Chapter Text

Prologue: Ashes of War

The Battle of Hogwarts

Hogwarts was a battlefield of smoke and flame. The air reeked of blood and burning stone. Shattered glass crunched beneath every step, and the air quaked with the echo of detonating spells. Curses screamed through the darkness, slamming into walls, ripping through flesh. The castle itself groaned like a wounded beast, its ancient bones splitting under the weight of war.

Hermione ran through the chaos, lungs seared raw by smoke, wand slick in her trembling grip. Her heart pounded so hard it drowned out the battle cries. She turned a corner just as a vicious spell hurtled toward her—purple, its hiss promising annihilation. Too close. Too fast. She raised her wand too late.

Purple light burst across her vision. A shield shimmered between her and death, shattering the curse into violet sparks that stung her cheeks and burned holes in the rubble. Narcissa Malfoy stood before her, wand raised high, the violet flare fading around her like shards of amethyst glass. For a heartbeat their eyes locked. Hermione felt it—a pulse, a thrum of magic not her own, sliding across her skin like a living thing. Recognition. Connection. Then Narcissa snapped her wand outward again, face cold and unreadable, hurling a curse into the chaos.

A scream tore through the air. Hermione’s gaze whipped across the wreckage—Draco, pale as chalk, rooted to the spot like prey in headlights. His wand hung loose at his side. A Killing Curse raced toward him, green fire curling through the dust.

Hermione didn’t think. She lunged, body slamming into his with bone-rattling force. They crashed into the rubble, stone biting her palms, the impact knocking her breath away. The curse hissed past where Draco had stood, scorching stone, leaving a reek of rot behind it. Draco stared up at her with wide grey eyes, chest heaving, dust streaked across his face.

Then Lucius was there. His once-immaculate robes hung in tatters, hair wild, eyes hollow with exhaustion and years of defeat. His hands were empty—Voldemort had long since taken his wand, destroyed it as punishment, leaving him powerless. Yet now, amidst the carnage, a fallen wand lay on the stones at his feet.

Lucius bent to pick it up as if it were something fragile, sacred. He straightened slowly, fingers tightening around the unfamiliar wood, shoulders trembling with the weight of years. For a moment, he only looked—at Hermione, at his son—and sorrow carved deep lines into his face. Something inside him, long eroded, seemed to settle.

Enough, he rasped, voice frayed but steady. And then Lucius Malfoy raised the stranger’s wand and fought—not for Voldemort, not for power, but for his son. For an end.

The night became blood and fury. Hermione, Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco fought shoulder to shoulder, an impossible constellation drawn together by desperation. Dust coated their throats, spells cracked the sky open, bodies fell hard around them. And when the night ended, Voldemort was gone.

But victory was ash. Ron’s body lay broken in the rubble, freckles dimmed, hair matted with soot. His eyes, once so full of warmth, were closed forever. Harry lived, but grief carved hollows in him that no healing charm could touch. For Hermione, the world tilted—and did not right itself again.

The Trials

The trials came. The Malfoys stood accused beneath the vaulted ceiling, every accusation a blade honed by years of hatred. The chamber stank of damp stone and anger. The crowd bayed for Azkaban, for ruin, for vengeance. Hermione rose anyway, voice hoarse, knees shaking beneath her robes. She told them of Narcissa’s shield, the violet curse splintered before it struck. She told them how she had thrown Draco from death’s path, the bruises still fresh on her arms. She told them of Lucius, wand in hand for the first time in a year, fighting against the darkness he had once obeyed.

Not innocent, she said, throat raw, but redeemable.

It was enough to spare them prison. But it was not enough to spare her. The Weasleys turned their grief on her like knives. Harry withdrew, hollow-eyed, unable to bear her defense of the family who had once worn the Dark Mark. The Burrow closed its doors. Grimmauld Place was heavy with silence. She was alone.

Return to Hogwarts

She returned to Hogwarts for her final year, carrying books heavier than her heart could stand. The castle was scarred and subdued. Rubble still littered forgotten corners, scorch marks marred the stone, and portraits whispered of the dead. The halls echoed with absence. Gryffindor’s common room no longer felt like home.

Draco returned too, but Slytherin turned its back on him. Former friends muttered betrayal as they passed. He walked halls lined with contempt, untethered from everything he had known.

They found each other in the library. At first, it was survival—quiet corners, late nights, the need to avoid company. But silence shared was easier than silence alone. He brewed tea that tasted faintly of ash; she drank it anyway. When nightmares clawed her awake, he passed her a handkerchief without a word. Slowly, comfort grew.

By winter, when the Yule holidays came, Narcissa’s letter reached her.

You mustn’t be alone. Come to the manor.

Hermione hesitated. Then she went. Malfoy Manor was quieter than legend, grandeur stripped bare, its echoing halls heavy with ghosts. Narcissa greeted her with a formality softened into warmth. Lucius, subdued, offered gratitude he could not name. Over steaming cups of tea in the dim hours, Hermione and Narcissa spoke of grief and survival until friendship, sharp and bright, took root between them.

By spring, thaw had come. Hermione and Draco walked the grounds together without shame, their closeness no longer challenged, only whispered about. And when she returned from Australia, her parents’ memories locked away beyond her reach, she did not go to the Burrow. She went to the manor. To them.

The foundation was set. Out of battle, loss, and exile, Hermione Granger found something she had never imagined in the family she had once despised: not innocence, not perfection, but kinship. Perhaps even the beginnings of love—though she could not name it yet. A seed planted in fire and watered in grief, waiting for its season to bloom.

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: A Cold, Empty House

The morning sun filtered weakly through the tall windows of the Malfoy dining room, its pale light doing little to chase away the shadows clinging to the corners. The long table was set as it always had been—silver cutlery gleaming, crystal glasses catching what little light there was, porcelain plates waiting. Yet the air was heavy, oppressive, and the room felt hollow without the voices that should have filled it.

Hermione sat at one end of the table, staring down at the plate before her. Eggs and toast had been placed neatly in front of her, but she hadn’t touched them. She lifted her fork, moved a piece of food idly across the porcelain, then set it down again. Her stomach ached with emptiness, but the thought of eating made her feel sick.

Across from her, Narcissa mirrored her silence. A plate sat untouched before her, prepared with the same precision, the same futility. Her hand rested lightly on the stem of a glass, but she never raised it. Her posture was flawless, every line of her body disciplined by habit, but the faint tremor in her fingers betrayed her.

No cutlery clinked. No polite conversations hummed in the air. Even the elves, who had laid the meal in silence, had vanished without a sound. The breakfast was not a meal—it was an act of endurance, a ritual to keep moving when everything inside them longed to stop.

Hermione’s throat tightened as she glanced toward Narcissa. She wanted to say something, anything, but the words snagged on the weight of grief pressing down on them both. Narcissa did not look up; her eyes were fixed on the polished wood of the table, glassy and distant.

Time seemed suspended. The scrape of Hermione’s fork against porcelain—aimless, half-hearted—was the only sound. Each second stretched, sharp with absence.

At last, Narcissa’s lips parted, her voice brittle as dry parchment.
We must… keep to our routines.

Hermione swallowed hard, her fork stilling mid-motion. She nodded, though the gesture felt monumental.
Yes. Routines. The word left her lips in a whisper, a fragile agreement—a recognition that if they yielded to the emptiness, there would be nothing left to climb out of.

Her gaze drifted back to the untouched plate, and memory flooded in. Only days ago, the same table had carried a different kind of quiet. Lucius at the head, murmuring commentary over the Prophet; Draco smirking faintly when she rolled her eyes; Narcissa pouring tea with practiced grace. It had been subdued, restrained, but not this silence. That quiet had been companionable, a steady rhythm she had grown to find comfort in. She had never expected warmth in this house. Yet somehow, she had felt it.

Now that warmth was gone, replaced by absence so sharp it cut.

The plates remained full. The glasses stood untouched. But in the hollow silence, at the long cold table, they endured together. And for now, though it felt like glass underfoot, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: A Silent Promise

The breakfast dishes had been cleared, though none of them had been touched. The porcelain plates gleamed untouched in the sideboard, as if the house itself were holding its breath. Silence stretched on, clinging to the marble corridors long after they left the dining room, settling into every carved arch and echoing hall.

Hermione’s footsteps seemed too loud, each tap against the stone stirring dust motes that glimmered in the pale morning light. But it wasn’t dust she felt. It was absence. The air carried the ghosts of voices that would never sound again—Draco’s dry wit, Lucius’s measured tones, the cadence of a family now reduced to half its heart. Their absence pressed on her ears until the quiet roared.

At the base of the stairs she faltered. A small, rational part of her whispered that she ought to go—that she didn’t belong in this mausoleum of memory. Another part, quieter but heavier, insisted she couldn’t leave. That if she did, the house might collapse entirely into its own grief. Yet the question ached in her chest: was her presence helping Narcissa, or was she only twisting the knife?

She turned, ready to murmur some polite excuse, when Narcissa’s voice cut through the hush.

Don’t go.

The words were soft, low, but they landed with the weight of a spell.

Hermione stilled. Narcissa stood at the foot of the stairs, hands clasped tightly before her. Her poise was intact, her spine straight, but her eyes betrayed her—glass-bright, brittle. She looked not like the imperious matriarch of Malfoy Manor, but like a woman hollowed by loss, clinging desperately to the last warm thing left in the house.

I cannot… Narcissa’s voice broke, faltered. She swallowed, then tried again, quieter this time, as if afraid of the sound. I cannot be alone in this house.

Hermione’s throat tightened. She knew exactly what Narcissa meant. Every room was haunted. Every hallway whispered of footsteps that would never return. Lucius and Draco—husband and son, father and child—buried together on the same day. Hermione’s heart twisted. She should have been buried too. It should have been her. Her survival felt like theft.

She stepped closer, her voice soft but steady.
Then you won’t be.

That afternoon, they drifted together through the manor as though tethered by an invisible thread. Neither spoke much. Words felt clumsy against the weight of grief, so they let silence carry them.

Lucius’s study lay untouched, still heavy with parchment and ink. The scent of him lingered faintly in the air, polished wood and pipe smoke long gone cold. Narcissa’s hand lingered on the back of his chair, fingers brushing the leather as though she might conjure him back. Hermione said nothing, only stood near enough to anchor her.

Draco’s rooms were worse. They had the stillness of interruption, not finality. A book lay open on his desk, as though he had only stepped out for a moment. A quill rested in an ink pot dried to crust, beside parchment covered in sharp, deliberate strokes of his handwriting. Hermione’s hand hovered above the page. She could almost hear him muttering as he wrote, quill tapping when words refused him. For the briefest second she let herself imagine he might walk back in to finish the sentence. Then the silence closed in again, thick and unyielding.

By dusk, they had drifted into the drawing room. A fire burned low in the grate, its light throwing long, restless shadows across the walls. They did not reach for books. They did not attempt conversation. They simply sat—Hermione in one chair, Narcissa in another, near enough that the hush was no longer unbearable.

Hermione’s hand rested on the arm of her chair. Narcissa’s folded neatly on her lap. They did not touch. They did not need to. The nearness itself was enough.

Hermione turned her head and studied Narcissa’s profile in the flicker of firelight. The high cheekbones, the proud line of her jaw, softened now by exhaustion. She remembered that plea—don’t go—and felt the answer settle inside her like stone.

She would not.

The promise did not need words. It settled in the air between them like a spell, binding without incantation. Silent. Unshakable. A vow to endure, side by side.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: The Quiet Burden

The days bled into one another, not lived so much as endured. Morning followed night with dull inevitability, each marked by the same rituals that resembled survival more than living. Hermione and Narcissa sat at the breakfast table because they must. The elves placed warm bread and steaming tea before them, but the offerings cooled untouched, a hollow mimicry of what once had been.

The manor itself seemed to mourn. Its corridors, once alive with footsteps, were silent. Portraits peered down with muted solemnity, their painted gazes heavy with unspoken sympathy, as if even generations past felt the weight pressing on the house. It breathed with them—slow, heavy, subdued—every chamber a vessel for grief.

Hermione carried her own quiet burden alongside it. At night she lay awake, her body exhausted but her mind restless, trapped in the endless reel of memory. Sleep never came gently; when it did, it dragged her back into the battlefield. Again she saw the flash of curses, the cries, the moment Draco and Lucius fell and did not rise. Again she felt the hollowing truth: she had survived when they had not.

Her chest ached with the broken promise she had once whispered to Draco in fleeting moments of hope—that there would be a future, that they would have time. Now all that lingered was the ghost of his hand against hers, so vivid in memory that sometimes she reached for it in the dark. Her fingers always closed on emptiness.

She did not speak of it to Narcissa. Yet she suspected Narcissa knew. The older witch’s gaze lingered too long in the mornings, reading the shadows beneath Hermione’s eyes, the faraway look that betrayed sleepless nights. Narcissa never asked, but her silence was eloquent. Some mornings she poured Hermione’s tea without comment, the porcelain cup sliding close like a quiet act of care. Other days she sat beside her in the drawing room, not touching, not pressing, her presence a steady weight that said more than words.

At times Narcissa’s composure wavered—an extra beat in her breath, a flicker in her gaze—as though she might ask, How are you carrying it? But she never did. Perhaps because she, too, bore a weight that words could not ease. To lose both husband and son in one night was more than anyone should endure, yet each morning she rose—fragile, but dignified. Hermione found strength in that poise even as it unsettled her, because she could see the cost etched in every line of Narcissa’s face.

One evening, long after the fire had burned low, Hermione lingered in the drawing room. Shadows stretched high along the walls, the room hushed but for the faint crackle of dying embers. Across from her, Narcissa sat with hands folded in her lap, her profile pale against the gloom.

Lucius was proud of him, you know, Narcissa said suddenly, her voice low, fragile. She did not look at Hermione, only at the fire. Of Draco. He would never say it aloud, not even to me. But he was. I hope he knew it.

Hermione swallowed past the lump in her throat. He knew, she whispered, the words tearing free before she could temper them. Her voice shook, betraying her. And he was proud of you, too.

Narcissa’s lips trembled. For a heartbeat, the mask cracked, her composure faltering beneath the rawness of grief. She inhaled sharply and leaned back, her eyes fluttering closed as though bracing herself.

The silence that followed was not empty. It carried the weight of all that had been lost and the fragile thread of companionship that now bound them. So they began—tentatively, unknowingly—to learn how to endure.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: A New Beginning

The weeks after the funerals bled together in silence and routine. Yet slowly, almost imperceptibly, something shifted. Where once the silence between them had suffocated, it began to soften. It carried not only grief, but the fragile beginnings of comfort.

One evening, Hermione lingered in the drawing room after another quiet meal. The firelight cast a muted glow across the high ceiling, shadows stretching long and uncertain. Narcissa entered without a word, carrying two cups of tea. She set one before Hermione, then took the chair beside her. No explanations. No expectations. Just the quiet ritual of being together.

Hermione’s hands curled around the warm porcelain. The tea was strong and steadying, and for the first time in days, she drank. Her eyes flicked to Narcissa, who sat with her usual grace, though there was weariness in the slope of her shoulders. They did not speak, but the silence between them was no longer empty. It was shared.

Nights stretched long, and sleep came poorly. Hermione tossed in her bed, haunted by the battle replaying in fragments—shouted curses, the final collapse of bodies that would never rise again. Some nights, unable to bear the dreams, she wandered the halls, searching for something—anything—to anchor her.
On one such night, she passed the threshold of the drawing room to find Narcissa already there, seated near the embers, her hands folded in her lap.

I couldn’t sleep, Hermione admitted, voice low.
Narcissa looked up. Her expression remained composed, but her eyes softened.
Nor I.

Hermione hesitated, then crossed the room and lowered herself into the chair beside her. They sat in silence, the fire painting their faces in hues of gold and shadow. The world outside the manor was moving on, but here, time stood still. Two women bound by loss, by the unbearable weight of survival.

As the fire dwindled, Hermione’s head dipped, heavy with exhaustion. She forced her eyes open only to find Narcissa watching her with quiet concern.
Rest, Narcissa murmured. Not an order, not a plea—just a truth.

For the first time since that terrible night, Hermione allowed herself to lean back into the silence, her burden a fraction lighter for not being carried alone.

In the weeks that followed, they grew accustomed to the rhythm of each other’s presence. Mornings began with silence at the long dining table, where Narcissa poured tea without comment and Hermione forced herself to sip. Afternoons often drew them into the library, books in hand, though more often than not their eyes drifted to the fire instead of the page. Evenings found them in the drawing room again, two shadows framed by firelight, bound together by grief yet steadied by companionship.

There were no confessions, no sudden warmth to banish the sorrow. But sometimes, when Hermione felt the weight of exhaustion settle into her bones, Narcissa would quietly shift her chair a little closer, as if to remind her she was not alone. And on one of those nights, when Hermione’s head dipped in weariness, Narcissa did not move away. She let the silence hold them both, fragile comfort easing sharp sorrow.

Hermione, too, began to notice. She saw how Narcissa’s composure wavered at the doorway of Draco’s study, how her hand trembled faintly when lifting a teacup. At those moments, Hermione spoke softly—recalling Draco’s dry humor, Lucius’s last stand, the fragments of warmth worth remembering. Once, finding Narcissa rigid in her chair, Hermione rose quietly and draped a shawl across her shoulders. Narcissa did not speak, but her hand brushed the fabric with a tenderness that said more than words could.

Gradually, the rhythms of the house shifted with them. Meals remained sparse, but Hermione coaxed Narcissa into a few bites, and Narcissa in turn ensured Hermione’s cup was always filled. They walked the grounds together, the gardens overgrown but alive, winter slowly yielding to spring. One morning Hermione knelt by a frost-bitten patch of soil and pressed a crocus bulb into the earth. Narcissa stood behind her, silent, then bent to brush soil from Hermione’s fingers. It was the smallest of gestures, but Hermione felt it anchor her in the present, tethering her to something beyond grief.

Books, too, became part of their evenings. Hermione selected volumes not always to read aloud, but simply to hold between them, a quiet act of defiance against emptiness. Narcissa occasionally offered commentary—sharp, dry observations that carried the faintest echo of her old self. Hermione found comfort in that spark, however fleeting.

In these small rituals, the manor began to feel less like a tomb and more like a place where life might, one day, take root again.
It was not healing. Not yet. Hermione remembered the silent promise she had made: Then you won’t be alone.
And she knew, as Narcissa’s gaze lingered on her in the quiet firelight, that she never would be either.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: The Guilt of Survival

Hermione lay awake in her bed at the manor, eyes fixed on the ceiling though she saw nothing but memory. It had been weeks since the ambush, yet sleep still abandoned her. Every time she closed her eyes, the nightmare dragged her back.

She was no longer nineteen, no longer the girl who had walked away from the war. Five years had passed since Voldemort fell. She had finished her education, carved out a new life, and impossibly, had built it here—in this house, with Draco. Their marriage had once shocked the world, but to her it had been simple: she loved him. She had been happy.

Until the night everything ended.

The Ambush

They had not expected the ambush. She, Draco, and Lucius had been returning from one of the smaller Malfoy estates when the Death Eaters struck. They were no longer an army, only bitter remnants—fractured, desperate, dangerous. To them, the Malfoys’ redemption was betrayal, and Hermione’s presence was the final proof. The attack came swift and merciless.

Curses split the air, scarlet and emerald flashing like lightning. The ground exploded in sprays of dirt and stone. Hermione’s instincts sharpened, her wand already snapping up a shield.

Protego! she cried, sparks bursting as a curse ricocheted into the night.

Beside her, Draco spun, his pale hair like a banner in the chaos. Left—Hermione, your left! he shouted, blasting an attacker with a stunner so fierce the man slammed into a tree.

Lucius fought with the precision of old discipline, his voice hoarse as he barked incantations. A shield charm bloomed around them, only to crack a moment later under the force of a bone-splintering curse. He gritted his teeth, raising another.

Hermione’s heart thundered. Draco, stay close!

Not a chance, he snapped back, fury blazing in his grey eyes. He surged forward, forcing himself between her and the enemy line. They’ll have to kill me first!

She wanted to scream at him, to drag him back, but there was no time. Her wand blurred, curses spilling as she fought to cover the gap he left open.

Then it came—sickly green, streaking too fast, too close. Hermione spun, wand half-raised—

Lucius moved.

He shoved her aside with surprising strength. The curse struck him squarely in the chest. For an instant his body arched, eyes wide, and then he fell, crumpling to the ground with a thud that silenced everything inside her.

Father! Draco’s voice split the night, raw and terrible. He faltered only a heartbeat before rage consumed him. His wand became fire and fury, blasting curse after curse, each more reckless than the last.

Draco, stop! Please! Hermione’s throat tore with the plea. She tried to reach him, her hands shaking, her lungs burning.

He glanced back once—just once. Enough for her to see the promise in his eyes. I’ll protect you. Always.

The next curse found him.

Green light. A body falling. Grey eyes, wide and empty.

Draco! Hermione’s scream ripped through her chest as she stumbled toward him, reaching for his hand. Her fingers closed on nothing but cold air.

The laughter came then—sharp, cruel, echoing across the clearing. The sound struck something deep inside her. Something broke.

Her magic erupted.

Light and fire exploded from her wand, shield and curse fusing into a storm that cracked stone and splintered trees. Her hair whipped around her face, her voice raw as she screamed through the spells. The attackers faltered, scrambling back. Some fled.

It was enough.

She apparated, bloodied and broken, landing hard in the marble hall of Malfoy Manor. Her wand slipped from her fingers. The world tilted as darkness pressed in.

Narcissa’s Desperation

Narcissa’s world had already cracked once that night. She had felt the wards quiver, something tearing through the air like a scream, and then she had known—known—before the truth had even stepped across her threshold. Her son. Her husband. Gone.

And then, impossibly, the sound of Apparition, raw and violent, ripped through the hall. She turned, and Hermione collapsed onto the marble, blood smearing the white stone.

Narcissa’s body moved before her mind caught up. A lifetime of composure shattered as she fell to her knees. She pulled Hermione into her lap, heedless of blood soaking her silks.

No—no, stay with me. Narcissa’s voice cracked, panic raw and unfamiliar. She pressed trembling hands against Hermione’s wounds, heedless of blood soaking into her palms.

A jolt surged through her. Magic—raw, unbidden—thrummed where their skin touched. She remembered that strange vibration from years ago, in the Great Hall, when she had lied to save Harry Potter and for one fleeting instant her magic had brushed Hermione’s. Now it pulsed between them, fierce and demanding.

I can’t lose you too, she whispered, forehead pressed to Hermione’s curls. Please.

Hermione’s lashes fluttered. Her voice was a ragged whisper, glassy and unfocused. Draco… Lucius… all my fault…

Narcissa shook her head violently, tears spilling unchecked. No. Not your fault. Never yours. She poured more of her magic into Hermione, desperate, willing her to live.

Her wand lifted with shaking hands. A silvery swan burst into the air, gliding through the hall before streaking into the night. Andromeda… I need you.

Moments later, Andromeda appeared with a crack, her wand already drawn. She froze at the sight before her—her sister kneeling in blood, Hermione limp in her arms. Merlin’s sake, she breathed, then dropped beside them.
Move, Cissa.

Narcissa obeyed, pale and stricken, hovering at Hermione’s side as Andromeda swept her wand in quick, practiced arcs. Light bloomed across Hermione’s body, tracing wounds, mending torn flesh. Bruises faded. Blood slowed. Breath steadied.

Hermione stirred faintly, muttering broken words. Draco… Lucius… Her breath hitched, the names falling from her lips like broken glass. Then she sagged again, unconscious.

Narcissa’s throat closed. She clutched Hermione’s hand, unwilling to let go.

Andromeda’s wand hovered briefly over Hermione’s abdomen. The glow there pulsed—bright, steady, unmistakable. She stilled. Her eyes widened with recognition. But she said nothing.

She’ll live, Andromeda said firmly, her voice brooking no argument. She’ll need rest, and care, but she’ll live.

Narcissa exhaled, a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh of relief. She pressed her lips to Hermione’s curls. Thank you.

Andromeda’s gaze softened, but the secret she carried stayed unspoken; Andromeda would keep it to herself. For now.

Guilt and Grief

Later, in the dim hours of the night, Hermione jolted awake in her room, chest heaving. Her hand drifted instinctively to her abdomen, though she did not yet know why. Her voice cracked into the silence, broken words carrying into the shadows.
I should have gone with you.

But she hadn’t. She had lived. And that was the guilt she carried, night after night—the unbearable weight of surviving when Draco and Lucius had not.

At the far end of the manor, another woman lay awake.

Narcissa had not slept either, not truly, not since that night. Her mind circled endlessly, chasing shadows she could not quiet. She had lost Lucius—her husband of decades—and Draco—her only child—within the same hour. The grief hollowed her until she felt carved out, brittle, as if one more breath might shatter her completely.

But grief was not the only ghost in her bed.

That day, she had not been with them. She had not stood at Draco’s side. She had not lifted her wand beside Lucius. She had been in Diagon Alley, shopping of all things—lace gloves, ribbon, mundane errands. A few hours later, her family was gone.

She told no one of that guilt, but it lived in her marrow. If she had been there, perhaps her wand might have made the difference. Perhaps she might have shielded Draco in time. Perhaps she might have died with them, and spared herself the agony of outliving them both.

And yet, beneath the weight of grief and the acid of guilt, something else gnawed at her. Relief.

Relief that Hermione had survived. Relief that when the marble floor of the hall had filled with blood, it had not been Hermione’s final breath. Relief that when she looked across the dining table in the endless days after, there was still someone sitting opposite her.

For her greatest fear, whispered only in the private corners of her soul, had never been death. It had been solitude. To lose Lucius and Draco, and to have no one left.

But she was not alone. Hermione was still here.

That knowledge haunted Narcissa as much as it steadied her. In the sleepless hours, staring at the carved ceiling of her chamber, she wondered if it was selfish—this quiet gratitude amid devastation. Her husband and son were gone, and yet she clung to the woman they had died to protect.

And every night, she whispered the same vow into the dark: I will not lose her too.

Unspoken Understanding

The manor at night was hushed, echoing with the weight of things unsaid. Hermione lay in her bed, guilt raw in her chest. Narcissa lay in hers, grief and fear coiled like knives in her stomach.

Neither woman slept.

And in the morning, at the long dining table, they met again in silence. The tea steamed between them, untouched. Hermione’s eyes carried the shadow of her nightmares; Narcissa’s gaze was lined with fatigue.

Neither spoke of it. But each knew the other had not slept. A fragile understanding lingered between them—wordless, but undeniable.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Hidden Truths

Time stretched on, quiet and subdued, measured not in joy or purpose but in the rhythm of survival. Hermione moved through her routines, but exhaustion shadowed her, a second skin she could not shed. She woke from restless nights with her body heavy, her mind fogged, her stomach unsettled. Grief explained some of it—but not all. And deep down, she knew it.

A suspicion stirred at the edges of her thoughts, one she dared not name.

Still, she pressed forward. Each morning, she sat at the long dining table opposite Narcissa, lifting her teacup though she rarely finished it. Meals came and went, delicate dishes appearing like clockwork, but Hermione managed only a few bites before her appetite failed. More than once, without realizing, her hand drifted toward her stomach. Each time she caught herself, she pulled it quickly away, as though the gesture alone might betray her.

And Narcissa noticed.

Her pale eyes lingered too long—on the shadows beneath Hermione’s eyes, the pallor of her cheeks, the weariness in her steps. She said nothing, but her silence was no longer neutral. It was watchful, edged with quiet suspicion. Hermione felt it pressing against her skin in the hush of meals, in the long evenings by the fire.

Andromeda visited often, her presence a steadying balm. She asked about Hermione’s sleep, her appetite, her strength—though her healer’s eyes already knew the truth. She remembered the glow she had seen weeks ago when her wand hovered over Hermione’s abdomen, and she carried the knowledge like a secret stone in her pocket. Not pity but fierce protectiveness filled her gaze each time she looked at Hermione. She told herself the truth must come in its own time, that forcing it would serve no one. So she waited.

The manor itself seemed to shift with them. Meals remained quiet, but they were shared. Afternoons found Hermione in the library, staring at the same page for an hour, while Narcissa sat opposite with a book she barely read. Evenings brought the three of them to the drawing room, bound together by grief and something unspoken beneath it.

One evening, as the fire burned low, Hermione caught her reflection in the tall window. The flicker of flame traced her pale features, and her hand drifted once more to her stomach. She froze, throat tightening, fear and hope tangling in her chest. Quickly, she let her hand fall and turned back—only to find Narcissa watching her.

Hermione’s breath caught. Narcissa’s expression was unreadable, but her gaze was sharp, far too sharp.

The silence stretched until Narcissa set down her teacup, the porcelain ringing faintly against the saucer. For a heartbeat her voice wavered, soft with something that might have been fear.

Don’t do this to me, Hermione.

Hermione blinked, startled. Do what?

Narcissa’s tone hardened, though her hands gripped the chair arms as though to keep from trembling. You are hiding something.

Hermione’s heart lurched. I—I don’t know what you mean.

You grow weaker each day, yet you insist you are fine, Narcissa pressed, her voice cutting but not cruel. You touch your stomach as if guarding it. You think I do not see, but I see everything.

Hermione’s lips parted, words faltering. It’s grief, she whispered. Nothing more.

Is it? Narcissa tilted her head, her gaze relentless. Beneath it, though, flickered a fragility Hermione had never seen in her before—fear, raw and desperate. Or is it something you fear telling me?

Hermione looked down at her trembling hands. She could not lie—not convincingly—not to Narcissa. And yet the truth was a weight she could not yet bear to speak aloud.

Please, she murmured. Not tonight.

For a long moment, Narcissa did not move. Her gaze lingered, sharp as glass, but the silence between them hummed with something deeper—terror of loss, terror of being left behind again. At last, she drew back, though her eyes never left Hermione’s.

Very well, she said quietly. But you cannot hide from me forever.

The fire popped, scattering sparks. Hermione stared into the embers, guilt heavy in her chest. Across the room, Andromeda lowered her mending and studied them both. She knew what neither woman would yet say aloud, and the weight of it pressed against her like an unspoken vow.

The truth lingered there—no longer simply hidden, but demanding to be spoken. Soon.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: At the Grave

Hermione had known for days—perhaps longer than she had admitted to herself. The nausea in the mornings, the heaviness in her limbs, the restless exhaustion that never eased—it was grief, yes, but it was more.

One evening, alone in her room, she whispered the diagnostic charm she had dreaded. A soft shimmer bloomed around her abdomen. Her wand slipped from her hand, clattering uselessly against the floor.

For a long time, she sat frozen, heart torn between terror and grief, with only the faintest, fragile thread of hope woven through it. She carried Draco’s child.

Not even Narcissa could know, not yet. The truth was too raw, too heavy to speak aloud. There was only one place, one person, she could bring it first.

The family plot lay hushed, a grove of carved stones softened by moss and twilight. Dusk clung to the air when she Apparated there, her step faltering as she crossed the grass. Two fresh graves stood side by side. Lucius. Draco.

She sank to her knees before Draco’s stone, damp earth seeping into her robes. Her trembling fingers traced the engraved letters of his name.

I should have gone with you, she whispered, her voice breaking in the still air. I should have found a way. But I didn’t. I lived. And now—

Her hand pressed to her stomach. Tears blurred the letters beneath her fingertips. Now I carry your child. Our child. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do this without you.

The silence pressed in, broken only by her ragged breaths. She bowed her head, her forehead resting against the cold stone.

It’s killing me, Draco, she confessed, voice muffled against the granite. The nightmares. The guilt. But the only moments I find rest—the only times I can breathe—are when your mother is near. Narcissa… she’s the only reason I can keep going. Her presence is the only place I find peace. I hope you understand. I hope you’d want that for me.

Her words dissolved into sobs, spilling into the earth.

A gentle voice broke the stillness. You don’t have to carry it alone.

Hermione startled, lifting her tear-streaked face. Andromeda stood a short distance away, her features soft with understanding. She had given Hermione her privacy, but the confession had drawn her forward.

Hermione’s hands scrambled at her eyes, shame flushing her cheeks. I can’t—she’s lost so much already. How can I burden her with this? How can I bring her more pain?

Andromeda crossed the grass and crouched before her, steadying Hermione with a hand to her shoulder. Her voice was calm, but firm.

This child is not a burden, she said. It’s a continuation. A gift. Cissa won’t turn from you, Hermione. Not for this. If anything, it may be what saves her.

Hermione shook her head, her voice breaking. I don’t know how to do this without him.

You won’t have to. Andromeda’s hand squeezed her shoulder, grounding her. You have me. And you have her. Neither of us will let you face this alone.

The tightness in Hermione’s chest loosened, if only a little. She let out a shuddering breath and pressed her hand once more to Draco’s name.

Slowly, with Andromeda’s arm steadying her, she rose. Together, they left the graves behind, the dusk falling soft and solemn around them. The grief remained, but it no longer felt like hers to bear alone.

The secret was no longer hers alone.

And with that sharing came the faintest spark of resolve: she would live—not just for herself, but for the child she carried.

Chapter Text

<p>Chapter 8: A Shift Unseen</p>

Chapter 8: A Shift Unseen

Hermione and Andromeda returned to the manor as dusk gave way to night. Neither spoke as they crossed the threshold, the air still carrying the chill of the graveyard. Hermione’s face was pale, but a steadiness lingered in her step that had not been there when she left. The weight of the secret was no longer hers alone, and that fragile relief gave her just enough strength to lift her chin, even as her heart ached.

Narcissa was waiting. She had been waiting for some time, pacing the hall in brittle silence. The manor’s clocks ticked on, but her thoughts circled endlessly—loss upon loss, and the gnawing sense that Hermione carried something she would not share. Her composure was flawless to the eye, yet behind it her grief pressed sharp, raw, merciless. Alone, she allowed herself to falter. Alone, she hated the silence that stretched without Lucius, without Draco.

When the sound of Apparition reached her, she drew composure back around herself like armor, tugging her sleeves into perfect lines, smoothing her gown with fingers that trembled faintly at her sides.

She stood in the entrance hall, posture regal as ever, but her eyes betrayed her. They flickered from Hermione to Andromeda, sharp and searching, then back again. Something had shifted—she could feel it, though she could not name it.

You were gone longer than I expected, Narcissa said softly, her words carrying restrained concern.

Hermione’s gaze faltered. I needed air, she murmured, brushing past quickly, deliberately avoiding Narcissa’s eyes. She did not elaborate, and Narcissa did not press. Yet her gaze lingered, following Hermione’s movements with an intensity that bordered on ache. To be held at arm’s length by the one who shared her grief left her raw, though she gave no outward sign.

Later, in the drawing room, Hermione curled into her chair near the fire. The flames painted her in hues of gold and shadow, her hand resting for the briefest moment against her stomach before she forced it away. Narcissa’s eyes caught the motion. Suspicion tightened like a string drawn taut, but still she said nothing. First her husband, then her son, and now the last tether she clung to seemed to hold something from her.

When Hermione retired early, leaving the room in silence, Narcissa found herself alone with Andromeda. For a long moment, neither spoke, the fire snapping softly between them. Then Narcissa lifted her chin, her voice cool and measured.

She holds something from me. It was not a question.

Andromeda’s gaze softened, though her tone stayed even. She’s holding on in the only way she knows how. Give her time.

Narcissa’s eyes flickered to the fire. Her grief coiled tightly inside her, unvoiced, but after a silence her voice broke softer, as though dragged from the depths of restraint. Time has taken everything from me, Andromeda. I’m not sure how much more I can give it. She hesitated, hands tightening in her lap, before admitting in a whisper raw with truth, If not for Hermione… if not for her presence in this house, I think I would have let the grief consume me by now. She is the only tether I have left.

Her mask remained, her posture perfect, but Andromeda saw the tremor in her hands. She said nothing of it, allowing her sister dignity. The two women sat until the fire burned low, the silence thick with grief and truths that would one day demand to be spoken.

Upstairs, Hermione lay awake, her secret pressing on her as heavily as her guilt. Downstairs, Narcissa clung to composure, and Andromeda kept her silence. The manor was quiet, but beneath its stillness something stirred—inevitable, unstoppable, waiting for the moment to break free.

The garden paths were hushed beneath moonlight, the air damp with the scent of roses long gone to seed. Narcissa moved without sound, her cloak trailing over the grass as she made her way toward the family plot. She had not been back since the funeral rites. Even the thought of it had seemed unbearable.

But tonight, solitude pressed too heavily against the walls of the manor. She could not keep it at bay.

Lucius’s stone gleamed pale in the moonlight, Draco’s beside it, new and raw. Narcissa’s breath caught, her hand hovering just above Draco’s name before pulling back, as though the stone itself might burn.

I wasn’t there, she whispered, her voice breaking. I should have been. I should have stood at your side. Instead, I was in Diagon Alley—shopping. Lace gloves, ribbons—trivial things. And in that wasted hour, I lost you both.

Her knees buckled, and she sank into the damp earth. The composure she had worn like armor shattered as tears spilled freely. I failed you. I failed as a wife, as a mother. And yet… Her hands curled against her lap. Yet when I thought I had lost everything, Hermione came back to me. Broken, bleeding—but alive.

Her voice dropped to a raw whisper. And I was relieved. Relieved that I was not left alone. What sort of mother feels that?

The moonlight spilled across the graves, silent, offering no answer.

Narcissa drew in a trembling breath and lifted her chin. If there is any justice left, then let her live. Let me keep her. I could not save you, but I will not lose her too. Not now. Not ever. I will give her time, but when she is ready—I will not let her carry it alone.

Her hand pressed against the cold stone, lingering as though trying to draw strength from it. At last she rose, her cloak damp with grass.

As she turned back toward the manor, her steps steadied. She carried her grief with her, but also something else: a vow born of loss and sharpened into resolve. She would not be left alone. Not while Hermione still breathed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: The First Touch

Hermione lay awake once more, her body heavy with exhaustion though her mind refused to rest. She turned over, stared at the ceiling, and finally pushed herself from the bed. The silence of the manor pressed in on her as she padded down the hall, each step echoing in the emptiness.

A soft glow spilled from the drawing room. Narcissa sat before the fire, posture regal even in solitude, her eyes fixed on the flames as though daring them to consume her. For days she had been pacing the edges of sleeplessness, haunted not only by grief but by the gnawing fear that everything she loved would leave her again.

Hermione hesitated in the doorway, torn between retreat and approach. But Narcissa looked up, her mask slipping just enough to reveal the faintest ache, and with the smallest tilt of her head she gestured for Hermione to come closer.

Hermione crossed the room and sank into the seat beside her. The quiet stretched, filled only by the steady crackle of the fire.

I’m so tired, Hermione admitted at last, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Narcissa inclined her head, her eyes still on the flames. She understood. She, too, had not slept—could not sleep—because the moment she closed her eyes she saw Draco’s stillness, Lucius’s fall, the yawning silence that followed. To keep herself upright, she had constructed walls of composure, but they were fragile things, threatening to collapse at the slightest tremor.

Slowly, deliberately, Narcissa reached across the small space and closed her hand over Hermione’s. Her touch was light at first, almost uncertain, then firmer—an anchor she herself desperately needed. The warmth of Hermione’s skin against hers tugged at something deep inside her chest. Narcissa had lost her son, her husband… but not Hermione. Not yet.

Hermione’s throat tightened, but she did not pull away.

They remained like that, hand in hand, the silence no longer heavy but soothing. When Hermione’s head drifted against Narcissa’s shoulder, Narcissa’s heart stuttered. For a breath she froze, overwhelmed by how easily the younger woman fit against her, how natural it felt—how dangerous. And then, surrendering to the truth of her own exhaustion, she let her head lower until their temples rested together.

Sleep found them in the warmth of the firelight. For the first time since the ambush, Hermione’s dreams were undisturbed. Narcissa, too, slipped into rare stillness—her nightmares quieted by the steady rhythm of Hermione’s breath.

When morning came, they rose stiff and silent. Neither spoke of what had passed. The memory was too fragile to risk under daylight, too tender to name. But the nights continued. Again and again they found themselves drawn to the fire, to the same chairs, the same closeness: shoulders brushing, fingers entwined, heads leaning together as sleep claimed them.

It was during one such night, the flames low and the house hushed, that Hermione let her words slip free.

I don’t know if I should stay, she whispered, her eyes fixed on the fire. Her voice cracked under the weight of it. Every day I wake here, I feel like an intruder. I don’t understand how you can even stand to look at me, let alone… let alone give me comfort. If I had been faster, stronger—Draco, Lucius—maybe they’d still be here. How can you bear me under your roof?

Her hand trembled in Narcissa’s grasp, but Narcissa only tightened her hold. Beneath her calm mask, her heart ached at the self-condemnation in Hermione’s voice. She wanted to shake her, to banish the guilt that clung to her like a shroud, but all she could offer was truth.

Not once have I blamed you, Hermione, she said, her voice low but certain. My husband and my son made their choices that night. They acted as they should have—as they must have. Their final acts were not of cowardice, but of love and redemption. I am proud of them for it.

Hermione’s eyes blurred with tears. Narcissa turned slightly, bringing her free hand to rest over their entwined fingers, sealing them together. And I need you here. I want you here. Do not mistake my composure for indifference. You are my anchor, Hermione. Perhaps more than you realize.

Her gaze flickered, almost involuntarily, to the way Hermione’s hand sometimes hovered protectively near her stomach. She had not yet spoken her suspicion aloud, but she felt it in her bones: there was more at stake than grief. Something fragile, something alive. Her voice softened as she added, All the more reason for you to stay.

Hermione had no words. She leaned once more against Narcissa’s shoulder, her fingers clinging tighter. The fire burned low, shadows curling around them. Grief remained, but it was no longer suffocating. In its place, something tentative but undeniable had begun to take root.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Hidden No Longer

The evening was quiet, the manor cloaked in that heavy stillness that often fell after dark. Hermione sat before the fire in the drawing room, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She had rehearsed this moment countless times, yet now, when Narcissa entered—graceful as ever—the words caught in her throat.

Her hands twisted, untwisted. She had told herself she could wait, that silence was kinder, that if she held the truth close it could not shatter the fragile balance between them. But every day she kept it hidden, the weight pressed harder. If she did not speak it now, she feared she never would.

Narcissa crossed to her usual seat, her gaze steady and searching. You’ve been restless, she said softly. Worse than before. Tell me what troubles you.

Hermione’s throat tightened. She had locked the truth inside for weeks, terrified of what it might do to Narcissa, terrified of renewing grief in a woman who had already lost too much. But she could no longer bear it alone.

Her hands drifted to her stomach before she could stop them. I can’t keep this from you any longer, she whispered.

Narcissa stilled, her expression taut with restraint.

I’m pregnant. The words fell soft but unshakable. It’s Draco’s. Four months now, I think. I didn’t want to burden you—you’ve lost so much already, and I thought it would be cruel to tell you. But I can’t hide it anymore.

Silence stretched, the fire snapping in the grate. Hermione braced herself for rejection, for grief renewed, for the coldness that might send her spiraling. Instead, Narcissa rose and knelt before her, covering Hermione’s trembling hands with her own.

You thought I would see this child as a burden? Her voice broke with aching certainty. No, Hermione. It is not cruelty—it is hope. My son is gone… but a part of him lives on in you. You should never have faced this alone.

For an instant, grief and hope warred in her pale eyes—losing a son, gaining his legacy—but when she spoke again, only the hope remained.

Hermione’s vision blurred. Narcissa’s grip tightened, steadying. You cannot keep sleeping on that settee by the fire. You need rest—for yourself and for the child.

Hermione shook her head, tears spilling freely. I can’t. Not in our bed. His bed. The guilt—it’s too raw. I can’t.

Narcissa did not press. She simply rose and drew Hermione gently to her feet. Without a word, she guided her down the corridor to the guestroom Hermione sometimes sought during restless nights. Pulling back the covers, she made her settle in.

Please… don’t go, Hermione whispered.

For a moment Narcissa’s face softened in a way Hermione had never seen. She slipped off her shoes and lay down beside her. You don’t have to be alone. Not anymore.

Their hands found each other beneath the blankets, fingers intertwining. And so they slept, the weight of loneliness eased by shared presence.

It became a pattern. Not the first surrender—they had already known that on the settee, temples pressed together in exhaustion, leaning on each other when grief had been too heavy to bear alone. But this was different. Now, Hermione let Narcissa’s nearness become necessity, not accident. She had entrusted her secret, and Narcissa had chosen to stay. That trust deepened into dependency, the knowledge that her strength was no longer hers alone to muster.

Each night they shared the guestroom bed, the distance dwindling. Some mornings they woke with shoulders brushing, other mornings with their fingers laced together as though they had reached out in sleep.

Narcissa often stayed awake long after Hermione’s breathing steadied, her gaze tracing the curve of her profile in the moonlight. She hadn’t known how much she needed that sound—the rhythm of someone else’s life woven into her own—until she feared losing it.

Then came the night that changed everything.

Hermione stirred restlessly, fragments of dream clinging to her. She lay tense in the dark, fighting the ache of absence. And then—hesitantly, deliberately—she shifted until her back pressed against Narcissa’s chest, seeking warmth without disguise.

This time, it was not comfort born of grief. It was acknowledgment.

For a breath Narcissa stilled, startled by the deliberate closeness. Then her arm slipped around Hermione’s waist, slow and certain, drawing her in with a tenderness that felt both new and inevitable.

Hermione’s breath shuddered. Her hand moved to cover Narcissa’s, not only to anchor it but to claim it, to hold it there. It was not just trust, nor mere solace—it was recognition. The quiet, unspoken acceptance that what bound them had grown into something deeper than either had intended.

Neither spoke of it in the morning, but the air between them was altered. The unconscious gravitation of sleep had become intimacy chosen, a bond too fragile to name yet too real to deny.

Through the days, that shift echoed. Narcissa poured Hermione’s tea without asking. Hermione adjusted the shawl on Narcissa’s shoulders when the air turned chill. Small gestures, wordless but profound, wove them together in ways neither had anticipated.

Andromeda noticed. On her visits she caught the fleeting touches, the softened glances, the rhythm between them that seemed almost instinctive. She saw how Hermione leaned a fraction too long when standing near, how Narcissa’s hand lingered at Hermione’s back as they walked.

It was more than comfort now. It was intimacy—delicate, unspoken, undeniable.

Andromeda wondered if she should intervene, to caution or to question. But each time she saw how steadier, calmer they seemed, she chose silence. Whatever was unfolding was helping them breathe again, and she would not be the one to break it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Sisterly Banter

The manor was quiet without Hermione. She had gone to the Ministry that morning to file the formal paperwork for her maternity leave. It was not money that compelled her—Hermione had never cared for comfort or luxury—but the work itself. Her mind craved the challenges of the Department of Mysteries, the steady hum of puzzles and research. Still, as an Unspeakable, her duties were too dangerous to shoulder while carrying a child, and she had finally admitted what Narcissa and Andromeda already knew: for now, the risks outweighed the need for fulfillment.

So she was away, and the house felt different without her.

The fire snapped softly in the grate, the only sound in the stillness. Narcissa sat with her usual poise, a cup of tea balanced in her hands, though her gaze was fixed somewhere far beyond the flames.

Andromeda studied her sister in silence, noting the familiar tension of the mask Narcissa wore so carefully. But she had also noticed the changes—the softened edges, the faint light that returned whenever Hermione was near. It was impossible not to see. At length, Andromeda set down her own cup, leaning back with a faintly mischievous smile.

So, she drawled, tone deliberately casual, are you planning on telling me what exactly is going on between you and Hermione, or should I keep pretending I don’t notice?

Narcissa’s head snapped around, eyes narrowing just a fraction. There is nothing to tell.

Andromeda arched a brow. Nothing? Really? Cissa, I’ve seen you with her. You hover. You soften. You’re not fooling me. The two of you move as though you’ve forgotten how to be apart.

A faint flush touched Narcissa’s cheeks, subtle but undeniable. She set her teacup down with careful precision, her voice crisp. We share grief. That is all. She has lost as I have lost. I simply… cannot abandon her to it.

Andromeda tilted her head, her smile gentling though her eyes stayed sharp. You’ve never been good at lying to me, sister. I’m not talking about scandal. I mean the tenderness. The ease. You’ve found something with her, haven’t you? Something that steadies you.

Narcissa turned back toward the fire, her profile outlined in the golden glow. Silence lingered until, at last, her voice slipped free—low, fragile. She is… the only thing that keeps the silence from devouring me. When she is near, I can breathe.

Andromeda reached across and laid her hand over Narcissa’s. Then don’t question it. Don’t run from it. I won’t interfere, not if it helps you both. But I’ll say this much—Lucius and Draco would not want you to fade into ashes. And Hermione… she’s tethering you back to life. Let her.

Narcissa’s throat worked as though she meant to speak, but no words came. She only inclined her head, eyes glimmering with thought she could not voice.

The fire burned low, shadows dancing lazily along the carved mantel. Silence stretched, not heavy but thoughtful, as though the house itself had exhaled.

Andromeda leaned back with a small, knowing smile. Well, she said at last, her tone just shy of mischief, at least now I know why you’ve taken to tea instead of firewhisky. Wouldn’t want to give Hermione the wrong impression.

Narcissa’s head snapped around, affront warring with the faintest twitch at the corner of her lips. She sniffed, elegant as ever. Don’t be absurd.

But the smirk Andromeda caught, fleeting though it was, told her everything.

Moments later, the quiet flare of the Floo from the hall reached them. Narcissa’s gaze flicked toward the door, betraying her anticipation before she smoothed it away.

Andromeda said nothing—only sipped her tea, a faintly smug smile curving her mouth as her sister rose with unnecessary grace, as though she had not been waiting all along.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: At the Ministry

The Ministry’s atrium bustled with its usual cacophony—quills scratching, enchanted memos darting overhead, and the steady rush of footsteps across polished marble floors. Hermione moved with measured steps toward the Department of Mysteries, her hand brushing unconsciously against the swell of her stomach.

Her meeting had been mercifully brief. As an Unspeakable, her work was too perilous to continue while pregnant, and her leave was approved without protest. Relief tempered the sting, yet a hollowness lingered. Work had been her rhythm, her anchor since the war. Without it, the days stretched into a void she wasn’t sure she could fill.

She turned toward the Floos, already imagining the quiet of the manor, when a familiar voice froze her mid-step.

Hermione.

Her spine stiffened. Slowly, she turned.

Harry Potter stood a few paces away, his green eyes narrowing as they flicked down toward her abdomen. His jaw clenched, recognition hardening into judgment.

So it’s true, he said, his voice sharp, brittle. You’re carrying his child.

Hermione’s breath caught, but she forced her chin to lift. Harry, she greeted quietly, cautiously. Tell me—have you made progress on finding the Death Eaters who ambushed us? Who killed Draco and Lucius? It has been nearly five months.

Harry’s expression twisted, bitterness cutting deep into his features. It isn’t a priority. Rogue Death Eaters killing Malfoys? They’ve done the wizarding world a favor.

The words landed like a curse. Hermione reeled, not at the cruelty—she had braced for that—but at how foreign he sounded. This wasn’t the boy who had once fought for every scrap of justice, who had been her brother in arms. This was someone hollowed by betrayal and grief, someone who no longer recognized her.

Her voice trembled, but she steadied it into steel. That’s not justice, Harry. You’re not the man I fought beside if you can look at murder and call it a favor.

His eyes flashed, but he said nothing. For a long heartbeat they stared at each other, years of shared battles stretched taut between them, then frayed to nothing. Hermione turned on her heel before the crack in her heart could spill across her face.

She nearly collided with a tall figure striding from a side corridor. Strong hands steadied her shoulders. She looked up into the calm, dark eyes of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Hermione, he said warmly, his voice deep and steady, a balm against the sting of Harry’s words. I didn’t expect to see you here. His gaze softened at her pallor, the shadows beneath her eyes. You look as if you’ve had more than enough for one morning.

Her throat was too tight for words. She only nodded.

Kingsley’s hand lingered gently at her arm. Come. Have tea with me. Just a few minutes of quiet.

The simple kindness undid her more than Harry’s cruelty had. She let him lead her into his office—everything the atrium was not. Orderly, warm, the hum of protective wards in the air. Dark wood shelves lined the walls, parchment and polish grounding the space.

Kingsley poured the tea himself, sliding a cup toward her. I won’t pry, he said, but I want to know how you’re holding up. Not as Minister to an employee—just as a friend.

Hermione stared into her cup. The words came halting at first, then spilled: sleepless nights, guilt gnawing at her, the fragile life she carried, and how only the quiet of the manor and Narcissa’s presence kept the nightmares at bay. Kingsley listened without interruption, his steady gaze unwavering. When her voice broke, he let silence fill the space—not pity, not judgment, only understanding.

At last she sagged back in her chair, drained but lighter.

You are stronger than you feel right now, Kingsley said, calm and certain. But strength doesn’t mean bearing the weight alone. Lean on those who love you. That is not weakness—it is wisdom.

Her throat tightened again, this time with gratitude. Thank you, Kingsley.

He offered a small, reassuring smile. Use my Floo. Straight home. No need to linger here a moment longer.

She rose, her gratitude unspoken but clear in her gaze. When she stepped into the emerald flames, her heart carried both the sting of Harry’s bitterness and the balm of Kingsley’s kindness.

The manor’s hearth flared, and Hermione stumbled into the hall. Narcissa was already standing in the doorway of the drawing room, posture regal but her eyes sharp with concern—as if she had been waiting, poised to catch her the moment she appeared. The composure cracked at once. In two strides she was there, cupping Hermione’s face, brushing away tears that had finally broken free.

What happened? Narcissa asked, her voice taut with alarm.

Hermione hesitated, then spoke in halting fragments—the leave from her department, the chance encounter with Harry, the bitterness in his words, the cruelty of hearing him dismiss Draco and Lucius as nothing. She did not embellish, but neither could she hide the tremor in her voice.

Andromeda’s expression darkened with disapproval, but she did not interrupt. Instead, she poured Hermione a glass of water and pressed it gently into her hand. Drink. You don’t need to recount every word tonight.

Hermione nodded, grateful, and set the glass aside. Her shoulders sagged. I’m just… so tired.

Narcissa glanced once at her sister, then spoke with quiet finality: You’ll excuse us, Andromeda.

There was no sharpness in her tone—only the protectiveness of someone unwilling to let Hermione endure another moment on display. Andromeda inclined her head, her gaze soft. Go. I’ll tidy here.

Narcissa slipped an arm around Hermione and guided her gently from the room. Their footsteps faded down the hall, leaving Andromeda watching after them with silent understanding.

Come, Narcissa murmured as they reached their chambers, her hand threading carefully through Hermione’s curls. She guided her to bed, the silence between them warm, protective. Hermione changed slowly into her nightclothes, exhaustion weighing every step. When she turned, Narcissa was still there, standing as though she would not leave unless sent away.

Will you… hold me? Hermione asked softly. Just until I fall asleep.

Narcissa’s expression softened into something rare, unguarded. She slipped off her shoes and lay beside her, gathering Hermione carefully into her arms. Hermione nestled close, her face tucked into the curve of Narcissa’s neck.

You are not alone, Narcissa whispered into her hair. You will never be alone.

Hermione’s breathing slowed, her rhythm evening as sleep claimed her at last, safe in Narcissa’s embrace.

But Narcissa remained awake, grief and longing warring in her chest. She pressed her lips to Hermione’s curls, fear and desire twining together in the dark. Once, she had thought the silence would consume her. Now, it frightened her for another reason—because in it she heard the truth she dared not name.

This was no longer only solace. It was more. And if she admitted it aloud, she feared she might lose the fragile peace they had found.

So she held Hermione tighter, and whispered into the quiet: Sleep now, Hermione.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: The Baby’s First Kick

The nights had settled into a rhythm, unspoken but sure. Each evening they would retire together to the guestroom, Hermione curling into the comfort Narcissa offered without question. The closeness had become natural, their grief stitched together by small gestures, gentle touches, the quiet knowledge that neither need face the dark alone.

It was on one such night, as the warm breath of late summer drifted through the half-open windows, carrying the faint hum of crickets from the garden, that it happened. Hermione shifted restlessly beneath the covers, a sharp intake of breath escaping her lips.

Narcissa stirred at once, turning toward her. What is it?

Hermione’s hand pressed to her stomach, her eyes wide, shining in the lamplight. The baby, she whispered, awe trembling in her voice. It kicked.

For a heartbeat the world seemed to still. Narcissa’s breath caught, her hand hovering uncertainly before Hermione reached out, grasping it with trembling fingers and pressing it firmly against the swell of her abdomen.

They waited—then it came. A soft, distinct flutter against Narcissa’s palm, delicate yet undeniable.

Hermione laughed, a breathless, tearful sound. Her gaze darted to Narcissa’s. Did you feel it?

Narcissa could only nod. Her composure cracked, her lips parting in silent wonder as her eyes glistened. A rush of emotion rose sharp in her chest—grief and joy, sorrow and awe colliding until she could hardly breathe. She squeezed Hermione’s hand, her gaze locked on hers.

In that fragile, luminous moment, the careful distance they had kept collapsed. Their hands were still joined over Hermione’s stomach when Hermione leaned forward, her lips brushing Narcissa’s with tentative softness—a question asked in touch rather than words.

For a breath, Narcissa answered. Her lips yielded, trembling, her free hand rising instinctively to cup Hermione’s cheek. It was tender, unsteady, alive with all that had been left unsaid.

But then reality surged in. The memory of Draco’s laughter, Lucius’s final stand, the weight of a son she had lost and the woman who carried his child. Guilt crashed down, cold and merciless. Narcissa tore herself back, eyes wide, breath ragged. I— Her voice broke. She pushed herself upright, retreating to the far edge of the bed. This isn’t—Hermione, I can’t.

Hermione sat frozen, lips tingling, heart pounding with both wonder and devastation. Rejection burned sharp in her chest—but beneath it was something worse: guilt. She had kissed Draco’s mother. She had betrayed the memory of the man she loved, the man she had promised a life to. And yet, Narcissa no longer felt like a mother-in-law. She was her anchor, her confidante, her rock. Her best friend.

Deep down, that kiss had felt so unbearably right—and it was that truth that gutted her. Because in reaching for it, she had destroyed the fragile piece of sanctuary they had carved out together.

Narcissa— she whispered, but the older witch shook her head, unable to meet her gaze.

The silence thickened, unbearable. Hermione’s chest ached as humiliation, grief, and shame tangled in equal measure. She stumbled from the bed, not even thinking to gather a cloak or shoes. She left as she was—barefoot, still in her nightclothes—driven only by the need to escape before the breaking inside her consumed her whole.

Hermione, wait— Narcissa’s voice was strained, but Hermione could not stay. The pain was too raw, the guilt too suffocating. Without another word, she fled.

She did not go to Grimmauld Place, nor to the Burrow, nor anywhere she might once have found shelter. Those doors were closed to her now, just as the Manor—once her home—was behind her. There was only one place left: the quiet suburb where her parents had once lived, the house that had stood empty since she altered their memories and sent them away.

The house was abandoned, hollow with dust and silence, but it was hers still. She climbed the staircase slowly, her bare feet leaving faint prints in the dust as she pushed open the door to her parents’ bedroom. The air smelled of disuse, but the old comforter still lay across the bed. Hermione curled beneath it, just as she had when she was a frightened child seeking safety in her parents’ presence.

The guilt and sorrow and grief came crashing down, pressing her into the mattress until she could hardly breathe. She had been foolish, reckless, selfish. She had kissed Narcissa—blurred the only bond that kept her standing. She had betrayed Draco’s memory, betrayed herself. And yet the cruelest truth was that, in her heart, it had felt right.

Her body shook with sobs she had not allowed before Narcissa, every tear burning with rejection and shame. At last, exhaustion dragged her under, and she fell asleep clutching the dusty quilt, small and lost, barefoot and broken, as if she were that frightened child again.

Back at the manor, Narcissa sat alone on the edge of the guestroom bed, her hands trembling in her lap. The memory of Hermione’s lips lingered like fire, but so did the crushing weight of guilt. She had answered for a moment—her heart, her body betraying what her mind could not allow. To feel desire tangled with grief, to want the woman who carried her son’s child—it was unthinkable, dangerous, wrong.

And yet… the emptiness without her was worse.

For the first time since the funerals, the manor felt unbearably silent again.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: The Empty Room

Narcissa woke with the first pale light of morning, the air sharp with late summer chill. For a moment she did not move, her body heavy where she had collapsed atop the covers in exhaustion. Then instinct stirred, and she reached for the space beside her.

Her hand brushed over rumpled sheets, still faintly warm, but empty. Hermione’s side of the bed bore the indentation of where she had lain—yet she was gone.

Memory returned at once: the flutter of life beneath her palm, the sweetness of lips she had no right to taste, the horror that had driven her to pull away. Hermione had fled from that moment. Narcissa knew it. And yet… a sliver of hope wormed its way into her chest. Perhaps Hermione had only sought refuge in another room. Perhaps she had only needed air, wandering somewhere else in the manor’s endless halls.

Clinging to that fragile thread, Narcissa searched. Room after room, hall after hall—silent, untouched. The teacup Hermione had left the night before still sat on the side table, half full and long gone cold. A shawl she had worn remained draped over a chair. Every sign of her lingered, and yet she herself was nowhere.

By midday, Narcissa’s composure had begun to crack. She sent a Patronus, then another. No reply. She scrawled a letter with shaking hands and left it on the table in the drawing room: Please come back. Forgive me. I cannot bear this silence without you. When she returned an hour later, the parchment was untouched, the ink dry as stone.

The hours stretched, each one heavier than the last. By nightfall the manor felt as hollow as it had the day after Lucius and Draco’s deaths. The fragile hope she had clung to collapsed under the weight of emptiness.

At last, her resolve shattered. Narcissa threw Floo powder into the hearth and stepped into the flames. Moments later she stumbled into Andromeda’s cottage, her mask already in ruins.

She’s gone, she gasped, her voice breaking as she clutched at her sister’s arm. Hermione—she hasn’t come back. She hasn’t answered. I’ve lost her, Andromeda, I’ve lost her.

Andromeda caught her firmly, guiding her to a chair. Cissa, stop. Breathe. She pressed a vial of calming draught into her hand. Drink. Now.

Narcissa obeyed, the bitter potion burning down her throat, but her hands still shook violently. It’s my fault, she whispered, her eyes red. I— I pushed her away.

Andromeda’s gaze sharpened, the healer in her giving way to the sister. What happened?

Narcissa pressed Hermione’s forgotten cloak to her chest like a lifeline. Her voice was raw, frayed. I let myself—Merlin help me, I let myself feel what I should not. She kissed me. I kissed her back. And then I pulled away. I told her I couldn’t. She ran. And now— Her words broke, her breath catching. Now the house is empty again, Andi. Empty, the way it was after… after Lucius and Draco. And I cannot—

Her voice cracked entirely. She bent her head, tears spilling unchecked.

Andromeda knelt beside her, clasping her cold hands tightly. Oh, Cissa. Her tone was firm, but her eyes softened with pity that cut straight through the storm. You didn’t push her away because you don’t care. You pushed her away because you do. And Hermione—she’s carrying too much to know what to do with that. But don’t you dare sit here and tell me it’s over.

Narcissa shook her head, hollow. She’ll never forgive me. She’ll never come back. I’ve lost her, Andromeda. I’ve lost everything.

No, Andromeda said sharply, gripping her hands until Narcissa was forced to meet her gaze. You lost Lucius. You lost Draco. But Hermione? She is alive. She is carrying life inside her. And she chose to stay with you until this. That does not vanish because of one mistake, Cissa. Not unless you let it.

Narcissa closed her eyes, tears streaking her pale cheeks. I am so afraid, she whispered. I thought the worst had already come to pass, but I was wrong. My worst fear is here now. I am alone.

Andromeda’s expression softened, her own throat tight. She pulled Narcissa into her arms, holding her close. You are not alone, she murmured fiercely. You have me. And we will find her. Do you hear me? We will.

With a flick of her wand, Andromeda summoned her Patronus. The silvery form leapt into the air, carrying her message: Hermione, are you safe? Please send word back. Her face remained composed, but her words were edged with urgency, betraying the fear she would not show Narcissa. The glowing messenger vanished into the night.

The sisters sat in silence, the fire crackling low. Narcissa clutched the cloak tighter, her voice no more than a whisper, raw and pleading.

You promised me you would stay.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Silence and Shadows

The house was silent when Hermione woke, her body heavy from a night of fitful sleep. Dust clung to the sheets and the stale scent of neglect hung in the air. She had fled to her parents’ empty home because there was nowhere else left—no Grimmauld Place with Harry, no Burrow with the Weasleys, no Manor with Narcissa. Only here, where shadows lingered and memories pressed in.

She had ruined it all. She was alone.

The comforter around her shoulders was the same one she had curled under as a child when nightmares chased her from her bed. Back then, her parents’ presence had made the fear recede. Now there was only the hollow echo of what once had been, and it offered no solace. The floorboards creaked at every movement, the air was cold and stale, and faint shafts of light revealed dust motes drifting in the silence. The house felt less like a sanctuary and more like a tomb.

Hermione drew her knees to her chest, tears burning her eyes. The guilt came in waves—over Lucius, over Draco, over leaving Narcissa when she had once begged her not to go. That morning by the staircase still echoed: Don’t go. And Hermione had promised that she wouldn’t.

And now she had broken that promise. Shattered it with her own weakness.

The kiss replayed in her mind, searing and beautiful until it fractured into panic and rejection. Narcissa’s retreat. Her own flight. Hermione pressed her face into the pillow to stifle the sobs that wracked her chest.

Time blurred until a shimmer of silver filled the room. Andromeda’s Patronus, soft and steady, its voice cutting through the dark: Hermione, are you safe? Please, send word back.

Her breath caught. Her hand twitched toward her wand beneath the quilt. With trembling fingers, she pulled it free and tried to summon the spell. She searched for light—for a memory strong enough to answer. But everything was tangled in loss: Lucius falling, Draco’s lifeless eyes, Narcissa pulling away. Even the fleeting warmth of Narcissa’s hand in hers collapsed under the weight of rejection.

Her lips formed the incantation, but no silver came. Only a sputter, a crackle, and then nothing.

The failure shattered her. Tears spilled hot down her cheeks as she clutched her wand uselessly to her chest. She wanted to answer. She wanted to reach back. But the magic would not come.

The Patronus lingered, waiting, its glow soft with patience—before it slowly faded into nothing.

The silence afterward was unbearable. Hermione curled tighter beneath the dusty quilt, exhaustion dragging at her limbs. Her tears finally ran dry, leaving her hollow. Every part of her ached with longing and despair, but no strength remained to move, to fight, to explain.

She closed her eyes, the weight of guilt pressing her down, until at last sleep claimed her once more—uneasy, restless, but mercifully empty.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Empty Paths

Andromeda tried to steady Narcissa’s nerves through the long night. She sat with her sister before the fire in her cottage, holding her hand, speaking in calm, measured tones.

She’s likely only exhausted, Cissa. Grief takes its toll on the body as much as the heart. She may have fallen asleep without realizing the time.

Narcissa clung to those words, though they did little to ease the ache in her chest. Her voice trembled when she answered. She would have replied. She always answers.

Perhaps not tonight, Andromeda soothed. Give her time. In the morning, we’ll search properly. She’ll return, or she’ll send word.

But the morning came, and with it only silence. No Patronus, no letter, no trace. Narcissa grew restless, pacing like a caged creature as the hours stretched on, her composure cracking with every unanswered call.

Together they began their search.

Andromeda checked discreetly at the Leaky Cauldron, then the Three Broomsticks, her questions quiet and precise. No one had seen Hermione. Later she ventured to the Burrow, bracing herself against the reception she expected.

Molly Weasley’s face hardened the moment Hermione’s name passed her lips. If she’s turned her back on family, she must live with it, Molly said coldly, before closing the door in her face.

Andromeda stood on the step for a moment afterward, her hands trembling despite herself. She pressed her lips together, inhaled, and forced her composure back into place before returning to Narcissa. Her sister could not afford to see her falter.

At Grimmauld Place, the welcome was no warmer. Ginny answered the door, her face pale at the sight of Andromeda. At the mention of Hermione, her expression faltered. For a heartbeat her voice caught, then she said firmly, She’s not here. And if she were, Harry wouldn’t allow it.

But her eyes betrayed her—pity and something sharper, fear. Fear that Hermione would spurn her as she once had. Ginny had stood with her family’s anger, with Harry’s bitterness, and in doing so she had helped drive Hermione away. Now she dreaded what would happen if Hermione returned: that she would find no forgiveness for the choice Ginny had made.

While Andromeda cast her net wide, Narcissa sought solace where she always did—among the stones.

She stood before Draco’s headstone, then Lucius’s, the wind tugging at her dark robes. Her fingers traced the carved letters of their names, her hand trembling as though the stone itself might give her strength.

I’ve lost her, she whispered, her voice breaking. I let fear drive her from me. Tell me—how do I go on, when I’ve failed her too? Her words spilled into the silence, torn from the marrow of her grief. You gave everything for redemption, and I threw it away with cowardice. Draco, Lucius… she was all I had left. And now she’s gone.

The only answer was the restless rustle of leaves, the low whistle of the wind through the yews.

That night, both sisters returned to Malfoy Manor, empty-handed. Andromeda’s face was tight with worry despite her calm front, and Narcissa’s eyes were hollow, her movements brittle. She wandered the manor’s corridors long after the lamps had dimmed, unable to sit, unable to eat, her thoughts circling endlessly.

The house seemed to echo around her, corridors stretching long and empty, haunted not by ghosts but by absence. The silence pressed close, heavier than ever, as though the walls themselves grieved with her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: Shattered Assurances

The next morning, Narcissa could bear it no longer. She swept into the Auror Office through the Floo, her bearing regal despite the hairline cracks in her composure. Conversations faltered; quills stilled; eyes followed her as she crossed the floor. Her voice carried, tight with urgency.

I must see Auror Tonks.

Tonks appeared quickly, surprise flickering across her features. Before Narcissa could speak, Harry emerged from his office, the weight of his authority as Head Auror falling like a hammer.

This is family business, Tonks, he said sharply, cutting across the space. Not Ministry work.

Tonks bristled, trying to interject. But Harry, it’s Hermione—

I’ll take this case personally, Harry snapped, his green eyes hard. His words turned venomous as they locked on Narcissa. Frankly, I’m not surprised. Perhaps she finally saw the truth of what the Malfoys are and left you behind.

The words struck like a curse. Narcissa’s breath caught, fury and grief colliding. Her hands trembled faintly at her sides, and for a fleeting, humiliating instant she felt the phantom absence of Lucius’s cane at her arm—something steady to lean on, something that was no longer there. Tonks pressed a hand to her arm, silently urging restraint. The humiliation of dismissal burned in her chest, yet she forced the tremor into stillness, lifted her chin, and held her head high as she withdrew.

Meanwhile, Andromeda had gone to the Ministry to seek answers of her own. She visited Hermione’s supervisor in the Department of Mysteries, but no one had seen her since she filed for maternity leave. Empty assurances were all they could offer. Leaving with more worry than comfort, she nearly collided with Kingsley Shacklebolt in the corridor.

Walking so fast, you’ll knock someone over, Kingsley teased gently, though his smile quickly faded when he saw the strain in her eyes.

You always did have impeccable timing, Andromeda said, managing the ghost of a smile.

What troubles you? His voice was calm, but his gaze intent.

She hesitated, then confessed. It’s Hermione. She’s missing. Narcissa is unraveling, and I can’t find a trace.

Kingsley’s eyes darkened, the warmth replaced with resolve. Yet his tone remained steady, almost gentle. Then let me help. I’ll keep my ears open, listen for any whisper of her. You have my word.

For an instant she remembered what it was to be steadied by a man’s quiet strength, and it nearly undid her. She had carried so much alone since Ted’s death. Gratitude softened her expression. Thank you, Kingsley.

That evening she returned to the manor, finding Narcissa pacing the drawing room, her eyes wild from sleeplessness. Together they admitted their failure—their hands empty, their hearts heavy. Hermione was still gone.

Across the city, Hermione’s condition worsened. She barely ate, barely drank, her hands trembling too much to hold a teacup. Her body weakened with each passing day. Once, the baby’s faint kick fluttered against her palm, and guilt ripped through her: she was too drained—too wrecked by grief and blame—to summon even the strength her child deserved. When Patronuses sought her, she tried, but no silver answered. Only silence met the sisters’ desperate pleas.

That same night at Grimmauld Place, Ginny found Harry in the dimly lit kitchen. He sat hunched over a stack of parchment, muttering under his breath about Death Eater scum, his quill stabbing at the page. A strange gleam lit his eyes when he looked up—cold, hard, frightening.

Harry, she asked cautiously, did you hear about Hermione? She’s missing.

For a long moment, he said nothing, only stared at her. The gleam did not soften, and Ginny’s stomach knotted. She saw how far he had drifted—power-hungry, brittle, dividing the world into allies and enemies.

And then, in a flicker, his mask cracked. His shoulders sagged, his eyes shone with something rawer, broken.

She was my rock, Ginny, he whispered hoarsely. My sister in all but blood. I trusted her more than anyone. And she chose them. Do you know what that feels like? It’s worse than Pettigrew. Worse than what he did to my parents. At least Pettigrew was a coward. Hermione… she knew me. And she still left.

The anguish in his voice chilled Ginny more than his venom had. For the first time she wondered if she was watching not only her husband slip away, but the boy she had loved—the boy who had once fought for justice—erode into something unrecognizable.

Later, when the house had gone quiet and Andromeda had retired upstairs, Narcissa remained by the fire. She raised her wand, forced her magic toward the memory of hope, and whispered the incantation. A swan flickered, thin and fragile, then sputtered into nothing. Her composure shattered with it. For the first time since the ambush, she sank to her knees before the fire, alone with silence and the unbearable truth: she could not reach Hermione.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: Shadows Deepen

Harry paced before the Black family tapestry, the lamplight casting his shadow long across its faded weave. His gaze fixed on the branch where Hermione Jean Granger-Malfoy twined from Draco Lucius Malfoy—and below it, a new tendril curling outward, the subtle stitch that marked a child not yet born.

His jaw locked. With a vicious flick of his wand he hurled fire at the names.

Flame leapt, hissed—and guttered to smoke against the cloth.

Again. Again.

Each attempt died faster than the last, the ancient protections drinking down the heat as if it were nothing. Only a true member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black could alter its weave; for all his titles, Harry could do nothing. The impotence stoked the blaze within him. His mutterings slipped free—half-justification, half-obsession.

This is what I fought for? he rasped to the empty room. To watch them infect our world?

From the doorway, Ginny watched in silence. The cold gleam in his eyes unsettled her with a chill she didn’t want to name. She had stood by him for years—through victories, through Ron’s death, through the darkness that grief had carved into him. But this… this felt like standing on the edge of a cliff and watching someone she loved take one step too many.

Harry, she said at last, soft and pleading. Please. Stop.

He didn’t turn. The wand in his knuckles went whiter still. The flames he conjured sputtered and died like spent breath.

Ginny folded her arms across her ribs as if to hold herself together. A memory rose unbidden: Hermione’s quick laugh, the fierce steadiness in her eyes when everything else fell apart. Years ago, that steadiness had soothed the raw edges of all their grief. Standing there now, with Harry snarling at woven names and shadows only he seemed to see, Ginny felt something inside her hollow.

Please, she tried again.

He never answered.

Across the city, Hermione’s body began to fail her.

Days bled into one another, thin and grey as the light that slipped through dusty curtains. She forced herself to sip water; anything more came back up. The house—her parents’ old house—smelled of stale air and neglect. Each step cost more strength than she had. Shame pressed over her like a second quilt: shame for fleeing, for failing to answer, for breaking the silent promise she’d made at the foot of Narcissa’s stairs.

She wanted to send word back—to Andromeda’s patient silver messenger, to Narcissa’s letters with ink gone brittle. But even lifting her wand felt like lifting stone. When she tried to summon a Patronus, the memory would not hold. Lucius’s fall. Draco’s eyes gone still. The brief heat of Narcissa’s mouth, the snap of guilt that followed. The charm sputtered into nothing. So did she.

At last, all she could do was lie curled beneath the dusty quilt that still remembered her childhood, one hand resting over the steady swell of her belly as if that alone could shield the life within. Her breathing came ragged; her thoughts blurred to fog and ache.

I’m sorry, she whispered into the flat, silent room. To Draco. To Narcissa. To the child. I’m so sorry.

At the Manor, Narcissa unraveled with terrible grace.

She paced until rugs slipped on polished stone. She refused meals. She stood too long at windows where nothing moved. Andromeda tried to hold her steady—calm words, firm hands, draughts measured into porcelain—but even her gentlest spells couldn’t stitch Narcissa’s composure back into place for long.

Patronuses and letters went unanswered. Hours stretched, then days. The silence became an open wound. And in the edges of that silence, paranoia whispered: that Hermione had taken harm, that someone had found her, that this absence was not chosen.

Cissa, Andromeda said quietly, more than once, breathe.

Narcissa did as asked. She breathed. She kept breathing. It felt like drowning slower.

What neither sister saw was the shadow moving in the wake of their concern.

Patronuses are light, yes—but light leaves a trace. A thin silver echo clings to the air for hours after the messenger fades, invisible to most and harmless to nearly all. To those trained in the darker disciplines—residue-lore and old tracking arts outlawed since the war—that echo is a thread through mist.

On a quiet lane in a quiet Muggle suburb, two cloaked figures stood across from a small brick house and watched the last shimmer of such a thread gutter on the wind. One knelt and let ash sift from gloved fingers onto the pavement, the test-charms faint and mean.

Here, he murmured, satisfaction like a blade’s edge. More than once.

Sure? the other whispered.

The first smiled, thin and humorless. Positive.

They did not go to the front door. Darkness rarely does. They slipped round the back, through long grass beaded with late-summer dew, wands angled low. A ward would have flared if this place knew magic; it did not. Only the quiet creak of a garden gate, the click of a back latch eased up by practiced hands.

Inside, the house breathed dust and old memories.

Upstairs, Hermione stirred at the suggestion of sound—the rasp of a hinge, the sigh of air along a corridor. In her half-dream she thought perhaps the house was settling. Perhaps the past had come to tuck itself around her like a blanket. She was too far under to know better.

On the landing, the taller shadow lifted his hand in a signal. Three doors. Three quiet rooms. One slow heartbeat they could nearly hear.

He touched the first knob.

Down at the Manor, far away and unknowing, Narcissa stopped dead in the middle of the corridor. Something—no spell she recognized, no sense she could name—plucked at her like a thread drawn taut. Not the bond she would one day claim, not yet, but a memory of that strange thrumming from months ago when she poured her magic into Hermione’s broken body in a marble hall.

Andromeda, coming the other way with a covered cup and a fresh draught, saw her stillness and felt the hair along her arms rise.

What is it? she asked.

Narcissa’s eyes were fixed on nothing. Her voice came out a whisper, wrecked and certain. Something is wrong.

The tea rattled in Andromeda’s hand. Where?

Narcissa blinked. Once. Twice. The world snapped back into its lines. I don’t know, she said, breath catching on the last word. But I’m going to find her.

And far from them both, the first door began to open.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: Blood and Bond

Narcissa’s hands trembled as she pushed open the cabinet where the Black family grimoire lay hidden. She had sworn never to touch it again—too many pages steeped in forbidden practice, too many echoes of whispered curses that had stained generations of her bloodline. Her grandmother had withered into madness after turning to these pages; a cousin had vanished into ash when a ritual demanded too much. The book carried a history of ruin.

She told herself she would never add her name to that list.

But the silence of the Manor gnawed at her, and Hermione’s absence weighed heavier with every unanswered Patronus. Tonight, she could no longer bear it. If there was even the faintest chance of finding her, she would risk anything.

The hinges creaked. Behind her, Andromeda’s voice cut through the stillness.

Cissa—no.

Narcissa froze, fingers splayed on the cracked leather cover. She turned slowly, her sister stood in the doorway, arms folded tight across her chest, eyes shadowed with dread.

You know what that book demands, Andromeda said, voice low but sharp. Blood magic eats at you, piece by piece. We’ve tried every other way. Patronuses. Letters. Even Kingsley’s channels. We will find her.

Narcissa’s throat ached. We haven’t. And every day she’s gone, the silence grows louder. I can feel it, Andi—I can’t explain how, but Hermione is in danger.

Andromeda took a step closer, her voice breaking with desperation. First Bella. Then Ted. Then Draco. I won’t watch you burn yourself away, too.

Narcissa’s chest heaved. She lowered her gaze to the book, fingertips brushing the cover. How many nights had she stood at this same cabinet, resisting the pull? How many times had she sworn she would never cross this line? She thought of Lucius and Draco—gone. She thought of Hermione, pale and trembling, the curve of her belly a fragile promise she had not protected.

She was desperate. More desperate than she had ever been in her life.

I have nothing left to lose, she whispered, voice raw, but everything to gain. If this leads me to her—if it saves them—it will be worth any price.

The finality in her tone stilled Andromeda’s protest. She shook her head, whispering, Then at least let me stay. I won’t leave you alone in this.

Narcissa’s eyes softened, though her hands were steady now. Stay, then. But understand—this is mine to carry.

She opened the grimoire. For one suspended heartbeat she hesitated, staring at the runes etched into the vellum, knowing she was about to gamble with the last remnants of her soul. If she was wrong, if the spell consumed her… at least she would have tried. At least Hermione would not think she had abandoned her.

With a single breath, she drew the silver dagger across her palm. Crimson welled, falling onto the waiting runes.

The ancient pages shivered, then shifted, glowing with an eerie, hungry light. Threads of magic uncoiled, latching onto her blood and tugging at her very core. Narcissa gasped, clutching the desk as the spell stretched outward—seeking, searching.

Andromeda caught her arm, steadying her, her own face pale in the flickering glow. Cissa—

But Narcissa’s eyes had already filled with tears as images flickered in her mind: a faint trail, dimming quickly, tied to the spark of life Hermione carried. Draco’s child. Their child.

Draco… guide me, she breathed.

The magic steadied, then pulled with sudden force, anchoring her direction.

Narcissa staggered, drained from the blood loss, the dagger slipping from her fingers. Andromeda tightened her grip, ready to go with her.

But Narcissa shook her head, her voice hoarse. I can barely hold myself steady, let alone bring you with me. A side-along would kill us both.

Andromeda’s jaw clenched, grief and fury at once. She pressed her hands firmly over her sister’s, grounding her. Then go. But know this—I will be waiting. Send me your word, your sign, whatever you can manage. And I will come.

For a heartbeat, something unspoken passed between them: the weight of shared years, of love and loss, of battles survived.

Narcissa’s lips trembled into the barest ghost of a smile. I know.

And with that, she twisted on the spot, vanishing into the night—guided only by blood and bond.

The world righted itself with a wrenching crack.

Narcissa staggered into a quiet street lined with modest houses, the grimoire’s pull thrumming faintly in her veins. Smoke stung her nose even before she raised her eyes.

She blinked at the row of nearly identical homes—red brick, neat hedges, white-trimmed windows. For a heartbeat she faltered, uncertain. Then memory struck: a photograph Hermione had once shown her, smiling shyly as she explained a childhood birthday party in the garden of her parents’ house. The same brickwork. The same climbing ivy along the side wall.

Her stomach clenched. This was it.

Hermione’s parents’ home stood before her, broken and blackened. Windows gaped, glass shattered across the pavement. With no wards to protect it, the attack had torn through the place unchecked. Scorch marks clawed at the brick like the fingers of something monstrous.

Inside, the air reeked of dust and smoke. Furniture lay overturned, pictures smashed across the floorboards. The silence was worse than screams.

Hermione! Narcissa’s voice cracked as she stumbled upstairs, following the thrum of blood-bound magic.

In the bedroom she found her—crumpled on the floor, blood staining her gown, curls matted against a pale face. For a heartbeat, Narcissa thought she was too late.

She fell to her knees, gathering Hermione into her arms, her own blood dripping onto the floorboards. Don’t you dare leave me too, she whispered fiercely, pressing her forehead to Hermione’s temple. Not you. Not you.

Hermione moaned faintly, her hand twitching weakly over her stomach. Narcissa felt the fragile pulse of magic within—the child still alive, though fading. Panic surged hot in her chest. She had no time to think, only to act.

Downstairs, faint traces of destruction told the story: half-burnt beams, a staircase scorched but intact. Hermione must have fought back, however weakly. A desperate Stunner, perhaps, enough to stagger her attackers. Cowards as ever, the remnants of Voldemort’s loyalists had fled, assuming their victim would not rise again.

Pouring every ounce of strength into the spell, Narcissa clasped Hermione tightly and twisted into Apparition. The world ripped around her as she forced them through the night with raw desperation.

When they reappeared, the sterile lights of St. Mungo’s blazed overhead. Healers shouted, rushing forward, pulling Hermione from her arms.

Narcissa staggered, the world tilting. Her vision blurred, magic burning out of her veins like fire turned to ash. With the last flicker of strength, she raised her wand.

Expecto Patronum!

A blaze of silver burst forth—not the elegant swan she had known all her life, but a lioness, fierce and radiant. The creature’s eyes blazed as it loosed a silent roar, then bounded away to carry her plea for help to Andromeda.

She had failed before, when despair smothered her. But now she had something to protect, someone to fight for. Her Patronus was no longer born of pride or distance, but of love burning fierce as fire.

Narcissa had only a heartbeat to register the change, too dazed to contemplate its meaning, before her wand slipped from her fingers. Darkness swept over her, and she collapsed, her hand still outstretched toward the woman she had saved.

For a moment, the world was silent. Then, through the blur of voices and rushing feet, a faint whisper stirred from the bed where the healers worked—rasped, broken, but clear enough to reach her before the dark claimed her.

Narcissa…

And everything went black.

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: The Rescue’s Price

Sound reached her first—murmurs behind a curtain, the distant hum of spells, the soft hiss of something bubbling. Then light, too bright through her eyelids. Narcissa surfaced as if from deep water, lungs burning, limbs heavy as lead. The mattress beneath her was unforgiving, the sheets cool and starchy against skin that felt both chilled and fever-hot.

She fought her way to a breath and forced her eyes open. White ceiling. Floating witchlight. The antiseptic bite of dittany and burn paste in the air. St. Mungo’s.

Hermione— The thought broke through like a gasp. She tried to sit up, pain lancing through her chest as if something inside had been wrung dry. Her vision swam. A healer in lime robes appeared at her side, hands gentle but firm.

“Don’t move too quickly, Mrs. Malfoy,” the witch said, calm and practiced. “You’ve done a very foolish, very brave thing.”

Narcissa’s mouth was dry; her voice scraped. “Hermione. The child.”

“They’re here,” the healer said. “Alive. Stable.” A pause, quieter now, professional veneer softening: “Thanks to you.”

The pressure behind Narcissa’s eyes loosened. For a heartbeat her body felt light, as though relief itself would lift her from the bed. Then memory cut through: silver light, a lioness leaping from her wand. Not the swan. Not anymore. The image flickered and slipped away. Later—she would think on it later.

The curtain rasped back. Two figures stood there—Tonks, her hair a subdued brown streaked with weary pink, and behind her, Harry Potter. Tonks moved first, concern naked in her gaze.

“Mum sent word—your Patronus reached her,” Tonks said. “She’s here, just down the hall with Hermione.” Her voice caught. “You scared us.”

Narcissa’s fingers curled in the sheet. “Take me to them.”

Before Tonks could answer, Harry stepped forward, the Head Auror’s badge catching the light. His eyes swept over her pallor, the cut on her hand, the exhaustion etched into her face—and hardened.

“You Apparated through counter-wards with a compromised witch and used blood magic to find her.” His voice was clipped, controlled. “You’ll answer questions before you see anyone.”

Tonks shot him a warning look. “Harry—”

“It’s procedure,” he said, though his gaze never left Narcissa. Procedure with teeth.

Narcissa held his stare, refusing to let her tremor show. “I found her because you did not.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Blood magic is illegal. You put her at risk—”

“She was dying,” Narcissa cut in, low and cold. “I chose risk over a coffin.”

“Harry,” Tonks said sharply now, stepping between them. “Enough. Let Healers do their jobs. Andromeda is with Hermione. She hasn’t left her bedside since your Patronus reached her. Kingsley has already been notified.”

Harry’s expression flickered at the Minister’s name, then smoothed. He crossed his arms. “You don’t get to decide what the law is, Malfoy.”

Narcissa’s breath shuddered. “No,” she said. “I decide who I refuse to lose.”

The standoff broke as the healer returned with a chart and her own kind of authority. “Auror Potter,” she said with the weary patience of someone who had seen wars play out across her ward, “if you insist on an interrogation, you will do it without raising my patient’s blood pressure.”

Harry’s mouth flattened, but he stepped back. Tonks seized the opening.

“Can you give us a status update?” she asked the healer, softer now.

“The young Mrs. Malfoy suffered significant blood loss and magical depletion,” the healer said. “She’s sedated and replenished. The baby—” She glanced at Narcissa. “The heartbeat is steady. There were signs of external hex trauma and a house breach; curse residue was removed. Whoever brought her in acted fast.”

Narcissa’s vision blurred again, this time with tears she refused to release. Fast. Not fast enough.

The healer placed a small phial on the bedside table. “For you. Classic magical burnout—blood rite symptoms. You’ll shake for a day or two. You may feel… hollow. Blood magic doesn’t just drain what you give; it takes what it wants. There will be echoes in your body for weeks.”

Her veins already felt scraped raw, as though the spell had hollowed her from the inside out.

The healer’s tone softened. “Eat. Sleep. Then you may see her—briefly.”

“After I take a formal statement,” Harry said, steady, cold.

Tonks rounded on him, cheeks flushed. “I’ll take it,” she said. “Not now. Not here.”

For a moment, something ugly sparked in Harry’s eyes—resentment, or the brittle zeal of a man convinced only he can keep the world safe. Then he masked it with duty. “Don’t leave the ward,” he told Narcissa, and stalked away, the curtain stirring in his wake.

Silence settled like a hand over a bruise. Tonks exhaled hard.

“He’s… not himself,” she said quietly. “But I am. And I’m here.”

Narcissa’s throat worked. Pride warred with gratitude; gratitude won. “Thank you.”

Tonks nodded. “I’ll sit outside. Shout if you need anything. Mum is with Hermione, and she’ll hex anyone who tries to move her.” A quick, fierce smile flickered across her face before she slipped through the curtain.

The healer tapped the phial. “Sip.”

Narcissa obeyed. The potion was metallic, sweet. Strength seeped back by degrees, enough to still her trembling hands, enough to let her lie back without feeling swallowed by the bed.

“Alive,” she whispered to the ceiling, as if the walls themselves needed the word. “They’re alive.”

The healer’s mouth softened. “They are.”

Narcissa closed her eyes. Behind her lids, silver rippled—a lioness running, not away but toward. She let the image carry her as the potion pulled her under.

When sleep claimed her at last, it was not collapse, but something merciful: a drift into darkness with two heartbeats still beating within it. The rescue had been won, but the price still throbbed in her blood.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21: Shadows in the Ward

The steady rhythm of her own breathing was the only sound at first. For a moment, Narcissa lay perfectly still, afraid that if she moved, the fragile peace would crack and she would discover it had all been a dream—that Hermione had been lost after all.

Her gaze drifted to the narrow hospital window. Dawn light seeped through, gray and unyielding. She felt hollow, as though the blood magic had scooped out her very marrow. Her hand ached where she had cut it, now bound in clean bandages—a reminder of the price she had paid. Beneath her skin, faint tremors still lingered, echoes of the rite’s hunger clawing through her veins.

She thought of the Patronus. Not a swan—never again. A lioness, fierce and unrelenting. The change unsettled her. It meant something deep had shifted in her, something she was not yet ready to face. But exhaustion dulled the edges of fear, and she let the thought slip aside. Later. Always later.

Closing her eyes, she whispered the terror that had nearly broken her. Don’t leave me, Hermione.

The name caught in her throat. For months she had lost everything—her husband, her son, the last shreds of her family’s pride. Yet somehow, in the woman she had once dismissed, she had found an anchor. That realization shook her almost as much as the memory of Hermione’s blood on her hands.

The curtain swished aside. Andromeda stepped in, healer’s robes dusted faintly with ash from hurried work. She stopped at the sight of Narcissa upright in bed, dignity brittle against the stark white sheets.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Andromeda said softly, the same tone she had used when they were children sneaking secrets.

Narcissa’s jaw tightened. “I am not pretending.”

Andromeda arched a brow—Black steel, tempered by warmth. “Then why are your hands shaking?”

Narcissa stilled. Her fingers, clutching the blanket, betrayed her with the faintest tremor. She turned toward the gray light of the window. “Habit. I’ve had a lifetime to master composure. I won’t abandon it now.”

Andromeda perched lightly on the bed’s edge. “Composure doesn’t mean shutting yourself away. You nearly killed yourself to save her, Cissa. And the baby. That’s not something you need to hide.”

The name—Cissa—broke something loose. Narcissa’s eyes shone despite her efforts. “If I let myself… if I stop holding it together, I will unravel completely. And if I unravel, who will hold her when she wakes? Who will keep her steady?”

“You’re not alone,” Andromeda reminded her. She placed a hand over Narcissa’s bandaged one. “I’ll hold you if that’s what it takes. And I’ll hold her too, until you’re strong again.”

Narcissa closed her eyes, breath hitching. “I can’t lose her, Andy. Not after Lucius. Not after Draco. She is all I have left.”

“She’s not gone,” Andromeda said firmly. “Hermione is alive, and so is that child. You saved them both. You don’t have to carry this terror alone.”

Her voice gentled. “She stirred once in her sleep,” Andromeda added. “Whispered something I couldn’t catch. She’s fighting, Cissa.”

For a long moment, silence stretched, heavy with everything they’d lost and everything they might yet lose. Then Narcissa leaned into her sister, letting herself rest against the only person who understood the scars of their name.

Andromeda held her, the quiet of the hospital ward wrapping around them like a fragile sanctuary.

When Narcissa had stilled, Andromeda drew back, studying her with healer’s eyes softened by something older, sisterly. Cissa, she asked gently, what was it you sent to me? The Patronus—it wasn’t your swan.

Narcissa flinched. Her bandaged fingers tightened against the blanket. “You saw it?”

“I did,” Andromeda said. “Not a swan, no. A lioness.”

For a long moment Narcissa said nothing. Her throat worked. “It wasn’t meant to change. I didn’t call for it. It… simply came.”

“Patronuses don’t change without reason.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Narcissa whispered, voice wavering like glass about to crack. “Not now. I haven’t the strength.”

Andromeda didn’t press. She smoothed the blanket. “Then rest. But when you are ready, you’ll need to face what it means. Magic that shifts this deeply can’t be ignored forever.”

Narcissa closed her eyes, breath uneven. Behind her lids, she saw silver fur and burning eyes, a creature that seemed to have always belonged to her. She both dreaded and longed to understand why.

The curtain stirred again with a familiar step.

“Mum?” Tonks’s voice was low, careful. She slipped into the ward, hair muted brown with the faintest pink, eyes softening as they fell on her aunt before turning to her mother.

“She’s asleep,” Andromeda murmured.

Tonks nodded, then hesitated. “I wanted to tell you before you heard it elsewhere. I’m off the case.”

Andromeda’s head snapped toward her. “What?”

“Harry pulled me,” Tonks said tightly. “Said I’m too close. That I can’t be objective with you and Aunt Cissa involved. He’s taken me off the investigation entirely.”

Andromeda’s mouth thinned. “Convenient, isn’t it? Removing the one Auror I’d trust to see straight through this mess.”

“That’s what worries me,” Tonks admitted. She glanced at Narcissa to make sure she still slept, then lowered her voice. “Harry’s not acting like himself. The way he spoke—cold, sharp. More like he wanted a conviction than the truth.”

“You think his motives are compromised,” Andromeda said flatly.

Tonks nodded. “I do. He’s harder than I’ve ever seen him. And the way he looks at Hermione—it’s not just grief or anger. It’s something worse.” She hesitated. “I don’t think he wants justice. I think he wants to hurt someone.”

Andromeda clasped her daughter’s hand. “Then we’ll watch him. Together. He won’t be allowed to twist this against Hermione—or your aunt.”

Tonks squeezed back, fierce. “I’ll keep my ears open, even if I’m not on the case. Harry won’t blindside us.”

Andromeda’s eyes darkened, thoughtful. “Then perhaps,” she said slowly, “it’s time we paid an old friend a visit.”

“You mean Kingsley,” Tonks guessed.

Andromeda gave the barest nod. “He’s level-headed, and he still has Harry’s ear. If anyone can see the truth—and rein him in—it’s the Minister. I trust him.”

For the first time that night, Tonks smiled faintly. “Trust and maybe more?” she teased, a spark of pink flaring in her hair.

Andromeda rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. “Don’t get cheeky. This is about keeping Hermione and the child safe. About keeping your aunt safe. But yes… Kingsley may be the ally we need.”

“Then let’s see him,” Tonks said. “Before Harry takes this any further.”

Mother and daughter stood together in the dim lamplight, united in worry, knowing the true fight was only beginning. And somewhere beyond the ward walls, shadows lengthened, gathering for the reckoning to come.

Chapter Text

Chapter 22: Fractures and Fury

Harry Potter’s steps echoed through the Ministry corridors like hammer blows, each one carrying the weight of the decision he had already made. His jaw was set, his green eyes burning with resolve—and something darker. Narcissa Malfoy would be taken into custody. From there, access to Hermione would follow. As Head Auror, he had the authority. Justice required hard choices, and in his mind, this was justice.

At St. Mungo’s, Andromeda leaned close to Tonks at Narcissa’s bedside. “Stay here with her, Dora. Don’t let anyone near, especially Harry. I’ll speak to Kingsley.”

Tonks’s face hardened. “Go. I won’t leave them.”

Andromeda departed, the Floo whisking her into the Minister’s office. Kingsley welcomed her with the rare softness he reserved for her alone. When she teased him about working too much, his deep laugh warmed the room; his answering glance carried something steadier, something promising.

“Merlin, Kingsley, do you ever sleep?” she asked, though weariness edged her voice.

“Only when the world allows it,” he replied with a smile, pouring her tea himself. “But I’d make the time if someone insisted.”

She arched a brow. “Careful, Minister. That almost sounds like an invitation.”

His eyes twinkled, but the levity faded as she leaned forward. Her words tumbled low and urgent—Harry’s growing hostility, his attempt to corner Narcissa, the fixation hardening into something darker. Kingsley’s expression sobered, the light in his gaze sharpening into resolve.

“He confronted her in the ward,” Andromeda said, anger fraying her composure. “She was barely conscious, and still he pressed. It isn’t duty anymore. It’s hate.”

Kingsley leaned back, frowning. “I feared as much. His grief is twisting into something dangerous. And if he’s letting it bleed into his work…” He shook his head. “That cannot stand.”

“I needed you to know,” she said more softly. “Because you are the only one he still listens to.”

Kingsley’s large hand covered hers briefly. “I’ll keep my eye on him. If he oversteps again, it will not go unanswered. You have my word, Andromeda.”

Relief softened her lips into the barest smile. “I know. That’s why I came. I trust you.”

“You always could,” he murmured. For a heartbeat, neither moved. When she rose, their hands brushed, unspoken meaning humming between them.

Back in the corridor, the weight of family peril pressed in again—but Kingsley’s promise steadied her. She touched her palm where his hand had rested, drew in a breath, and lifted her chin. There was work to do, but she no longer felt she was standing alone against the storm.

When Andromeda returned to St. Mungo’s, the contrast struck her like a blow. The ward crackled with tension: Harry stood at the foot of Narcissa’s bed, wand drawn, his voice sharp.

“She comes with me. Now. The Auror Office has questions that cannot wait.”

Tonks had planted herself firmly between them, wand raised. A nurse wrung her hands at the side. “Mr. Potter, she cannot be moved—she’ll collapse again!”

“You have no grounds!” Tonks shouted. “She’s recovering from magical collapse. Forcing her into custody could kill her!”

Harry’s eyes gleamed, hard and cold. “She’s a Malfoy. She’s dangerous. You of all people should know blood doesn’t change its nature.”

“That’s enough.” Andromeda’s voice cut like steel as she swept into the room. Fury burned now where composure had reigned with Kingsley. “You will not bully your way into this ward, Harry Potter.”

He whirled on her. “Andromeda, step aside. This is Ministry business.”

“No,” she said, unyielding. “Hermione is under treatment, and Narcissa is her next of kin. More than that—Narcissa is my patient. She lies in this bed because she nearly killed herself saving Hermione. You have no right to drag her from it when she can barely stand, no right to her records, no right to her. Not even if you call yourself the Chosen One.”

Narcissa, pale but upright against her pillows, lifted her chin. Her voice was ice despite the tremor in her frame. “You will not touch her. Hermione’s trust is mine to guard, and I will guard it until my last breath.”

From the bed beside them, Hermione stirred. A faint murmur escaped her lips—Harry’s name, fragile as a ghost. For an instant, Harry froze, his jaw slack, the fury in his eyes flickering with something older, rawer. Then his face hardened all the more.

For a heartbeat, he looked as if he might strike. But Tonks moved closer, wand angled in quiet defiance. The nurse’s hand hovered over the alarm rune.

Harry’s nostrils flared. Outnumbered, his voice dropped to a hiss. “You’ll regret standing in the way of justice.” He spun, robes snapping, and stormed out.

Silence rushed in, heavy as stone. Narcissa slumped back, trembling under the blankets. Andromeda caught her hand, firm. “He won’t get through us. Not while we’re here.”

Tonks’s face was grim. “But you saw it, didn’t you? He’s slipping further. He’s not thinking like Harry anymore.”

Andromeda’s chest tightened. She could still feel Kingsley’s hand steadying hers, but that memory was already at war with the dread Harry left behind. “Yes,” she whispered. “And that makes him dangerous.”

At Grimmauld Place, Ginny lingered outside the room that held the Black family tapestry. Harry paced before it, muttering furiously. His eyes gleamed cold as he struck at the threads binding Hermione’s name to Draco’s—and to the vine of their unborn child. The tapestry resisted, the ancient Black magic unyielding.

“Blood traitors,” he spat, slamming his wand against the embroidered wall. “Filth.”

Ginny’s hand flew to her mouth, horror choking her. For a moment she saw not her husband, but a man consumed. Quietly, she stepped back into the shadows, tears slipping down her face.

Hermione had been his compass, the sister he’d chosen. Losing her loyalty had cut deeper than any blade. And now, Ginny realized with a hollow ache, that loss was unraveling him more than Ron’s death ever had.

By the time Harry’s wand clattered uselessly to the floor, she was gone—her heart breaking with each step.

Chapter Text

Chapter 23: The Blanket

Hermione stirred as though surfacing from great depth, her body heavy, her mind fogged. The light in the ward had shifted, warm afternoon spilling across the floorboards. A quiet presence at her side steadied her, and when her eyes opened, she found Andromeda watching, a book forgotten in her lap and tea cooling nearby.

“You’re awake,” Andromeda said softly, relief threading her voice. “How do you feel?”

Hermione swallowed, her throat dry. “Weak. But… better, I think.”

Andromeda poured her water, holding the cup as Hermione sipped. “You’ve been in a healer’s sleep. It gave your body the chance to recover. It worked—you’re stronger now.”

Hermione lowered her eyes, guilt already pressing in. “I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t trying to shut you out, Andy. I wasn’t planning to ignore the Patronuses, or the letters. I just… I was so weak. Every thought was too heavy to lift. I was ashamed. I thought I was failing again.”

Andromeda’s expression softened, her healer’s discipline giving way to something more sisterly. She reached across the bed and covered Hermione’s hand with her own. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. You carried too much for too long, and your body demanded you stop. That’s not weakness—it’s survival.”

Hermione’s voice broke on a whisper. “It felt like surrender.”

Andromeda squeezed her hand firmly. “Then surrender isn’t always defeat. You’re alive. Your child is alive. That’s what matters. And you don’t have to hold the line alone anymore.”

Hermione blinked, her throat tightening. “Where’s Narcissa?”

Andromeda hesitated, then drew a careful breath. “She nearly destroyed herself saving you. She used blood magic to find you and carried you here when you’d lost too much blood. The effort nearly killed her. She collapsed in this ward after making sure you were safe.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, tears springing fresh. “Narcissa…” she whispered, shaking her head. Of all the people she had thought might abandon her, Narcissa had been the one who refused.

“She’s resting now,” Andromeda reassured gently. “Exhausted, yes—but alive, because she refused to give up on you. And when Harry tried to have her taken into custody…” Her mouth hardened. “We stopped him. He won’t get to you through her.”

Hermione pressed trembling fingers against her eyes, trying to contain the flood of emotions—guilt, gratitude, and something deeper that both frightened and soothed her.

A knock at the door broke the moment. Both women looked up, expecting Tonks—or perhaps Narcissa herself. But when the door opened, it was Ginny Potter who stood there, small and uncertain.

She lingered in the doorway, her hand braced against the frame, as if unsure whether to come in at all. Her eyes flickered from Hermione to Andromeda and back again. At last, with visible effort, she stepped forward, fumbling with something in her hands.

Andromeda rose instantly, her healer’s mask sharpening. “What are you doing here? If Harry sent you—”

Hermione lifted a hand, weak but steady. “It’s all right. Let her speak.”

Encouraged, Ginny moved closer and held out a small bundle of soft wool, carefully knitted in pale cream. A baby blanket.

“It’s tradition in my family,” Ginny said, her voice hushed. “Mum knitted for each of us. I thought… after everything… it seemed right to try.” She set the blanket on Hermione’s lap, her hands trembling. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I hope you feel better soon.”

Before Hermione could reply, Ginny turned abruptly and left, her footsteps quick down the corridor.

Hermione unfolded the blanket with shaking fingers. Inside, tucked into the folds, was a small note in Ginny’s unmistakable hand:

You did the right thing. I never saw you as a traitor. But Harry’s pain—and my family’s—was too raw. Standing with them tore me apart, but I didn’t know how else to survive.

Hermione read the note twice, then a third time, the letters ghosting as tears gathered. Memories rose with it—sunlit afternoons at the Burrow, Ginny’s bark of laughter cutting through chaos, the two of them shoulder to shoulder in battles great and small. They had once traded secrets over chipped mugs and Weasley jam; later, they traded silence. The blanket felt like a bridge laid across a chasm they hadn’t known how to name.

She traced the neat edge of the knit, imagining Molly’s old patterns, the rhythm of loop over loop, how love could be stitched without a single word of permission from the world. This, then, was Ginny’s language: not a treatise, not a defense, but a soft thing meant to warm a future. A White Flag in wool. A promise that said I cannot stand where you stand, but I won’t stand against your child.

A breath she hadn’t realized she was holding left her. For the first time, the ache of what was lost made room for the shape of what might yet be mended—not restored to what it was, perhaps, but made honest, thread by thread.

Hermione smoothed the blanket over her stomach, gentling it as though to shield the life beneath. “Thank you,” she whispered—meant for Ginny, for Molly’s pattern, for anyone in the world still capable of choosing kindness when it cost them something.

Andromeda watched quietly, the sharpness leaving her features. “A good sign,” she said at last, voice warm. “Let the healing start where it can.”

Hermione nodded, the faintest smile trembling at her mouth. “One stitch at a time.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 24: In Each Other’s Arms

The ward was quiet after Ginny’s departure. Hermione still held the blanket in her lap, smoothing its soft wool as though she might draw strength from the stitches. Andromeda sat at her bedside, her expression gentle but watchful.

“It was kind of her,” Andromeda said softly, nodding toward the gift.

Hermione’s throat tightened. “It was more than kindness. It was… hope. She didn’t see me as a traitor, Andy. She just couldn’t stand against her family. And I can’t blame her for that.” Her fingers traced the blanket’s edge. “It feels like the first bridge back, even if it’s only a small one.”

Andromeda squeezed her hand in quiet agreement. Before Hermione could say more, the door opened.

Narcissa stood in the threshold, pale but composed. Her bandaged hand trembled faintly against the doorframe, and the shadows beneath her eyes spoke of how near she had come to the edge. For a moment she lingered, uncertainty shadowing her usually flawless poise.

Andromeda read the moment immediately. “I think I should find Dora—we’ve matters to discuss.” She touched Hermione’s shoulder, then inclined her head to Narcissa as she slipped past her. “I’ll leave you both a while.”

The door closed behind her. Hermione and Narcissa were alone.

“You nearly killed yourself,” Hermione whispered, the words tumbling out. “Andromeda told me. Blood magic, carrying me here… you shouldn’t have risked that.”

Narcissa moved closer, each step deliberate. “And I would risk far more,” she said, her voice steady but trembling at its edges. “You are all I have left now, Hermione. You, and the child. If you had slipped from me too…” Her composure wavered. “I could not have borne it.”

Hermione’s eyes filled, shame prickling. “I should have answered you. I wasn’t planning to ignore you. I was just so weak. So ashamed. I thought I’d failed again—Draco, you, everyone.”

Narcissa reached for her hand, her grip firm. “Do not speak of failure. You survived, and you carry Draco’s legacy. That is not shame, it is strength. And you will not bear it alone.”

Hermione’s breath shuddered. She squeezed back, then faltered. “About before—the kiss…”

Narcissa silenced her with a slight shake of her head. “Don’t apologize. Don’t call it a mistake. It was the first true thing either of us has allowed ourselves in months.”

Tears spilled freely. Hermione tugged the blanket aside. “Stay with me. Please.”

Narcissa lowered herself carefully onto the bed. Hermione leaned into her, curling close. Their hands found each other, resting over the swell of her stomach. Beneath their joined palms, a small flutter stirred.

Hermione gasped, eyes wide with wonder. “She knows you,” she whispered, covering Narcissa’s hand with her own. “She knows you’re hers too.”

Narcissa’s lips curved into a trembling smile, her forehead brushing Hermione’s. “Then she is wiser than we are.”

Hermione smiled through her tears. “We’re whole again.”

Sleep took them gently, untroubled at last.

Later, the door opened again. Andromeda returned with Tonks at her side. She halted mid-step, raising a hand to still her daughter. On the bed, Hermione and Narcissa lay entwined, fingers laced, the baby blanket draped across them.

Tonks arched a brow, whispering, “Mum… are they…?”

Andromeda’s lips softened into a smile. “It’s love, Dora.”

Surprise flickered in Tonks’s eyes before easing into a quiet smile of her own. She murmured, half in awe, half in warning, “Merlin help Harry if he tries to stand against that.”

Together, they stepped back, closing the door without a sound—leaving love and peace to reign, undisturbed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 25: Fraying Ties

Harry’s office was all edges and shadows by late afternoon, the lamplight cutting sharp planes across the clutter of parchment and case files. Kingsley stood in the doorway for a beat, taking in the stacked reports, the untouched tea, the man who would not sit.

“Minister,” Harry said, flat, not looking up from a file he wasn’t reading.

“Kingsley,” came the mild correction. He closed the door behind him and stepped closer, the leather of his boots whispering over the rug. “Walk with me for a moment.”

Harry didn’t move. “I’m busy.”

Kingsley’s gaze rested on him, steady as stone. “Then I’ll speak here.” He folded his hands. “You’re Head Auror. The job is not vengeance. It’s the law—applied to all, even those you hate.”

Harry’s jaw ticked. “With respect, I remember who the enemies were. I ended him. Don’t lecture me about the cost.”

“I know the cost,” Kingsley said quietly. “I carry it too. That’s why I’m reminding you: justice is blind or it is nothing. When you press a sick woman in a hospital bed, when you try to wrench a patient from a ward—you’re not doing your job. You’re burning it.” His voice deepened, still gentle but immovable. “You bear the title Head Auror, Harry. You protect under the law, not outside it. Don’t make me take that title from you.”

For a heartbeat, the room seemed to shrink around them. Harry’s fingers curled on the file. For the briefest moment, something uncertain flickered in his eyes—a shadow of the boy who had once fought for truth above all else. Then it was gone, shuttered. “Understood,” he said at last, clipped, insincere.

Kingsley studied him, a muscle feathering in his own cheek. “See that you do.” He turned for the door, then paused. “Grief can forge us or warp us. Choose which it will be.” The latch clicked softly behind him.

Harry stood very still. The lamplight hummed. Then he slammed the file shut so hard the inkwell rattled.

Dinner at Grimmauld Place sat cooling between them. Ginny had set the table out of habit; Harry hadn’t noticed.

“He’s blind,” Harry said abruptly, still wearing his office in the set of his shoulders. “The Minister. He thinks he knows justice from a desk. I know it from a battlefield.” He stabbed at the table as if the wood were listening. “Malfoys don’t change because they say so. Blood doesn’t change its nature. And Hermione—” His mouth twisted. “—Hermione let them make a fool of her. Or she wanted what they were. Either way, Kingsley’s coddling them is a disgrace.”

Ginny said nothing. Her fork wandered the empty edge of her plate.

“I killed Voldemort,” Harry went on, voice low and hot. “I remember what it took. I remember who stood where. I won’t let them rewrite it as if vipers are lambs.”

Ginny looked at him—and in the face she had once found luminous with stubborn hope, she saw something colder: a narrowing, a tunneling, a man who could no longer see past a single, fixed line. It made her chest ache in a place that had nothing to do with the old scar of first love.

“I promised Mum I’d help with something tonight,” she said when his words finally burned out. “I’ll be back later.”

He waved a distracted hand, already returning to his anger, to the room that had become his trench.

In the corridor, Ginny leaned briefly against the wall and shut her eyes. Once, she had believed choosing Harry—and the family who needed her—was the only loyal path left. Hermione had reached toward gentleness and gray, and Ginny had thought it softness. Now she wasn’t so sure. Maybe it had been courage she hadn’t possessed.

She took the Floo to the Burrow.

The kitchen smelled of bread and nettle tea and the years that had made it a refuge. Arthur looked up from the paper, glasses sliding down his nose. Molly turned from the stove, bright with welcome that dimmed as she read her daughter’s face.

“What is it, love?” Arthur asked, already pushing a chair back with his foot.

Ginny sat, fingers knotted. “It’s Harry. He—he’s not himself, Dad. He’s fixated. On the Malfoys, on Hermione. He says Kingsley’s blind. He says blood doesn’t change. He tried to—” She stopped, swallowing. “I don’t recognize him when he talks like this.”

Molly’s hands stilled over the tea tin. “Harry is under pressure,” she said briskly. “People forget what he bore to save them. If he is hard now, it’s because he must be.”

“Mum—Narcissa saved Hermione. More than once.” Ginny’s voice gentled, pleading. “She carried her to St. Mungo’s. Harry tried to have her taken into custody from a hospital bed. That isn’t right.”

Molly’s eyes flashed. “A Malfoy lifting a finger for someone that suits their purpose does not bleach out generations of rot,” she snapped. “Those people twisted our son’s best friend around their little finger and now look—Ron is—” Her breath hitched; anger roared in to catch it. “Don’t you dare ask me to clap for them. And Hermione—Merlin bless her, I have loved that girl—she lost her way when she took their name. She turned her back on family.”

Ginny flinched as if struck. “She chose the person she loved, Mum. The war was supposed to make that matter more, not less.”

Molly’s mouth set. “The war taught me who stands with us and who doesn’t. That’s what matters.” She spun back to the stove, rattling metal to drown her tremor. “Harry is right to stand firm.”

Arthur had said nothing, only watched, the steady barometer of the Burrow. Now he took off his glasses and set them down with care. “Molly,” he said gently, “perhaps firmness and fairness can still be friends. She was as much ours as anyone, once.” His eyes flicked to Ginny, full of worry and something like apology.

Molly’s shoulders stiffened. “Not when it’s a Malfoy.”

The kettle began to whistle. No one moved to lift it.

Ginny stood. There was nothing left to say that would not scrape the same raw places. “I have to go.”

Arthur rose with her and, at the door, set a hand on her shoulder. It was a small, warm weight; it said more than he dared in this room. She covered his hand with her own for a heartbeat, grateful.

Outside, the night was warm and wide, stars pricking a sky that felt cleaner than any room she’d been in all day. On the path, the grass whispered dry beneath her boots, carrying the scent of sunbaked earth still holding the heat of afternoon.

Hermione had stepped out of the war’s shadow and found a way to bend toward light, even when it came in an unexpected shape. Ginny had stayed where duty anchored her and called it loyalty. Somewhere between those truths, a different courage waited—the kind that would ask her to stand alone if she must.

As she Disapparated into the dark, Harry’s voice seemed to echo after her—years old, from battlefields and firelit nights. We stand together. Always.

The words rang hollow now, chasing her into silence.

Chapter Text

Chapter 26: Shattered Lines

The healers’ rounds had barely ended when Andromeda swept into the ward, parchment in hand, her presence brisk but warm. Hermione and Narcissa sat together on the bed, Hermione upright against the pillows, Narcissa composed but pale beside her.

“Good,” Andromeda said, setting the parchment aside. “Your charts look better. Stronger. You’ll both be ready for discharge soon.”

Narcissa arched a brow. “Then we’ll return to the manor.”

“No,” Andromeda countered, firm but not unkind. “You’re coming with me to the cottage. Both of you.”

Hermione frowned. “Andromeda—”

She raised a hand, cutting off the protest. “My wards are tighter, my proximity closer. I’ll monitor your health, Hermione, and keep an eye on Narcissa too. And you’ll have an extra layer of protection between you and Harry’s… stubbornness.” Her gaze softened as it flicked between them. “I need you under my roof so I can sleep at night. After what nearly happened, I won’t have peace otherwise. The manor can wait.”

For a moment Narcissa’s chin lifted, pride rising, but Hermione’s fingers slid into hers with a gentle squeeze. “She’s right,” Hermione murmured. “We’ll be safer with her.”

The proud set of Narcissa’s shoulders eased. She inclined her head once. “Very well,” she said, and for once it sounded less like command than concession.

Elsewhere in London, Tonks carried Teddy up the steps of Grimmauld Place. The boy chattered about his toy broom tucked under his arm. It was Remus’s face she saw in that smile, a face she missed every day, a man who had thought Harry would be the perfect godfather.

Harry greeted them distractedly but managed a smile for Teddy. “Come on, mate, let’s see how that broom’s treating you.” He led him into the garden, his voice warm at first, encouraging.

Tonks and Ginny lingered in the kitchen. Ginny busied herself at the stove, though her hands shook faintly.

“You all right?” Tonks asked.

Ginny gave a brittle laugh. “Define all right.” She set down a cup too hard, then sighed. “I just… I don’t know what’s happening to him anymore. To us.”

Tonks reached out, squeezing her hand. “You don’t have to carry it alone, Gin.”

Together they drifted to the window. Outside, Harry jogged alongside Teddy, calling instructions. For a moment it looked normal, even joyful—until Harry’s tone sharpened. His voice cut through the air, louder, harsher.

“Draco!” Teddy crowed proudly, wobbling on his broom. He had heard the name at the manor, repeated with the innocence of a child who did not yet know grief’s weight.

Harry’s face darkened. “Not that name,” he barked. Teddy startled, the broom tipping. He tumbled onto the grass, crying.

Ginny didn’t think—she bolted through the back door, racing across the garden. “Teddy!” she cried, dropping to her knees and gathering the boy into her arms. He buried his face against her shoulder, sobbing.

Harry loomed over them, his face twisted with fury. “Don’t let him say Draco’s name again. He was filth, Ginny. A Death Eater! Don’t you dare let him think otherwise.” His hand jerked downward, too fast, too close.

“Enough!” Tonks’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. She was already striding into the garden, wand raised high. “Petrificus Totalus!”

Harry froze, rigid as stone.

Tonks dropped beside Ginny, one arm going around her and Teddy both. Her hair burned crimson with fury. “What in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, voice shaking.

Harry strained against the spell, spitting words through clenched teeth. “Teaching him right from wrong! Don’t you see? He thinks Draco was good! He can’t grow up poisoned by that blood. Better he learn now before he turns rotten.”

Tonks’s wand hand trembled, barely checked. “He’s a child, Harry. Your godson. You don’t ever lay a hand on him.”

Ginny held Teddy tighter, rocking him gently, soothing his sobs. Then she looked at Tonks, eyes steady. “Take him. Get him out of here.”

Tonks hesitated, jaw tight, but Ginny pressed Teddy into her arms, firm. “Go. Please.”

With a crack, Tonks and Teddy Disapparated, leaving only silence in their wake.

The spell holding Harry snapped. He turned slowly toward Ginny, eyes dark and cold.

“Don’t undermine me again,” he said softly, edged with steel. “Or else.”

Ginny’s arms were empty now, but she stood tall, her face pale yet unyielding. Fear twisted in her gut, but so did something harder—resolve. As she shut the garden door behind her, she thought of Hermione—how she had found a way to move forward through grief, while the others remained shackled to the war’s ghosts.

For the first time, Ginny knew her friend had been right all along—and maybe, just maybe, it was time to find the courage she had once lacked.

Chapter Text

Chapter 27: A Burden Shared

The night in St. Mungo’s was unusually calm. Hermione lay curled on her side, the crisp sheets rustling softly as Narcissa settled beside her on the narrow bed. It was no longer awkward between them—sharing space had become second nature. Hermione’s hand drifted across her stomach, her breath easing as Narcissa’s presence anchored her.

“I always sleep better when you’re here,” Hermione whispered, her voice carrying the hush of confession.

Narcissa’s eyes softened. “Then I won’t leave.”

The baby stirred gently, a ripple beneath Hermione’s palm. They both felt it, and silence followed—full of understanding, warm and whole. Narcissa bent her head slightly, her bandaged hand resting atop Hermione’s. “She knows us,” she whispered, as if the child could hear her through blood and bone.

Wrapped in that quiet comfort, they drifted into sleep, safe in each other’s arms.

At her cottage, Andromeda arrived in a swirl of green flame, fatigue etched deep in her bones. Tonks sat in the sitting room with Teddy asleep on her lap, the child’s tear-streaked face pressed against her shoulder. Tonks looked up, eyes tight with fury and fear, and told her mother what had happened at Grimmauld Place.

Andromeda listened, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles whitened. Rage churned in her chest, but she steadied herself, brushing a hand over her grandson’s curls before pressing her lips to his temple. “Stay here tonight,” she urged. “Both of you. You’ll be safe here.”

Tonks nodded, voice frayed. “I wasn’t planning to leave him with Harry again.”

When Teddy was tucked into bed and Tonks finally drifted into restless sleep, Andromeda sat alone in her study, the silence pressing heavily around her. She had carried Narcissa’s grief, Hermione’s fragility, Tonks’s fears, and Teddy’s innocence. She bore it gladly, but the weight threatened to break her.

She thought of Ted—how he had gathered her close when the world grew too sharp, how he had given her a place to lay down her strength. The ache was deep and wordless, an unspoken truth no one else could ever touch.

Before she could second-guess herself, she Apparated.

Kingsley answered the knock on his door, surprise flickering across his face when he saw her on his step. He wasted no time, ushering her inside with quiet warmth. “Andromeda,” he said gently, studying the strain etched into her features. “You shouldn’t be here alone this late.”

The concern in his voice undid her more than anything else had. She opened her mouth, but no words came. Kingsley didn’t wait. He reached for her, pulling her into a steady embrace. At first she stiffened, unused to such ease, but then her body yielded, a single tear sliding free. For the first time in years, she let herself lean on someone else.

“I can see how much you’re carrying,” Kingsley murmured. “You don’t have to tell me what it is. But know this—you don’t have to carry it all alone.”

They sat together, sharing a drink. She spoke little, only enough to unburden herself of the sharpest edges of her fury and fear. Kingsley, steady as stone, admitted his concern about Harry but confessed the limits of his position. “He is the Chosen One, the war hero,” he said gravely. “If I move against him without every law and procedure on my side, the backlash could tear the Ministry apart. I have to do this by the book.”

Andromeda nodded, her jaw tight. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but it was the truth. Still, in Kingsley’s presence, the weight she carried no longer felt crushing. Ted had held her with laughter; Kingsley with quiet strength. Both had made her feel seen, and she hadn’t realized until now how much she had missed that.

When at last she rose to leave, Kingsley moved as though to escort her. She shook her head. “I’ll manage.” Yet before she Disapparated, she leaned up onto her tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

His smile lingered as she vanished.

Andromeda returned to her cottage to find Tonks and Teddy fast asleep. She stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching them breathe in unison. Her heart was heavy, but the burden no longer felt entirely her own. For the first time in years, she felt just a little lighter—because at last, the burden was shared.

Chapter Text

Chapter 28: Shackles of Truth

The ward was unusually quiet that morning. Hermione sat on the edge of the bed, her discharge robes freshly pressed, her hands folded over her lap. Narcissa sat beside her, pale but composed, the exhaustion of blood magic still lingering in her bones. A faint herbal scent clung to the room—soothing dittany and lavender woven into the charms to calm restless patients.

The healer raised her wand. “A final scan before you’re both released. Mrs. Malfoy”—her gaze shifted to Hermione with professional warmth—“would you like to know the child’s sex?”

Hermione froze. Her breath caught, the world narrowing to that single question. She looked instinctively to Narcissa.

Those blue eyes held no judgment, no hesitation. Only hope.

Hermione nodded.

Light rippled across her belly, resolving into the faintest outline—tiny hands, the delicate curve of a spine. The glow pooled into a soft silhouette, shimmering for a heartbeat before fading. The healer’s face softened into a smile. “It’s a girl.”

Hermione gasped, tears spilling unchecked. Narcissa’s hand rose, trembling, and pressed reverently to the curve of her stomach. For a moment, she could only whisper. “A daughter…”

The words broke something open. Hermione laughed through her tears, clutching Narcissa’s hand against her belly as the baby kicked faintly, as if answering. “She’s real,” she whispered. “She’s truly real.”

Narcissa bent her head, pressing her forehead to Hermione’s temple. “Draco’s daughter,” she said, voice cracking. “Our hope. Our redemption.” Her tears fell freely, soaking the fabric between them. Hermione turned her face into Narcissa’s hair, and for a long moment they held each other, two women remade by a single truth: they had not lost everything.

At the cottage, Andromeda worked with relentless focus. Spare linens folded, runes traced along doorframes, charms layered into the walls until the house hummed faintly with protective wards. She paused only to glance at Teddy’s abandoned toy broom propped against the wall. He was at school, Dora back at work, and the silence left her restless. She touched the broom handle once before returning to her wards, muttering: “You’ll be safe here, both of you. Whatever it takes.”

Elsewhere, Harry Potter stood at the center of a circle of loyal Aurors. His voice was low but sharp, his eyes fever-bright.

“They’ll be released today. Narcissa Malfoy leaves this ward, she doesn’t walk free. She’s dragged half our world into ruin already. Hermione thinks she’s found salvation with her. She hasn’t. She’s chained herself to darkness. And I will cut her free.”

The Aurors nodded, loyal eyes fixed on him. Harry’s hand closed around his badge, twisting its enchantments. Andromeda’s notification to collect them vanished in a flicker of golden script. The board is mine, he thought grimly.

Hermione stood, her bag in hand, Narcissa just behind her. They had nearly reached the door when Harry appeared, framed in the threshold like judgment itself.

Narcissa stiffened, her hand tightening on her wand. But before she could draw, chains of silver light coiled out, wrapping around her wrists. The cuffs clicked shut with a hiss, runes burning faintly. Narcissa gasped as the cuffs dampened her magic. Her veins, still hollow from the blood rite, felt scraped clean—emptier than before. Her knees threatened to buckle, but she locked them straight. Malfoys did not show weakness—not even when their magic was stripped away.

“I am still a patient,” she said coldly, lifting her chin despite the weight of the shackles. “You bind me now, you do so outside the law.”

Harry sneered. “The law has been too merciful with your kind.”

Hermione shoved herself between them, fury breaking through her fear. “No! She saved me, Harry—she saved our child.”

Narcissa’s head whipped toward her, eyes sharp with surprise at the word our. For a breath, her face softened, tenderness flickering across her icy poise before she looked away, throat tight.

Harry’s face twisted, raw and jagged. “‘Our?’ You’ve whored yourself out to them. Let them brand you. Have you forgotten, Hermione? They wanted you and your kind dead.”

Hermione’s spine stiffened, but her voice cut through the ward, low and burning. “I haven’t forgotten. I’ve chosen not to live in hate. If that makes me theirs… then so be it.”

“You truly have been poisoned to the core then… Malfoy,” Harry snarled, spitting the name like a curse.

The shackles snapped into being, clamping around Hermione’s wrists. The suppression cuffs burned with cold power, scalding her skin as her magic was dragged from her like breath from drowning lungs. Already weakened from collapse and recovery, she staggered, her body screaming as though the hollowness would tear her apart.

A healer’s outraged cry rang out. “Auror Potter! Release them at once! To suppress their magic so soon after collapse—after blood magic, after depletion—could kill them both!”

Harry’s jaw set, his mouth twisting into something dark. “Then I’ll take my chances.” His voice dropped to a hiss. “Perhaps it’s better that way.”

At his curt nod, the Aurors closed ranks. The air cracked with simultaneous Apparitions, and in a heartbeat, Hermione and Narcissa were gone—wrenched from safety, bound and separated in the Ministry’s holding cells.

At the cottage, Andromeda’s quill scratched over parchment as she double-checked discharge times. The parchment was blank, her wards unpinged. Discharge notices that should have arrived hours ago had never come. Her stomach dropped; this wasn’t a delay. It was a silence too sharp to be chance.

She seized her cloak, heart pounding.

And with a sharp crack of displaced air, she Apparated straight to St. Mungo’s.

Chapter Text

Chapter 29: The Holding Cells

The world after Apparition was cold stone and iron light. Hermione hit the Ministry floor hard enough to jolt her teeth; the suppression cuffs flared, and her magic guttered back to a pinprick. Across the corridor, Narcissa stumbled as well, catching herself with a small, furious breath. The runes on her cuffs pulsed low and cold. Already hollow from the blood rite, she felt scraped to the bone—as if nothing of her was left but will.

The air smelled of damp and old spells—metal, chalk, a faint acrid tang like singed wards.

“Keep them separate,” one Auror barked. Boots scuffed. Wands raised. Everything precise.

“Narcissa—” Hermione lurched toward her, but the chain snapped taut, jerking her back. “Please—listen,” Hermione said, breathless. “I haven’t committed a crime. She saved my life. She saved my baby. You can ask St. Mungo’s—there are records, Healers—”

“Eyes front,” the tired-eyed Auror said. His voice was flat, too even. His left hand twitched once, the fingers ink-stained as if from long hours with parchment. “Orders.”

“Orders aren’t law,” Hermione shot back, panic threading her words thin. “You know that. You have to know that.” No one answered. Their faces were all the same kind of still.

They turned down a narrow staircase. The wards thrummed faintly against their cuffs, tasting the suppression magic. Hermione staggered, clutching herself as far as the chain allowed, her arm protectively over her belly. Across from her, Narcissa straightened, back rigid, willing her knees not to give way. The hollow ache of the cuffs pressed into her veins, scraping her raw. Malfoys did not show weakness—not even when their blood still sang with absence.

At the bottom, iron doors waited like closed mouths. The corridor was lined with them, each rune-banded, each whispering faintly with containment charms.

They took Narcissa first. She walked as though a ballroom floor lay under her feet instead of Ministry stone, but inside her ribs, her heart thundered. At the threshold she turned her head just enough to find Hermione. For a heartbeat their eyes met through the latticework of bodies and wands. The sight of Hermione clutching her stomach stabbed sharp as any blade. Surprise, from earlier, had mellowed into something steadier—tenderness anchored by resolve.

The door shut on it with a clean, final sound.

Hermione’s cell waited opposite. The tired-eyed Auror guided her in without touching her. The room was a cube: cot, bench, rune-scribed wall. Too cold, too bright.

“Please,” Hermione said, because not saying it would have meant accepting it. “At least let us stay together.”

Narcissa, on the other side of stone, closed her eyes at the words. She would have begged the same, if begging had ever been something she allowed herself. Instead, her hands shook violently. She pressed them hard into her thighs until they stilled. “Hold fast,” she whispered into the still air, though Hermione could not hear.

Silence again, then the smallest fracture: the tired-eyed Auror’s jaw flexed, once. He didn’t look at her. “You’ll be processed,” he said. “That’s the procedure.”

“I know procedure,” Hermione said, anger sparking through the fear. “Procedure is interviews. Counsel. Not vanishing people into cells because Harry Potter says so.”

Something flickered in his gaze—guilt, or the memory of a different war—but it died quickly. “Orders,” he repeated softly, and stepped back as the door sealed.

The wards settled around her like a weighted cloak. Hermione sat before her knees could betray her. The cuffs left a sour tang in the air, like pennies pressed to the tongue. She pressed her palms to her belly, whispering, “It’s all right. I won’t let anyone harm you.”

Narcissa lay back on her cot, chin high against the light’s cruel glare. Hollow, weak—but still unbroken. She thought of the healer’s spell, of the words It’s a girl, and of Hermione’s laughter breaking open through tears. She clung to that vision, a talisman against despair.

Footsteps returned. Hermione’s head lifted; Narcissa sat straighter.

Harry appeared at Hermione’s bars, flanked by two Aurors whose faces were swallowed by shadow, expressions scrubbed clean of anything human. His green eyes caught the light, hard and fever-bright.

He didn’t speak at once. He only watched. And in that silence, both women felt the same cold realization settle: this was no longer grief. It was zealotry.

“Comfortable?” he asked at last, his voice falsely mild.

“You’ve no right to hold us,” Hermione said. Her voice was steady, though her hands trembled. “You know that, Harry. You know that.”

Narcissa’s throat burned with the urge to echo her, but she held still, her silence a blade of its own.

Harry’s mouth tilted in a mirthless smile. “I know a great many things. What I don’t know is why you keep insisting on proving me right.”

Hermione stood because sitting felt like surrender. “Narcissa saved my life. She saved our daughter.” The word was deliberate, fire offered into ice.

From her cot, Narcissa’s breath caught. Our. The word steadied her hollow bones more than any magic could.

Something ugly snarled across Harry’s face and was gone. “You’ve had time to think,” he said softly. “Think harder.”

Hermione’s pulse fluttered beneath her fingers. She forced herself to meet his gaze. “You’re frightening people. You’re frightening me.”

The admission surprised her as it left her mouth. The silence that followed was longer than it should have been, thick as stone. Across the corridor, Narcissa closed her eyes briefly, pride swelling sharp and painful at Hermione’s courage.

“You should be frightened,” Harry said. His voice was calm now, colder than fury. “Of what they’ve done to you. Of what you’ve become.”

He turned without waiting for an answer. The shadow-Aurors turned with him. Their footsteps receded into silence.

Hermione folded herself over her belly, making her body a shelter. Across the corridor, Narcissa sat as straight as she could, though her bones ached and her veins felt scraped to dust.

“Hold on,” Hermione whispered.

Narcissa pressed her palms to the cot and whispered back, though the stone drank the words before they could carry: “I am here.”

Promises were fragile things. But both women, separated by iron and law, clung to theirs with equal ferocity.

Chapter Text

Chapter 30: Fading Strength

Time had no measure in the holding cells. No windows. No clocks. Only the oppressive hum of the suppression wards, their runes flaring faintly in the iron cuffs that bound wrists and burned away the fragile threads of magic that should have steadied flesh and bone.

Hermione sat hunched on the narrow cot, every breath dragging as though through water. At first she had told herself it was only the shock, that her body would adapt. But minutes dragged, stretching thin until they felt like hours. The weakness grew sharper, faster than she had feared. Standing left her lightheaded, and even shifting the thin blanket across her lap left her arms trembling.

The flutter inside her no longer felt like reassurance. It felt like a plea.

She pressed both hands to her belly. “Stay,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Stay with me. Please.” She closed her eyes and tried to imagine Narcissa’s hand steadying hers the way it had in the hospital, strong and sure. For a moment, she let herself believe she could still feel it through the walls.

Across the corridor, Narcissa lay rigid on her cot. Her body thrummed with exhaustion, every bone hollowed by the drain of blood magic. The suppression cuffs dug deeper still, stripping her further until her limbs felt carved from wax. Each breath came thin, almost foreign, as if even her lungs had been emptied of their strength.

She closed her eyes and forced herself to picture Hermione’s face: pale but stubborn, eyes bright with fire. She saw again the shimmer of light from the healer’s scan, the sound of wonder when they had learned: a girl. Their daughter.

Her thoughts reached further, to faces she would never see again—Lucius’s imperious calm, Draco’s boyish smile softening when he thought no one looked. She whispered to them in the silence, a prayer and a plea both. Give me your strength. For her. For Hermione. For the child.

The air swallowed her words, but the act of speaking steadied her hollow veins. She clung to that vision like a rope against a tide, even as her breath grew thinner.

Hermione curled tighter on her cot, fear gnawing through her. Not fear of the cell, nor of the wards—but of the life ebbing inside her, of what might happen if the suppression bled them both past recovery. For the first time since the war, she felt utterly powerless. Not even knowledge could save her here.

Narcissa, in her own darkness, fought the same battle. Her lips shaped Hermione’s name, soft enough that the stone walls drank it whole. Then, firmer, she whispered: “They will come for us. You are strong, Hermione. Our girl is strong. We will not be forgotten.”

In the Auror Office, Harry Potter entered with a stride that drew eyes to him like gravity. His badge gleamed, his robes flared, and there was a looseness in his step that was not relief but triumph. He carried himself not as a servant of the law, but as its master.

“Auror Selwyn,” he snapped to a younger recruit, tossing a file onto his desk. “I want that processed before midnight. Today justice has been served. Don’t fall behind.”

The recruit nodded quickly, scrambling to obey.

Across the room, Tonks sat at her desk, quill stilled above parchment. She watched Harry from beneath lowered lashes. His voice was too sharp, his satisfaction too unguarded. Normally he wore grief like a mantle—heavy, unyielding. Now there was something different in him. Something dangerous in its ease. He hummed under his breath, a jagged scrap of a tune that made her skin prickle.

She chewed her lip, uneasy. She’d expected word from St. Mungo’s, some healer’s note to confirm the women’s release. But nothing had come through official channels. Still, she told herself, there must be a reason. They were probably still being examined, or Mum had been delayed.

Even so, the sight of Harry smiling faintly to himself as he flipped open a Ministry case file—thick with transcripts, trial records, healer’s notes—set a cold knot low in her stomach. His fingertips lingered almost reverently over the names, as if they were wounds he meant to reopen.

He closed the door behind him with a decisive click.

Tonks stared after him, the quill snapping between her fingers.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Chapter Text

Chapter 31: Fractured Loyalties

The Auror Office was never quiet, not truly. Quills scratched, boots echoed, parchments fluttered. But when Harry emerged from his office again, the hum shifted, bending around him like iron filings around a magnet.

Tonks tracked him from her desk, her quill stilled. He had the look of a man freshly victorious, shoulders loose, mouth curved faintly as though savoring a private triumph. It set her teeth on edge.

“You’re in good spirits,” she called lightly, too lightly, forcing brightness into her tone.

Harry glanced at her, eyes sharp as glass. “Justice done tends to have that effect.”

Tonks tilted her head, studying him. “Oh? I didn’t see any reports come in.” She kept her voice careless, but her fingers tightened around the quill until ink blotted the parchment. “Who’s been processed?”

Harry’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Classified. You’ll see it when you’re meant to.”

“That’s odd,” she said softly. “Paperwork usually comes through straight away. Transparency and all that.”

“Not everything needs to be shared immediately, Tonks,” he replied, voice clipped now. “Especially with family involved.”

The words cut sharper than she expected. Her chest tightened. “Meaning?”

Harry leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Meaning I know you’re watching me. And I know your loyalties aren’t as clear as they should be.” His eyes gleamed with something cold, fever-bright. “So be careful.”

For a moment, Tonks couldn’t breathe. This was not the boy she had watched grow into command, not the godfather who bounced Teddy on his knee. This was someone narrower, harder, honed by bitterness until only the edge remained.

She forced herself to smile, a tight stretch of lips. “Careful’s never been my strong suit, Harry.”

His gaze lingered, measuring her, and for a heartbeat she thought he might press further. Then he straightened abruptly, robes snapping, and strode back into his office.

Inside the quiet of his office, Harry shut the door with deliberate force and leaned against it. His thoughts burned hot and fast.

She’s watching me. Dora’s cleverer than most, but not clever enough to see how deep this runs. The rot of that family spreads faster than anyone realizes—Granger’s proof of it. And if Tonks isn’t careful, she’ll be next. Half-blood or not, the Malfoys’ poison sticks.

He moved to his desk, the flicker of a smile touching his mouth as he shuffled files. She’ll bear watching. They all will. If I must watch even my own, better me than anyone else. No one sees as I do.

The smile hardened. He straightened, already rehearsing his next orders.

Justice requires vigilance. And if I must root out weakness in my own ranks, so be it.

Back in the Auror Office, the afternoon hum was broken by the flutter of a spell-sealed memo dropping onto Tonks’s desk. The red wax bore St. Mungo’s crest. She broke the seal with steady fingers and read, her stomach dropping.

Urgent Notification: Patients Hermione Granger-Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy discharged from Spell Damage Ward under Auror custody. Escort authorized and executed by Head Auror Potter. Both subjects restrained. Magical risk: HIGH.

Her jaw tightened. She flicked her wand, murmuring the counter-charm under her breath. The parchment shivered; the ink steamed faintly in protest, an anti-copy ward meant to stop exactly what she was about to do. She pressed harder, her wand hand steady despite the risk. With a faint crackle, the copy appeared—perfect, forbidden, and dangerous.

The duplicate sailed neatly into the outgoing tray, marked for records. Harry would see what he expected: the official report making its way through channels. He would never know she had already read the original.

Sliding the parchment into her pocket, Tonks rose in one smooth movement, her chair scraping back. She didn’t stop to gather her things. Her stride was brisk, her wand hand loose at her side. If Harry thought he was the only one playing this game, he was wrong.

Minutes later she knocked on the tall oak doors of the Minister’s office. Kingsley’s deep voice called her in.

He looked up from behind his desk, expression softening at the sight of her. “Nymphadora—”

Before he could say more, the Floo flared green. Andromeda swept out in a rush of ash and fury, her robes snapping, eyes blazing with righteous fire.

Kingsley’s brows rose as he looked between mother and daughter, the same sharp determination written on both their faces. For a fleeting moment he marveled at it—two generations of Black steel turned toward justice rather than tyranny. But behind his calm admiration lay weariness too, the bone-deep knowledge of a man holding the Ministry together with both hands while even Harry Potter strained against its walls.

There was no time for reflection. Both women launched into speech at once, their words tripping over each other—Tonks slamming down the stolen memo on his desk, Andromeda spitting fire about unlawful restraint, about St. Mungo’s healers ignored, about chains on women barely out of collapse.

“Enough.” Kingsley’s voice cut clean through the storm, the weight of a Minister silencing the room. His gaze sharpened, steady as bedrock. “One at a time. I will hear you both, but I will hear you clearly. Which of you will speak first?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 32: Lines in the Sand

The cells had no time, only pressure.

Hermione lay on her side, wrists chained before her, the suppression cuffs burning cold against skin already too pale. Breath sawed in her throat; each inhale felt smaller than the last. When she tried to move her hand to her belly, her arm trembled and fell short. Panic flared and guttered, the way a flame does when starved of air.

“Stay,” she mouthed soundlessly to the life beneath her ribs. “Stay.”

Across the corridor, Narcissa did not drift in weakness so much as fight against it with every shred of poise left to her. Her body felt scraped thin, hollowed by the lingering drain of blood magic and the cuffs that gnawed ceaselessly at what remained. But her mind—her mind clung fast. She would not allow collapse to be her legacy.

When she closed her eyes, faces surfaced. Lucius’s hand steady at her back, Draco’s rare laugh, and Draco-Hermione’s stubborn light. She summoned them like talismans, her family’s shadows made into strength. Give me your will, she pleaded silently. Give me enough to keep her safe. Enough to keep our girl safe.

She pressed her palms flat to the cot, chin lifting toward the silence. If despair pressed in, she did not let it touch her face.

The wards hummed, indifferent.

A red-wax memo drifted through Harry’s cracked office window, bobbing once in the warm air before settling on his desk. He broke the seal, eyes flicking across the lines—St. Mungo’s crest, official phrasing, the words magical risk: HIGH. For a heartbeat, his jaw tightened. Then his mouth curved.

“Efficient,” he murmured, and tapped his wand to the parchment.

It curled black at the edges and collapsed into ash. He brushed the remnants into the bin with two fingers, savoring the clean space left behind. Control was order. Order was justice. And justice had to be kept in a steady hand.

He straightened his badge and smiled at his reflection in the office window—small, hard, sure.

Andromeda did not hesitate. Her palm flattened on the desk, parchment crinkling beneath it, her voice ringing like tempered steel.

“Two women nearly killed by war remnants, dragged into safety by sheer will, barely clinging to strength—and your Head Auror shoves suppression cuffs on them before they can stand. I spoke with St. Mungo’s Healers myself: restraint at that stage risks collapse, miscarriage, death. This isn’t procedure. This is obsession. It’s Harry, using his badge to chase his grief into cruelty.”

Her breath shook, but her gaze didn’t. “I’ll not stand by while he turns the Ministry into his own vendetta.”

Tonks, silent until now, slid the memo forward. “She’s right. He intercepted discharge, seized custody, buried the paperwork. I forced the ward to copy—it wasn’t meant to be seen yet. He’s cutting corners, Minister. Hiding chains behind classifications.”

Kingsley picked up the parchment, eyes scanning quickly, face giving nothing away. When he set it down, his hands folded over it like a seal.

“You’re asking me,” he said slowly, “to weigh the integrity of the Ministry against the judgment of its most celebrated hero. To call Harry Potter to account not in whispers, but in daylight.”

“Yes,” Andromeda said fiercely. “Because daylight is the only thing that can cut through this darkness.”

Tonks leaned forward. “Minister—Kingsley—this isn’t Harry as we knew him. He’s harder, narrower. If we let him continue unchecked, he won’t stop at the Malfoys. He won’t stop at Hermione. He’ll tear through anyone who dares disagree with him. He already questioned my loyalties. I may be next.”

Kingsley’s jaw worked. He looked at them both—mother and daughter, Black steel and Auror grit—and for a long moment the only sound was the faint crackle of the Floo behind him.

At last he said, voice low and grave, “I cannot simply strip the man who ended Voldemort of his authority without proof strong enough to hold in Wizengamot. The people will not believe whispers of obsession, not when grief cloaks it so neatly. If I move too soon, I fracture the Ministry itself.”

Andromeda’s lips pressed white. “And if you move too late, you’ll bury two women and a child.”

His gaze snapped to her. They held one another, comrades of the same war, bound by the knowledge that compromise often carried corpses with it.

Finally Kingsley rose, the weight of decision carved into every line of his broad shoulders. “Then we will get proof. Tangible, undeniable proof of his misconduct. You’ll both be my eyes—Tonks within the Aurors, Andromeda at St. Mungo’s and beyond. I will not shield him, but I will not strike until I can strike true.”

Tonks exhaled shakily, both relieved and burdened at once. “Then we’d better move quickly. Hermione and Narcissa don’t have time.”

Kingsley’s expression softened just enough to betray the man beneath the title. “No, they do not. And that,” he said, “is what keeps me awake at night.”

They moved fast—Tonks’s stride clipped, Andromeda’s cloak snapping, Kingsley a steady shadow at their backs. The lift hissed them down to the secured level; the doors opened to stone corridors and layered wards humming in their bones.

Two Aurors stood at the junction to the holding cells. Their wands were out, their faces set in that new, brittle way Harry had taught them.

“Step aside,” Kingsley said.

The taller Auror—broad-shouldered, jaw clenched—did not move. “We have orders from Head Auror Potter. No visitors.”

“And I,” Kingsley replied, voice even, “am the Minister for Magic. You are currently defying your government.”

The second Auror’s mouth tightened. “With respect, sir, our loyalty lies with Potter.”

Silence, brief and dangerous, fell like a blade.

Kingsley’s eyes cooled. “You are one sentence from unemployment,” he said, the weight of office in every syllable. “This is insubordination on a secured floor. Step aside.”

Neither Auror moved. Fingers tightened on wands.

Andromeda’s hand flexed once at her side. Tonks’s shoulders loosened the way a fighter’s do a breath before they strike.

“Last chance,” Kingsley warned.

“Negative,” the broad-shouldered Auror said, and began to raise his wand.

He didn’t finish the motion.

“Expelliarmus!” Tonks’s spell cracked the air, his wand snapping from his grip and spinning into her palm. In the same heartbeat Andromeda’s hex caught the second Auror squarely in the wrist—“Relashio”—his wand clattered to the stone. A flick of her wrist and ropes coiled up from the floor, clean and neat, binding both men from ankle to shoulder.

The broad-shouldered one swore. The other looked stunned.

“By authority of the Ministry,” Tonks said, voice like steel cooling in water, “you are charged with treasonous obstruction of a Ministerial order and unlawful endangerment of detainees. Don’t test me.”

Kingsley exhaled once through his nose, the shadow of something like a smile ghosting his mouth. He glanced sidelong at Andromeda. “Note to self,” he said, dry as parchment. “Never get on the bad side of a Black sister.” He tipped her the quickest wink.

Andromeda’s answering look was fierce and humorless. “Open the doors.”

Kingsley stepped to the panel and placed his palm flat against the rune-plate. The wards shuddered, locks rolling back with a heavy, layered sigh.

Tonks was through first, across the threshold and to the nearest cot.

“Hermione,” she breathed.

Hermione didn’t answer. She was conscious—in the flicker of her lashes, in the bruised effort of her breath—but barely. Tonks’s hands were already moving, finding the seam of the cuff, her wand sliding under the band of cold iron. “Finite. Finite inc— damn it—” She shifted the angle, murmured a different counter, old training snapping into place. “Nulla Vincula.”

The suppression runes dimmed and died. The cuff sprang open, dropping to the cot with a dead clang.

Hermione’s whole body shuddered. Color crawled back into her cheeks by degrees, like warmth returning to a hand held too close to snow too long.

“Easy,” Tonks said, palms hovering, not daring to press. “Breathe. That’s it. You’re all right. You’re all right.”

Across the corridor, Andromeda had already crossed into the other cell. Narcissa lay almost perfectly still, the stillness of someone clinging to a thread. But her eyes opened when Andromeda touched her, blue fire still alive beneath the pallor.

“Can you hear me?” Andromeda asked, already working the cuffs. Latin she hadn’t spoken since the war slid off her tongue. “Nulla Vincula.”

The bands released. Narcissa exhaled on a shaky sound she would never have allowed anyone but her sister to hear.

“They won’t last long like this,” Andromeda said, her voice iron beneath its tremor. “We need to move them now.”

“St. Mungo’s?” Kingsley asked, already shifting to take some of Narcissa’s weight.

“No,” Andromeda shot back at once. “Harry will have eyes there. My cottage is warded. I can stabilize them better at home.”

Tonks grimaced, glancing around at the glowing runes that sealed the corridor. “That’s all well and good, but we can’t apparate from inside the holding level. Wards are locked tight.”

Kingsley’s mouth curved, just slightly. He placed one big hand on Andromeda’s shoulder, the other on Tonks’s. “Benefits of the job,” he said with a wink.

The Apparition wards hummed like stone walls, thick and immovable. But when Kingsley pressed his will into the air, the magic bent. No words, no flourish—just the authority of the office he bore and the power of a wizard who had earned it. The wards shivered, parted like curtains, and space opened where none should exist.

“Hold tight,” he said.

Tonks felt the shift and tightened her hold on Hermione. Andromeda braced Narcissa closer. Then Kingsley twisted, and with a crack of displaced air, all five of them vanished from the Ministry’s grasp.

They reappeared in the garden outside Andromeda’s cottage. Afternoon light slanted across the hedgerows, soft and golden, a mercy after stone and iron. The cottage wards flared once and settled, recognizing their mistress.

Narcissa sagged in Andromeda’s arms, Hermione stirred faintly in Tonks’s. Kingsley immediately stepped in, taking Narcissa’s weight from her sister. Together the five of them crossed the garden and entered the cottage.

Andromeda led them swiftly down the hall to the guest room. The bed had already been turned down, potion phials laid out on the nightstand. Tonks and Kingsley lowered Hermione and Narcissa gently onto the mattress, side by side. Hermione’s lashes fluttered, Narcissa’s breath rasped shallow, but both were alive.

Kingsley straightened, his voice low but certain. “Time to face Potter.”

Tonks nodded, fire flashing in her eyes. “Together.”

Andromeda pulled her daughter into a fierce embrace. “Be careful, Dora,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the words.

“I will,” Tonks promised, holding tight before stepping back.

Andromeda caught Kingsley’s hand next, her grip strong though her thumb brushed soft over his knuckles. “You too.”

Their eyes held for a heartbeat—her fury, his steadiness, a spark of unspoken trust. Then Kingsley inclined his head, and with Tonks at his side, turned toward the door.

Behind them, Andromeda bent over her sister and Hermione, her cottage wards humming to life around them like a promise: safe, for now.

Chapter Text

Chapter 33: Confrontation

The Atrium swallowed sound and threw it back as echo. Tonks strode beside Kingsley, jaw set, the swing of her cloak all purpose and heat. In the Minister’s hand lay a thick, spell-sealed file stamped with St. Mungo’s crest. It drew eyes as they cut across the polished floor and into the lift—eyes that flinched away again a heartbeat later.

On Level Two, the Auror Office rose like a wall. Quills hushed. Boots stilled. Heads turned and then pretended not to.

Harry emerged from his office before they reached his door—composed, immaculate, superiority worn like a second badge. The corner of his mouth curled as if at a private joke.

Then he saw the St. Mungo’s file in Kingsley’s hand.

For the barest instant his smile faltered. Not much—just a slip, a hairline crack—but Tonks saw it, and the sight steadied the battle-thrum in her blood. Proof. He knew.

“Harry,” Kingsley said, voice carrying easily across the room. Calm. Certain. “We need to talk.”

A few loyal Aurors—Selwyn at the outer desk, Rooke by the evidence lockers—straightened like drawn bowstrings. Others looked away. Gawain Robards, broad and gravel-voiced, watched from a corner with arms folded, his silence weighted.

Harry’s poise snapped back into place. “Minister.” He glanced at Tonks, the smile cooling a degree. “Auror Tonks.”

Kingsley lifted the file. “Witness statements. Healers’ notes. A record of two patients bound in suppression cuffs and removed from a medical ward without due process while still under care.” His eyes didn’t leave Harry’s. “Your signature authorizing it.”

“Authorization required action,” Harry said. “I took it.”

“You took two women who had nearly died and shackled their magic when it was the only thing keeping them alive.” Kingsley’s tone didn’t rise; steel doesn’t need to. “You acted outside statute and against healer counsel.”

“They’re Malfoys,” Harry snapped, and the smooth veneer cracked, heat bleeding through. “Do you need reminding what that name means? What it cost us? What it took from me? From all of us?” He swallowed, and the old fury and old hurt darkened his eyes. “Granger chose them. She made her bed.”

Tonks stepped forward before sense could temper her. Hermione’s ashen face, limp in her arms as the cuffs fell away, blazed in her mind. “She chose love,” Tonks shot back. “And you know exactly who she is—who she’s always been. Narcissa saved her life, Harry. Twice. You chained the woman who carried her into St. Mungo’s.”

“Spare me family sermons, Tonks,” he said, the name edged now. “You’ve been in their pocket since this started. Your mother—”

“My mother isn’t working for the Ministry,” Tonks cut in, voice hard. “She’s a healer. And she was in the Order when you were still in school, Harry. You don’t get to use her to excuse what you did.”

Somewhere behind them, a quill snapped. The room held itself still.

Harry’s gaze flicked to the faces gathered in a widening semicircle, then back to Kingsley. “This is what I mean,” he said, almost triumphantly. “The rot spreads. It’s here, inside our own walls. You think Malfoys change? They change you. They’ve changed her. They’ll change all of you, if you let them.”

“Enough,” Kingsley said, stepping between them. The weight of command that had steadied the Order through midnight skirmishes filled his voice. “Don’t lecture me on war, Harry.” He didn’t raise his tone; he didn’t need to. “I bled in it. I buried friends in it. I know too well what names have cost us.”

Harry’s jaw worked.

“And that,” Kingsley went on, “is why I know the difference between justice and vengeance.”

For a breath, only the clock ticked.

“Effective immediately,” Kingsley said, the words clean and unhurried, “you are suspended from duty as Head Auror pending a full investigation into unlawful detainment, misuse of suppression restraints, and obstruction of healer protocol.” The statement rolled through the room like a spell. “Every Auror who participated in today’s act at St. Mungo’s is likewise suspended until review.”

Selwyn made a small, strangled sound. Rooke swore under his breath. Even those who had not moved a wand felt the floor shift.

Harry stared. Then he laughed once, a sharp, humorless thing. “You’re removing the one shield this office has left against them. You’re not just naive, Kingsley. You’re a coward.”

Tonks’s fingers twitched toward her wand. Kingsley’s hand rested on her forearm—steady, not restraining so much as grounding.

“I spent years in this office before I sat in that one,” Kingsley said, gesturing to the Ministerial seal on the file. “I’ve chased Death Eaters through half the back lanes of Britain and buried too many names to carve on a wall. I am not a coward. I am the law.” He turned, letting the room hear him as well as Harry. “And the law is what separates us from the men we fought.”

He looked to the assembled Aurors. “Gawain Robards.”

Robards pushed off the wall, face unreadable, eyes flinty.

“Acting Head Auror,” Kingsley said. “Effective now. You report to me alone until the investigation concludes. Any Auror unwilling to serve under him may hand in their wand and badge.”

Harry’s control sheared again. “You’ll break this department,” he hissed. “Half this room stands with me.”

“Then half this room will remember its oath,” Kingsley said. “Or it will leave.”

The quiet that followed was dense as fog. Then Harry’s gaze cut to Tonks, and something like betrayal flashed. “You,” he said softly, the word a sharper knife than shouting would have been. “I thought you at least understood. But you’re just as blind. Just as weak.”

Tonks didn’t flinch. “No,” she said, and her voice was raw, tired, and certain. “I’m not blind. I’m looking at you.”

They stood like that for a heartbeat—boy and girl from a war, two adults carved differently by the same blade—until Kingsley closed the St. Mungo’s file with a soft, decisive tap.

“Go home, Harry,” he said, and for the first time gentleness threaded his authority. Not softness—never that—but something quieter, older. “Whatever you tell yourself you’re fighting, you’re not fighting Death Eaters anymore. You’re fighting ghosts. And it’s killing you.” He didn’t reach out; he wasn’t a man who wasted gestures. “Find help. Or at the very least, find rest. That is not an order. It’s a mercy.”

Harry’s throat worked. For one bare second his face looked young, naked with hurt, the outline of the boy Tonks had watched hunch over a teacup in 12 Grimmauld Place, swearing he would make the world safe. Then the door slammed shut behind his eyes.

“You think you can sideline me,” he said, quiet as a curse. “You can’t sideline the truth.”

He turned, cloak snapping, and stalked back into his office. The door banged hard enough to rattle the glass panes. A quill clattered somewhere; someone coughed and pretended it was nothing.

Kingsley stood still until the room remembered how to breathe. Then he looked to Robards. “Secure the incident log from today,” he said. “Lock down the personnel list from the St. Mungo’s assault. Any Auror who disobeys you, you send to me.”

Robards’s mouth thinned. “Yes, Minister.” His eyes flicked once to Tonks—steady, acknowledging—and back.

“And Gawain,” Kingsley added, quieter, “no one touches Hermione Granger-Malfoy or Narcissa Malfoy without healer authorization. No one.”

“Aye,” Robards said.

Kingsley turned to the room at large. “Back to work,” he said, and the spell broke. Quills stuttered. Boots shifted. Conversations restarted, thin as paper.

In the pocket of movement that opened around them, Tonks let out a breath that shook. “He isn’t going to stop,” she murmured. “Suspension or not.”

“No,” Kingsley said. He rubbed his thumb once across the St. Mungo’s seal as if feeling the groove of a wound. “Which is why we don’t, either. But we do it right.” He glanced toward Harry’s closed door, a muscle feathering in his jaw. “Merlin help us all if we can’t bring him back from this.”

Tonks followed his gaze, the ache sharp and old inside her. She thought of Hermione’s laugh before the war had weathered it, of Narcissa’s trembling hands still reaching despite her weakness. She thought of Teddy’s small palm in hers.

“We’ll be ready,” she said, voice like tempered iron.

Robards barked orders. Files were gathered, the air changing by degrees as the office recalibrated around a different center of gravity. In the shut room at the end of the corridor, a shadow moved against frosted glass, pacing, pacing, pacing.

And behind the frosted panes, the ghosts Harry had sworn to fight whispered louder than ever.

Chapter Text

Chapter 34: Fractured and Found

Andromeda worked in quiet, efficient circles.

The guest room at her cottage held a softened hush—the light dimmed to a warm glow, the curtains half-drawn, the air scented with dittany and willowbark. Hermione and Narcissa lay side by side on the turned-down bed, pale against the linen, their breaths shallow but even. Lines of diagnostic magic hovered above them—fine silver script that rose and fell like tides.

Andromeda moved between the two with a healer’s grace. A cooling charm swept Hermione’s brow; a replenishing draught touched Narcissa’s lips. The readings steadied, then wobbled. The aftershock of the suppression cuffs clung like frost to warm skin: magic dampened, systems confused. Restoral was possible—she had the phials and the knowledge—but something in the body must want to climb back.

Hermione shifted in a shallow drift of sleep, a small searching movement. Beside her, Narcissa’s fingers twitched as if answering a call even unconscious. Andromeda paused, watching. The threads of script over each woman thinned… reached… steadied when their hands drifted close.

“Let’s see,” Andromeda murmured.

She eased Hermione’s hand toward Narcissa’s; the motion was featherlight, almost ceremonial. Their fingers brushed, then, as if by instinct, laced. The silver script over both bodies thickened at once. Heart rate even. Magical signature rising. The jagged rhythm of recovery smoothed like cloth under a palm.

Andromeda’s mouth softened. “You two,” she said, not without wonder. “Stronger together.”

She set fresh wards around the room—quiet, old protections keyed to hearth and blood—and took up a chair. For the first time since the cells, something in her chest unclenched.

“Sleep,” she told them gently, though they could not yet hear. “I’ve got you. Whatever storms brew beyond these walls, they won’t breach them.”

Grimmauld Place kept its own weather. The house met Harry at the door with a draft like a sigh from a long, cold throat.

He shrugged out of his cloak and missed the hook; it slithered to the floor in a black heap. The kitchen door stood half open, the quiet in it brittle. Ginny looked up from the table when he entered, her face careful.

“What happened?” she asked, voice very soft.

Harry put both hands on the table as if to anchor it—or himself. He stared at the wood grain until it blurred. “Kingsley,” he said. “With Tonks at his side and a Saint Mungo’s file like a verdict. He suspended me. Robards is Acting Head.” He laughed once, the sound hollow. “Said I should go home.”

“Harry—”

“It’s all slipping,” he said, and something in him cracked; the words came out ragged, tumbling. “Everything I held, everything I fought for. My parents, gone before I knew them. Sirius—” The name snagged his breath. “Dumbledore. Remus. Ron.” His voice broke, harsher now. “And now Hermione. My best friend. My sister in all but blood. She chose them. She left me too.”

Ginny crossed the space and laid her hands on his wrists, gentle. “You haven’t stopped since you were eleven,” she said. “There’s no breath between battles for you.”

“They come out on top,” Harry whispered, as if to the stone sink, as if to the house itself. “People like the Malfoys, who minted half the hatred that killed us. And now we bend the world around them—excuse them—because they wept pretty on the right day. How many times do we have to bleed for their redemption arc?”

Ginny didn’t argue. She had learned, long ago, to choose her moments. “You feel lost,” she said instead. “And angry. And you’re carrying it alone.”

He shook his head, then nodded—both, neither. The movement was small, exhausted.

“Kingsley told you to go home,” she said, and a wry line tugged at her mouth. “For once, listen to him. And then—maybe—let someone help. A mind healer. Not because you’re broken. Because you’re carrying too much to put down by yourself.”

He stiffened, ready to deflect with sharp words—but they didn’t come. The silence between them filled with the sound of his breathing, too fast, too shallow. Slowly, his shoulders eased, the resistance in him faltering.

He stared at her, and for a heartbeat the old Harry—the wary, stubborn, brave boy—looked out through the man’s tired eyes. “A mind healer.”

“It’s just talking,” she said. “And breathing. And… grieving. Not in a corridor. Not in a duel. On purpose.”

His shoulders loosened, barely. He let out a breath that wasn’t a laugh and wasn’t a sob, some halfway thing that left him emptied. When she opened her arms, he let himself fold into them, his forehead settling into the curve of her shoulder as if the posture were old and well-worn. She held him while the house muttered, while the light changed, while the coil of fury unwound enough to reveal the ache beneath.

“I don’t know who I am if I’m not fighting,” he said into her collar.

“You’re Harry,” she answered, simple as a charm. “That’s always been enough.”

He didn’t promise anything. He didn’t refuse. When she guided him to the chair and put tea in his hands, he drank. She let hope sit beside caution in her chest and did not force either to speak.

At the cottage, afternoon had settled into the kind of light that makes everything seem tender by nature.

Hermione surfaced first, slow as someone climbing from a deep pool. The ceiling above her wasn’t sterile white but cream washed by sun; the air smelled like clean linen and wildflowers. A weight warmed the side of her hand. She looked down and saw their fingers, laced—hers and Narcissa’s—knuckles pale against the sheet.

Memory came in fragments: the snap of iron around her wrists; the numbness creeping like winter through her veins; a voice in the dark, not heard so much as known—Hold on. Then the thundercrack of Apparition and Andromeda’s voice shaping the room into safety.

“Narcissa,” she whispered, the name already a reaching.

A breath stirred beside her. Narcissa’s lashes fluttered, then lifted. She turned her head, the movement careful, as if the world might jolt wrong if she came back to it too quickly. When her gaze found Hermione’s face, the collected composure she wore like a cloak slackened at the edges.

“You’re here,” Narcissa said, voice a little rough with disuse and potions. Relief softened the fine bones of her face in a way Hermione had only ever seen in stolen moments. “Thank Merlin.”

Hermione wet her lips. Her palm shifted, pressing lightly into Narcissa’s where their fingers twined. “I thought—” The admission scraped up. “I thought I was going to lose you. In the cell. I couldn’t hear you. I couldn’t… feel you.” She blinked hard. “I was so afraid.”

Narcissa’s hand tightened. “You won’t lose me,” she said, a vow spoken low and even. “I won’t allow it.” A breath. “I feared—” She closed her eyes, then opened them again on the truth. “I feared for you. And for her.” Her gaze dropped to the slope of Hermione’s belly under the blanket, then climbed back, full and steady. “Our girl.”

The words settled between them like something consecrated. Hermione’s throat closed; she nodded, unable for a moment to trust her voice.

“You are safe,” Narcissa added, as if saying it in this room could make it true beyond it. “Andromeda will not let the world through these walls unless it kneels first.”

At that, Hermione managed the ghost of a smile. “Your faith in your sister is terrifying.”

“Earned,” Narcissa said, and some shared, private humor moved through her eyes. It faded into something gentler. “Breathe,” she whispered. “With me.”

They did—the simplest of magics, and maybe the oldest. In, out. In, out. With each breath Hermione felt the scoured place in her chest fill by increments, not with light—she wasn’t ready for that word—but with something warm enough to hold.

“Can I—” Hermione began, and then stopped, because questions felt clumsy in a space so tender. She shifted closer instead, the motion deliberate, no flinching in it. Narcissa met her halfway. Their foreheads touched first, a press of skin that said I’m here and so am I. The breath they shared warmed the small air between them.

Narcissa’s eyes dropped once to Hermione’s mouth, then rose—asking without asking. Hermione’s answer was the smallest tilt forward.

Their lips met—soft, like placing a seal rather than breaking one. There was no shock in it, no panic; no one fled. It was an agreement and an anchor, the kind of kiss that makes room rather than takes it. Hermione caught the faintest trace of rosewater and smoke on Narcissa’s skin, and Narcissa felt the warmth of Hermione’s breath steadying against her own.

When they parted, they didn’t go far—just enough to rest with noses brushing, to let the steadiness of this new quiet weave itself into their bones.

“I’m not running,” Narcissa said, because the last time had left a bruise she refused to leave unacknowledged.

“I know,” Hermione said. “Neither am I.”

After a while, they shifted again—not away, but closer. Hermione tucked into Narcissa’s shoulder; Narcissa curled her arm around Hermione and covered both their hands where they lay over the gentle curve of her stomach. The cottage held them the way a good house learns to hold its people. From the doorway, the faintest brush of magic hummed—Andromeda’s wards, listening, approving, standing guard.

“I couldn’t bear to lose you,” Hermione whispered to the hollow of Narcissa’s throat, the words no longer a terror but a truth offered and received.

“You won’t,” Narcissa said, and this time the oath felt like a spell laid into the air and set.

Outside, a blackbird threw its bright song into the late light. Inside, two women rested, their fingers still entwined, the beat of three hearts finding the same slow, merciful rhythm.

Downstairs in the kitchen Andromeda paused mid-motion, her hand resting on the kettle. A faint ripple stirred through her wards, subtle but certain—the kind she had tied to the rhythm of her patients’ vitals. They had stabilized.

Her lips curved, the smile small but sure. She knew why. Not because of the phials or charms, but because upstairs they were holding each other.

She set the kettle to boil, letting the sound fill the quiet. Her shoulders eased. Whatever storms waited beyond the cottage walls, inside it they were safe—and together, strong enough to heal.

Chapter Text

Chapter 35: Quiet Recovery

The days that followed blurred into a rhythm of healing. Hermione and Narcissa moved slowly, their bodies still heavy with the echo of suppression and strain, but no longer fading. Each morning brought a little more strength, each evening a little more peace.

Andromeda watched them closely, healer’s eye noting every shift, but she did not interfere with the way the two women gravitated toward one another. It was not simply comfort anymore—it was survival, a tether neither was willing to let go.

Hermione rose first, often slipping to Narcissa’s side when the older witch stirred, brushing cool cloths across her forehead, coaxing her to drink the tonics Andromeda brewed. Narcissa resisted at times, pride flashing, but Hermione’s hand at her cheek, her quiet murmur—“For me, please”—never failed to soften her.

Narcissa, in turn, fussed over Hermione’s rest, urging her back beneath the covers when she tried to do too much, tucking the blanket more firmly around her belly, her touch lingering with unspoken reverence. The child had become their uniting point of devotion—one heartbeat shared between them, binding them closer than either could have imagined.

At night, when the cottage settled into silence, their fingers would find each other beneath the blankets, twining until sleep claimed them both. It was not passion that carried them in those days, but something gentler, deeper: the quiet certainty that neither would ever face the shadows alone again.

For Hermione, the silence of the cottage was no longer heavy—it was sanctuary. And for Narcissa, long adrift in grief, it was the first time she could close her eyes without bracing for loss.

One evening, as the lamplight gilded the walls in soft gold, Hermione shifted against her pillows and studied Narcissa’s face in the quiet. “Did you ever want more children?” she asked hesitantly.

Narcissa was silent for a long moment, her gaze dropping to where their hands rested over Hermione’s belly. “I did,” she said finally, voice low. “But I couldn’t. Carrying Draco nearly cost me my life. The healers warned us after—another pregnancy would likely kill me.” A breath caught in her throat. “Lucius never pressed the matter. He had his heir, and he would not risk my life for more. But the cost of that fear was… heavy.”

Hermione’s eyes softened. “That’s why you both were so protective of him.”

Narcissa nodded. “Every bruise, every danger, was a reminder of what almost never was. He was all we had. Our entire world, wrapped in blond hair and stubbornness.” A faint smile ghosted her lips, pained but fond.

Her expression shifted then, wistful. “I wish Draco had the chance to meet his daughter. And Lucius—” she gave a small, surprised chuckle, her eyes brightening for a moment. “His granddaughter would have had him wrapped around her little finger before she was even born. He would have pretended to be stern, of course, but she would have ruled him with a smile.”

Hermione’s eyes blurred with tears. “Me too,” she whispered. She looked at Narcissa with such depth of care it almost undid her. “But I’m glad you’re here with me. That she’ll grow up knowing you. She’ll never doubt she is loved.”

Narcissa’s throat tightened. She pressed their joined hands more firmly against Hermione’s stomach, feeling the faint stir beneath. “Then she will have what every child deserves—and what so many are denied. Love. That will be her inheritance.”

Hermione leaned into her, tears dampening Narcissa’s shoulder. But the grief was no longer hollow—it mingled with something steady, with the fragile, certain beginning of family.

A laugh slipped between them—soft, unexpected, real.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Andromeda paused over her work. She felt it first through the wards—a subtle easing, the rhythm of two lives smoothing together. Then, faint through the beams above, she heard the muffled trace of their laughter.

Her lips curved. After so much loss, her sister and Hermione had still found something luminous. Love had returned to this house, and it eased a weight she had carried alone for too long.

The easing left space for another ache. Ted’s absence stirred as it always did in moments like this, an echo of the way he used to gather her in his arms when the world grew too sharp. She let herself imagine it for a breath, the warmth, the steadiness.

And then, unbidden, her thoughts shifted to Kingsley: the strength of his hand closing over hers in that quiet moment, the depth in his gaze when he promised to stand beside her. The memory glowed faintly in the hollow places grief had left behind. She wasn’t ready to name it, but she didn’t push it away either.

Andromeda shook her head with a wry, tender smile, fingers resuming their neat script over parchment. Above her, the cottage hummed with life, with love, and she let herself believe—if only briefly—that perhaps her own heart might still find company again.

Chapter Text

Chapter 36: A Name for Her

The morning light slipped softly through the curtains, pale gold falling across the quilt. Hermione lay propped against Narcissa’s shoulder, her hair still tangled from sleep, the warmth of her partner’s body a comfort she never thought she would be allowed.

She shifted suddenly, her breath catching. “Oh—”

Narcissa’s head turned at once, concern flashing. “What is it?”

Hermione caught her hand, guiding it down to the swell of her stomach. “She’s stronger now. Here—wait.”

As if summoned, the baby kicked again, firm and unmistakable beneath Narcissa’s palm. Narcissa stilled, her breath leaving her in a rush. Her eyes filled, and she whispered, “Merlin…” Her composure faltered completely as another kick thudded against her hand.

Hermione smiled through her own tears. “She knows you’re here.”

Narcissa’s throat worked. Slowly, she bent down until her lips were almost against Hermione’s skin, her hand still spread protectively over the curve of her belly.

“My darling girl,” she whispered, voice trembling with reverence. “You are a miracle beyond magic. You are so very loved. And I swear, you will never doubt that for a moment in this life.”

The baby responded with a strong kick right beneath Narcissa’s hand. Narcissa let out a startled laugh, tears spilling freely now. “Did you feel that? She answered me.”

Hermione brushed trembling fingers through her hair. “Of course she did. She already knows you.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, Narcissa’s cheek resting gently against the swell of Hermione’s belly, as though listening for more.

Finally, Hermione spoke, her voice quiet but sure. “I’ve been thinking of names. She deserves one that carries her family with her, but also her own light. The Black tradition is in the stars—and Draco’s constellation lies just beside Lyra. If we choose from Lyra, it will be as though he’s always watching over her.”

Narcissa lifted her head, pale eyes wide, shining with tears. Hermione continued, her voice firmer now.

“I thought… Lyra Lucia Malfoy. Lyra, for the constellation—and Lucia, for Lucius. Both of them will always be with her, but she will also have her own star to claim.”

Narcissa’s breath caught sharply. She whispered the name as though it were a spell: “Lyra Lucia…” Her lips trembled. “It’s perfect. Draco and Lucius will guard her. And she… she will carry us all forward.”

Hermione cupped her face, pulling her into a kiss—soft, lingering, full of love. When they broke apart, they pressed their foreheads together, whispering the name again as though the child were already listening.

Lyra.

Far from the firelit peace of Andromeda’s cottage, shadows gathered in a cellar beneath Knockturn Alley. The air was damp, heavy with the stench of mildew and smoke.

Harry stood at the head of a rough-hewn table, flanked by six figures: four Aurors suspended for following him at St. Mungo’s, still loyal despite their disgrace, and two cloaked men whose masks bore the worn sigils of Voldemort’s fallen army. Uneasy allies, bound only by hate.

Harry’s eyes gleamed in the lanternlight, hard and fever-bright. “The Malfoys have poisoned this world for too long. They crawled out of the war untouched, their name intact. And now they’re gathering sympathy again. If we let them, they’ll rise from the ashes.”

One of the Death Eaters chuckled low, his voice hoarse. “You mean the widow and the Mudblood. Weak. Easy prey.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t contradict him. “Weak or not, they’re dangerous. Symbols are dangerous. If they live, the Malfoy line lives. And that is what must end.”

One of the suspended Aurors shifted uneasily. “Potter… we didn’t fight a war just to sit at the same table as them.” He jerked his chin toward the Death Eaters. “These men tried to kill us. Tried to kill you.”

The Death Eater’s laugh was sharper now, teeth bared. “And yet here we are, boy. Perhaps we’re not so different after all.”

The Auror’s hand twitched toward his wand. “I’m not taking orders from—”

Harry slammed his wand down on the table. The crack echoed through the cellar, the lantern flames guttering with the force of the impact. “Enough. This isn’t about what you want. It’s about what has to be done. The Ministry is blind, Kingsley is weak, and justice has rotted into mercy. If you can’t stomach what’s necessary, then leave now. But if you stay, you follow me.”

Silence stretched, thick and taut. The Aurors exchanged uneasy glances, their discomfort plain, but none moved for the door.

Harry leaned forward, voice dropping into a hiss. “When the time comes, we strike. Be ready. The Ministry won’t stop us. They can’t.”

The Death Eaters grinned like wolves. The Aurors stayed grim, restless, but silent.

And Harry, standing at the head of the table with his wand pressed flat to the scarred wood, believed it was enough.

Later that night, the kitchen at Grimmauld Place was dim but warm. Ginny sat alone at the table, the remnants of dinner untouched before her. The house was too quiet.

Harry hadn’t returned since afternoon. He hadn’t said where he was going, only stormed out with his cloak and that same dark fire in his eyes.

Ginny traced her finger around the rim of her teacup, unease churning low in her stomach. She told herself he was working, that he still thought like an Auror even if the Ministry had turned against him. But the hollow in her chest whispered otherwise.

When the clock chimed midnight and still no footsteps came on the stairs, Ginny pressed her palms flat to the table. Her eyes lifted once to the empty doorway, then she whispered into the stillness:

“Don’t lose yourself, Harry.”

But the house gave no answer.

Chapter Text

Chapter 37: Shadows in the Garden

The afternoon at Andromeda’s cottage was bright, sunlight spilling across the garden where Teddy raced about with his toy broom. His laughter rang through the air, clear and unburdened, a sound that made Hermione’s chest ache with something like hope. She sat in a cushioned chair beneath the shade of the oak tree, one hand resting on the curve of her belly. Narcissa sat beside her, elegant as ever but softer here, her eyes following the boy with a fondness she rarely allowed the world to see.

“He reminds me of Draco at that age,” Narcissa murmured, a wistful note threading her voice. “Especially with a broom between his hands. Bold, reckless, far too eager to impress.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “He’s got more of Tonks’ mischief in him than Remus’ quiet, I think.”

They both laughed softly, watching as Teddy swooped dangerously low before tumbling off the broom in the grass, unharmed and grinning. He darted over, cheeks flushed, and clambered up onto Hermione’s lap without hesitation.

“Aunt Hermione,” he said seriously, his little hands patting her belly, “is the baby really in there?”

Hermione’s smile widened, gentle. She guided his hand more firmly against her stomach. “Yes, Teddy. Would you like to feel her?”

His eyes went wide, and when the baby kicked, he gasped aloud. “She moved!”

Hermione laughed, eyes bright with tears. “She knows you’re here.”

Teddy leaned closer, whispering with conspiratorial solemnity. “What’s her name?”

Hermione glanced once at Narcissa, then said softly, “Lyra.”

The boy contemplated this, lips pursed, then broke into a grin that lit his whole face. He pressed his cheek against her belly. “Hello, Lyra. Don’t worry—I’ll always protect you. I promise.”

Another kick met his vow, and Teddy squealed in delight before leaping off her lap, darting back to his broom and tearing across the grass again, laughter trailing behind him.

Narcissa’s hand drifted to Hermione’s shoulder, her voice low but steady. “And I promise she will have a happy childhood. One filled with laughter and peace. Whatever else the world does, she will never doubt she is safe and loved.”

Hermione turned then, searching Narcissa’s face, weighing the truth in her pale eyes. After a long moment, her own expression softened into certainty. “I love you,” she whispered.

Narcissa’s breath caught. Her fingers rose to cup Hermione’s cheek, reverence in her touch. “And I love you.”

Their kiss was tender but certain—and as their lips met, the faint hum of shared magic returned, that subtle thrum they had felt in their most intense moments. It vibrated between them for an instant before settling warm in their bones, like a promise sealed.

From the kitchen window, Andromeda paused, a basket of herbs forgotten in her hands. She had heard Teddy’s bright vow, and now the muffled sound of laughter and something softer—joy, unguarded, spilling at last between her sister and Hermione. Her lips curved into a quiet smile.

In a warded conference room, Kingsley Shacklebolt sat at the head of the table, his broad hands folded over a Ministry file. Tonks and Robards sat opposite him, their faces grim. The tension was heavy, the sort that spoke of danger brewing too close.

“We’ve confirmed it,” Tonks said, her tone clipped. “Potter has gathered at least six loyalists—suspended Aurors, some of them. And he’s reached out to remnants of the Death Eaters.”

Robards leaned forward. “They’re planning something, Minister. Something targeted. We just don’t know when.”

Kingsley’s jaw tightened. “Surveillance only for now. Quiet, contained. No mistakes.” He fixed Tonks with a steady look. “You’ll lead, with Robards and two you trust absolutely. Report directly to me. No one else.”

Tonks nodded firmly. “Understood.”

The Minister closed the file with a decisive snap. “Then we move carefully. Harry Potter will not destroy the law he once fought to uphold.”

At Grimmauld Place, Ginny lingered outside the room that held the Black family tapestry. Her hand brushed the doorframe, her palm resting against the wood. She remembered being a girl in this house, hating its shadows, but now it wasn’t the house that chilled her—it was the silence behind the door.

She thought of the man pacing inside, her husband, the chosen one, head auror. Once, Harry had been the boy who carried hope like a torch in the dark. Now he carried something sharper, something she could no longer name.

Ginny drew back her hand and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. Not fear—though that was there too—but the ache of realizing she might not be able to follow him where he was going.

And that ache felt heavier than any curse.

Chapter Text

Chapter 38: A Day of Quiet

Morning found Andromeda’s cottage steeped in soft light, the kind that made even old wood look warm. Windows were cracked for a breeze; honeysuckle drifted through, sweet as a spell.

“Sit,” Andromeda said, passing her wand in a neat arc over Hermione’s abdomen. Pale blue diagnostics unfurled and shimmered. “Heartbeat strong. Your magic is steadier today.” She turned to Narcissa with the same businesslike tenderness. “And you—still flirting with exhaustion. No bravado.”

Narcissa lifted a brow but didn’t argue. Hermione tried for innocent. “We’ll be good.”

“You’ll try,” Andromeda corrected, dry, but her hand lingered on Hermione’s shoulder a breath longer than necessary—a mother’s brief, grounding touch.

The kitchen filled quickly with the clatter of ordinary life. Hermione rolled up her sleeves before Andromeda could shoo her away, and Narcissa followed with the air of someone approaching a diplomatic summit. Teddy scampered in and out, stealing slices of apple and delivering them to the wrong bowls with great ceremony.

“Flour,” Andromeda said, and a bag obediently drifted down from the cupboard. Narcissa eyed it like a suspicious witness.

“It gets everywhere,” Hermione warned, already elbow-deep. “That’s half the fun.”

“Fun,” Narcissa repeated, dubious—but she moved closer anyway. When Hermione pushed the mound toward her, Narcissa set delicate hands to the dough with a tentative press, then a firmer one. The kitchen grew a little quieter, the soft rhythm of kneading filling the space between their breaths.

A puff of flour leapt up and kissed Narcissa’s cheek. She blinked, surprised. Hermione’s thumb came up instinctively, wiping the pale mark away. For a heartbeat Narcissa stilled, then—wonderfully, impossibly—laughed. Not the brittle sound she’d worn for years, but something unselfconscious and bright. Hermione froze, the sound striking through her chest like sunlight breaking a long storm. She thought, fleetingly, that it must have been the laugh of the girl Narcissa had once been.

“Look!” Teddy crowed, appearing at knee height with a tiny flour handprint on his own face. “I match Aunt Cissa!”

“Merlin help us,” Andromeda murmured, though her lips curved. “We’ve bred a kitchen brigade.”

They ate simply—crusty bread, herb-roasted potatoes, a pot of summer soup that tasted like gardens and rain. Narcissa steadied Hermione when she rose too quickly; Hermione laced their fingers under the table when Narcissa’s gaze grew distant. It was not spectacle, not confession. It was the plain, sacred grammar of shared life.

Across the table, Andromeda let the sound of it sink into her bones. The hum of low voices, Teddy’s spoon clinking, Hermione’s soft laugh when Narcissa admitted she liked the bread best. She remembered the way Ted’s thumb used to brush over the back of her hand at the table, a small habit that had meant everything. The ache that rose now was gentler, softened further by the unlooked-for memory of Kingsley’s palm steady on hers, his gaze grounding her with the same weight. For once, she didn’t push the thought aside.

Tonks arrived as the bread basket made its second round, hair an apologetic mauve, posture loose from fatigue and stubbornness. Teddy launched himself into her lap with a battle cry; she oofed and kissed his head. “Saved me a seat, terror?” she asked, and he nodded solemnly, patting the chair with both hands.

“Eat,” Andromeda said, rising to fetch another bowl. “You look like you’ve wrestled a hippogriff.”

“Couple of memos,” Tonks said around a mouthful of soup, eyes brightening at the table’s warmth. “More dangerous, frankly.”

They let dinner be dinner. Teddy told an unbroken tale about the broom and a heroic worm. Hermione cut bread; Narcissa buttered it with care for the perfect edge. Tonks slipped into the rhythm of it—cheekier, louder—but orbiting the same quiet center. When Teddy’s head began to bob, Hermione and Narcissa took him up together—Hermione hushing, Narcissa carding fingers through blue hair—returning a few minutes later with the pleased daze of women who had tucked love into a small bed.

After the dishes charmed themselves into neat stacks and the fire threw steady light across the table, Tonks leaned back, some of the mischief draining from her eyes. “All right,” she said softly. “A little truth, while the house is quiet.”

Andromeda’s gaze sharpened. Narcissa’s hand found Hermione’s, knuckles pale and sure.

“We’re watching him,” Tonks said, meaning Harry without naming him. “By the book. Me, Robards, two we trust. He’s keeping close to ground we know—old alleys, old loyalties. Some of his suspended lot are hovering. There are… whispers.” She hesitated, then added quietly, “The hardest part is watching him and remembering who he was. I don’t know how to separate them anymore.”

“Rogue Death Eaters,” Andromeda said, expression hardening.

Tonks nodded once. “We’ve seen no move yet. But we treat the air like kindling.”

Narcissa’s jaw set, elegant and lethal. Hermione’s palm pressed instinctively over her belly, then relaxed when Narcissa’s hand covered it. “Thank you,” Hermione said. It was simple and enormous.

“You’re not alone in this,” Andromeda added. “You never will be again.”

Tonks’s smile crooked, a flash of the girl she’d been. “I know, Mum.” She flicked her gaze to Narcissa and Hermione. “We’ve got you.”

Silence settled—not heavy, not bleak. Just honest. The fire cracked. Outside, the garden sang its small night song. And inside, at a scrubbed wooden table, the ordinary miracle of family held firm against the dark.

Chapter Text

Chapter 39— Promises and Possibilities

Ginny found Tonks at the end of her patrol near Diagon Alley, the lamplight glinting off cobblestones. She hadn’t stumbled across her by chance. They had known each other since the days of the Order, but it was Teddy’s birth that had drawn them properly into each other’s orbit, and Tonks’ close work with Harry in the Auror department. Over the years Ginny had learned Tonks’s rhythms: the way she always lingered at the wards on the edge of her beat, the way her stride slowed as she neared the Leaky Cauldron before heading home. She knew exactly where to wait.

“Tonks.”

The older witch’s wand was out in an instant, violet sparks flashing in her hair, until recognition softened her stance. “Ginny? Merlin, you nearly got yourself hexed.”

“I had to find you,” Ginny said quickly, eyes darting around. “I couldn’t keep quiet anymore.”

Tonks tucked her wand away, her expression sharpening. “Go on.”

Ginny’s voice trembled. “Harry isn’t himself. He spends hours in the tapestry room, raging to the walls. I’ve heard him muttering in his sleep—Hermione’s name, Narcissa’s, the baby’s—like curses he can’t shake. And he’s gone so much lately. When he comes back, there’s this look in his eyes, like fire with nowhere safe to burn.” She swallowed. “He talks about them as if they’re a disease. About the baby as if it shouldn’t exist. And I think he’s meeting people. Darker ones. Some of the suspended Aurors are still circling him.”

Tonks’s jaw set, sharp as flint. She stepped closer, her hand heavy on Ginny’s shoulder. “Listen to me. If you ever feel unsafe at Grimmauld Place—any time, day or night—you come to me. Don’t hesitate. Don’t wait. Do you understand?”

Ginny nodded quickly, tears rising. “I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Of course I believe you,” Tonks said fiercely. She pulled her into a fierce hug, voice low against Ginny’s hair. “You’re not alone in this. Whatever he’s planning, we’ll stop it. But I need you safe. Promise me you’ll come if anything feels wrong.”

“I promise,” Ginny whispered.

They stayed like that for a long moment before Tonks eased back, her eyes blazing. “Good girl. Now go before he notices. Remember—I’ve got you.”

Later that evening, Andromeda sat alone in the cottage sitting room, the fire painting soft gold across the shelves and her cooling teacup. The house was quiet—Teddy asleep upstairs, Tonks finally resting, Hermione and Narcissa safe behind their wards. By all rights she should have felt relief. Instead, her thoughts drifted, circling the same way they had all week.

Back to Ted, as they always did. But also, increasingly, to Kingsley—his hand steadying hers in the Ministry, his voice grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected, the warmth that lingered long after she left his presence. She felt the ache of years spent carrying too much alone, and the surprising thought that maybe she didn’t have to anymore.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she lifted her wand. Silver light burst forth: a hawk, wings spread wide. Her voice carried clear and certain: “Kingsley. I know it’s late, but if you’re still working… perhaps we could share a drink?”

Moments later, a lynx padded into the room, its silvery fur gleaming, its deep voice unmistakably his. “Still in the office. Floo is open. Come by.”

Her pulse kicked. For a moment she hovered, the instinct to retreat clawing at her. But then she squared her shoulders, tossed floo powder into the fire, and stepped through.

She emerged into Kingsley’s office, the hearth flaring green behind her. The room smelled of parchment and ink, the firelight throwing long shadows over stacks of files. Kingsley looked up at once from his desk. The strain around his eyes eased into something softer, something meant only for her. “Andy,” he said, rising immediately. “You came.”

She almost laughed at the simplicity of it. “You did say the Floo was open.”

He moved around the desk, large frame filling the space with an ease that settled her nerves. Without hesitation, he poured two glasses from a small bottle on the sideboard and handed one to her. Their fingers brushed; warmth flared where skin touched.

“To unexpected company,” he said.

“To not carrying the weight alone,” she returned. Their glasses clinked, and for the first time in too many years, Andromeda let herself feel what it meant to arrive somewhere she was wanted.

They sat together on the worn leather sofa near the fire, the rest of the office fading into the background. Andromeda cradled her glass, letting the smoky warmth spread through her chest. Kingsley leaned back, one arm resting along the top of the sofa, his presence steady without crowding.

“You shouldn’t still be here,” she said after a moment, gesturing at the piles of parchment. “Even Ministers need rest.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s what they all say. But I doubt sleep would be kind tonight.”

She studied him over the rim of her glass. “Because of Harry?”

“Because of everything,” he admitted. His gaze dropped to the fire. “The Ministry is fragile. One wrong step and the people lose faith in it entirely. Harry’s shadow stretches long. I can’t afford missteps.”

“You’ve carried worse,” Andromeda said quietly.

His eyes lifted back to hers. “As have you.”

The truth of it hummed in the air between them. For once, she didn’t deflect. “Yes,” she said simply. “And I’m tired of it.”

They sat in companionable silence, the kind that feels like an answer rather than an absence. After a while, Kingsley chuckled low in his chest. “You know,” he said, turning his glass idly in his hand, “I never thought the day would come when I’d sit here at midnight, sharing firewhisky with a Black sister and calling it the highlight of my week.”

Andromeda arched a brow. “Careful, Kingsley. We’re full of surprises.”

That drew a genuine laugh from him, deep and warm. The sound curled around her like the fire’s heat, tugging something loose in her chest. Without thinking, she reached across and touched his hand where it rested on his knee. It was meant to be light, a passing thing—but his fingers turned, closing gently around hers.

He didn’t let go.

They stayed that way until the fire burned low. When at last she rose to leave, he walked her to the Floo, their hands brushing more than once. She paused on the hearth, turning back.

“I can’t promise when I’ll next sleep,” he said, half-apology, half-truth. “But I can promise dinner tomorrow evening. No files. No Ministry. Just us.”

Her lips curved, her heart stuttering once before settling into a steadier beat. “Then you’d better keep that promise, Minister. I’ll hold you to it.”

His answering smile was small but sure. “Good. I’d rather like to be held to it.”

The flames took her then, spinning her away in green light. Kingsley stood alone in his office, the taste of firewhisky still warm on his tongue and the echo of her hand in his. For the first time that night, the weight on his shoulders felt bearable.

The next evening, as Andromeda fastened her cloak, Narcissa leaned in the doorway, lips curved in a knowing smirk. “Well, well. Off to dine with the Minister. Do behave, sister.”

Andromeda rolled her eyes, cheeks coloring. “It’s only supper.”

“Mm.” Narcissa’s smirk softened into something gentler. “You deserve happiness, Andi. Someone to share the weight. Kingsley is a good man. Enjoy him—even if…” her lips twitched, “…it’s only for the sex.”

Andromeda groaned as Hermione stifled a laugh behind her.

“Curfew, Minister,” Narcissa called when Kingsley arrived, cloaked but unmistakable.

“Or tomorrow morning,” Hermione added with mock solemnity.

Both Kingsley and Andromeda flushed as laughter followed them out the door.

His home was warm, modest, filled with the smell of roast chicken and herbs. A table had been set for two, candles burning steadily, wine already breathing in crystal glasses.

“You cooked this?” she asked, arching a brow in disbelief.

“Even Ministers need to eat,” he said with a chuckle. “And it turns out I’m still fairly good with a wand and a skillet.”

Dinner was simple but perfect: chicken with crisp skin, buttered greens, and a blackberry tart that tasted of late summer. Conversation flowed more easily than either expected. They spoke of Teddy’s latest broom mishaps, of old Order nights when exhaustion had been their only luxury, of nothing at all and everything at once.

At one point, his hand covered hers across the table, large and steady, his thumb brushing once over her knuckles. The gesture silenced her in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable—it was grounding, a tether she hadn’t realized she was desperate for.

When the plates vanished with a flick, he rose and extended his hand. “Dance with me?”

She laughed, startled. “There’s no music.”

His wand flicked, and soft strings filled the room—violins, a low cello, a slow, steady rhythm that seemed to echo his heartbeat. “There is now.”

She placed her hand in his, and he drew her close. His arm slid around her waist with surprising sureness, her hand settling at his shoulder as though it had always belonged there. They moved slowly across the rug, the world narrowed to candlelight and breath.

Her cheek came to rest against his chest, the steady thrum of his heart beneath her ear. She had forgotten what it was to feel held, to move not for survival or duty but for the sheer, unremarkable wonder of it.

“Andy,” he murmured into her hair, his voice low, “I care for you. Deeply. I want to give you more than a stolen moment like this. But until Harry is dealt with—until this shadow passes—I can’t offer you all of myself. You deserve more than half measures.”

She tilted her head back, her eyes shining, her lips so close he could feel her breath. “So you’re telling me to wait?”

He smiled faintly and brushed his lips across hers, a kiss both gentle and certain. “I’m asking.”

She kissed him again, firmer, her voice a promise against his mouth. “Then I’ll wait. But don’t think you’re getting out of the next dinner. It’s mine to host.”

When she left later, her steps were lighter, her smile unhidden. Kingsley stood in the doorway long after she vanished into the Floo, the music still playing softly behind him, the warmth of her touch lingering on his hand.

Chapter Text

Chapter 40: Strains and Schemes

The cellar stank faintly of damp and old ale, but Harry hardly noticed. He stood hunched over the scarred table, his wand casting a pale glow across the creased map pinned beneath his hands. His Aurors lingered close, loyal but restless, while the Death Eaters lounged in shadow with the hungry patience of jackals.

Harry traced the line of Wiltshire with a finger. “The Malfoy wards are ancient, rooted in the Malfoy bloodline. Nearly impenetrable. That’s why Voldemort chose the manor as his headquarters — not even the Ministry could break them. We won’t waste time battering against walls we can’t tear down.”

He stabbed his finger toward a smaller mark on the map. “But Andromeda’s cottage? That’s different. She’s strengthened it, yes, but compared to the manor it’s fragile. It can be broken. And when it falls, they’ll be trapped. Exposed.”

A murmur rippled through the group. One of the suspended Aurors, a stocky man with cropped hair, frowned. “And if the Ministry notices?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “They won’t. We’ll move at dusk, three nights from now. By the time Shacklebolt’s people realize what’s happened, it’ll already be over. Narcissa Malfoy will fall. And Hermione Granger with her. Once they’re gone, there is no heir, no Malfoy line left to poison this world.”

A Death Eater leaned forward, mask pushed up to reveal a grin of yellowed teeth. “We should make an example of them. Drag it out.”

One of the Aurors bristled. “We’re not butchers. This is about ending a threat, not feeding your bloodlust.”

The Death Eater’s grin widened. “Blood is the cleanest kind of truth.”

Wands shifted, tension sparking sharp in the damp air. Harry’s fist came down hard on the table, rattling glasses and silencing the room. “Enough. You’ll do as I say. This isn’t about what you want. It’s about what must be done. Clean, fast, final. Anyone who can’t stomach that leaves now.”

The Aurors exchanged uneasy glances, but none moved. Their loyalty to Harry outweighed their disgust. The Death Eaters smirked, content to wait, their silence laced with malice.

Harry leaned closer, voice low and raw. “This isn’t vengeance,” he hissed. “It’s justice. My parents, Sirius, Dumbledore, Lupin, Ron — they gave everything. I’ll be damned before the Malfoys steal what’s left of their victory.”

When he straightened and swept from the cellar, cloak snapping behind him, the room stayed thick with the weight of his words.

Only once his footsteps faded did one Auror lean toward another, voice pitched just above a whisper. “This doesn’t feel like justice anymore.”

The other’s eyes flicked toward the smirking Death Eaters and then back to the door Harry had left through. He swallowed hard. “Careful. Say that too loud and it’s treason.”

Still, the doubt lingered, heavy as the damp stone around them.

Upstairs at Andromeda’s cottage, the mood could not have been more different.

Hermione sighed as she lowered herself carefully onto the edge of the bed, one hand pressed into the small of her back. The third trimester had arrived with aches she could no longer wave away with potions or stubbornness. “Merlin, I feel like I’m carrying a mountain, not a child,” she muttered, trying for humor but sounding weary.

Narcissa, already slipping her robe off her shoulders, arched a brow. “Nonsense. You’re carrying a miracle.” She moved behind her, hands poised. “Now lie forward, love. Let me tend to you.”

Hermione obeyed with a wry smile, resting against the pillows. Narcissa’s hands began slow, gentle circles across her back, easing the tension from her muscles. Hermione let out a low, involuntary sound — half relief, half something more.

Her breath hitched as Narcissa’s thumbs pressed deeper, working along the tight lines of her shoulders. Narcissa leaned closer, her lips brushing feather-light kisses along Hermione’s bare shoulder.

Hermione shivered, warmth flooding her cheeks. She turned her head, curls brushing Narcissa’s cheek, and caught her lips in a kiss. Soft at first, then hungrier. Hermione’s tongue teased across Narcissa’s lips, a silent invitation. Narcissa parted for her at once, her hand sliding higher along Hermione’s spine as the kiss deepened into a slow, heated snog.

When they broke apart, gasping softly against each other’s mouths, Hermione’s laugh was breathless. But before anything more could unfold, the baby gave a sudden, strong kick beneath Hermione’s ribs.

Both women startled, then dissolved into laughter, their foreheads pressed together, still out of breath.

“She has impeccable timing,” Narcissa murmured.

Hermione cupped her cheek, eyes shining. “She already knows how to keep us in line.”

They laughed again, holding one another close — unaware of how soon their fragile peace would be tested.

Chapter Text

Chapter 41: Cracks in the Shield

The cottage sat quiet in the pale dawn, its garden dripping with last night’s rain. Birds flitted along the hedgerows, the morning ordinary in every way. But just beyond the boundary line, the air shimmered faintly — a ripple only those with dark intent would notice.

Cloaked figures crouched at the edge of Andromeda’s property, where the wards hung like a faint veil. The magic was strong, stronger than most. Unyielding forever? No.

Harry's men moved like carrion crows, circling the boundary, muttering low incantations. Curses layered upon curses, probing, prying, peeling back threads meant to keep darkness out. Each strike dimmed the glow, each whispered word tugged loose another knot.

“Tonight,” one hissed, testing the shimmer with the tip of his wand. The line quivered weakly now, no longer blazing but fragile. He bared his teeth in a grin. “When the sun sets, we break them. They’ll never see it coming.”

One of the Death Eaters spat into the grass. “Let them spend the day thinking themselves safe. At dusk, their walls fall — and so do they.”

Their laughter was low, cruel, quickly swallowed by the mist.

Inside the cottage, Hermione stirred in her sleep, shifting against the ache in her back. Narcissa’s hand smoothed unconsciously along her arm, soothing without waking. They lay entwined, breathing in rhythm, wrapped in a calm as fragile as spun glass. Neither stirred when the wards outside groaned faintly, their shield already beginning to fail.

Morning sunlight filtered softly through the curtains. The cottage smelled of tea and bread, the quiet kind of domesticity that might almost fool them into believing the world was gentle. Hermione sat at the table with a book open, one hand absently stroking the curve of her belly. Narcissa stood near the window, her eyes fixed on the garden.

It looked ordinary — too ordinary. Dew on the hedgerows, flowers stretching toward the sun — yet the air carried a weight Hermione couldn’t name.

She closed her book and shifted uneasily. “Cissa… do you feel it?”

Narcissa turned, brow arched. “Feel what?”

Hermione shook her head, embarrassed. “I don’t know. Just — something. The house feels strange. Like it’s holding its breath.”

Narcissa was silent a moment, pale eyes narrowing as she looked back out across the hedgerows. “I thought it was only me.”

Their gazes met across the room — a silent acknowledgment, unspoken words thick between them. Neither dared speak the word danger, but the shadow of it lingered.

Hermione rose, crossing to Narcissa’s side. Her voice was soft, almost a confession. “Do you think it’s just the pregnancy? Making me imagine things?”

Narcissa reached for her hand, her touch cool and steady. “No. Instinct is rarely wrong.” Her tone sharpened with quiet conviction. “But whatever it is, you are safe. Here. With me.”

Hermione leaned into her touch, allowing the reassurance to settle like balm, though the unease never left her chest.

As the morning wore on, the cottage remained whole, quiet, sunlit — but in the bones of its wards, threads were already fraying. And as dusk crept closer, so too did the moment the darkness had chosen to strike.

Chapter Text

Chapter 42: Proof in Hand

Ginny woke at dawn, the house unnervingly still. Harry’s steady breathing filled the bedroom beside her, but sleep would not return. She slipped quietly from beneath the covers, careful not to wake him, and padded down the stairs.

The kitchen was cool, dim with the first gray light of morning. She reached for the kettle — and froze.

The table was covered in parchment, spread wide like the aftermath of a storm. Maps of wards. Notes on how to probe and collapse them. Malfoy Manor sketched in sharp detail. And at the center, a rough plan of Andromeda’s cottage, annotated with a list of suspected protections.

Her eyes snagged on the words scrawled across the bottom in Harry’s hand:

Eliminate the rot.

And beneath, circled twice in sharp ink: dusk.

Her breath caught. For a moment, she thought she might be sick. Whatever hope she had clung to—that Harry’s anger was temporary, that he could still be pulled back—shattered.

Her fingers trembled as she sifted through the pages. With a flick of her wand, she duplicated the most damning notes, shrinking them into slips no larger than playing cards. She tucked them into her pocket just as the floorboards above creaked.

Harry came down the stairs, looking more at ease than he had in weeks. He bent to press a kiss against her cheek, smiling as if nothing were wrong. “You’re up early,” he said lightly. “Didn’t think I’d see you before I head out.”

Ginny forced her lips into a smile, though her heart thundered. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He chuckled, oblivious to the fear in her eyes. “Big day ahead.”

She nodded faintly, praying he couldn’t hear the tremor in her voice.

By midday, Ginny had her excuse ready — an errand in Diagon Alley, something for Teddy. Harry waved her off absently, too absorbed in his work to notice.

She moved swiftly through the Ministry atrium, her hood drawn low, the packet of shrunken files pressing against her ribs like a brand. She didn’t stop until she reached the private records room where Tonks was waiting, wards sealing tight as soon as the door shut.

Tonks’s hair was muted brown today, her expression sharp. “You said it was urgent.”

Ginny laid the evidence on the table, her hands shaking. “I found these this morning. He left them out… like he didn’t even care if I saw. And last night, in his sleep — he muttered about wards. About ending the line. About… your mother’s cottage.”

Tonks unfolded the parchment, her jaw tightening at the scrawled words. Her voice dropped, grim. “Merlin’s beard. This isn’t suspicion anymore. This is proof.”

Ginny’s voice broke. “Then stop him. Please. Before it’s too late.”

Tonks reached across the table, covering Ginny’s hand with her own. “I will take this straight to Kingsley. He needs to see it now. But listen — everything has to be done properly, with procedure. If we rush this, if it isn’t airtight, the Prophet will paint Harry as a martyr and Hermione as the villain. We can’t give them that chance.”

Ginny’s breath hitched. “So we wait?”

Tonks’s jaw tightened, but her voice softened. “We build. Carefully. Every step, every meeting, every word. It won’t be long now.” She squeezed Ginny’s hand, her eyes fierce. “Thank you for this, Gin. For your courage. I’ll make sure it counts.”

Ginny nodded, clinging to her words, though her stomach twisted with dread.

Neither of them knew that even as they spoke, cloaked figures crouched in the hedgerows outside Andromeda’s cottage. Their whispered curses seeped into the mist, unraveling the wards thread by fragile thread.

By the time the sun set, the protections would be weaker still. And time was running out.

Chapter Text

Chapter 43: Gathering Shadows

Early evening settled heavy over the countryside, the air cool with the promise of rain. Cloaked figures crouched in the hedgerows outside Andromeda’s cottage, their breaths steaming in the fading light. They weren’t in Death Eater regalia—no masks, no hoods—there were only dark cloaks and drawn faces. Subtle, but no less dangerous.

The wards glimmered faintly along the property’s edge, once-bright threads of Black magic straining like glass under pressure. Each whispered curse from the intruders made the shimmer weaken, sparks scattering across the grass. The air stank of ozone and charred earth, the smell of magic being unstitched.

Harry Potter stood among them beneath his Invisibility Cloak, heart hammering with feverish anticipation. His breath fogged the air as his gaze fixed on the trembling barrier.

“Not long now,” one Auror muttered, his wand pressed to the invisible line. “By dusk, they’ll be dust.”

Another cloaked man grinned sharply. “Let them laugh inside their little nest. When the wards fall, they won’t even have time to scream.”

Harry’s mouth curved beneath the cloak, wild light flashing in his eyes. “And then we end this. Malfoy blood will rot no more.”

Inside the cottage, Hermione shifted on the sofa, her hand pressed to the small of her back. A wince crossed her face.

Narcissa noticed instantly. She rose from the armchair, her robe whispering across the rug as she crossed the room to crouch beside her. “Where?” she asked, sharp with worry.

“Lower back. And I’m out of breath just sitting,” Hermione admitted, attempting a rueful smile. “Third trimester joys, I suppose.”

Narcissa’s hand stroked down her arm, both tender and fierce. “Then you are not to move unless I say so. Do you understand?”

Hermione gave her a look, half amusement, half exasperation, but leaned into the touch, allowing the rare comfort.

Across the rug, Teddy sat cross-legged, tongue caught in concentration as he built a wobbling tower of enchanted blocks. Each piece stacked with a faint hum of magic, rising higher and higher. “Look, Aunt ’Mione, Aunt Cissa!” he shouted proudly. “It’s taller than me!”

Hermione laughed, her discomfort forgotten for a moment. “It’s brilliant, Teddy. Just don’t make it taller than the house.”

The tower wobbled again, a shimmer running through the blocks that made Narcissa’s eyes flick sharply to the window. The evening air outside was heavy, too heavy, the wards humming faintly in the back of her senses like a taut string about to snap. Hermione caught the pause, their gazes meeting—silent acknowledgment that something was wrong.

At that same hour, Ginny Potter stirred the stew simmering on the stove. The smell of herbs filled the kitchen, but her stomach roiled. All day Harry had been in unnervingly good spirits—humming, smiling faintly, pressing casual kisses to her cheek as though nothing in the world weighed on him.

But the memory of the scrawled words she had copied that morning clawed at her: Eliminate the rot. And beneath it, the single word: Dusk.

Her ladle stilled in the pot. The urgency she had been pushing down all day rose like a flood. If she hesitated, Hermione and Narcissa would pay the price.

With shaking hands, she set the ladle aside and strode to the hearth. She threw in Floo powder, her voice catching as she called Andromeda’s cottage.

A moment later, she stumbled out of the fireplace into the warm sitting room. Hermione and Narcissa both whirled, wands half-raised before recognition caught them. Teddy’s tower collapsed with a crash.

“Ginny?” Hermione gasped, rising. “What—”

“He’s coming for you,” Ginny blurted, breathless. “Harry. This place isn’t safe. You have to leave—now. Tonight.”

Even as the words left her mouth, a low, thunderous crack reverberated through the walls. The wards shuddered—light splintering across the windows—and then shattered with a sound like breaking glass.

Meanwhile, at the Ministry, Tonks stormed through the corridors, her boots ringing against the polished floors. The secretary outside the Minister’s office leapt up in alarm.

“Auror Tonks, you can’t just—”

But Tonks shoved the door open, ignoring the protests. She froze on the threshold.

Her mother was pressed against Kingsley Shacklebolt in front of the hearth, the two of them locked in a decidedly un-Ministerial kiss.

Tonks blinked, then let a slow, wicked grin spread across her face. “Well. About time.”

Andromeda jumped back, flustered, cheeks flaming. “Dora!”

Kingsley, entirely unbothered, straightened his robes with a faint smirk. “Auror Tonks. Was there something urgent, or were you here to critique my personal life?”

“I’ll save the critique for later,” Tonks shot back, though her grin had softened into something almost approving. She dropped it as she laid a packet of parchment on his desk. “Ginny brought me this. I checked it against patrol logs and Ministry records. It’s real. Harry’s planning something—and the target is my mother’s cottage. Tonight.”

The teasing vanished from Andromeda’s face. “Then I have to go home.”

“Not alone,” Kingsley said at once, voice firm, already reaching for the Floo.

But when he threw in the powder, the flames flared green and then guttered back to ordinary fire. The Floo was locked.

Tonks swore under her breath. “Then it’s already started.”

Andromeda’s hand clutched at Kingsley’s arm, her face gone pale. “Hermione. Narcissa. Teddy—”

Kingsley’s jaw tightened, his voice like steel. “We’ll get there. But we’re already late.”

And outside the cottage, the first curses struck the outer walls.

Chapter Text

Chapter 44: The Breaking Point

The hearth roared to life with green flame as Narcissa threw the Floo powder. “Malfoy Manor!” she cried, voice sharp.

Nothing happened. The flames sputtered, hissed, then collapsed into cold ash.

Hermione’s face drained of color. She seized Ginny’s arm. “Try Apparition. Anywhere—just go!”

They linked hands and twisted. Nothing. The world remained stubbornly solid around them, the pull of magic smothered into silence.

“An anti-Apparition ward,” Narcissa breathed, her voice tight. “We’re caged.”

Hermione didn’t hesitate. She raised her wand. “Expecto Patronum!”

Silver light burst forth—not the playful otter she had carried all her life, but a lioness, proud and radiant, her mane blazing. She bounded across the room, carrying Hermione’s desperate plea to Kingsley: We are trapped. Help us.

“Expecto Patronum!” Narcissa cried, and another lioness erupted from her wand—twin to Hermione’s. Their spectral forms brushed together like recognition before streaking away, her message flying toward Andromeda.

Ginny lifted her wand with shaking hands. “Expecto Patronum!” An elegant silver horse galloped into the night, racing straight to Tonks.

Ginny’s eyes widened at the twin lionesses, but there was no time to question it.

The front door exploded inward with a splintering crack. Dust and shards of wood choked the air.

Hermione yanked Teddy behind her, crouching to his height. Her voice was steady though her stomach quivered with terror. “Stay behind us, sweetheart. Don’t move, no matter what you see. Everything will be all right.”

Teddy’s lip trembled, but he nodded, clutching Hermione’s skirts.

Narcissa stepped in front of them, wand raised, her body angled like a shield. Ginny moved to Hermione’s other side, pale but resolute. Together they formed a wall around the boy.

Through the smoke, a tall figure strode into the room.

“Uncle Harry!” Teddy cried, starting forward—only for Ginny to seize him back.

For the briefest flicker, Harry Potter’s face softened at the sight of them—his wife, his godson—but his eyes hardened almost instantly, cold and fever-bright. His lip curled. “So. The rot has touched you too, Ginny. I should have known.”

“Harry, please,” Ginny begged, clutching Teddy close. “Stop this. You don’t have to—”

“I do,” he snapped, fury cracking his voice. “The Malfoy name poisoned this world once. I won’t let it rise again. Not through them. Not through that child.” His gaze cut to Hermione’s rounded belly, twisting with disgust. “Tonight it ends.”

Shadows filled the doorway behind him: two cloaked men with wands already drawn, faces hidden, and four suspended Aurors grim-faced at his back.

“You side with them,” Harry sneered, his voice slicing the air. “Then you’re no better. You’ll fall with them.”

Hermione lifted her wand, her voice unsteady but iron at its core. “You will not harm my baby, Harry Potter.”

The room ignited with curses.

Far across the city, three Patronuses burst into the Ministry Atrium—two lionesses fierce as flame, one horse swift and determined. Their voices rang out in a chorus of desperate cries.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was already on his feet when they arrived, his hand closing hard around his wand. “The cottage is under attack.” His tone was iron.

Tonks’s hair flared scarlet as she surged forward. “That’s my son in there. I’m not waiting for backup.”

Kingsley’s lynx Patronus streaked away, carrying orders to Robards and a trusted handful of Aurors. “Bring reinforcements. Andromeda Tonks’s cottage. Anti-Apparition wards are active.”

Andromeda’s hawk launched next, wings flashing as her voice reached into the night: Hold on. Help is coming.

Kingsley turned to them both, his voice low and commanding. “We move now. As close as we can. Break their wards.”

They linked hands and twisted into the void.

The world snapped back into focus on the lane just beyond the cottage. The air shimmered unnaturally, a lattice of dark magic tangled tight around the property. The stench of curses thickened the air.

Tonks lifted her wand, her voice raw. “We tear it down.”

Andromeda raised her own beside her daughter’s, determination blazing. “Every second counts.”

Kingsley’s wand flared as his deep voice thundered. “Then don’t waste one.”

Together, they hurled their magic at the barrier. Sparks shrieked as spell struck spell, unraveling the black lattice thread by thread.

Inside the cottage, the family fought for their lives.

Chapter Text

Chapter 45: The Lioness’s Stand

The cottage was chaos. Smoke and splinters filled the air, every wall scorched with curse marks. Ginny’s shield flickered under the pounding of spells, Hermione’s wand hand shook as she forced her magic outward, and Narcissa’s eyes blazed, her curses precise and deadly.

But there were too many.

A Death Eater’s blasting hex blew apart the kitchen table, sending shards flying. Hermione staggered, clutching her belly, and Narcissa was there instantly, wand raised high, fury in every line of her body. Stay behind me! she shouted, her voice sharp enough to cut through the roar of spells.

From the doorway, Harry’s voice rang out, raw with fury. You should never have chosen them, Hermione!

Hermione met his gaze through the haze of smoke, her face pale but resolute. I chose love, Harry. And you can’t take that from me.

His face twisted. Then I’ll take everything else.

A curse lanced toward her, green-tinged and vicious. Narcissa stepped instinctively in front, but Hermione shoved her back with desperate strength. The force of the spell cracked through the beams overhead, rattling the room.

Ginny hurled a curse back at him, her voice breaking. Harry, stop! This isn’t you!

But Harry didn’t stop. His wand slashed again, relentless.

The three women were being driven back step by step, Teddy clinging to Hermione’s skirt, wailing, the walls of the cottage closing in, curses raining down like a storm.

And then it happened.

Ginny! Hermione screamed — but too late. A scarlet jet slammed into Ginny’s chest. She crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Teddy’s cry was piercing. Aunty Ginny! He tried to break free, but Hermione dragged him back, shielding him with her trembling arms. She’ll be all right, Teddy, Hermione gasped. It was only a Stupefy. She’s breathing. She’ll wake up. I promise.

The boy sobbed into her robes, clinging tight.

Stupefy! Narcissa snarled, her voice like a whip. She stepped in front of Hermione, her wand carving brilliant arcs of silver fire through the smoke. Stay down!

Harry’s voice rose above the chaos, dripping with venom. You can’t win, Hermione! Not with her. Not with that thing inside you!

Silence! Narcissa’s fury ignited. Her curse slammed into the doorframe inches from his head. You will not speak of our child like that!

The walls trembled with the weight of the duel. Hermione’s shield flickered desperately, her body screaming with exhaustion. The baby kicked sharply beneath her palm, as though sensing the danger.

And then — the doorframe filled with a figure that froze the attackers mid-strike.

Andromeda stormed in, wand slashing through the smoke, her eyes burning with a fury so sharp it made more than one cloaked Auror falter. For a breathless instant, even the Death Eaters hesitated — because in the flickering firelight, she looked like Bellatrix reborn.

Her voice cut like steel. No one touches my family.

She struck, roots ripping through the floor to ensnare the nearest Death Eater. Behind her, Kingsley and Tonks barreled in. Kingsley’s first spell hurled an Auror across the room. Tonks’ hair blazed crimson as she cut down another, her voice raw as she cried out, Teddy!

Mummy! Teddy sobbed, breaking from Hermione’s grip. Tonks dropped her wand long enough to sweep him into her arms. Oh, baby, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.

The tide of battle shifted — but Harry had been waiting.

Narcissa’s wand was ripped away by a vicious curse. She gasped, unarmed, pressed back against the wall.

Harry’s smirk cut through the haze. Avada Kedavra!

The words ripped the air apart, green fire roaring straight for her.

Hermione moved without thinking. She hurled Narcissa behind her, stepping into the path of the curse. She thrust up her wand, reaching deeper than she had ever dared. Protego maxima!

The shield that erupted was not hers alone. Power surged through her — not just her magic, but the raw pulse of the child inside her, fierce and unyielding. And then Teddy’s small hands pressed to her belly, his magic wild, instinctive, joining hers.

The barrier bloomed golden, vast and radiant. It caught the Killing Curse in its heart — and shattered it into a thousand sparks.

The cottage froze. That curse was absolute, unstoppable. Yet here it had, blazing defiance in the hands of a mother, a boy, and a life not yet born.

Harry staggered back a step, eyes wide in disbelief. Impossible… he breathed, the word torn from him.

Narcissa stared too, horror and awe mingling across her face. For a heartbeat, even the battle seemed to falter around the sight of the impossible made real.

The shield flickered out. Hermione collapsed to her knees, gasping, her strength spent. Teddy panted beside her, still clutching her belly as though holding the magic together.

Hermione’s hand shook as she pressed her wand into Narcissa’s palm. Take it. For us. For her. For him.

Narcissa’s fingers closed around it, the fit electric, alive with Hermione’s trust. Her voice was ice. You will not harm my family ever again.

The duel that followed rattled the walls. Harry’s curses tore like lightning, but Narcissa met them with merciless precision, every spell fueled by grief, by love, by the trust of the boy and woman she shielded.

You should have died with Draco! Harry roared. Your line should have ended there!

And yet it lives, Narcissa shot back, cold and steady. In her. In us.

Their spells collided, sparks cascading like fire across the ruined room. And then Harry faltered. Narcissa’s final strike sent his wand flying, skittering across the floor.

He lay gasping in the rubble, his glasses cracked, eyes blazing with venom. Do it! Kill me. That’s what a Malfoy would do.

Narcissa stood over him, chest heaving, Hermione’s wand steady in her hand. For a long moment, the room held its breath.

Then she lowered it. No. That’s what you would do.

Her gaze flicked to Hermione trembling but alive, to Teddy clutching his mother, to Ginny unconscious but breathing. Her voice sharpened. You don’t deserve the peace of death. You’ll face justice. You’ll face what you’ve become.

Kingsley strode forward, his lynx Patronus blazing at his side. Harry James Potter, he declared, his voice booming, you are under arrest for conspiracy, treason, and attempted murder.

Tonks bound him in chains of blue fire, her jaw set, her eyes wet. Harry struggled, snarling, but it was over.

And in the wreckage of the cottage, Narcissa stood tall, Hermione’s wand glowing in her hand — not as an avenger, but as a protector, a lioness who had chosen justice over vengeance.

Chapter Text

Chapter 46: Ashes of the Storm

St. Mungo’s smelled like steam and dittany and relief that hadn’t quite landed yet.

Hermione lay propped against pillows, the sheet tucked over her hips, a healer’s soft-blue charm still gleaming faintly over her belly. The diagnostic runes pulsed in time with two steady heartbeats. When the light faded, the healer released a breath she’d clearly been holding.

Mother and child are stable, she said, voice gentle but firm. Exhaustion, magical depletion, and superficial burns from proximity to a high-level curse. The baby shows a brief surge of external magical contribution—unusual, but not harmful. Rest, liquids, minimal casting for forty-eight hours.

Narcissa’s hand tightened around Hermione’s. She hadn’t let go since they’d landed. You will write that down, she said, in a tone that made the healer’s quill move of its own accord.

On the neighboring bed, Ginny stirred and winced, the Stunner’s aftershock ebbing. Andromeda checked her pulse, then brushed curls from her forehead. You’ll be all right. Stay still.

At the foot of Hermione’s bed, Teddy climbed like a determined kitten and wriggled under her arm. I’m staying, he announced. His small hand slid to Hermione’s stomach and planted there like a flag. I promised I’d protect the baby.

Hermione’s throat tightened. You did, she whispered, kissing his crown. And you were very brave.

Tonks hovered, eyes shining too brightly. Oi, soldier—room for your mum?

Teddy shook his head and scooted closer to Hermione with solemn purpose. I’m guarding.

Then I’ll guard with you, Narcissa said, shifting and making space so he was tucked between them, her palm covering both his hand and the curve of Hermione’s belly. Double wards.

He nodded gravely. Andromeda’s mouth softened. Triple, she said, laying two fingers lightly over the pile, healer-cool and sure. The little stack of hands looked ridiculous and perfect. For the first time in hours, the room felt anchored.

A lime-robed healer paused at the curtains. Auror Tonks, the Minister’s office sent word. The arrested parties are secured. There will be statements to take—but not tonight.

Tonks glanced toward the door, torn. Kingsley’s lynx Patronus had already thundered through the ward with orders; the Aurors had it in hand. She looked at Teddy—small, fierce, shaking only now that the danger had passed.

Stay with your family. You’ve done enough. Your son needs you now.

Kingsley’s admonition, given in the shattered cottage, echoed in her head. Tonks swallowed and set her wand on the bedside table. Understood, she said softly. I’m staying.

The healer nodded once and slipped away.

Quiet returned, thick with the hush of late wards and the slow tick of a charm-clock. Hermione and Narcissa lay awake, their fingers tangled under the blanket. Teddy dozed between them, his hand still stubbornly over the baby. Andromeda moved in small, efficient circles, but her eyes lingered too long on the clock.

When a silver lynx padded into the ward and spoke in Kingsley’s tired voice—The Wizengamot convenes at dawn. Public session.—Andromeda’s hand went briefly to her sternum, steadying herself against the weight of what was to come. She bent to kiss Teddy’s temple, smoothed a curl off Hermione’s brow, and pressed her palm to Narcissa’s cheek in an old, wordless gesture.

I’ll be back before first light, she murmured.

Narcissa made a faint noise of protest, but her eyes slid shut again, her arm curled tight around Hermione. Hermione reached for her hand, squeezing once in silent assent.

Andromeda slipped from the ward and into the Floo.

The Ministry at midnight was a cavern of echoes and tired magic. Kingsley’s office still smelled faintly of smoke from the hearth, the fire banked low. Papers stood in disciplined stacks, the chaos of a country held together one parchment at a time.

He was slumped in his chair when Andromeda stepped through, a tin and flask in her hands. The look on his face when he saw her—relief, warmth, something boyish breaking through the Minister’s armor—was almost enough to undo her resolve.

You shouldn’t be running around the Ministry at this hour, he said, already rising. You’ll start rumors.

They can talk, she replied briskly, setting the tin down. I brought contraband. Sandwiches, tart, strong black tea. Eat first. Collapse later.

His laugh was soft, grateful. For a time they ate in companionable quiet, the tart sweet and sharp, the tea a dark comfort. When the last crumb was gone, she stepped into his space and folded him into her arms.

This isn’t yours to bear alone, she whispered, smoothing a hand across the rigid line of his shoulders.

His breath left him in a shudder. You make it sound so simple.

It isn’t, she said, but neither of us is alone in the not-simple anymore.

His lips brushed her wrist, reverent. Thank you.

She cupped his skull once, then let her hand fall. At dawn, you’ll need to be more than a man. You’ll need to be the Minister. But for now, just—rest.

He nodded, his smile tired but real. Yes, Healer.

When she returned to the ward, the lamplight was dim. Teddy slept between Hermione and Narcissa, his little hand still over the baby. Tonks had dozed in her chair. Ginny’s breathing was steady.

Hermione and Narcissa, however, lay awake, watching each other across the boy’s sleeping form.

I can hear you thinking, Narcissa murmured.

I can hear you fretting, Hermione murmured back.

They shared a small smile, then laced their fingers over Teddy’s hand and the curve of her belly. Foreheads touched. Breath mingled.

Love saved us, Hermione whispered.

It did, Narcissa said softly. And it will again.

Andromeda stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the fragile peace hold. Then she pulled her cloak tighter, her eyes lingering on the family gathered in beds and chairs, before she whispered into the quiet:

Today, we face it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 47: The Weight of Morning

Dawn crept softly into the ward, spilling pale gold across the rows of beds. The chaos of the night before had given way to stillness, broken only by the rhythmic scratch of a quill at the far desk where a healer made notes.

Andromeda stirred first, straight-backed in her chair though fatigue carved lines into her face. She glanced to the bed where Hermione slept propped against Narcissa’s shoulder, Teddy curled firmly against her side, his small hand splayed protectively across the curve of her stomach. Even in sleep, his grip tightened as though he feared letting go. The sight brought a rush of fierce tenderness to Andromeda’s chest — and a shiver of dread. Today the Wizengamot would convene. Today their fragile peace would be tested all over again.

Tonks joined her at the window, her hair a subdued brown. She followed her mother’s gaze. He didn’t move all night, did he? she whispered, nodding at Teddy.

No, Andromeda said softly. He won’t let her go. Not after what he saw. She folded her arms, steeling herself. Kingsley will need us ready. But the cost…

Tonks squeezed her arm. We’ll carry it together. Like we always have.

On the bed, Hermione stirred with a faint groan, wincing as she tried to shift upright. Narcissa’s arm slid at once behind her, steadying, careful, protective.

Easy, Narcissa murmured, smoothing Hermione’s hair back from her face.

Hermione’s hand brushed over Teddy’s, still pressed stubbornly against her stomach. He won’t leave me. Her voice was hoarse but touched with wonder.

He gave his word, Narcissa said, her pale eyes softening as she stroked the boy’s blue-tinged hair. And Merlin help whoever tries to make him break it.

Hermione gave a shaky smile, but her gaze flicked to Narcissa’s, and what passed between them was quieter than words: the dread of what was to come, and the vow that they would face it side by side.

The quiet fractured when Molly Weasley swept into the ward. Her eyes darted first to Ginny, still pale but sitting upright in the next bed, then to Hermione, then to Narcissa. Her face twisted when she saw the two women together, Hermione resting against Narcissa’s shoulder with Teddy nestled between them.

This, Molly said sharply, striding forward, is an insult. To Ron. To all of us who trusted you. In bed with that woman—

Andromeda’s voice cracked across the ward, low but ironclad. That woman is my sister. The words landed heavy, silencing even the healers beyond the curtain. She rose from her chair, her eyes hard. Say what you will about me, Molly, but you don’t get to erase her blood, her losses, or her right to stand here alive. You don’t get to make her less than she is.

Molly flushed, fury trembling in her frame. You expect me to accept this? After everything her family—

I expect you to hold your tongue in front of my grandson, Andromeda cut in, sharp as a blade. Teddy stirred at the raised voices, his little brow furrowing in sleep, and his hand pressed tighter over Hermione’s belly, clinging even in dreams.

The silence held taut until Ginny’s voice broke it, steady and unwavering. Enough. She pushed herself upright, still pale but resolute. I’m going to the Wizengamot today. I have to. What Harry did was wrong. Hermione and Narcissa don’t deserve to be hunted, and Teddy doesn’t deserve to lose more family. I won’t stand aside.

Molly’s eyes widened, wounded fury flaring. You would stand against your own husband—

I’ll stand for what’s right, Ginny said, her voice shaking but firm. Even if that means standing without him.

Molly’s lips parted, but no words came. With a strangled sound, she turned on her heel and swept from the ward, her cloak snapping behind her.

The quiet that followed was raw, but inside it, there was strength. Hermione’s fingers tightened around Narcissa’s beneath the blanket. Teddy’s hand remained pressed to her belly, his vow held even in sleep.

After a long moment, Ginny turned toward Hermione, her voice low, intimate. I heard what you told him, she said. That you chose love. I think… you’ve been braver than any of us. Braver than me.

Hermione blinked, throat thick. Ginny—

No, let me finish. Ginny’s fingers twisted in her blanket. I kept hoping Harry would come back to me. That the boy I loved was still there. But I saw it in his eyes last night. He’s gone. Whatever’s left of him… it isn’t him anymore.

Hermione’s eyes stung. She reached across the space between their beds, clasping Ginny’s hand. You’re stronger than you think. You came here, you stood against him. You chose what was right.

Ginny’s lips trembled into a faint smile. Maybe. But I couldn’t have without you. You’ve always been the one who showed me how to be brave.

Hermione squeezed her hand, her voice breaking with quiet conviction. Then be brave with me now. We’ll face this together.

The healers bustled through then, checking charts, pronouncing the patients stable enough to move later in the morning. But when one suggested Teddy be taken home to rest, the boy shifted in his sleep, frowning. His small hand pressed more firmly against Hermione’s stomach, refusing to let go.

Hermione smoothed his hair, her eyes wet. Then you’ll stay, she whispered. We need your strength.

Narcissa’s hand brushed Teddy’s shoulder, steady and reassuring. Tonks crouched beside him, her voice husky. You did more last night than most Aurors ever could. You saved them, love. You keep holding on.

Four women, one after another, their voices weaving around him until his breathing evened again, though his hand never moved.

Across the room, Ginny’s gaze sharpened. I have to ask, she said quietly, looking between Hermione and Narcissa. Earlier—your Patronuses. Two lionesses, side by side. The same. That doesn’t happen by chance. What does it mean?

Hermione shifted, caught off guard, but she didn’t look away. It means, she began slowly, that we aren’t bound by circumstance anymore. Or grief. Or even just survival. Her eyes softened, turning to Narcissa. It means we’ve chosen each other.

Narcissa’s hand found hers, their fingers entwining. She didn’t flinch from Ginny’s gaze. It is what it looks like, she said, her voice steady. Hermione is mine. And I am hers.

Ginny’s lips parted. For a heartbeat, shock flickered in her eyes—then softened into something else, something older, wearier. She gave a small, watery smile. After everything… maybe that’s exactly what was meant to happen.

Chapter Text

Chapter 48: Gathering Storm

The morning at St. Mungo’s began with clipped voices and the brisk rustle of healer’s robes. Hermione, Narcissa, and Ginny were declared stable enough for release, though only under guard and for the trial alone.

Teddy sat stubbornly on Hermione’s bed, his small hand planted firmly across the curve of her stomach. His hair shimmered blue with the force of his emotion, his little jaw set.

Hermione brushed his cheek with trembling fingers. “Teddy, love, you’ve already been so brave. You shouldn’t feel like you have to protect us. You’re just a child.”

He shook his head fiercely. “But I promised. I promised I’d protect Lyra.” His voice cracked, and he glanced up, eyes wide and wet. “Will Uncle Harry be there?”

Hermione hesitated, then gave him the truth. “Yes. He will.”

For a moment Teddy’s lip trembled. Then his small shoulders straightened with a determination that belonged to someone far older. “Then I’m coming. Uncle Harry was scary last night. If he’s going to be there, then I’ll be there too. To protect her.” His hand pressed more firmly over her belly.

Hermione pulled him close, her throat tight. “Then we’ll stand together,” she whispered, her eyes meeting Narcissa’s over his head. Narcissa’s gaze burned with pride and fierce approval.

By mid-morning, the group walked through the Ministry Atrium under heavy guard. The sound of boots echoed against marble, whispers snaking through the crowd. Hermione straightened her back against the stares. Narcissa’s hand brushed hers, a cool tether of strength.

Ginny walked at their side, pale but resolute. Without Molly. The absence was its own kind of weight, and Ginny bore it with her chin high. Teddy glared openly at anyone who dared whisper too loudly, his small body pressed against Hermione’s.

In a warded antechamber, Kingsley awaited them. His broad shoulders seemed heavier than usual, his robes of office crisp but weary. When Andromeda entered, his hand reached instinctively for hers. She allowed it, her touch grounding him.

“This hearing will test not just the truth,” Kingsley said, his voice deep and solemn, “but whether our world can bear to hear it. Be steady. Stand together.”

Teddy squared his shoulders. “We’ll stand together,” he declared, and for a moment even Kingsley’s grave expression softened.

It was Ginny who broke the silence next. She stepped forward, her voice low but firm. “Minister… before this trial begins, I need something made official.”

Kingsley looked at her closely. “Go on.”

Her hands trembled, but her eyes did not. “I want my marriage to Harry dissolved. No matter how this ends for him. I don’t want his name. I don’t want his vaults or estates. I just want my freedom.”

The room stilled.

Kingsley studied her for a long moment. Then he gestured to one of his aides outside the chamber. “Bring me Harry Potter’s marriage file. Immediately.”

Moments later, a parchment folder was placed in his hands. Kingsley broke the seal with a single word, signed his name in bold black ink, and pressed the Minister’s seal into wax.

He looked up at Ginny, his voice solemn but kind. “By special authority of the Minister for Magic, your marriage is formally dissolved. From this moment forward, you are Ginny Weasley again. And you are free.”

A shaky breath escaped her. Tears pricked her eyes, but she lifted her chin. “Thank you.”

Narcissa gave her a single, approving nod. Hermione reached across the table, brushing Ginny’s hand with quiet solidarity.

The Wizengamot chamber was already full when they entered, rows of witches and wizards crowded on benches, reporters pressing like vultures at the railing. A ripple of whispers followed them as though their footsteps dragged thunder in their wake.

Narcissa’s pale composure never cracked. Hermione held her head high despite the eyes that burned into her. Ginny ignored them all.

Teddy clutched Hermione’s hand with one of his own, the other planted firmly on the swell of her stomach. His chin jutted forward, his blue hair bright as a banner. Gasps rippled through the benches — a child, here, standing sentinel over an unborn heir. Some faces softened in wonder, others twisted in disdain, but none could look away.

“Merlin, a child defending her?” one witch whispered, voice tight with awe.
“It proves what Potter said,” hissed another, lips curling. “That they’re corrupting even the young.”
“No,” came a third, older wizard, shaking his head. “It proves the boy’s braver than half the adults in this room.”

The murmurs swelled, splitting down invisible lines — sympathy against suspicion, outrage against prejudice.

High above, Molly Weasley sat rigid in the gallery, her gaze locked on her daughter. Ginny did not flinch. She only looked forward.

At the center dais, Amelia Bones, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, raised her gavel. Her very presence carried authority; the chamber hushed before the sound struck. Her gaze swept the benches with iron steadiness, silencing the last of the murmurs.

The gavel came down once, sharp as a curse.

Kingsley rose, his voice ringing beneath the enchanted ceiling: “This court will hear the truth of Harry James Potter.”

Beneath the table, Hermione and Narcissa’s hands entwined. Teddy pressed his palm more firmly over Hermione’s stomach, his small shoulders squared as though daring the world to test his promise.

And so the storm began.

Chapter Text

Chapter 49: The First Day of Trial

The Wizengamot chamber breathed like a living thing—stone and oak and ancient magic—its tiers filling with plum-robed witches and wizards as the morning bell tolled. Quills scratched, whispers eddied, photographers jostled for a better angle in the gallery, each flash a brief, nervous star.

On the front bench, Hermione sat with Narcissa at her side, Andromeda and Tonks just behind. Teddy perched between Hermione and Narcissa as if he’d grown there overnight, his small hand anchored where it always seemed to find itself now—spread over the curve of Hermione’s belly. Ginny, pale but steady, took the chair to Andromeda’s left. Their little island of bodies looked fragile in the vast, echoing space. It was not.

A door below swung open. Two Aurors led a prisoner up through the well of the court, chains rattling softly. Harry’s step faltered under their grip—hair unkempt, jaw shadowed, eyes hollow. He was smaller like this, a man distilled by sleepless nights and bad choices. Then he saw them.

His gaze found Narcissa, slid to Hermione, caught on Ginny. Something savage lit behind his eyes, a cold, narrowing loathing that stole whatever pity the sight of him might have stirred. The chamber felt it—one of those silences that lifts the hairs along the arms.

At the high desk, Amelia Bones rapped her gavel once. She wore the dignity of her office like a blade; her monocle flashed as it found every corner of the hall. “This session of the Wizengamot is called to order.”

The charges unfurled in her steady voice—conspiracy, treason, attempted murder, abuse of Auror authority. Each count landed like iron on stone. Murmurs rose and fell.

Molly Weasley shot to her feet, color high. “You can’t—he—”

“Mrs. Weasley.” Amelia didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. It cut as clean as a Severing Charm. “This court will not be a theater for grief. Another interruption, and you will be escorted out. Sit.”

Molly sat, shaking, pressing a crumpled handkerchief to her mouth. Arthur’s hand hovered at her shoulder, as if he could steady grief with touch alone.

“Witnesses,” said Amelia, and the morning began.

Two Aurors took the stand first—men who had followed Harry into Andromeda’s cottage the night before. Shame rode them like a yoke. They spoke in flat, unwilling voices: they’d answered Potter’s summons, trusted his lead, thought it sanction enough. They had seen a child in the room. They had kept firing. Regret darkened every syllable. The gallery hissed and murmured, half in disgust, half in disbelief.

Andromeda was all cool steel when she rose—healer’s steadiness wrapped around a Black’s resolve. She described the holding cells, the suppression cuffs, the weakening breath and failing magic. She said “my sister” and “my family” with a clarity that left no corner for doubt to hide.

Tonks followed—bruised, hoarse, uncompromising. She talked through the intercepted memo, the evidence Ginny had brought, the moment the anti-Apparition ward broke under Kingsley’s order. She never once looked at Harry.

Then the Minister himself took the stand. Kingsley’s voice was deep and unadorned. He outlined the steps taken, the line Harry had crossed, the law that bound them all. When asked why he had not intervened sooner, he answered without flinching: because justice demanded an airtight case; because no man—hero or not—stood above the law.

“Next witness,” Amelia said, and the air changed.

Hermione stood.

Teddy stood with her, a little shadow stuck fast. Murmurs rippled up the tiers like wind through dry grass. Amelia’s monocle fixed on the boy.

“What is this?”

Teddy’s fingers trembled where they clung to Hermione’s robes. He swallowed. His voice, when it came, was thin but unshaking. “I promised to protect the baby. I won’t let my uncle Harry hurt her again.”

Harry lunged against his chains. “He’s a child—this is a farce!”

“Silence!” Amelia’s gavel cracked, the sound like thunder. Her gaze pinned him until even Harry looked away. Then she turned back to Teddy. Her mouth softened by a millimeter—one of those rare concessions that felt like a blessing.

“Very well,” she said. “With Auror Tonks’s consent, the court will permit the child to remain. I may have questions for him, as well.”

Hermione told it as it had been: the hospital, the discharge turned ambush, the cuffs biting bone-deep, Harry’s badge used to bar a healer’s hand; the cottage, the door bursting open, the smoke, the hexes that splintered the table, the moment she had hurled herself between green light and the woman she loved. She faltered only once—when she said “our child,” and the word shook—but Narcissa’s hand found hers on the rail and steadied it.

When Amelia asked, Teddy lifted his chin and spoke. “When I touched her tummy, it wasn’t just me,” he said slowly. “It felt… like the baby was pushing back. There was light, and warmth. Like we were all together. And I wasn’t scared anymore.” He swallowed. “But Uncle Harry was. He looked scarier than anything.”

A ripple went through the chamber—soft, unsettled. For a moment, even the gallery seemed to breathe as one. Amelia inclined her head once, gravely. “This court has heard stranger truths than those spoken by a child. His words will be entered into record.”

“Next witness,” she said at last, and Ginny rose.

“Mrs. Potter,” Amelia began gently, “you are not obligated to testify against your husband. Spousal—”

“It won’t be a problem,” Ginny said, voice steady. “I’m not Mrs. Potter.” She held Amelia’s gaze. “By special grant of the Minister, our marriage was formally dissolved less than an hour ago. I am Ginevra Weasley.”

Gasps burst around the chamber. Harry jerked against his chains so hard they clattered. Color flooded his face. “Traitorous—”

“Enough!” Amelia’s gavel thundered, her voice like iron. “You will not make a mockery of this court with your outbursts, Potter.”

Ginny told her truth with no adornment. The files left on a kitchen table, the scrawled line—eliminate the rot. The muttering in his sleep about breaking wards, about Andromeda’s cottage. The change she’d seen in him, the hollow place where her husband used to be. Her voice frayed at the edges but did not break.

Harry’s turn came last.

Three silver drops glimmered on his tongue, and the truth unspooled with brutal clarity. He spoke of graves—too many, too young; of a boy raised in a cupboard and groomed for a war; of debts he believed the world owed him and rot he thought it refused to cut away. He called the Malfoys poison. He called the child an abomination. He called Hermione’s love a betrayal. For a heartbeat at a time, grief made him human. Then hatred stripped it away.

“That will suffice,” Amelia said, when the room had tilted too far toward madness. “The court will recess for deliberation.”

Members rose at once, voices flaring into argument—mercy, annihilation, precedent, danger. Amelia’s gavel fell like thunder. “Deliberations will be held in private. The verdict will be delivered tomorrow morning. A certified memory and transcript of today’s proceedings will be released thereafter.”

Two Aurors took Harry by the arms. He twisted his head as they led him down. His eyes found Hermione and slashed to Narcissa. “This isn’t over,” he hissed. “Not while—”

“Remove the prisoner,” Amelia said. He was dragged through the side door, his words swallowed by its closing.

They were almost to the atrium doors when Molly Weasley stepped into Ginny’s path, as immovable as a statue. Her cheeks were blotched, her eyes raw.

“You can’t do this,” she said, voice trembling. “You cannot—turn your back on your husband in front of the world. You cannot abandon your family.”

Ginny did not flinch. “I didn’t abandon anyone, Mum.” Her voice was quiet, but it rang. “I stopped a man from murdering a woman, a child, and a boy who loves them. That’s what family means.”

Molly’s breath hitched. Her hands twisted in her cloak. “If you walk this path, don’t expect me waiting at the Burrow when you return.”

Arthur closed his eyes. Tonks took one half-step forward, dangerous as a drawn bowstring, but Hermione moved first, not with a spell—just with herself. She stepped in beside Ginny; Narcissa came to her other side; Andromeda moved behind them, a steadying presence at their backs. Four women, shoulder to shoulder, with a small boy pressed between them like a heartbeat.

They walked on. Ginny held her head high. Her mouth trembled, but her eyes did not lower.

As the great doors of the chamber closed behind them, Teddy tightened his hand protectively over Hermione’s stomach in his sleep, even as he sagged against her side. Amelia’s last gavel strike seemed to echo in their bones. The storm had only just begun.

Chapter Text

Chapter 50: The Verdict Approaches

The Wizengamot chamber thrummed with tension, every breath another argument waiting to ignite. Robes shifted like restless wings, quills scratched as though trying to keep pace with history itself, and the press of voices rose and broke like waves. By morning, sides were no longer forming — they were entrenched.

“—treason, conspiracy, attempted murder. The law is explicit—”

“—he is a war hero, shattered by loss—”

“—and that makes him dangerous, not exempt—”

The gavel cracked twice beneath Amelia Bones’s steady hand. Her monocle flashed in the light as she rose, the marble at her back throwing her voice like thunder. “Justice cannot be bent to fame or sentiment. If the law fails here, it fails everywhere.”

The murmurs dipped, retreated, simmered. For now.

Dawn found St. Mungo’s quiet, the kind of quiet that comes after a storm has wrung the world out. Hermione woke to the thrum of quills and the ache in her lower back, a reminder of how far along she was, how much strain her body had endured. Teddy was still pressed along her side, warm and stubborn, his hand sprawled protectively over the swell of her stomach.

Narcissa watched her with that new brightness in her eyes—the softened light that came whenever Hermione smiled at the baby’s movements, often without realizing.

“Good morning,” Hermione murmured.

“As good as it can be,” Narcissa answered, brushing curls from her brow. “Don’t move yet.”

A healer floated by, wand sweeping Hermione’s abdomen in practiced arcs. “The baby is stable,” she said. “But both of you have endured severe magical strain. Any further shock could be dangerous.”

Narcissa’s hand slid into Hermione’s without hesitation. “She won’t so much as lift a quill.”

Hermione huffed softly. “You’ll outlaw breathing next.”

“If I could regulate it to a calmer pace, I would.” The tightness in Narcissa’s jaw belied the joke.

Across the ward, Ginny swung her legs out of bed with care, ribs bound in fresh bandages. Andromeda sat at a table, quill moving fast over parchment—notations, potion orders, a prepared statement should the Wizengamot demand a healer’s testimony.

Teddy stirred. His first glance was at Hermione’s belly. “You’re going to the big room?” he asked, voice small.

“Yes,” Hermione said gently. “For the verdict.”

His hand pressed harder. “Then I’m coming too.”

“Teddy…” Hermione cupped his cheek. “You’ve already been so brave. You don’t have to—”

“I do,” he whispered. His lip trembled, but he straightened, small shoulders squaring. “It helps me too. If I’m with her, I’m not scared.”

Narcissa’s eyes softened, pride and grief twined, and her hand found his shoulder. He leaned into her touch, gathering strength.

Later, Ginny drifted near Narcissa, her voice quick, as if afraid it would falter if she hesitated. “I don’t know who I am without him,” she admitted. “For years I thought being Mrs. Potter was armor. Now it feels like I’ve peeled off skin.”

Narcissa’s reply was quiet but steady. “Surviving betrayal is not the end of you. It is a door. On the other side you may be someone truer. Sometimes… better.”

Ginny’s breath shook, but she nodded. “Thank you.”

Kingsley came himself just before noon, a shadow of authority in deep robes, flanked by Robards and Aurors whose watchful calm marked them as loyal to the law, not to legends. The corridors beyond were alive with quills, whispers, and the press of reporters; the world knew this was the day the savior of wizarding Britain would face judgment.

At the chamber doors, Amelia Bones waited with ledger in hand, gaze unblinking. Her eyes paused on Teddy’s hand fisted in Hermione’s robes, but she only inclined her head. “Let us proceed.”

The benches bulged, the galleries swollen with press and international observers. When Harry was led in, chains glinting, there was a collective intake of breath. He looked older, hollowed—but when his gaze found Narcissa, Hermione, and then Ginny, hatred lit him like a struck match. Something feral flickered behind his eyes. Pity, if it had stirred, withered.

Amelia rose. “This chamber reconvenes for verdict. All testimony has been sworn and sealed. This is not theatre. It is law.”

The rustle of voices stilled.

The deliberation was brisk, but the chamber vibrated with unspent argument.

“The law is clear,” snapped a witch with iron hair. “Attempted murder under authority. Treason. The Kiss.”

“He is a victim of war,” countered a wizard with damp eyes. “Answer brokenness with annihilation, and we are no better than what we fought.”

“Mercy has its place,” another said, “but so does precedent. If we bend it here, we break it for all.”

From the galleries, gasps and mutters punctuated each statement. Some shouted for justice, others for mercy, their voices colliding like sparks over dry tinder until the gavel cracked them back into order.

When the final vote was cast, Amelia stood, her monocle flashing. “By the will of the Wizengamot, Harry James Potter is sentenced to the Dementor’s Kiss.”

Chaos detonated—gasps, cries, shouts, a fainting witch, Molly Weasley’s wail cutting through it all. “No! He saved us! You cannot!”

Hermione stood.

Her voice was low, frayed, but steady. “Please.”

The chamber rippled toward silence. Even Harry’s glare froze on her.

“The law must stand,” she said. “Harry is guilty. He is dangerous. He must be stopped. But the Kiss is not justice—it is cruelty.”

She pressed her palm to her belly, not as a plea but a truth. “He was burdened with prophecy before he could crawl. He gave everything, then broke, and chose terribly, unforgivably wrong. But we fought this war to end cycles of vengeance. To prove we could build something better.”

Her chin lifted. “Take his magic. Take his past. Obliviate him, strip him bare. Let him be no one—no hero, no weapon, no monster. Just a man who might, at last, learn kindness without being asked to die for it.”

The stillness that followed was not silence but the weight of scales shifting. Even Harry’s face twitched—fury, yes, but beneath it a flicker of something smaller, confused, as if her words had cut deeper than chains.

Amelia’s gaze lingered on Hermione, unreadable. Then she inclined her head once. “This alternative will be taken under deliberation. The Wizengamot will reconvene at sunset for final judgment. Court is adjourned.”

Chains clinked. Harry was led away, eyes locked on Hermione until the door swallowed him.

In Kingsley’s office, the warded door shut out the roar of reporters and protest. For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Ginny whispered, “Thank you. For trying to save what’s left of him.”

Hermione shook her head softly. “I’m trying to save us. All of us.”

They sank into chairs—Andromeda spine-straight, Tonks combing her fingers through Teddy’s blue hair, Ginny bent forward, hands shaking. Kingsley poured water, his steady motions betraying how much he was holding in place.

“We will abide by the law,” he said. “Whatever it rules. But today you reminded them why we have one.”

The quiet held, heavy but not hopeless. Narcissa’s thumb brushed Hermione’s hand. Hermione turned, steadying herself on that pale, fierce gaze.

“If love can save us,” she whispered, so low it was almost only for Narcissa, “maybe it can save him too.”

Narcissa’s hand tightened. Her answer was cool and clear. “If they allow it.”

Outside, the world pressed against the Ministry walls, but inside Kingsley’s office they waited—hearts suspended, as if the next gavel strike might decide not only Harry’s fate, but the future of them all.

Chapter Text

Chapter 51: The Final Judgment

The Wizengamot chamber swallowed them whole—tiers packed to bursting, quills scratching, flashbulbs flaring, a sea of eyes fixed on the fall of a legend. Hermione entered with Teddy clinging stubbornly to her robes, his small hand splayed over her stomach as if by will alone he could guard what lay within. Narcissa kept pace at her side, Ginny walked pale but steady just behind, and Andromeda and Tonks closed the circle around them. At the dais, Amelia Bones gave a single nod, her gaze lingering a fraction longer on Teddy before the gavel struck. Below, in iron-bound chains, Harry lifted his head; the moment his eyes found them, loathing burned sharp and unyielding, swinging from Narcissa to Hermione and cutting last toward Ginny.

The gavel struck.

“This session reconvenes,” Amelia said, her voice carrying to the highest balcony without need of charm. “The Wizengamot has deliberated.”

A hush fell so complete that the creak of a bench seemed impertinent.

“By majority vote,” Amelia continued, “the Wizengamot rejects the Dementor’s Kiss.” The chamber gasped as one. “In consideration of both the gravity of the crimes and the plea set forth before this body, the court accepts an alternative sentence. Harry James Potter will be stripped of his magic, his memories of the wizarding world will be obliviated, and he will be exiled into the Muggle world under a new identity. This sentence will be executed tomorrow morning.”

Chaos detonated. Shouts, sobs, applause, jeers—noise climbed the marble like flame. On the Weasley benches, Molly rose half a step, hands trembling, eyes huge with pain; Arthur caught her wrist, murmuring something that did not carry. Ginny closed her eyes, a single tear slipping free before she set her jaw.

Harry laughed once—short, hollow—and then his smile died. The chains at his wrists rattled softly as he stared up at Hermione, willing her to look away. She did not. Narcissa’s fingers slid into hers beneath the rail, a quiet clasp of strength.

Amelia’s gavel cracked the uproar into stunned fragments. “Order. The sentence is final. Records of the proceedings will be released to the public after execution. This court stands adjourned.”

Another strike, and it was done.

Kingsley signaled the guard. Aurors moved to lift Harry; he twisted once, searching for Ginny, but she would not meet his eyes. He spat a curse that lost itself in the buzz of the crowd and then was gone, swallowed by the stone throat of the corridor.

Robards stepped in close. “Let’s move,” he said quietly.

They left under escort, a small island of purposeful motion in the rip-tide of voices. Teddy’s grip eased only when the chamber doors boomed shut behind them; even then he pressed closer to Hermione’s side, chin lifted like a tiny sentinel.

“He can’t hurt you now,” he whispered, almost as if convincing himself.

“No,” Hermione said softly, her free hand covering his. “He can’t.”

The Floo at Malfoy Manor flared green, depositing them into the warmth of the great hall. House-elves hovered at the edges of sight, already darting toward kitchens; a fire leapt to life of its own accord, the entire house seeming to exhale—welcome, relief, home.

“You will all stay,” Narcissa said, not so much an invitation as a decree softened by exhaustion. “Dinner will be light.” Her fingers never quite left Hermione’s, brushing, reassuring, returning. She looked to Kingsley and Robards. “Minister. Auror Robards. You as well.”

Kingsley inclined his head. “We’d be honored.”

Robards, who had faced dragons in Romania and Death Eaters in Knockturn Alley, looked briefly, gratefully, undone. “Thank you.”

They shed the Ministry like a husk. In its place rose the comforts of ordinary life: the clink of plates, the aroma of rosemary and roast chicken, fresh bread still crackling from the oven. Teddy, whose appetite had been a taut wire for days, ate with ferocious focus, then slowed, then laughed—once, bright and sudden—when an enchanted plum tart attempted to scoot out of his reach and Tonks scooped it back with triumph.

Andromeda watched her grandson with a softness that smoothed years from her face. Next to her, Kingsley sat close—too close for purely professional courtesy—and when his hand found hers beneath the table, their shoulders seemed to settle into the same deep breath. They were discreet, or believed themselves to be; Andromeda’s lashes lowered, a smile she couldn’t suppress tugging at the corner of her mouth.

At the head of the table, Narcissa caught her eye and lifted one perfect brow. The smirk that followed was wicked and tender at once; Andromeda rolled her eyes, cheeks warming, and Narcissa—satisfied—turned back to slice Hermione a second helping of bread as if nothing at all had happened.

Conversation stayed light by unspoken pact. No one said Harry’s name. No one said mercy or morning or sentence. They spoke instead of the gardens and how the late roses had surprised them, of Teddy’s newest trick in Transfiguration (“It was only a teacup, Gran!”), of how the east-facing rooms caught the sunrise. Ginny, who had hardly tasted food in days, ate slowly, listening, letting the normalness of it soak into her bones. When she looked up and found Hermione watching her with quiet kindness, she managed a small smile. Hermione answered with one of her own and returned to buttering Teddy’s roll under his very solemn supervision.

After dessert—simple pears poached with cinnamon—the conversation ebbed into easy silence. Teddy’s hand, which had hovered near Hermione’s stomach through the meal as if habit had become instinct, finally drifted to his lap. He leaned into her, eyelids drooping, and she curved an arm around him, her palm smoothing over his blue-tinged hair.

“Sleep, brave knight,” Narcissa murmured, a thread of amusement in her voice.

“I’m not—” Teddy began, then yawned so enormously it ruined his protest. “Okay. Maybe.”

Tonks scooped him up, Teddy’s arms looping sleepily around her neck. “I’ll put him down,” she said, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Back soon.”

In the hush that followed, firelight painted the room in amber. Narcissa reached for Hermione’s hand on the table, turning it palm-up to press a kiss to the center. The gesture was small, almost thoughtless, and it undid Hermione more thoroughly than any speech. She threaded their fingers together and let her head tip to Narcissa’s shoulder, breath loosening for the first time since the gavel fell.

On the far side of the table, Kingsley leaned in, his baritone dropped to something only Andromeda could hear. “Tomorrow,” he said, not as the Minister but as a man who knew the shape of burdens, “I’ll be there.”

Andromeda’s answering smile was quiet and certain. “I know.”

Narcissa glanced up once more, caught Andromeda’s eye, and—incorrigible—arched that brow again. Andromeda mouthed, Stop it, and reached beneath the table to give Kingsley’s hand a swift, daring squeeze. He didn’t hide his answering grin in time.

Hermione saw, and laughed—soft, unguarded, grateful. The sound threaded through the old hall like blessing.

For one night, with morning held at bay just beyond the windows, they let peace be enough. The house, which had seen so much darkness, kept their secrets and their laughter alike, and the fire burned on—steady, warm, and very much alive.

Chapter Text

Chapter 52: In the Quiet Upstairs

The manor had quieted after dinner, the echoes of laughter and clinking cutlery fading into the low crackle of the fire. Hermione and Narcissa had retired upstairs, their strength too frayed to carry them farther than the sanctuary of their room.

Hermione stretched with a faint groan, pressing a hand to her back. Narcissa’s eyes narrowed immediately, sharp with concern. “You’re sore,” she said, her voice clipped with certainty.

“A little,” Hermione admitted, smiling despite herself. “Pregnancy doesn’t exactly come with rest days.”

Narcissa rose gracefully, her wand flicking sconces alight along the corridor. “Come,” she murmured. “You need a bath.”

Upstairs, the guest suite was already prepared: steaming water filling the claw-footed tub, lavender mist curling faintly through the air. Narcissa moved with practiced precision, testing the heat, laying towels within reach, arranging soap. Hermione lingered in the doorway, watching her with a small, mischievous smile.

Then, without hesitation, she began to strip. Jumper, blouse, trousers, underthings — one by one, garments fell in a soft pile until her skin glowed in the candlelight.

Narcissa turned at the whisper of fabric — and froze. Her mouth parted. For the first time in years, she was caught utterly off guard.

Hermione walked past her with a confidence that felt like revelation, leaned in close, and pressed a teasing kiss to her cheek. “Thank you, love,” she murmured. “For the bath.”

Still speechless, Narcissa stood rooted as Hermione lowered herself into the tub, water sloshing gently against porcelain. The sound jolted her into motion; she coughed, smoothing her robe with unnecessary precision. “Right. Well. I’ll just… check on something…”

She had nearly reached the door when Hermione’s voice stopped her. “Narcissa?”

“Yes?” It came out more cautious than she intended.

“Don’t you feel sore and exhausted too?” Hermione asked softly.

“…I do,” Narcissa admitted after a pause. “But I can take a bath later.”

Hermione’s lips curved in a knowing smile. “What a waste of water. This tub is perfectly big enough for two.”

Narcissa turned slowly, composure unraveling. “Hermione, I—”

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Hermione interrupted gently, her voice dipping lower, smooth and certain. “Not of this. Not of me.”

For a moment, Narcissa’s mask flickered. “I don’t deserve—” she began, but Hermione cut her off with quiet certainty. “You deserve everything. Especially this.” She shifted in the water, extending a hand toward her. “Get in the tub.”

Something shifted. Before she realized it, Narcissa’s fingers were already loosening buttons, fabric sliding down her arms, pooling at her feet. Her robe fell, then her shift, until she stood bare in the candlelight. Hermione’s gaze swept over her, reverent and hungry, making Narcissa’s skin prickle with heat.

She stepped into the tub, Hermione shifting forward to make space. Narcissa slid behind her, the water enveloping them both in warmth. Hermione leaned back immediately, her body fitting against Narcissa’s as if it had been waiting for this moment all along.

The lavender-scented steam rose around them. Hermione sighed, her tension melting as she settled back against Narcissa’s chest. Narcissa’s arms circled her instinctively — one across her collarbone, the other curving around her waist. Hermione covered that hand, pressing it close to her stomach. “She knows you,” she murmured, lips brushing Narcissa’s jaw. “She knows I love you.”

Narcissa’s breath caught. Her fingers traced along Hermione’s arm, tentative at first, then bolder as Hermione arched into the touch. Encouraged, she let her hands wander — over the curve of Hermione’s shoulder, the slope of her damp skin — learning, memorizing.

Hermione tilted her head back, curls slick against Narcissa’s shoulder, her eyes half-lidded but burning. “Don’t hold back,” she whispered, daring her.

The hesitation was gone. Narcissa bent, lips ghosting across Hermione’s temple, down her cheek, before finally claiming her mouth. The kiss deepened quickly — urgent, hungry. Hermione turned in her arms, water lapping at porcelain as her hands slid up Narcissa’s arms, pulling her closer.

They broke apart only long enough for Hermione to murmur, “You’re breathtaking,” before her lips brushed down along Narcissa’s throat, tasting her skin. Narcissa gasped, her hand tightening at Hermione’s hip.

For a moment, the world — Wizengamot, trials, war — ceased to exist. There was only heat, and the discovery of each other in the most intimate of silences.

At last, Hermione rested her head back against Narcissa’s chest, breathless and smiling, her fingers tracing idle patterns along Narcissa’s arm. “Sharing the bath was worth it,” she teased softly. Narcissa laughed, low and shaky, heart racing. She kissed the top of Hermione’s head, whispering, “I think it may have saved me.”

When the water cooled, Hermione turned in her arms, their lips meeting again — slower now, steadier, with the kind of certainty that made Narcissa’s stomach swoop. Hermione smiled into the kiss, then drew back just far enough to murmur, “Come to bed with me.”

Narcissa could only nod.

They rose together, water sliding down their skin. Hermione draped a towel around Narcissa’s shoulders instead of herself, her fingers lingering on damp skin before kissing the corner of her mouth. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered.

In the bedroom, the air was cooler, fire casting a low glow. Hermione tugged Narcissa beneath the covers. Skin against skin, warmth against warmth. Hermione curled against her, Narcissa’s arms sliding protectively around her waist. Hermione guided one of her hands to the swell of her stomach, covering it with her own. “This,” Hermione murmured thickly. “This is where I belong.”

Narcissa bent to kiss her shoulder. “And this is where I’ll stay.”

Entwined, naked and unafraid, they drifted into sleep — not as women bound by grief, but as lovers who had finally chosen each other.

Elsewhere in the manor, another room sought its own comfort.

Ginny lingered outside the guest suite where Tonks was tucking Teddy in. Her voice was tentative. “Could I… stay with you tonight? Even if it’s just the couch. I don’t want to be alone.”

Tonks softened. “Don’t be daft. There’s room.”

Ginny slipped inside, relief loosening her shoulders. Teddy stirred, blinking sleepily, and without hesitation patted the space beside him. “Come on, Auntie Ginny.”

She smiled weakly and lay down. Tonks climbed in on the other side, wrapping an arm around both her son and her friend. Ginny hesitated, her body stiff, but when Tonks murmured, “You’re safe here,” something inside her cracked.

Teddy’s small fingers found hers in the dark. Tonks’s arm anchored her from the other side. The tears came quietly at first, then harder, until she was pressed between them, shaking. Tonks kissed her temple, whispering nonsense comforts, and Teddy mumbled sleepily, “Don’t cry, Auntie Ginny. We’ve got you.”

For the first time since the nightmare began, Ginny let go. She cried until she had no more left, and when sleep came, it was heavy and whole — cocooned in the warmth of family.

The manor settled into stillness. Upstairs, in separate rooms, two pairs found comfort in each other — not knowing what tomorrow would bring, but daring, for tonight, to rest.

Andromeda, though, lingered. She lay on her side, staring at the moonlight spilling across her ceiling. Her thoughts circled endlessly: the trial, her family, and the man carrying the heaviest burden of all. At last she sighed, pressing a hand over her heart as if to still it. Sleep found her only when dreams carried her to Kingsley’s steady voice, his presence beside her.

Far away at the Ministry, Kingsley sat alone in his office, the lamp burning low. Tomorrow he would preside not just as Minister, but as a man forced to watch justice cut deep. When at last he stretched out on the narrow cot in the adjoining chamber, sleep was slow to come.

Yet when it did, it wasn’t filled with decrees or the hollow chill of Dementors. Instead, he dreamed of Andromeda — her hands steady, her voice soft, the way she had stood beside him without hesitation. In the dream, he reached for her hand. She took it without question.

And so, though miles apart, both found rest at last in the thought of the other. Outside, the night thinned toward dawn, as if the world itself braced for what morning would bring.

Chapter Text

Chapter 53: The Morning of Judgment

Sun slipped shyly through the tall windows of Malfoy Manor, painting the ceiling in pale gold. Hermione woke with warmth at her back and a quiet heartbeat beneath her palm. Narcissa lay curved around her, chin tucked into Hermione’s curls, an arm draped over the slope of her belly as if her body had learned, in the space of a night, a new way to keep two people safe.

“Good morning,” Narcissa murmured against her hair.

“For once,” Hermione answered, and turned to kiss her—soft, unguarded, lingering. They breathed there for a moment, trading steadiness, letting the silence say what words could not.

The door banged open.

“Aunt ’Mione!” Teddy launched himself across the carpet.

Both women jolted, snatching the sheet up to their shoulders in a tangle of elbows and scandalized dignity. Teddy skidded to the bedside, halfway onto the mattress before he froze at the look on Narcissa’s face—somewhere between aristocratic horror and barely contained laughter.

“Er—good morning,” he said very seriously, as if new etiquette rules had been issued overnight.

“Good morning, darling,” Hermione managed, cheeks aflame. “Could you… run down and see if your gran needs help with tea?”

Teddy blinked. “But I wanted to say—”

Andromeda appeared in the doorway like a summoned spell. She took in the tableau—her grandson poised like a kneazle about to pounce, two women wrapped in sheets, a tangle of limbs and blushes—and arched a single, devastating Black eyebrow. A snort escaped her. “Come along, knight-errant. The ladies require armor.”

Teddy went, baffled but obedient, and Andromeda swept the door shut with a soft, merciful click.

Hermione buried her face in Narcissa’s shoulder and laughed until the tightness in her chest loosened. Narcissa kissed her hair, smiling too. “Well,” she said primly, “it appears our privacy will require planning.”

“Then we’ll plan,” Hermione whispered, and kissed her again.

They Flooed to the Ministry before noon, escorted from the hearth by Robards and two senior Aurors whose expressions were ironed flat. No crowded galleries today. Kingsley led them through a warren of warded corridors to a smaller, windowless chamber with a simple dais and a single quill poised over a ledger. The air felt steadier in here, as if sentiment had been checked at the door and only duty permitted to enter.

Those present were few: Amelia Bones at the bench; Kingsley and Robards; two stone-faced Aurors for the record; a lone, veteran reporter from the Daily Prophet—the one who had written names of the dead without sensation or spectacle during the war. On the benches stood those bound to what was about to happen: Arthur and Molly Weasley; Ginny, pale but upright; Andromeda and Tonks; Teddy, anchored to Hermione’s robes; Hermione herself, Narcissa a half-step at her side.

Amelia’s gaze flicked to Teddy as she descended the steps to pass them, and she paused long enough to lay a brief, firm hand on his shoulder. No speech. Only the acknowledgment of a courage the room already knew.

“Bring him,” she said.

Harry entered under guard. The chains at his wrists were spelled, the fury in his eyes untamed. He looked older and younger in the same breath—older for all that had burned through him, younger for the helplessness naked on his face.

“You can’t do this,” he said, low and hoarse. “You can’t take it. It’s mine.”

Amelia took her place. “For the record,” she said, and the quill began to scratch. “Sentence, as entered yesterday: stripping of magic, full Obliviation of the wizarding world, exile to the Muggle sphere under a new identity. Minister?”

Kingsley stepped forward. “Proceed.”

Two Unspeakables in featureless grey drew a circle on the stone with their wands. Harry was guided into it; the circle brightened, a quiet ring of light.

“This won’t hurt,” one of them said—not comfort, simply fact.

Harry’s jaw worked. “You can’t,” he whispered again, as if repetition might remake the world.

The ritual began. The light rose—not dazzling, only steady—threads of luminance lifting from Harry like steam from water. The air seemed to shiver; a chill rolled through the chamber as if something ancient had been unmoored. There was no scream of agony, only the raw sound of refusal breaking into something like grief. His shoulders shuddered once. His eyes squeezed shut. The light threaded upward, unfurling, then thinned to nothing. The silence it left behind rang unnatural, as if the very stones knew what had been lost.

A second circle traced, a softer gleam. The Obliviation was a tide moving over sand—there, and then gone, leaving a clean emptiness where footsteps had been.

When Harry opened his eyes, his face had changed in ways a photograph could not capture. The hardness was gone. The wariness, the weight. He blinked at the room, uncertain but open. Then a small, bright smile.

“Hullo,” he said, not loud but guileless, like a stranger making kind conversation on a train. His gaze landed first on Ginny. He winked, friendly and unburdened, as if they were casual acquaintances. Then he saw Hermione’s stomach and his smile warmed further. “Congratulations,” he said gently. “That’s wonderful news.”

Hermione’s throat closed. She swallowed and made her mouth do something like smile. “Thank you,” she said softly. “It was nice to make your acquaintance. I wish you all the best.”

He beamed at her as if she’d given him a gift, then allowed himself to be guided toward a narrow side door that irised open from blank stone. He waved once, cheerful, and vanished into the passage that would lead him to a quiet, ordinary life the world would never trace.

The door sealed. The room exhaled.

Ginny folded with a sound that wasn’t quite a sob, and Hermione caught her, both of them clinging, tears hot against cheeks that had forgotten how to feel anything but braced. Teddy pressed in under Hermione’s arm, small palm a steady weight over her belly, and when the first, disbelieving tear slid free, he did not wipe it away. Narcissa’s hand drew slow, soothing circles between Hermione’s shoulders; Tonks mirrored the motion at Ginny’s back, wordless and sure. Kingsley let out a breath that seemed to empty him, then set his palm gently on Andromeda’s shoulder. She covered it with her own.

Across the room, Molly Weasley’s grief erupted into heat. She rounded on them, eyes red and blazing. “Are you happy now?” she demanded, voice breaking. “Is this what you wanted? He was my boy too. I loved him like a son. And now you’ve—” Her voice cracked into sobbing fury. “You’ve destroyed him.”

Hermione looked up, still holding Ginny. “No,” she said, the word raw. “Never.”

Ginny nodded against Hermione’s hair. “But now we all have a chance at peace,” she whispered. “Even him.”

Molly scoffed, tears spilling, and turned so fast her cloak snapped. Arthur lingered. His eyes, tired and kind, rested on Ginny with pride and sorrow both. He laid a steady hand on her shoulder, inclined his head—once—to Hermione and Narcissa, and followed his wife out. Ginny’s lip trembled, but she lifted her chin, clutching Hermione’s hand tighter.

Teddy’s voice was very small. “It’s over, isn’t it?”

Hermione kissed his blue hair. She couldn’t answer. Her chest was a bell struck too hard to make sound.

Narcissa did. “Yes,” she said, quiet and certain. “At last.” Teddy squeezed Hermione’s hand at that, as if sealing the truth into place.

Kingsley straightened, duty gathering itself back around him like a cloak. “Go home,” he told them gently. “Be together. I’ll handle the press and the rest of the noise.”

Andromeda glanced at Tonks. “Go on with the others. I’ll be along shortly.” She walked with Kingsley down the corridor, neither speaking, their footsteps in step. At his office door she paused, touched his sleeve. “Dinner at the manor,” she said. “Tonight. No speeches, no news. Just food.”

Something eased in his face—gratitude, and the smallest, most human relief. “I’ll be there,” he said.

She smiled, brief and real, and Disapparated with a whisper of air.

In the hearthlight of Malfoy Manor an hour later, the fire took them one by one—Andromeda last. House-elves brought broth and bread and tea; someone laughed, and the sound wasn’t impossible. Ginny leaned into Tonks on the settee while Teddy nested himself between Hermione and Narcissa, his hand drifting—by habit, by vow—to the curve of Hermione’s belly. Narcissa rested her cheek against Hermione’s hair. Andromeda stood a moment in the doorway, watching the shape of her family refit itself around what the day had taken and what it had given.

Chapter Text

Chapter 54: A Seat at the Table

The long dining hall at Malfoy Manor glowed with warmth it had not known in decades. Candles floated low above the table, their flames mirrored in polished silver and crystal glasses. House-elves bustled quietly in the background, laying out roast chicken, autumn vegetables, baskets of buttered rolls, and steaming tureens of soup.

For the first time in memory, the grandeur of the room felt less like performance and more like shelter. Where once the table had borne war councils, secrets, and silence, tonight it was being reclaimed—remade into something worthy of laughter and bread passed hand to hand.

Hermione smoothed her dress over her belly as she sank into a chair beside Narcissa. Ginny sat across from them, pale still but no longer brittle—her voice and eyes steadier, as though she was relearning her balance. Tonks fussed with Teddy’s napkin until he shooed her away, his hair turning a mischievous bright orange in protest. Andromeda watched from her place, her spine straight as ever, though the tension around her eyes softened in the candlelight.

The Floo roared green. Kingsley stepped through in full Ministerial robes, imposing and stately as always. Narcissa rose to greet him, chin inclined.

“Minister,” she said, her tone a polished bow of courtesy.

Kingsley lifted a hand, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not tonight. Just Kingsley.”

Narcissa’s brows arched—aristocratic, amused. After a long beat, she inclined her head. “Very well. Kingsley.”

The name felt strange in her mouth, but she said it as though testing a jewel in the light.

He joined them at the table, and at last, dinner began.

The first courses were eaten in relative quiet, the clink of forks on porcelain filling the silence that had followed them all day. It was Teddy who cracked it open.

“You know,” he announced between bites of bread roll, “I definitely felt her kick during the trial.” He patted Hermione’s stomach with solemn pride. “Right when Uncle Harry was being scary. She knows I was protecting her.”

Hermione’s cheeks warmed, torn between laughter and tears. “You’ve been very brave already, Teddy. You shouldn’t feel you have to protect her all the time.”

“I promised,” he said stubbornly. His hair shifted to a bold Gryffindor scarlet as if to prove it.

Tonks groaned and ruffled his head. “You sound just like your father when you dig in like that.”

Teddy wrinkled his nose and changed his hair to match hers—bubblegum pink. The table chuckled.

“Careful,” Ginny chimed in, her voice lighter than it had been in weeks. “If you keep showing off, you’ll be running for Minister before Kingsley retires.”

Kingsley chuckled, the deep sound filling the space. “At this rate, I might have to step aside sooner than planned.”

Teddy grinned so wide that even Andromeda, normally measured, let out a soft laugh.

The meal flowed. Ginny found herself laughing at one of Tonks’ ridiculous stories about a training accident involving a hexed teacup, and for the first time in too long, her laughter didn’t sound fragile. After the laughter faded, she looked across the table at Hermione and Narcissa.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice carrying despite its softness. “For… letting me be here. For not making me feel like I don’t belong after everything.”

Hermione’s hand found hers across the table, warm and sure. “You do belong. Always.”

Narcissa inclined her head, cool but sincere. “Family is not denied for what others have done.”

Ginny swallowed, the corners of her mouth trembling into something like a smile.

Meanwhile, Andromeda and Kingsley shared the breadbasket at the same moment, their hands brushing. She drew hers back too quickly, cheeks coloring. Narcissa, at the head of the table, caught it and raised one elegant eyebrow, her smirk both merciless and affectionate. Andromeda rolled her eyes in response, cheeks warming, and Narcissa—satisfied—turned back to cut Hermione’s chicken into smaller pieces before setting the fork back in her hand. Hermione gave her a look that was half exasperation, half tender amusement, and squeezed Narcissa’s fingers beneath the table in silent thanks.

By the time dessert arrived—honey cakes and steaming spiced tea—the atmosphere had loosened into something approaching joy. Teddy had leaned so far into Tonks’ side that he was nearly asleep, though he perked up enough to change his hair bright blue when Ginny teased that he was drooling on his mother’s sleeve.

“I’m not!” he cried indignantly, swiping at his chin. “Okay—maybe a little.”

Laughter rolled through the hall, warm and unrestrained.

Narcissa lifted her glass at last, her voice quiet but carrying all the same. “To family. The ones we are born to, the ones we choose, and the ones this house has never before been worthy of—until now.”

The glasses clinked. The sound was soft but resonant, ringing like a benediction.

Hermione leaned her head against Narcissa’s shoulder, her smile tired but real. Teddy yawned, Ginny closed her eyes as though breathing the moment in, Tonks kissed her son’s hair, and Andromeda’s hand slipped once more into Kingsley’s, this time without retreat.

For a house that had once thrummed with fear, the walls now seemed to hold laughter like light.

And for a single night, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Chapter 55: From Ashes to Embers

Tonks rose from her chair, ruffling Teddy’s blue-streaked hair. “All right, young man. Bed for you before you fall asleep in your pudding.”

“I wasn’t falling asleep!” Teddy protested, though his yawn betrayed him. He padded around the room, giving everyone a goodnight hug. When he reached Hermione, he pressed his cheek against her stomach and whispered solemnly, “Good night, baby girl. Don’t kick too hard.”

The women melted. Hermione blinked furiously against the sting in her eyes, stroking his hair. Narcissa brushed her fingers through the boy’s fringe with quiet reverence.

But Teddy wasn’t finished. He turned expectantly to Ginny. “Aren’t you coming? We were going to bed.”

Ginny froze, color flooding her face. Tonks blinked, then burst into laughter so loud it rattled the cutlery. “Merlin’s beard, Teddy. Out with it, why don’t you?”

Hermione choked on a laugh, Narcissa’s smirk sharpened, and Andromeda arched a knowing eyebrow. Ginny tried to sputter a denial, but Teddy’s innocent persistence ruined her efforts.

“You were there last night,” he pointed out, blinking wide eyes at her. “Why not tonight?”

Ginny’s mouth opened and closed, crimson from ear to ear. Tonks clapped her son’s shoulder, still grinning. “It won’t be every night, Teddy.”

But Teddy’s eyes brimmed with tears. “But I want her there.” His voice cracked, small and broken, the shadow of too much fear still clinging to him.

Ginny couldn’t say no. She knelt, hugging him tight. “All right. Tonight.”

They ended up in a tangle of limbs under Tonks’s quilt — Teddy nestled between them, Tonks’s hand resting protectively over Ginny’s, which in turn covered Teddy’s chest. The boy sighed in relief, eyelids fluttering shut. At last, it felt less like a makeshift comfort and more like something true — a beginning.

As laughter still lingered in the air, Andromeda stood, her chair scraping lightly. “I think the roses could use a stroll,” she said, her voice steady but her cheeks touched with faint color.

Narcissa arched one perfect brow.

Unfazed, Andromeda looped her arm through Kingsley’s. Then, with an impishness few had seen since her youth, she turned back to her sister and stuck out her tongue. Hermione’s laugh rang bright and unguarded, and even Kingsley’s mouth twitched at the display.

Narcissa sniffed, eyes narrowed. “Well. Thoroughly ditched.”

Hermione’s hand found hers beneath the table, warm and sure. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave you alone.”

Narcissa held her gaze, voice softer now. “And neither will I.”

The way they looked at each other made the air hum with something more than words.

Moonlight silvered the paths as Andromeda and Kingsley walked hand in hand among the roses. The night air was cool, fragrant with late blooms. They didn’t need words; the simple weight of his hand in hers said more than speeches ever could.

Back inside, as they passed the Floo parlor, Kingsley stopped. He turned her gently, drawing her against him. The hug melted into a kiss — deep, certain, a promise he had held back too long.

They parted just enough to breathe, both chuckling softly. Then Kingsley’s tone shifted, his voice low, earnest. “Andy… don’t make me go home alone tonight.”

Her breath caught. She looked into his eyes — saw not only duty and weariness, but affection and want. Her fingers tightened on his. “Then stay,” she whispered. “I want you to stay.”

Still hand in hand, she led him toward the stairs. The door shut softly behind them, what followed needed no words at all — only the soft surrender of two people choosing, at last, not to be alone.

Upstairs, Narcissa closed their chamber door with a deliberate flick of her wand, wards humming into place. The moment the lock clicked, she pressed Hermione against the wall, kissing her as though the world might vanish if she let go.

Hermione laughed softly into the kiss, tugging her closer, and together they stumbled toward the bed, lips never breaking. Along the way, silk ties slipped, buttons loosened, fabric sliding to the floor in quiet trails. By the time they sank into the covers, they were already bared to each other, laughter dissolving into gasps as skin met skin.

For a long moment, they paused — foreheads pressed, breath uneven, gazes locked. Narcissa’s hand trembled as she brushed a curl from Hermione’s cheek, reverent. “Do you know,” she whispered, voice breaking, “how long I’ve wanted to love you like this?”

Hermione’s eyes shone, her smile steady. “Then love me, Cissa. All of me.”

The hesitation unraveled. Narcissa kissed her slowly at first, then deeper, more certain. Hermione’s hands slid along her arms and back, learning every line as though mapping a truth she already knew. Narcissa’s touch followed in kind, reverent and hungry, rediscovering her own capacity for wonder in Hermione’s warmth, her laughter, her whispered encouragement.

Their rhythm built naturally — breath for breath, touch for touch — until the space between them felt like it had never existed at all. Hermione arched into her with a gasp, fingers knotting in silk sheets, and Narcissa clung tighter, anchoring them both as the storm gathered.

“I love you,” Hermione breathed, urgent and unrestrained — not a revelation, but a vow renewed in fire.

“I love you,” Narcissa answered fiercely, her voice steady even as tears rimmed her eyes. “With everything I am.”

Their lips met again, and as their passion broke over them, golden light flared — not blinding but enveloping, threads of magic weaving from skin to skin, heart to heart. Their very souls twined together, shimmering, indissoluble. The air hummed as if the house itself recognized the bond: ancient, rare, eternal.

Hermione shuddered, Narcissa gasped, and then the light sank beneath their skin, pulsing faintly like a second heartbeat. They clung to each other in the afterglow, shaking, laughing through tears.

And then came the brush of presence. Not sight, not sound — but warmth, dignity, love. Familiar, beloved. Lucius. Draco. Not ghosts, but echoes that lingered — a sense of being witnessed, of approval shared. Both women felt it.

Narcissa’s breath caught. “They’re here,” she whispered, raw. “They know.”

Hermione pressed her face against Narcissa’s neck, tears slipping free. “Then nothing can take this from us.”

The glow softened, settling into them. Narcissa kissed her temple again and again, whispering, “Mine. Always mine.”

Hermione smirked faintly through tears, brushing her lips over Narcissa’s. “For all your aristocratic dignity, you look terribly rumpled.”

Narcissa laughed shakily, cheeks flushed. “If this is the cost, I will bear it gladly.”

Sunlight spilled across the long dining table, warming silver and porcelain. Narcissa sat at the head, regal but softened by contentment. Hermione sat at her right hand, curls mussed from sleep, her smile quiet but sure.

When Andromeda and Kingsley entered together, it was impossible not to miss the change. Andromeda’s usual composure was touched with a soft, morning-after glow that made her seem years lighter. Kingsley, beside her, looked equally unburdened, his simple robes and the self-assured curve of his mouth lending him the air of a man entirely at ease — a man exactly where he meant to be.

Tonks lounged opposite them, Teddy busy making a spectacular mess of his toast beside her. Ginny, calmer now, hid a smile behind her teacup whenever Teddy dropped crumbs into his juice.

It didn’t take long for everyone to notice the shift. Narcissa’s knowing glance, Hermione’s smirk, Ginny’s stifled laugh — all pointed to the obvious fact that Kingsley had not flooed home.

Tonks leaned back, violet hair sparking with mischief. “So, Mum,” she said, eyes darting meaningfully between Andromeda’s flushed cheeks and Kingsley’s borrowed robes, “if the Minister’s shacking up with you now, should I be calling him Dad?”

The table erupted — Ginny nearly spilling her tea, Hermione choking on toast, Narcissa’s lips twitching in the faintest of smirks.

Andromeda groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Dora! Must you?”

Kingsley only chuckled, smooth as ever. “That depends,” he said, dark eyes gleaming. “Would you have me?”

Tonks tapped her chin thoughtfully, then grinned. “If you keep Mum smiling like that, I just might.”

Teddy perked up, hair flashing gold. “Does that mean I get another granddad?”

The laughter that followed rolled bright and unrestrained through the hall, spilling into corners that had once known only whispers and fear. Teddy leaned against Tonks, cheeks sticky with jam, Ginny’s eyes crinkled with real mirth, Andromeda and Kingsley sat close enough for comfort to be obvious, and at the head of the table Narcissa and Hermione shared the kind of quiet smile that spoke of promises already made.

Once, this house had been a monument to grief, its halls echoing with silence and loss. Now it rang with laughter, full of voices and warmth. The shadows that had clung to it were not gone, but transformed, glowing faintly at the edges like coals refusing to die.

From ashes, something new had kindled. From ruin, embers caught and warmed into flame.

And in the heart of Malfoy Manor, the fire of a family began to burn.

Chapter Text

Epilogue

It had taken months for the world to steady after Harry’s trial, but steady it did. Kingsley navigated the storm of politics and grief with careful precision — and with Andromeda’s quiet strength at his side. Together, they reformed the law and abolished the Dementor’s Kiss, closing that shadowed chapter for good.

Ginny never returned to the Burrow. She met her father sometimes, and once or twice her brothers, though those visits always felt strained, the air thick with things unsaid. But she had found her place — at Tonks’s side. What had begun as comfort had grown into something steadier, warmer. Their love was not declared with grand gestures but with the simple, constant fact that Ginny never again slept alone.

Harry — or rather, Daniel Evans — went far from Britain. He felt a strange pull toward Australia, where he settled among an English expat community. There, he befriended an older couple, who welcomed him like family. He never understood why he was drawn to them, but their laughter soothed a place in him he hadn’t known was raw. He took to surfing, the rush of salt and wind reminding him of flying, though he never knew why it filled him with joy so deep it brought tears.

Years passed. Seasons turned.

Now, the garden at Malfoy Manor rang with children’s laughter. Teddy looped his broom in daring spirals, blue hair gleaming in the sun, while Lyra chased after him on her smaller broom, determination etched across her young face. Tonks and Ginny zoomed alongside them, watchful but laughing, daring each other into playful races that left Teddy shrieking with delight and Lyra pouting when she wobbled too much on a turn.

Andromeda sat beneath the old elm tree, Kingsley’s arm snug around her waist. Their wedding bands caught the light whenever her hand brushed his, and she leaned into him with the ease of a woman who had finally allowed herself peace.

Hermione and Narcissa watched from the veranda, their chairs side by side. Time had softened them, though Hermione’s curls were still wild and Narcissa’s elegance still cut sharp as glass. Their love had only deepened, grief giving way to a bond forged in both fire and gentleness. While they still missed Draco and Lucius, they were at peace.

Teddy and Lyra tumbled off their brooms into the grass, laughing until Lyra’s giggles ebbed into silence. She hugged her knees, staring at the horizon, and Teddy dropped down beside her.

“What’s wrong, little lioness?” he asked.

“You’ll be gone soon,” she whispered. “When school starts, you’ll leave me here. Who’ll teach me flying tricks? Who’ll sneak me chocolate frogs? Who’ll… protect me?” Her voice cracked, and she ducked her head.

Teddy reached over, tilting her chin up until she met his eyes. His grin was gone, replaced by the calm steadiness that made him seem older than his years.

“I’ll write you every week,” he promised. “Even if I have to send a whole flock of owls. And when I come home, we’ll fly until your broomstick gives up.” He squeezed her hand. “You’re my cousin. My girl to protect. Always.”

Lyra sniffled, stubborn even through tears. “I’m not a baby.”

“No,” Teddy said with a crooked smile. “You’re a lioness. Fierce and brave. But even lionesses deserve a knight to watch their back.”

That earned him a giggle, shaky but real. She leaned into him, fingers curling around his. “You’d better keep your word.”

“Cross my heart,” he said, linking his pinky with hers.

From the veranda, Hermione and Narcissa smiled softly, Hermione pressing a kiss to Narcissa’s temple. Narcissa murmured something about knights and lionesses, and Hermione only smiled brighter.

Ginny and Tonks shared a look when Teddy and Lyra trudged back toward the house, hand in hand. Tonks reached for Ginny’s fingers without thought; Ginny’s answering blush was quick, but she didn’t let go. Andromeda, watching from beneath the elm, leaned further into Kingsley’s side, her sigh content.

The air was filled with warmth: roses in bloom, children’s laughter, the hush of wind in the trees.

Once, Malfoy Manor had been a house of silence, its halls heavy with grief and solitude. Now it thrummed with life — reshaped, reborn, a family remade from fragments of loss.

From ashes, embers had caught. And in their glow, a new fire burned — not of war, but of love.