silence fell.

"Harry?" Neville's voice broke the stillness. He stepped forward, taller, harder, but his eyes still warm. A slow smile spread across his face. "Welcome home."

Harry's chest tightened, and he gripped Neville's hand firmly. "Feels like it, doesn't it?"

The crowd swelled around them—Seamus, Luna, Dean, Cho, the members of Dumbledore's Army, wide-eyed and breathless. Whispers spread quickly, but what caught them most wasn't just Harry's return. It was the way Hermione stood at his side, her hand twined with his, their closeness impossible to miss.

Gasps rippled, exchanged glances sparking, murmurs rising—everyone could see it plainly. Harry and Hermione were no longer just friends.

Neville raised an eyebrow, glancing between them with quiet understanding before giving Harry a half-smile. "About time," he said softly.

Hermione blushed, but Harry only squeezed her hand tighter, unflinching, as the room filled with whispers, shock, and awe.

The room still buzzed with whispers when Ron stepped forward, the weight of decision clear in his eyes. He didn't look at Harry and Hermione's joined hands, nor at the stares of their friends—his focus was fixed on the small, gleaming cup hidden in Harry's satchel.

"Harry," Ron said quietly, but with firm resolve. "Give me the cup."

Harry frowned. "What?"

Ron's jaw tightened. "You've carried it this far. You've got enough to face tonight. But destroying it—Neville and I can do it. Chamber of Secrets. It's still there, still open to Parseltongue if you give me the word. The basilisk fangs—we can use them again."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Ron… are you sure?"

Ron gave a small, almost wry smile. "You two have enough on your plates. You've carried this war on your shoulders long enough. Let me do my part. Me and Neville—we'll take it. We'll finish it."

Neville stepped up beside him, shoulders squared, his voice calm but steady. "He's right. I know these walls better than anyone now. If there's a job that needs doing quietly, we can handle it."

Harry hesitated, the cup heavy in his hands, its cursed weight humming against his palm. His instinct screamed to see it through himself, but the determination in Ron's eyes was unshakable. For the first time in a long while, Ron looked not burdened, but ready.

Harry exhaled slowly and pressed the cup into Ron's hands. "Be careful. It'll fight you."

Ron's grip tightened on the relic. "Then we'll fight back."

Neville nodded once, resolute. "You'll have it destroyed before the night's done. Count on it."

Harry's gaze lingered on them, pride and worry battling in his chest. Then he stepped back, Hermione at his side, watching as Ron and Neville turned toward the hidden corridors of Hogwarts, the cursed cup clutched between them.

Amidst the hum of hurried planning in the Room of Requirement, Hermione touched Luna's arm.

"Luna, your house… Ravenclaw Tower. You told us once about a lost crown. The diadem. Can you show us?"

Luna's silvery eyes brightened with a strange calmness, as if she had been waiting for this very moment. "Of course. Rowena's wisdom still whispers through the walls. I know where to take you."

Without hesitation, Harry and Hermione followed her through winding corridors, their footsteps quick and hushed. The castle seemed to hold its breath as they climbed higher and higher, the air sharpening with every turn of the spiral staircase.

At last they reached the great bronze door of Ravenclaw Tower. The knocker shaped like an eagle asked its riddle, and Luna answered with serene ease. Inside, the circular room glowed with moonlight spilling from tall windows. And there—resting on a pedestal, untouched and gleaming—was the lost diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw.

Harry's chest tightened. "That's it."

He stepped forward, but before his hand could close around it, the doors burst open. Dark figures swept inside—Death Eaters, wands raised, their leader dragging with them Professor McGonagall, forced forward under a curse.

"Harry Potter," one of them sneered. "And his little friends."

Harry's wand was in his hand in an instant. But before curses flew, McGonagall broke free with a fierce cry, her eyes blazing. "You will not touch my students!"

Green light clashed against her spells as she stood tall and unyielding, shielding Harry, Hermione, and Luna with a ferocity that shook the chamber.

The battle was chaos—shouts, sparks, stone cracking under spells. Word spread like wildfire, students and portraits carrying the news: Harry Potter had returned to Hogwarts. Soon more Death Eaters poured into the tower, surrounding them.

Harry and Hermione closed ranks beside McGonagall, Luna calm at their flank, the diadem glittering between them and their enemies.

The battle in Ravenclaw Tower was chaos—shouts, sparks, stone cracking under curses. McGonagall stood unyielding in front of Harry, Hermione, and Luna, deflecting hex after hex as Death Eaters pressed closer. Harry's grip tightened on the diadem, its cold weight vibrating in his palm, when suddenly—

CRACK.

The sound split the chamber. Every head turned as Severus Snape stepped through the doorway, cloak billowing, wand in hand.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

"Headmaster," one Death Eater barked, relief breaking through his sneer. "You're just in time—Potter's here. We've got him cornered."

Harry's stomach lurched. His wand snapped up, his heart pounding in his ears. Trap. Of course it's a trap.

McGonagall's lips curled in contempt, her wand never lowering. "So this is how you end it, Severus? Handing them over yourself?"

But Snape didn't answer. His black eyes swept the room, sharp and unreadable—until they stopped, just for an instant, on Harry. The look wasn't cold, or mocking. It was resolute.

Then one of the Death Eaters lunged, grabbing a stunned student by the arm. The girl screamed—

Snape moved.

A jet of fire erupted from his wand, searing the air and blasting the attacker backward. The student fell free into McGonagall's arms. Gasps echoed around the chamber.

Harry froze. He saved her.

Before disbelief could settle, Snape turned fully, stepping into the circle of battle. His voice rang out, cutting like a blade:

"You will not harm them. Not one more."

The Death Eaters faltered, staring in shock. "Headmaster—what are you—"

They never finished. Snape struck like lightning, curses lashing from his wand with a speed and precision that left no doubt of his intent. Shadows of flame and smoke erupted around him, spells tearing through the attackers with merciless force.

In seconds, the chamber was transformed. Death Eaters lay stunned, disarmed, their wands clattering across the floor. The air crackled with smoke and silence.

Snape lowered his wand, his chest rising and falling with controlled fury. For the first time in years, there was no mask, no smirk, no shadow of duplicity. Only raw, unshakable resolve.

Harry's hand clenched tighter around the diadem, his breath ragged. He could hardly believe what he was seeing—but the truth blazed in Snape's eyes, undeniable.

He wasn't their enemy. Not anymore.

Chapter Text

Snape's eyes, sharp and burning with an authority no one dared challenge, turned to McGonagall.
"Minerva," he said, his tone clipped but purposeful, "awaken the statues. The guardians of the castle must rise again. Let them protect these walls."

McGonagall gave a firm nod, and with a sweep of her wand she vanished down the corridor, her voice already ringing through the stone as she summoned the ancient sentinels.

Then Snape faced Harry and Hermione. "You two," he ordered, "to the Headmaster's office. Wait there until I call for you. This night will require clarity, and you cannot be distracted by the chaos of preparation."

Harry hesitated, his instinct to argue, but something in Snape's voice—command layered with fierce resolve—made him still. Hermione touched his hand lightly, guiding him to listen.

When they were gone, Snape swept into the Great Hall. His presence filled the chamber, drawing every eye. With a spell amplified by magic, he summoned every student from every house, from Gryffindor to Slytherin. The hall buzzed with confusion and fear, but Snape's voice cut through it like a blade.

"The Dark Lord comes," he declared, his words echoing from the rafters. "He will not stop until he has torn down this school, this home, and enslaved all who dwell in it. But hear me—he is not invincible. He feeds on fear, and it is fear we shall deny him."

Students leaned forward, breath caught in their throats. Even the Slytherins, long uncertain, listened with wide eyes.

Snape's gaze swept over them all. "Those under seventeen will remain in your dormitories. You will not stray, you will not wander. This castle will stand as your shield. But those of age—seventeen and older—you will stand guard. You will protect the younger, and you will follow orders without hesitation. Do you understand?"

A murmur of assent rolled through the hall, swelling into a chorus.

The doors burst open, and the familiar voices of Fred and George Weasley rang out, bold and unflinching. "Sounds like we came just in time!"

The Order of the Phoenix streamed in behind them—Kingsley, Lupin, Tonks, and more—wands ready, faces set. Relief spread through the room like fire catching tinder.

Snape raised a hand for silence. His black cloak swirled as he turned, his voice commanding but calm. "The battle will not take place within these walls. No curse, no flame, no war will touch the children. It was Albus Dumbledore's wish that Hogwarts remain unbroken—and I intend to see it done."

He turned his sharp gaze to the Order. "We will draw the battle outside, far across the lake. The grounds will be our shield. The castle will not fall tonight."

The Order exchanged looks, then nodded one by one, agreement solidifying like iron.

Snape's eyes lingered on Fred and George, then Kingsley, then Lupin. "You will coordinate the defense along the lakefront. No one crosses into the castle grounds. None."

Then, softer but clear, he added, "Now I will speak with Harry Potter. The boy must hear what I have to say."

A ripple of unease passed through the Order, but none challenged him. His stance was immovable, his authority absolute.

All around, the school began to stir like a living fortress—students filing into lines, the Order moving swiftly to set defenses, statues rumbling awake as their stone arms lifted weapons. The air was thick with fear, but also with something stronger—unity.

Hogwarts had chosen to stand.

The Headmaster's office was quiet when Harry and Hermione stepped inside. The fire in the grate flickered low, casting long shadows over the portraits of past headmasters who seemed to slumber uneasily in their frames.

Moments later, the door opened. Snape swept in, his dark robes trailing like wings. He carried no trace of the weariness outside—only the same sharp, unyielding purpose that had carried him through the Great Hall.

His eyes fixed first on Harry, then Hermione, before settling on the small bundle wrapped in cloth on the desk. The diadem.

"Tell me," Snape said, his voice low and precise. "Is it what I believe it to be?"

Harry nodded, his jaw tight. "It's a Horcrux. I can feel it."

Snape studied the diadem for a long, silent moment. Then, with deliberate care, he drew the Sword of Gryffindor—the blade gleaming with its deadly purity, its edge alive with basilisk venom.

Without hesitation, he raised the sword high and brought it down in a single, merciless strike.

The diadem screamed—a piercing, inhuman shriek—as dark smoke erupted, curling into the air like a dying soul. The sound rattled the portraits, the windows, even Harry's bones. Then, with a final shudder, the relic split in two, its power extinguished.

Silence fell, heavy and absolute.

Snape rested the sword on the desk, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he turned to Harry. His eyes, usually cold, were heavy with something else—something long-buried.

"Harry," he began, his voice quieter now, tinged with weariness. "There is something you must understand. The reason why, from the very beginning, I stood between you and the Dark Lord."

Harry frowned, confused, but said nothing.

Snape drew a breath, his gaze distant, as though reaching back through the years. "Before your father… before James Potter… there was your mother." His voice softened almost imperceptibly. "Lily."

Hermione's breath caught.

"I loved her," Snape said simply. "From the time we were children. She was… everything. And when the Dark Lord killed her, he took more than her life. He took mine as well. All that was left to me… was you."

Harry's throat tightened, his mind reeling. The words burned, but so did the memory of every cruel remark, every detention, every sneer.

"You hated me," Harry said hoarsely. "For years you made sure I knew it."

Snape's eyes flickered, but his voice remained steady. "Because hating me was safer for you than trusting me."

"I swore," Snape continued, his dark eyes locking onto Harry's, "that I would keep you from him. That no matter what it cost me, he would not have you. That oath has guided every step I have taken since that night."

The firelight flickered across his face, and for once, the mask of sarcasm and severity was gone. Only raw truth remained.

"I live," Snape said, voice rougher now, "to keep you safe. It is the only reason I still breathe."

Harry swallowed hard, a storm of emotions surging in his chest—anger, confusion, grief, and something else he had never expected: a fragile thread of understanding.

For the first time, he saw Snape not as a shadow, not as a tormentor, but as a man broken by loss, yet still standing.

Snape sheathed the sword, his composure settling once more, though his eyes lingered on Harry with a depth of meaning that words could not hold.

"Remember this, Potter," he said quietly. "You are your mother's son. Never forget it."

Harry's thoughts raced — anger, grief, confusion — but beneath it all, for the first time, he believed him.

Chapter Text

The fire in the Headmaster's office burned low, but Snape's words rang like iron in Harry's ears.

"Harry," he said, his voice unyielding, "you can kill the Dark Lord. I have already planned everything with Malfoy. When Voldemort arrives, Draco will betray him. Most of the Death Eaters will scatter. The Order and I will handle the rest. But you must face him. You must end this. We are with you."

Harry felt Hermione's hand tighten in his, steadying him. For once, he saw no doubt in Snape's eyes—only absolute conviction.

By nightfall, the castle stood braced for war. Stone guardians lined the walls, their eyes glowing. The air was sharp with frost, heavy with dread. Across the lake, shadows gathered—an army of Death Eaters, Dementors, and giants, Voldemort at their head.

He stood pale and serpentine, his eyes burning red in the dark. His army halted. For a moment, silence reigned.

Then chaos broke.

Draco stepped forward, his wand raised—not at Harry, but at his own master. Spells cracked like lightning as he turned, stunning two Death Eaters before they realized the betrayal. Shouts of fury erupted; half their ranks faltered, some Disapparated on the spot. Voldemort's head snapped toward Malfoy, his fury like fire.

But the damage was done—the unity of his ranks was broken.

The Dementors surged, cloaks billowing, draining hope from the air. Cold swept the grounds.

Snape raised his wand, his voice carrying: "Expecto Patronum!"

The Silver Doe blazed into existence, scattering shadows. McGonagall's cat bounded beside it, followed by Harry's stag, Hermione's otter, Luna's hare, Kingsley's lynx. Patronuses filled the sky like stars, driving the darkness back.

The Death Eaters charged, met by the Aurors at their front. Kingsley led them with commanding precision, his spells slicing through the night. Aurors flanked him, dueling fiercely, their blue jets of light colliding with curses of green and red. For every Death Eater that fell, two Aurors pressed forward, pushing them back inch by inch.

Near the castle steps, the Weasley family fought side by side. Fred and George's curses burst like fireworks, dazzling and disarming, while Arthur shielded Molly from a streak of killing green. Percy, red-faced and grim, stunned two Death Eaters in rapid succession. Molly's wand lashed out, fierce as flame.

And then the giants came. Their footsteps thundered, shaking the very ground, clubs raised high. Hagrid's voice bellowed from the castle gates, and with him came Grawp, roaring with feral strength.

"Come on, yeh great lumps!" Hagrid charged, wand in hand—not clumsy, but controlled, precise. For the first time, Harry saw him unleash true magic. Chains of glowing rope burst from his wand, wrapping a giant's legs and sending it crashing into the mud. With a sweep of his arm, he conjured a rockslide from the cliffside, slamming into another. Grawp barreled into the rest, fists like hammers, roaring in triumph.

The giants faltered, confused, and broke. The grounds shook with their retreat.

Bellatrix Lestrange laughed as curses flew, her wild eyes fixed on Hermione. But before she could strike, Lupin and Tonks closed in. Together they moved as one, weaving spells that bound and struck from either side.

"Crucio!" Bellatrix shrieked, but Lupin's shield caught it. Tonks retaliated, her spell slamming into Bellatrix's chest.

Bellatrix snarled, lashing out in fury—but she was too slow. Lupin disarmed her, Tonks struck again, and together they unleashed a twin curse that sent her spinning. Her scream split the night as she fell, lifeless on the grass.

The Order's cheer rose, a moment of light in the chaos.

The battlefield quieted as Voldemort advanced, his presence chilling the air itself. His gaze locked on Harry, but Severus Snape stepped forward, cloak sweeping, wand raised.

Snape stepped forward, cloak billowing, wand steady. He raised his voice for all to hear:

"You thought fear would bind them to you," he called to Voldemort. "But fear breaks. Love endures. That is why you have already lost."

Voldemort sneered, his voice like venom. "And you, Severus, are a traitor who will die with them."

"You will not touch him," Snape said, his voice ringing with steel. "I am ready to die, Voldemort—just as Lily did. Kill me if you can—it will change nothing. Even in death, my love will guard him, as hers did. You cannot break what protects him."

A flicker of something passed through Voldemort's crimson eyes—anger, yes, but beneath it, fear.

"You dare compare yourself to her?" Voldemort hissed, his voice a serpent's coil. "She begged for his life. You stand here in defiance. I will end you first."

"So be it," Snape answered coldly. "Better to die as she did—protecting him—than to live as your slave."

Voldemort struck without warning, a jet of green light tearing through the air. Snape met it head-on, his shield blazing silver. The impact shook the ground, sparks raining around them.

The duel ignited. Voldemort's curses lashed like whips, each one deadly, each one furious. But Snape matched him, wand flashing in arcs of fire and light. He drove Voldemort back a step, then another, forcing the Dark Lord into defense.

The onlookers gasped—never had they seen anyone stand against Voldemort with such precision, such fury.

But the strain showed. Blood trickled from Snape's lip, his breath ragged. He fought with everything left in him, every ounce of skill, every memory of Lily burning in his heart.

Finally, Voldemort forced him to his knees, the weight of his curse pressing down. Snape's shield cracked, splintering like glass.

And still he looked up, his eyes burning with defiance. "You cannot have him. Not while I breathe."

Voldemort screamed in fury, pouring power into his final curse—only for Harry to leap forward, his wand colliding with Voldemort's in a blinding storm of gold and green. The curse snapped from Snape, redirected, broken by the force of Harry's spell.

Snape collapsed, gasping, but alive—shielded by Harry and Hermione's combined light.

Now Voldemort's eyes locked fully on Harry.

"It ends tonight, Potter!"

"No," Harry answered, his voice steady. "It ends with you."

The final duel began, light and shadow tearing across the battlefield.

Voldemort raised his wand, his voice a hiss of venom. "Avada Kedavra!"

Harry shouted the same curse, his voice raw and defiant. "Avada Kedavra!"

Green light erupted from both wands, meeting in midair with a deafening crack. The twin spells collided, their beams locking together in a column of violent, thrashing energy. Sparks rained down, the ground trembling as the magic fought for dominance.

Voldemort's curse pressed forward, inch by inch, his laughter slicing through the chaos. Harry's knees buckled under the pressure, his wand shuddering in his grip. The green blaze crept closer, forcing itself toward him.

Harry gasped, fighting with everything he had.

Hermione's voice broke through the roar, sharp and sure. "Protego Maxima!"

Her spell leapt from her wand, a thread of golden light weaving itself into Harry's beam. The moment they touched, the connection flared—Harry's green fused with Hermione's gold, the column of light doubling in brilliance and strength.

The force surged back against Voldemort, his eyes widening in shock as his wand trembled violently. He screamed, pouring every ounce of power he had into resisting, but the combined magic overwhelmed him.

The wand shrieked, cracks splintering up its length. With a sound like shattering glass, it snapped—deadly curse rebounding in a torrent of blinding light.

The blast struck him full in the chest. His scream tore through the battlefield, high and terrible, before his body unraveled in a blaze of fire and ash.

When the brilliance faded, nothing remained of Lord Voldemort. Only silence.

Chapter Text

The battlefield was silent. Smoke drifted across the ruined grounds, the stench of fire and ash hanging heavy in the cold night air. Where Voldemort had fallen, there was nothing—only scorched earth and the memory of light.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The survivors stared at the empty space, as if waiting for him to rise again. But he didn't. He never would.

Then, slowly, voices broke the silence. Shouts of victory. Cries of relief. Laughter, and sobs, tangled together.

Harry sank to his knees, the weight of it all pressing down at once. Hermione was there instantly, her arm around him, her face against his shoulder. Ron limped toward them, pale but unbroken, and pulled them both into a rough embrace. For the first time in too long, the three of them clung together, alive.

Across the field, the Weasley twins were already at work lightening the air.

"Well," Fred announced loudly, brushing ash from his sleeve, "that was fun. Same time next year?"

George grinned, his face streaked with soot. "Maybe with less killing curses next time, yeah?"

Laughter rippled, weary but real. Even Molly managed a weak smile through her tears.

Ron gave a shaky laugh, though his eyes were wet. "You two never change."

Then Fred smirked, eyeing Ron as he stood with Harry and Hermione. "And look at that—finally, Hermione's come to her senses and dumped you for someone better."

Ron groaned, but even through the dirt and blood, a reluctant smile tugged at his face. "Git."

"True," George agreed cheerfully. "But we're lovable gits."

The tension broke into chuckles, Molly shaking her head through tears.

Later, in the Great Hall, the survivors gathered among the shattered tables. The banners still hung, scorched and torn, but light from the high windows spilled across the stone as if dawn itself had entered early.

Severus Snape stood at the head of the hall. His black robes were scorched, his face lined, but his presence commanded silence.

"Tonight," he said, his voice carrying to every corner, "Hogwarts has endured. Not because of walls, or spells, or even its professors. But because of the courage of its students, its families, and those who stood against darkness even when hope seemed lost."

He paused, his eyes flicking briefly to Harry, then to Hermione and Ron.

"The Dark Lord sought to divide us. Instead, he has united us. That is what will remain. That is what he could never understand."

The hall erupted in cheers, though many wept as they cheered. Snape bowed his head once, then stepped back into the shadows, leaving the noise to the living.

The hall erupted in cheers, though many wept as they cheered. Snape raised a hand, and the noise dimmed.

"And for the practical among you," he continued, his tone sharper now, "since this year's classes were… not properly conducted, next year will be the same for everyone. Whoever missed their lessons will repeat them, and whoever survived will study together."

A ripple of surprised laughter ran through the hall. For once, Snape's words were not laced with contempt, but with a kind of stern reassurance: Hogwarts would continue, and no one would be left behind.

When it was finally quiet again, Harry and Hermione slipped away. The castle was battered, but the night was breaking into morning. Pale light spilled over the hills, the first colors of dawn painting the horizon.

For the first time in years, Harry felt no weight pressing down on him. No scar burning, no prophecy chasing him. Just the quiet promise of tomorrow.

Harry looked up at the familiar walls and smiled faintly. "You know… after everything, I think I'd love to come back here. Back to school. With my girlfriend."

Hermione's hand tightened around his. She turned to him, her expression soft but resolute. "Then we'll have to study harder than ever. If we want a better future, we'll have to earn it."

Harry's grin widened. "I don't know, Hermione. I think I already have the best future—because it's with you."

Before she could answer, he leaned in, and she kissed him beneath the rising sun.

A promise sealed in the first light of dawn.