Hermione's eyes fluttered open, her vision swimming as the dim light seeped into her senses. At first, the world around her was a haze, but slowly, the details sharpened into a place that felt almost otherworldly—crafted by a magic both ancient and tender.
Golden light filtered through wisps of gossamer curtains, casting delicate, dancing shadows across the walls. They weren't merely walls, but living murals, hand-painted with impossible detail. Towering, enchanted forests stretched across one side, their boughs dripping with moss and mystery. On another, wildflowers bloomed in endless meadows, their petals frozen mid-dance in an eternal breeze. It was a place between reality and dream, a sanctuary woven from both.
Above her, a lattice of fairy lights blinked softly against the ceiling—like a thousand captured stars, mimicking the gentle hush of the night sky. The glow felt alive, almost breathing, as if the room itself was watching over her, cradling her in its warmth.
A plush armchair by the window stood expectantly, its velvet folds rich and inviting, whispering promises of quiet reflection. The antique clock beside it ticked softly, its face half-obscured by intricate carvings of vines and leaves, as if time itself had slowed in this sacred space.
But the peace was fleeting.
The moment realization set in, it shattered.
"Draco!" Her voice cracked, raw and desperate, tearing through the stillness. A plea. A summoning. A lifeline thrown into the abyss.
The door slammed open so forcefully it rattled on its hinges. And then he was there. Eyes wild. Breath unsteady. A storm in human form.
For a split second, he froze—as if caught between disbelief and the terror of waking from a cruel dream. Then, in three quick strides, he was beside her, his hands cupping her face with a reverence that trembled.
"Hermione," he choked out, his voice fracturing beneath the weight of everything unsaid.
His lips pressed to her forehead, a series of desperate, lingering kisses—each one a vow, each one a silent prayer.
The relief in his expression was almost painful to look at, yet beneath it, a darker fury smoldered. His jaw was clenched so tightly it could snap; his eyes burned with an unspoken promise of vengeance. Someone had dared to harm her—and they would answer for it.
"I thought…" His voice cracked, and for the first time, she heard the utter devastation laced within it. "I thought I'd lost you."
His breath shuddered as his hands brushed away the tears that slipped down her cheeks, though his own silver eyes glistened with unshed ones. He had carried too much grief, too much rage, and now—this moment—was the first time he allowed himself to feel.
The desperate need to pull her into his arms battled against the grim reality of the plastic IV taped to her wrist, the steady hum of machines keeping her stable. A cruel reminder that she was still fragile, still teetering between survival and ruin.
Yet even in her weakness, she reached for him.
Her fingers—trembling, weak, but determined—brushed against his cheek. The touch was barely there, a whisper of warmth, but it was enough.
His breath hitched. He caught her hand, threading his fingers through hers, gripping her like a drowning man clinging to his last anchor. He brought her palm to his lips, his hold firm but reverent, as if grounding himself in the proof that she was here. Alive.
"Draco…" her voice was barely more than a breath, fragile yet insistent. There were a thousand questions clawing at her mind—the attack, the sterile hum of the machines, the haunted look in his eyes—but none of them mattered. Not yet. The only thing she needed in this moment was him.
He leaned closer, his gaze scanning her face with an intensity that sent warmth through her, even in the cold of this hospital bed. Worry was etched into every line of his features, a silent battle waged between fear and relief. "Are you in pain? Do you need anything?" His voice was thick with emotion, desperation curling around every syllable. "I can call Luna, or I can—"
"No," she interrupted, shaking her head with the faintest movement. "Just you."
The words were soft, almost lost to the sterile air, but they shattered his frantic thoughts. He exhaled, something between a sigh and a choked breath, his tension unraveling like thread.
"Just me," he repeated, as if grounding himself in the reality of it. His grip on her hand tightened, his palm warm against hers, the connection tethering them both. For the first time in hours—maybe days—he allowed himself to breathe.
His lips ghosted over her knuckles, lingering there, his touch reverent. "I'm here," he whispered, a vow, an anchor, a desperate plea.
But even as relief softened his features, another emotion crept in, darkening the storm in his eyes. Regret. Guilt. The kind that gnawed at the soul like a festering wound.
"My love… I'm so sorry," he rasped, his voice barely holding together under the weight of his shame. "For everything. I should have been there. I should have protected you." His grip tightened around hers, as if he feared she would slip through his fingers if he let go.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't let them fall for his sake, for both of their sakes. Instead, she squeezed his hand, her touch steady, grounding. "Draco," she murmured, "You found me. That's all that matters."
A tremor passed through him, the sheer depth of her words unraveling something inside him. He had torn the world apart searching for her. He had burned everything in his path. And yet, all she asked of him— all she had ever asked —was to be there.
And he was.
The world beyond them faded—the hum of machines, the quiet flicker of fairy lights, the dawn slowly creeping against the horizon. It didn't exist. Not here, not now. Only them, wrapped in a silence heavier than words, more powerful than any spell.
He leaned in, his forehead pressing against hers, a silent apology, a silent promise. His fingers threaded through hers, locking them together, unbreakable.
"We're going to get through this," he whispered. But his voice trembled, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as he was her. "Whatever comes next, we face it together."
The certainty in his words was like a balm against her frayed nerves. She believed him, because she had no other choice. Because there was no one else she trusted to stand beside her through the darkness.
She let out a slow breath, the tightness in her chest loosening for the first time since she had woken. "Together," she echoed. A promise. A declaration. A tether binding them to the fight ahead.
The soft golden light of dawn seeped into the sterile room, casting away the shadows of the night. It wasn't a victory. Not yet. But it was a beginning.
And as the exhaustion of everything finally pulled them under, they drifted into sleep, still holding onto each other, a silent vow between them.
Whatever darkness lay ahead, they would face it. Hand in hand. Always.
~~~~~~
Hermione drifted toward consciousness, her senses slowly tethering her back to reality. The first thing she registered was warmth—the heat of a gentle hand cradling her foot, grounding her in a world that still felt distant. The second was a voice—soft, breaking, thick with an emotion so raw it felt like a whisper straight from the soul.
"My baby girl."
The words wrapped around her like a protective cocoon, tugging her from the haze of sleep. Her heart clenched. That voice… her father.
Another hand, softer, more delicate, brushed tenderly across her forehead, smoothing back her hair with the same familiar rhythm that had lulled her to sleep as a child. Her mother.
Tears welled in her eyes before she could even open them.
She blinked against the dim light, the world swimming into focus through a sheen of unshed tears. Her mother sat beside her, shoulders hunched, twisting a tissue between trembling fingers. Jane's usually bright, knowing eyes were clouded with worry, her face pale and drawn, grief etched into every weary line.
Opposite her, David sat stiffly, his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles in his face twitched from the strain. He tried to maintain his usual composure, the strong, unwavering presence she had always known—but the slight tremor in his hands, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed back emotion, betrayed the sheer depth of his distress. He was barely holding himself together.
A soft, broken breath slipped from her lips before she could stop it. "Mummy…"
The childish endearment tumbled out instinctively, a plea wrapped in innocence, carrying years of unspoken longing.
Jane's head snapped up, her eyes widening in stunned relief. For half a second, she seemed frozen—as if afraid any movement might shatter the fragile moment. But then, as though the dam had burst, she surged forward, clutching Hermione's hand with a grip that was both fierce and trembling.
"Oh, my pumpkin," she whispered, tears slipping freely down her cheeks. "We're here, sweetheart. We're right here."
David rose so abruptly that his chair scraped against the floor with a harsh, grating sound. He turned his back to them for a moment, running a hand down his face before exhaling shakily. His fists clenched at his sides as he finally turned back, his voice thick, raw.
"We were so afraid."
His voice cracked.
"We should have been there. We should have protected you."
There was something so painfully human in the way he spoke—the helplessness of a father who had spent his life ensuring his daughter was safe, only to be forced into powerlessness when she needed him most.
Hermione felt her throat tighten as she looked into his tormented eyes, filled with love and regret in equal measure. Her father—her protector—was blaming himself. And that was something she could not allow.
Her fingers weakly squeezed his. "You're here now." Her voice trembled, but there was conviction in it.
David sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders slumping. His free hand covered his mouth for a long moment before he finally exhaled, lowering his forehead against their joined hands. "I couldn't bear it," he admitted, his voice hoarse. "The thought of losing you… Hermione, I—"
A choked sob stole his words.
Jane reached for her, brushing away a stray tear before leaning down to press a kiss to Hermione's forehead. Her mother—her strength—her home. "We couldn't stay away," she whispered. "We had to see you, had to hold you."
The weight of their love pressed into her, something overwhelming yet stabilizing. For the first time since she had opened her eyes, she felt safe.
A few steps away, he stood quietly—watching.
Draco hadn't spoken a word. He simply observed, standing in the shadows, allowing her parents to reclaim the space around her. And yet, even in his silence, she could feel him.
A presence she had learned to recognize even in the darkness.
Jane turned to him then, her expression softening. She had no need for words; gratitude poured from her eyes, unspoken but understood.
Still, she said it anyway.
"Thank you."
Draco swallowed, his usual sharp confidence momentarily absent. His voice was quieter than usual when he finally spoke, but the words carried more weight than anything he had ever said.
"She's… she's my world, Mrs. Granger." His voice was rough, raw, unguarded. "More than my world, actually. She's the light that chases away the darkness. I would do anything—anything—for her."
Jane's lips parted slightly, startled by the honesty, the sheer devotion in his words. She had heard many things about Draco Malfoy in her lifetime—but never this.
She smiled then, and in that moment, there was no war, no past, no lingering mistrust—just a mother understanding the depth of love someone had for her child.
She managed a nod, though the tears refused to stop. She wasn't crying from weakness, nor from fear—but from the sheer overwhelming weight of it all. The love, the relief, the unshakable presence of those who refused to leave her side.
And then, as if drawn by her pain, a new presence entered the room, soft and unassuming.
"Mimi, you're awake."
The voice was familiar—gentle, airy, filled with a warmth that wrapped around her like the first light of dawn.
Hermione turned her head, her breath catching. There, standing just beyond the golden glow of morning, was Luna.
She looked almost otherworldly, as she always did—her blonde waves loose over her shoulders, a serene smile playing at her lips, her expression impossibly tender. There was something ethereal about Luna, something untouched by the cruelty of the world, and yet, she carried the weight of knowing.
"Luna?" Her voice cracked on the syllables, thick with relief.
Luna moved forward, taking her trembling hands in hers, her touch cool, grounding. "You gave us quite the scare, you know," she murmured, her fingers tracing gentle circles over Hermione's knuckles.
Tears welled again, but this time, they weren't just from grief—they were from love.
"This is our safe house," Luna continued, her voice as light as air, but filled with unshakable certainty. "You're safe now, Mimi. Truly safe."
Hermione let out a shuddering breath, her chest loosening just a little. Safe. The word wrapped around her like a whisper of magic, soft and real and powerful.
She glanced at her parents—her father's tired but steadfast gaze, her mother's unwavering devotion. Then at Luna, at Blaise, at Theo. And finally, at Draco, the man who had torn through hell to find her.
All of them. Here.
They had fought for her. Stood by her, broken and battered, but never once wavering.
Draco's hand, strong and steady, tightened around hers. "We're here," he said, his voice rough, threaded with the kind of resolve that had moved mountains. "All of us. No one leaves your side. Not now, not ever."
Something inside her cracked—not in pain, but in awe. She had spent so long surviving alone, carrying burdens she had never dared to share. But now?
Now, she didn't have to.
A small, fragile smile tugged at her lips. It was barely there, but it was real.
She let out a slow breath, one that didn't shake quite as much as before.
Surrounded by love—by her family, her friends, and the man who had redefined loyalty in the fiercest way imaginable—she felt something stir deep in her chest.
A spark. Small. Trembling. But unmistakably there. Hope.
As the morning light spilled golden warmth over them, illuminating their weary but unbroken faces, Hermione let her eyes flutter shut. She felt their presence surround her, anchoring her in something stronger than fear. Stronger than pain.
She wasn't whole. Not yet. But she wasn't alone, either.
And when she woke again, she would face whatever lay ahead—not as a victim, not as someone lost in the dark…
But as someone who had found her way home.
~~~~~~
When she woke again, the sterile silence was replaced by the soft cadence of a voice, floating through the dim light like a balm against the storm raging in her mind. It was gentle, yet unyielding, laced with both conviction and quiet comfort—the kind of strength that only Ginny possessed.
"Wonder is the beginning of philosophy," Ginny murmured, her tone hushed, almost reverent. "That's what Socrates believed. And here you are, battered but unbroken, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit."
The words wrapped around her, a stark contrast to the antiseptic chill in the air, grounding her when everything else felt adrift in the abyss of lost time.
A weak smile ghosted over her lips, though her throat was raw, her body heavy with exhaustion. "I never thought I'd see the day when you quoted philosophy." Her voice cracked, but there was something teasing in her tone—something that almost felt like herself again.
Ginny let out a small laugh, through her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Ferret told me you were reading this before… everything." She swallowed hard before gesturing to the worn book resting beside her on the bed. "Thought you'd want to pick up where you left off."
She reached for Hermione's hand, cradling it gently, as if she were something fragile—a thing made of shattered glass and memories held together by will alone.
But her expression faltered. The teasing edge in her voice was gone, replaced by something darker, rawer.
"I saw …," Hermione whispered suddenly, her voice barely more than breath. The words settled heavily between them, thick with something unspoken, unfinished.
Ginny stilled, her fingers tightening slightly around hers.
"I saw you," Hermione continued, her voice trembling, the memory flashing behind her eyes like a terrible dream she couldn't wake from. "Over and over… I saw you—"
She stopped, throat closing around the words.
Ginny's gaze didn't waver. There was no hesitation, no flinch of regret. Just certainty.
"And I'd do it again."
Hermione's breath hitched. The words were quiet, but absolute. Not spoken out of guilt or anger, but out of something deeper—a ferocity that defied morality itself.
Ginny had killed for her.
And she would do it again.
Before Hermione could respond, she tried to shift, to sit up—only for agony to splinter through her body. Pain flared hot and merciless along her left side, and she collapsed back against the pillows with a strangled gasp.
Panic coiled in her chest. Something was wrong.
She turned to Ginny, suddenly desperate. "Can we go for a walk?" she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. She needed to move. She needed to feel real.
Ginny's expression twisted, something breaking in her features. Her lips parted, and then—a hesitation. A slight quiver in her grip. A tell.
"Love," Ginny whispered, so, so softly, brushing her thumb over Hermione's knuckles.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, as if steadying herself for the weight of the truth.
"During the attack… your left side—" Her voice cracked, and for the first time, Ginny looked afraid. "It was paralyzed."
The words landed like a curse.
A cold horror slithered up Hermione's spine, her breath stuttering as she tried—desperately—to move her fingers, her arm, her leg.
Nothing. Nothing.
The world tilted.
Ginny closed her eyes, pressing a kiss to their joined hands, like an apology. "It's okay," she whispered, but Hermione could hear the tremor in her voice. "We'll get through this. I promise."
But promises felt like lies in the face of reality.
Her fingers drifted upwards, the movement slow and clumsy, until she brushed her scalp.
And her world shattered. Smooth. Bare. The breath in her throat turned to ice.
"W-What happened to my hair?" she choked, voice cracking on the final word, horror curling in her chest like a vice.
Ginny's eyes fluttered shut.
And then—a whisper. A confession. A knife to the heart.
"Brain surgery."
Two words. So small. So quiet. So deafening.
"They had to operate, Hermione." Ginny's voice was barely holding together now. "That's why… your hair…"
The world blurred at the edges. It was too much. Too much to process, too much to comprehend. Too much loss.
"How long?" Her voice barely made a sound.
Ginny hesitated. The hesitation was worse than any answer.
Her eyes flickered down, then back up—a chasm of regret.
"…It's been weeks, my love." A pause. A steadying breath. "It's April 16th."
The month hit her like a physical blow. April.
Days, weeks—gone. Stolen from her, torn from the pages of her life. She had slept through her own existence.
Her chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with her injuries.
"Ginny…" she whispered, gripping her friend's hands like an anchor. As if she might drown.
Ginny's eyes darkened, her mouth twisting with something horrible and raw.
"Draco," she spat suddenly, the name laced with something vicious, something cold. "Draco sliced that bitch up."
Hermione sucked in a sharp breath.
"There was so much blood," Ginny continued, voice flat, emotionless. "Blaise and Theo had to clean it up. Even the ceiling was covered."
A violent shudder racked Hermione's frame.
She saw it—Draco, covered in red, his stormy eyes void of mercy, void of restraint.
The man she loved, turned into a monster.
For her.
And yet, somewhere beneath the horror… something else lurked. Something like gratitude.
Ginny softened. Her tone gentled. "And Luna… My darling Luna healed you. She wouldn't let anyone else touch you. We couldn't take you to a hospital—not with everything going on. So we brought you here."
This place, this hidden sanctuary, had been their fortress. Their battlefield. Their refuge.
Ginny swallowed thickly, squeezing Hermione's hands. "We've been here, all of us, since then."
Her vision blurred. For all she had lost, she had never been alone.
And in that moment, she understood.
This wasn't just about survival. It was about salvation.
She exhaled shakily.
"I saw you, Gin." Her voice cracked. "I saw you stab Jelena. Thousands of times."
Her words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. A confession. A reckoning.
Ginny didn't blink. "And I'd do it again."
Silence. A heavy, unbreakable silence.
Then, softer—softer than a secret. "But don't you ever forget," Ginny whispered, her hands cupping Hermione's face. " You were the one who saved yourself ."
Hermione shook her head, tears spilling over.
Ginny held her tighter. Unshakable. Unyielding.
"You fought for yourself," Ginny continued, fierce and quiet, like the edge of a blade. "You survived because of the fire inside you."
Her forehead pressed against Hermione's. A vow. A promise. A sisterhood forged in blood and sacrifice.
" Now let me help you save your soul ."
~~~~~~
Her parents never left. Her chosen family never left. And the love of her life never left.
Each day was a war fought in increments—a battle against weakness, against the silence of limbs that once obeyed without hesitation. The mind that had once been sharp, quick, relentless now felt trapped inside a body that lagged behind, slow and uncooperative. There were moments of triumph, small victories measured in a lifted hand, a turned head, a flex of fingers once too stiff to move. But frustration lurked beneath every success, gnawing at her with the cruel reminder that she was not the same.
But she was not alone.
Her parents were the first to arrive each morning, unfailingly present, unshaken in their love. Her father would take his usual place at her bedside, his grip strong but gentle as he whispered childhood stories—scraped knees, bedtime adventures, moments of defiance and brilliance that painted her as the girl she had always been. He spoke as though the past could pull her forward, could bridge the gap between then and now, as if reminding her of who she had been would help her find her way back.
Her mother, ever the fierce protector, hovered like a guardian angel, brushing stray hairs from her forehead, adjusting blankets that didn't need fixing, pressing kisses against her temple as if she could will her back to health. She whispered words of encouragement, her voice low, soothing, full of the quiet determination of a mother who refused to acknowledge any world in which her child did not recover.
Then came Ginny—bold, unwavering, relentless Ginny.
She was there every day, without fail. A hand always at the ready, a voice always there to fill the silence. When Hermione could not yet find the words for her own grief, Ginny filled the spaces with stories, with laughter, with warmth. She read to her—not medical texts, not newspapers or strategy reports—but poetry, each line spoken like a spell meant to mend something broken inside her. She recited sonnets and verses, war ballads and love letters, her voice steady, anchoring Hermione when her mind felt like it was unraveling.
Ginny never pitied her. Never treated her like she was fragile. Instead, she sat beside her, fingers twined with hers, unshaken, a warrior standing guard. A sister forged in the fire of battles long since fought.
And then Luna arrived, like a quiet breeze through the storm.
Where others brought words, Luna brought magic.
Not spells or potions, but small, thoughtful gifts— tokens of healing tucked into the corners of the sterile room. A charm crafted from lavender and chamomile, meant to bring restful sleep. A tiny feather, enchanted to feel like a kiss against her cheek when she was alone. A vial of calming tea, brewed from moonlit herbs and whispered blessings. Luna moved through the space like a dream, rearranging flowers, humming softly, painting warmth where there had been only cold.
But always—always, there was Draco.
He rarely spoke in those early days. He didn't need to.
He sat by the window, watching, waiting, guarding. Not hovering, not pushing—just there. A silent sentinel.
There were moments when his fingers found hers, curling around them as though he feared she would disappear if he let go. And when he thought she was asleep, his lips would brush over her knuckles, a quiet vow spoken without words.
He read to her, his voice a deep, steady murmur, slipping through the cracks of her brokenness, filling the empty spaces.
And not just any books—hers.
Dog-eared, well-worn, the ones with pages marked by the brush of her fingertips, ink smudged from nights spent reading by candlelight. He picked passages of courage, of resilience, of love tested and strengthened.
Each word was a memory.
Each story a bridge to the girl she had been before.
And when their eyes met, there was no pity there. Only belief.
Belief in her.
Some days, he read with quiet focus, his thumb tracing circles against the leather spine of the book, as if grounding himself as much as he was grounding her.
Other days, he simply sat in silence, his presence enough.
But in those rare, stolen moments—when she caught him looking at her, when he smiled that slow, familiar smirk that had once driven her mad— she remembered.
She remembered the man he was before all of this.
She remembered the man who loved her.
And in those moments, she found the strength to fight harder.
Yet, for all the warmth and love that surrounded her, the war within her own body remained.
Her mind was ready. Her body was not.
It angered her—the helplessness, the betrayal of her own limbs. The frustration burned beneath her skin, coiling into something fierce and desperate. She fought against the limits of her body, against the slowness, the stiffness, the indignity of weakness.
There were days when tears spilled down her cheeks, hot and silent, when her fingers clenched beneath the blankets in frustration so thick it felt like suffocation.
But always, there was a hand to steady her. A voice to pull her back.
A reminder that she was more than her wounds.
Her father's quiet, steady devotion.
Her mother's fierce, unshakable love.
Ginny's unyielding strength, forcing her to count the victories instead of the losses.
Luna's whispered reassurances, tucked into the folds of her blankets like tiny, hidden spells.
And Draco— his storm-grey eyes watching her, unreadable yet full of something powerful, something unbreakable.
Some days, when frustration turned to exhaustion, when she wanted to scream, to break something, to give in—he would lean in, close enough that she could feel his breath against her cheek, and whisper,
"You're still you, my love. And you are still the strongest person I know."
She clung to those words. She clung to all of them.
And day by day, inch by inch, she fought her way back.
Each step forward was a battle won.
A lifted hand. A shifted leg. A moment of control.
Each milestone met with celebration.
Her father's proud grin.
Her mother's tears of joy.
Ginny's triumphant laughter.
Luna's whispered blessings.
And Draco's rare but radiant smile—the one that said he had never doubted her.
She had lost so much. But she had never been alone.
And when the day came that she stepped beyond the walls of this sanctuary, into the waiting world—she would not do it as the person she was before.
She would do it as someone stronger. Forged in pain. Strengthened by love. And utterly, irrevocably unbreakable.
~~~~~~
Theo and Blaise had made it their personal mission to turn Hermione's room into a daily circus—part intellectual debate club, part stand-up routine, and part chaotic mess of unfiltered nonsense. Their antics were as relentless as they were hilarious, dragging her out of the fog of frustration and into the light of pure, absurd entertainment.
Theo, naturally, had taken a deep and inexplicable dive into Muggle religious history, which, knowing him, meant his commentary was anything but reverent.
"So, Granger," he began one morning, sprawled in his usual chair with a grin that promised absolute foolishness, "Jesus was executed because people didn't like what he was saying. Would you say he was the first victim of celebrity cancel culture?"
She gaped at him, a pillow already clutched in her hand, primed for launching. "Theo, what the fuck?"
"No, no, hear me out." He waved a dramatic hand, leaning forward with conspiratorial glee. "The man had a cult following, he made some radical statements, and the authorities decided to 'cancel' him in the most extreme way possible. The blueprint for modern outrage culture, if you ask me."
She squeezed her eyes shut, regretting every life decision that had led her to this moment. "For the love of Merlin, Theo, he was crucified! That is beyond cancel culture!"
Unfazed, Theo tapped his chin. "Fine. I'll give you that." He took a long, dramatic pause before hitting her with, "Okay, next question: what had a bigger cultural impact—'Single Ladies' by Beyoncé, or the entire Renaissance?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Stared.
Then burst into laughter.
"It's definitely Beyoncé."
Theo shot up in his chair, pointing both hands at Blaise like he had just won a debate championship. "I TOLD YOU."
"MERLIN HELP US ALL." Blaise groaned, dragging a hand over his face.
And then, without any warning, Theo launched into an off-key, vaguely horrifying rendition of 'Single Ladies.'
"All my ladies get it done, I see you, I do the same, take it to another level, no passengers on my plane!"
Hermione nearly fell out of bed from laughing. "Theo, that's not even close to the lyrics."
Theo paused, blinking in confusion. "Wait… what's an aeroplane?"
She groaned. "Fucking hell, Theo, lending you my MP3 player was the worst decision I've ever made."
"Wrong." Theo smirked. "It's the greatest decision you've ever made. Now, serious question: Who is this Elvis fellow, and what exactly is a 'Hound Dog'?"
Blaise, who had spent the entire exchange silently regretting his life choices, finally snapped his book shut with a deep sigh of resignation.
"Alright, we're moving on before I start drinking at ten in the morning." He stood at her bedside, hand on his hip, voice dripping with theatrical grandeur. "Good morning, you radiant force of resilience."
She raised an eyebrow, already bracing for the ridiculousness to follow.
Blaise leaned in, his voice a low, conspiratorial purr.
"Tits up, bitch. Go be the reason the Devil is nervous today."
For a solid five seconds, she just stared at him.
And then she wheezed—laughter shaking her entire body, the best medicine she could ever receive.
"Blaise." She gasped, pressing a hand to her forehead. "That… is actually helpful."
"Of course it is." He flipped his scarf dramatically over his shoulder. "I live to serve."
Some mornings, he added a little extra flair.
"Listen, you divine little powerhouse," he said one day, surveying her hospital gown with a look of sheer tragedy. "This outfit may be as depressing as a Dementor on Christmas, but it's about the energy you bring to it. And you, Mia cara, are working it."
Their visits were a daily lifeline.*A ritual. A brief, shining moment where she wasn't just Hermione Granger, recovering patient—she was just Hermione, their friend, their sister in mischief. They never tiptoed around her fragility. Instead, they dragged her into their antics, making sure she never felt anything less than unstoppable.
They snuck in contraband snacks. They debated Muggle history. They argued over whether Shakespeare was real.
"Did you know," Theo announced one day, eyes gleaming, "some people think Shakespeare didn't write his own plays?"
"Yes, Theo," she sighed, not even looking up. "I knew that."
Theo crossed his arms smugly. "Next thing you'll tell me America once had a reality TV star for a president."
Hermione nodded.
Theo gasped dramatically. "NO. YOU'RE LYING."
Blaise, rubbing his temples, muttered, "The Muggle world is a lawless place."
And then there were the small victories.
The first time she stood up unaided, Theo and Blaise threw a party in the hospital room—complete with confetti made out of hospital discharge papers and an impromptu interpretive dance performance from Theo.
The day she managed to walk across the room, Blaise literally lifted her in the air like some victorious Quidditch champion, twirling her as she laughed breathlessly.
"YOU ARE A QUEEN. YOU ARE A FORCE. YOU WILL CONQUER ALL IN YOUR PATH."
Every day, they reminded her—through laughter, through sass, through unshakable loyalty—that she was more than this hospital bed. More than this recovery.
She was still Hermione fucking Granger.
And nothing—nothing—would ever change that.
~~~~~~
Today's victory was small—wiggling her toes, one by one. Yet, the room erupted in cheers as if she had just performed magic for the first time. Ginny let out a triumphant whoop, Theo clutched his chest as though personally moved by her miraculous progress, and her mother stifled a quiet sob of relief. Tears welled in Hermione's eyes, not from frustration this time, but from gratitude. Every day felt like a battle, a slow and excruciating climb back to herself. But she had love as her compass, and her chosen family as her strength, and she knew one thing for certain: she wouldn't face this alone.
Even so, the indignity of it all burned in her throat.
Hermione Granger, the girl who had faced Death Eaters, who had fought wars, who had once stood defiant before the Dark Lord himself—now reduced to needing help for the most basic functions. The frustration coiled inside her, suffocating in its quiet intensity. She hated how it made her feel, how every little moment of dependence chipped away at the person she used to be. She hated how it stripped her bare, leaving her vulnerable in ways she had never allowed herself to be before.
Her parents, bless them, treated her with the tenderness of two people who refused to let their child slip through their fingers again. They hovered, careful but unyielding, their devotion breaking her heart more than their worry. Their patience should have comforted her, but instead, it only magnified her shame. And then there was this. The worst of it.
The humiliation of needing their help with something so basic, something so human, something that had never been a thought before this nightmare began.
Tears pricked at her eyes as her mother gently helped her. She wanted to tell them to stop, to go away, to let her figure it out on her own. But she couldn't. Because she couldn't do it. She could barely move without pain, could barely shift without help.
The shame was suffocating.
Her mind still felt sharp, alive, desperate to reclaim control, but her body lagged behind, betraying her at every turn. The unfairness of it all made her want to scream. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. She had fought so hard. She had survived. But surviving wasn't enough. Not if it meant this.
She swallowed back the sob lodged in her throat, forcing her voice to remain steady.
"Let me try," she rasped, each syllable feeling like a war won.
Her mother hesitated, fingers trembling as she held onto her, eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Are you sure, baby?"
She forced a smile, a shadow of her former confidence. "Yes, Mummy. I can manage."
It was a lie, but she needed to believe it. She needed them to believe it.
With every ounce of effort, she moved, but pain lanced through her so sharply that her breath left her in a strangled gasp. Her muscles, weak and unresponsive, betrayed her, refusing to cooperate. She wanted to scream, to lash out, to demand why her body wasn't listening. Instead, she gave up, her limbs falling back limply against the mattress.
The frustration built in her chest like a slow-burning fire, consuming every rational thought.
She felt like a failure. A burden.
Her mother smoothed a hand over her hair, whispering, "It's okay, sweetheart. We'll get there."
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to believe it. But at that moment, it felt like an impossibility.
Next time I'll be braver. I'll be my own saviour. Standing on my own two feet.
~~~~~~
Draco paced the dimly lit library of the safehouse, his movements restless, his thoughts a relentless storm. Shadows flickered across his face as he stalked from one end of the room to the other, his mind plagued by the image of her—broken, bloodied, barely clinging to life. The memory was a vice around his chest, suffocating, inescapable. Sleep had long since abandoned him, replaced by the ceaseless hum of fear and fury.
Down the hall, the murmurs of the new healer drifted toward him, hushed but urgent, each word slicing through his frayed nerves like a blade. He had scoured the world for the best—war medics, reclusive potions masters, renowned healers from the farthest corners of the magical realm—pulling every string, cashing in every favor. But the question that gnawed at him, the one that haunted his every breath, remained: would it be enough? Could he truly bring her back? Not just to life—but to herself, to the fierce, brilliant woman he adored?
The uncertainty was unbearable.
With a sharp breath, he could stand it no longer. He pushed open the door to her room, his presence swallowing the space. The whispers died instantly. Healers exchanged glances before bowing their heads slightly and filtering out, their robes whispering against the floor. And then, there was only her.
She lay in the bed, her skin pale against the stark white sheets, fragile as porcelain. But when she saw him, the faintest smile curved her lips.
"Love," she rasped, her voice so soft it barely reached him. "You don't have to do all of this."
In an instant, he was at her bedside, sinking into the chair, taking her hand in his own. His grip was firm, his touch warm, as if he could will his strength into her bones, his heartbeat into hers.
"All of this?" he echoed, his thumb tracing gentle circles over her knuckles. His gaze met hers, fierce, unyielding. "Hermione, I would burn the world for you. Don't you understand that? Your pain is mine. Your suffering—" He exhaled sharply, jaw tight. "I feel it like it's carved into my own flesh."
A single tear escaped the corner of her eye, sliding down her cheek—not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming force of love that swelled in her chest. "But you've already done so much," she whispered, her voice unsteady. "I don't want to be... a burden."
His entire body tensed. His fingers tightened around hers as if the mere thought of her feeling that way was an insult to everything he was.
"You are not a burden," he growled, his voice fierce with conviction. "You are my heart. My reason. Seeing you like this—" His throat constricted, and for a moment, his carefully controlled mask cracked, revealing the raw devastation beneath. "It breaks me, Hermione. But I will not stop. I will fight for you, every single day, until you're back where you belong. With me."
Her fingers trembled as she squeezed his hand, her eyes shimmering with both exhaustion and hope. "Thank you, darling," she managed, her voice barely more than a breath.
He leaned down, pressing his lips to her forehead, lingering there as if he could anchor her to him with the sheer force of his devotion. "You don't need to thank me," he murmured against her skin. "You are my everything. You'll never be alone in this."
And he proved it.
Days blurred into weeks, but his presence never wavered. Every morning, he was there—coaxing her through the smallest movements, celebrating each victory as though it were the greatest triumph. A twitch of her fingers, the slight shift of her wrist, the subtle lift of her head—each one was met with quiet, unwavering praise.
"You're doing beautifully, love," he would murmur, his voice a steady thread of encouragement. "Every step forward is another piece of you coming back to me."
On the nights when sleep eluded her, he stayed, reading to her in the dim glow of candlelight. His voice wrapped around her like silk, reciting passages from her favorite books, breathing life into the words she loved. Sometimes, when words failed him, he read his own—letters he had written to her during the darkest nights, when fear gripped his heart and the only thing that kept him sane was spilling his thoughts onto parchment.
They were raw, unfiltered confessions—of love, of longing, of desperation. Of all the ways he needed her, all the ways he was lost without her.
And through them, through the warmth of his voice and the weight of his devotion, she remembered.
She remembered who she was. She remembered what it felt like to be strong.
One cold morning, just as the sun began to creep through the frost-laced windows, she stirred, blinking up at him through the haze of sleep. His name hovered on her lips, but she didn't speak it. Instead, she took a breath, steadying herself, and whispered, "Draco… I think I can try sitting up."
He froze.
Hope flared in his chest, raw and electric. He offered his hand without hesitation, his entire being bracing for this moment.
Slowly, painstakingly, she pushed herself up. Her arms trembled with effort, her breaths shallow, but inch by inch, she rose.
And then she was upright.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, a slow, radiant smile spread across his face—a smile so unguarded, so full of unfiltered pride and joy that it took her breath away. "You did it," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I knew you could."
Exhausted, she leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder, her body spent but victorious. "I... I feel like myself again," she breathed, and though her voice was weak, there was something fierce in her eyes.
He wrapped his arms around her, his hold firm and steady, his lips pressing against her temple. "That's my girl," he murmured, his voice filled with reverence. "You're stronger than you know, my love."
Slowly, her strength returned. The exercises stretched longer, her movements grew steadier, and her voice, once weak and fragile, carried power again. Each day was a battle, but she fought with unwavering determination. And every step of the way, he was there—silent when she needed space, steady when she needed support, relentless in his belief in her.
When her legs buckled, he caught her. When frustration threatened to consume her, he reminded her of how far she had come. "Look at you," he would murmur, his voice laced with quiet pride. "You're doing it, love." No failure, no moment of despair was strong enough to shake his conviction. And when she forgot her own strength, he was there to remind her, never letting her lose sight of the woman she was becoming.
Then, one bright afternoon, beneath a sun-drenched sky, it happened.
The air in the garden was warm with the scent of fresh earth and blooming flowers, the world humming with the quiet promise of spring. She stood there, her hands curled into fists at her sides, determination burning in her gaze. He stood a few steps away, still, watchful, his breath caught in his chest.
One step. Then another.
Her limbs trembled, muscles screaming in protest, but she gritted her teeth and pushed forward. The effort was monumental, every movement slow, deliberate, but she refused to stop. When she wobbled, she caught herself. When her knees nearly gave out, she straightened, jaw tight, breath unsteady.
Then she looked up at him, her lips curving into a small, triumphant smile. "See?" she rasped, her voice rough but filled with undeniable fire. "I'm not giving up."
He had crossed battlefields. He had seen war, death, destruction. But nothing—nothing—had ever taken his breath away like the sight of her standing before him, victorious.
He closed the distance in an instant, his hands finding hers, fingers threading together. His heart thundered in his chest, a riot of love, relief, and something deeper, something indescribable. "I never doubted it," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Not for a second."
She squeezed his hand, her grip strong despite the exhaustion pressing against her bones. And in that moment, beneath the golden afternoon light, he knew—this love, this battle-worn, tested love, was unbreakable.
She was whole again. Not unchanged, not the same girl she had been before the darkness, but someone stronger, forged in fire, sharpened by survival. And he loved her all the more for it.
Every scar, every painful step, every moment of doubt had only deepened his devotion. And with each step she took, she wasn't just walking toward recovery—she was walking toward their future, toward a life they would rebuild together.
~~~~~~
The sharp knock on the safehouse door jolted Hermione from the fragile grasp of sleep. She barely had time to register the noise before the door swung open with a dramatic flourish, the air shifting as if the room itself recognized the presence of a force of nature.
Pansy Parkinson.
Dressed to perfection in a fitted emerald coat and towering heels, she swept inside like a storm, her arms laden with designer shopping bags, their glossy logos flashing like victory banners. With a pointed glance at Hermione's sleep-rumpled state, she let out a dramatic sigh.
"Granger," she declared, her tone teetering between amusement and dismay. "You look absolutely ghastly. But don't worry, I come bearing salvation."
She blinked, still groggy, her brain struggling to catch up. Pansy wasted no time. With a flick of her wand, a rolling clothing rack appeared, gleaming under the soft light. It was draped in silks, velvets, and delicate lace—an array of couture fit for a royal transformation.
"I brought you a wardrobe," Pansy announced, gesturing as if unveiling the spoils of war. "No more of these tragic, ill-fitting hospital gowns or whatever tragic remnants Draco lets you lounge around in. We are reviving your aesthetic."
She stared, still processing. "I—what?"
Pansy ignored her, already moving on. From one of her many bags, she pulled a sleek black box and tossed it onto the bed with a flourish. The lid popped open, revealing an assortment of wigs—pastel bobs, sleek raven locks, a cascade of curls in varying shades.
"Your hair is growing back, sure," Pansy continued, inspecting her nails, "but while we wait, why not embrace a little drama? Maybe you're a redhead today. Maybe you want to channel platinum blonde ice queen vibes tomorrow. The options are endless."
She opened her mouth to protest, but Pansy silenced her with a perfectly manicured finger lifted in warning. "Before you say anything utterly defeatist, let me be clear: this is not about vanity, Granger."
For the first time since entering, Pansy's voice softened, a rare flicker of sincerity breaking through her usual bravado. "This is about control. You've had everything ripped away—your strength, your independence, even your own damn hair. This? This is something you get to decide."
Hermione swallowed. The weight of those words settled over her, heavy but not unwelcome. She met Pansy's gaze and, for the first time, saw not just the sharp-tongued socialite, but a friend who knew what it meant to claw back power in the smallest, most personal of ways.
Clearing her throat, she quickly retreated into her usual haughty demeanor. "Anyway," she continued, plucking another bag from the floor, "Neville thought you might want some additional company."
With deliberate care, she reached inside and pulled out a small, wrinkled pug. The dog blinked blearily, its squashed face arranged in a perpetual scowl, before snorting in what could only be described as mild disgust.
"This," Pansy declared, depositing the dog onto Hermione's lap, "Lady. Hideous, but comforting. Like a sentient stress ball with questionable breathing patterns."
The dog sniffed at Hermione's hand before dramatically flopping onto her lap with a huff, as if resigned to its fate. Hermione blinked, completely at a loss.
"You brought Lady here?"
"I acquired you a therapy pug," Pansy corrected. "It's called emotional support, darling. Try to keep up."
A startled laugh bubbled out of Hermione, the absurdity of it all breaking through the exhaustion weighing her down. She ran a hand over Lady Lemongrass's soft fur, the warmth of the tiny creature unexpectedly grounding.
Just then, the door creaked open again, revealing a hesitant Neville. He hovered in the doorway, looking sheepish amid the chaos of couture gowns, wigs, and the snoring pug. In his hands, he clutched a small brown bag.
"'Mione," he said, offering her a small smile. "You look… well, more awake than the last time I saw you."
She snorted. "Which means I must have looked really awful."
Neville chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, uh… brought you something. Calming potions, for sleep and stress… you know."
Pansy raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. "Or," she interjected smoothly, "if you're feeling a bit more adventurous, Neville has graciously supplied an alternative herb."
Hermione's eyes widened as she looked between them, the insinuation hanging thick in the air. Neville, to his credit, turned a shade of red so vivid it rivaled Ginny's hair. "I—I mean, only if you—"
But she was already laughing, weak and rasping but so, so genuine. The idea of Neville, earnest and wholesome, nervously suggesting weed of all things was so absurd that it completely shattered the tension in her chest.
"I think," she managed between giggles, wiping at her eyes, "I'll take both."
"Excellent choice, Granger," Pansy approved, nodding as if she had orchestrated the entire thing.
As the laughter faded, a warm silence settled over the room. He placed the bag on her nightstand, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze before moving to the windowsill, quietly tending to a plant he had brought with him—a quiet anchor amid Pansy's extravagant display.
Pansy, however, remained. Arms crossed, she fixed Hermione with an uncharacteristically searching look, her usual sharp edges softened just enough to let the truth slip through.
"Don't shut us out," she said, her voice softer than before. "We're not going anywhere."
Something inside her cracked, but in a way that didn't hurt. Gratitude swelled in her chest, too big for words. She looked around the room—at Neville's quiet presence, at Pansy's ridiculous but deeply thoughtful chaos, at the pug snoring in her lap—and felt, for the first time in a long while, something that almost resembled peace.
"I won't," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you."
Pansy sniffed, flicking a dismissive hand. "Good. Now try on that wig. The chestnut brown will be divine with your complexion."
Hermione picked up the wig, shaking her head with amusement as Pansy arched a perfectly shaped brow in approval. But before she could place it on her head, Pansy added, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, and don't worry—I've brewed a potion. Your hair will be back in a month, tops. My crowning achievement."
Hermione let out a laugh, the sound warm and real, as she placed the wig over her head.
~~~~~~
The safehouse, once a place of tense recovery and whispered fears, had transformed into something wholly unexpected—a sanctuary of resilience, laughter, and the most unlikely camaraderie. Four families, bound not by blood but by love, had woven themselves into a new kind of family, one that thrived in the face of adversity.
Laughter now echoed through the halls, replacing the sterile silence that once pressed down on them like a weight. Pansy, with her sharp wit and refusal to entertain anything remotely sentimental, became the de facto morale officer, ensuring no one wallowed in despair for too long. Her cutting humour and dramatic storytelling filled the air with laughter, her exaggerated recounts of society scandals and past conquests distracting even Hermione from her pain. Neville, ever the nurturer, took it upon himself to be the house's unofficial healer, brewing endless variations of calming teas and experimenting with herbal pain-relief salves (some more successful than others). Draco, his ever-watchful gaze betraying his constant worry, spent hours at her bedside, reading aloud with a voice that wrapped around her like a warm embrace. His presence, steady and unwavering, became her anchor in a world that had once felt untethered.
Even her parents, once filled with nothing but fear and uncertainty, found themselves swept up in the rhythm of this new life. Her mother, though still prone to moments of quiet worry, found unexpected joy in the impromptu dance parties that erupted after particularly successful physiotherapy sessions. Her father, a man once unfamiliar with magic's strange and unpredictable ways, now debated spellwork and potion efficacy with Theo and Blaise as if he had been raised in their world.
Meals became a sacred ritual, filled with easy conversation, inside jokes, and whispered confessions over shared bottles of contraband Firewhisky. Evenings were spent huddled around the fireplace, arguing over the true superior dessert—pumpkin pasties or treacle tart—before inevitably descending into chaotic debates about Muggle versus magical approaches to certain ailments. The topic of "medicinal herbs" quickly became a running joke, especially after a particularly experimental evening led to a giggling Hermione attempting (and failing) to master the art of walking again while under the influence of Neville's "pain relief" blend. Even Draco, normally composed and unimpressed by such antics, had to bite back a smirk as she declared herself the reigning champion of "graceful stumbling."
Despite the ever-present fear of setbacks, these months became a time of unexpected connection. The past—its betrayals, its war-torn allegiances—faded in the presence of something stronger. The walls they had all built, the lines they had once refused to cross, crumbled beneath the weight of shared purpose. They had become a family—not perfect, not conventional, but real.
But the journey to this moment had been anything but easy.
She had endured three harrowing brain surgeries, each one stripping away more of the strength she had once taken for granted. The last, a gruelling skull reconstruction surgery, left her weaker than ever, her body reduced to something frail and delicate, a ghost of the woman she had once been. There were nights when the weight of it all threatened to drown her, when she could feel herself slipping into the dark, her body betraying her, refusing to cooperate. And there were days—long, aching days—when the sight of her reflection in the mirror, pale and exhausted, made her wonder if she would ever truly be herself again.
But through it all, she was never alone. Every scar, every moment of doubt, was met with steady hands and unwavering love. The sight of her fragile form, hooked up to machines, had haunted those who loved her—a painful reminder of life's fragility, of how easily everything could have been lost. Yet, amidst that fear, there was something stronger. An unbreakable determination. A refusal to surrender.
Because if there was one thing Hermione Granger-Malfoy knew how to do, it was fight. And surrounded by the people who refused to let her fall, she would keep fighting—until she reclaimed every piece of herself that had been stolen away.
~~~~~~
The soft morning light streamed through the sheer curtains, casting a golden glow across the quiet hospital room. Hermione stirred, her eyelids fluttering as she slowly emerged from sleep, her body still heavy with exhaustion. As her vision adjusted, she became aware of a presence beside her. Sitting there, hands clasped tightly in her lap, was Narcissa Malfoy.
It was rare to see Narcissa anything less than perfectly composed, but today, the weight of worry and relief was etched deeply into her face. Hermione blinked in surprise, unused to seeing the matriarch of the Malfoy family with tear-streaked cheeks.
"Good morning?" Her voice came out hoarse, strained from disuse.
Narcissa's breath hitched, and before she could respond, tears welled up again. A trembling hand reached for hers, fingers curling around her own with surprising warmth. "Oh, Hermione…" Narcissa's voice was barely a whisper, thick with emotion. "My beautiful girl. You have no idea how relieved I am. I thought… I thought we had lost you."
Hermione's lips quirked into a small, tired smile, despite the dull ache in her body. She could feel the sincerity in Narcissa's words, the depth of emotion that wasn't just polite concern—it was real, raw, and fiercely maternal. "Thank you for coming," she murmured. "It means a lot."
"I couldn't stay away any longer." Narcissa dabbed at her eyes with a silk handkerchief, shaking her head. "Draco told me everything, but I didn't want to intrude before… before you were ready. But, Hermione, I had to see you." Her voice wavered. "I couldn't bear the thought of losing you."
Hermione squeezed her hand gently, her touch light but steady. "You're not intruding," she assured her. "It's nice to have you here."
At that moment, the door creaked open, and Draco stepped inside. His expression softened instantly at the sight of them, though the relief in his eyes was quickly masked by his usual calm veneer.
"Mother?" His brow arched slightly. "You're here early."
"She's here for me," Hermione replied before Narcissa could answer, offering him a reassuring smile. "It's okay, Draco."
Narcissa straightened, smoothing an invisible crease from her dress, though her eyes still glistened. "I was just telling Hermione how much she's been on my mind." She inhaled deeply, composing herself before adding, "Oh, and Jane taught me how to make macaroni and cheese."
He blinked. "I'm sorry—what?"
His mother lifted her chin, arching an imperious brow. "Jane insisted I learn, said it was Hermione's favourite growing up. And, well… it was quite the experience."
She tired chuckle filled the room, light but genuine. "Macaroni and cheese, really?" she teased, glancing at him. "Looks like my mother's been putting you through your paces, Narcissa."
"I suppose I should've expected nothing less," Narcissa murmured with a small smile, as if recalling the chaos of the lesson.
He let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "Well, I hope you've perfected it because I'm starving."
Hermione smirked. "I'll have some too."
And just like that, the tension in the room eased. They ate together, laughter punctuating their conversation as Narcissa shared stories from her own childhood—an unexpected glimpse into the life of a woman who had always seemed untouchable. Draco interjected with dry remarks, keeping the mood light.
When the meal was done, Narcissa rose gracefully, dusting invisible crumbs from her dress. "I should go," she said, though hesitation lingered in her posture. "But I'll be back soon."
Hermione met her gaze, offering a genuine smile. "Thank you for coming, Narcissa. Really."
Narcissa looked between them, something soft and unguarded in her expression. "You are my daughter," she said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "It is my duty to be here for you."
Hermione's breath hitched slightly, caught off guard by the quiet declaration. Before she could respond, he stepped forward, his voice unusually gentle. "Thank you, Mother. For everything."
A slight tremble in her lips betrayed the depth of her emotions, and she reached for his hand, squeezing it firmly. "I love you," she said, her voice wavering just slightly. "Both of you."
With one last lingering glance, Narcissa turned and slipped out of the room, leaving them in silence.
She blinked, processing the moment. Then, turning to Draco, she whispered, "Did she just say… 'I love you'?"
He let out a small, incredulous laugh, rubbing a hand down his face. "Yeah, she did." He shook his head as if trying to make sense of it himself. "That's a first."
A pang of sympathy flickered through her chest. She reached for his hand, squeezing gently. "Oh, Draco… I'm so sorry."
He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Don't be." A small, almost disbelieving smile played at his lips. "She really means it, you know. You're her daughter now—officially, in her mind, at least. She's been bragging about you to anyone who will listen."
Hermione's mouth fell open. "She… brags about me?"
He smirked. "Non-stop."
She let out a breathless laugh. "And she loves you too."
Something in his expression flickered, something fragile and unspoken. "Apparently," he murmured, voice laced with years of longing for those very words.
After a pause, he cleared his throat, shaking off the moment with a tilt of his head. "I hope you don't mind," he said. "She's been anxious to see you."
She chuckled, though her brow furrowed in mild confusion. "I don't mind, but… why is my mum teaching her how to cook?"
Draco smirked, leaning back against the chair, his arms crossing over his chest. "Oh, they're best friends now."
She stared at him, completely at a loss. "What."
"Yep," he confirmed, exhaling dramatically. "They're thick as thieves."
She leaned her head back against the pillow, shaking her head in amused disbelief. "Well… stranger things have happened."
His fingers found hers, lacing them together in a warm, steady grip. "I guess that's what happens when you put two incredibly stubborn women together."
She squeezed his hand back, smiling softly. "Maybe… but I'm glad they're in our corner."
And as she settled back into the pillows, still tired but content, she realised something—she wasn't just healing. She was home.
~~~~~~
Half a year later, she stood by the window, bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun. Her reflection stared back at her—a woman who had fought her way back from the brink, scarred but unbroken. The faint lines across her skin told a story of survival, yet the determination in her eyes burned brighter than ever.
The door opened behind her, and she felt his presence before he even spoke. His steps were unhurried, deliberate, as though he was drinking in the sight of her, memorizing every inch of her existence.
"You look beautiful," he murmured, his voice husky with something reverent, something raw.
She turned to him, a soft, uncertain smile tugging at her lips. "Do I?" she whispered.
Draco closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, his fingers reaching out to brush a stray curl behind her ear. The tenderness in his touch sent a shiver through her.
"More than you know, doll," he said, his thumb trailing lightly along her jaw.
For a long moment, they stood there, the air thick with unspoken words. The past, the pain, the gratitude—all of it hung between them, unshakable and undeniable. But when she stepped closer, when her fingers tentatively traced the fabric of his shirt, it wasn't words she sought.
"Draco," she breathed, her voice laced with something fragile, something resolute. "I want—"
She didn't need to finish. He saw it in her eyes, in the way her hands grew bolder, trailing up his chest, fingers curling over his shoulders. He cupped her face, his touch warm, steady, as if grounding them both in this moment.
A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. "You have me, my love. Always."
Their mouths met, soft at first, hesitant, before the dam broke. His hands found the curve of her waist, pulling her flush against him. She melted into the heat of him, into the possessive way his fingers traced the delicate slope of her spine.
Her breath hitched as he lifted her effortlessly, wrapping her legs around his waist. She gasped against his lips, but he only chuckled, his grip tightening as he carried her across the room.
Their world shrank to touch and sensation—the way his hands roamed over her, tracing every inch as if relearning her body, the way her nails dragged over his back, the whispered moans that filled the space between them.
His mouth found her throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the column of her neck. She arched beneath him, a needy sound escaping her lips. He hushed her with a slow, languid kiss, one hand slipping beneath her dress, fingers mapping the soft skin of her thighs.
"I need you," she whispered against his lips.
"You have me," he rasped, his forehead resting against hers. "Always."
And when he finally claimed her, slow and deep, it wasn't just a joining of bodies but of something far greater—something that had survived fire and pain, something unbreakable.
Later, tangled in the sheets, bodies slick with sweat and exhaustion, he brushed a kiss against her temple, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over her stomach.
He murmured against her skin, voice filled with quiet certainty, "One day, my love… I'm going to put a baby inside you. And I'll love you both more than anything in this world."
She looked up at him, eyes heavy with sleep but shining with something deeper. A promise. A future. A love reborn from the ashes.
And for the first time in a long time, Hermione believed in forever.
~~~~~~
The safehouse had become more than a refuge; it was a sanctuary, a testament to resilience, love, and the unbreakable bonds forged in the crucible of suffering. Once a place defined by whispered reassurances and the sterile scent of healing potions, it had transformed into something alive—filled with the warmth of quiet laughter, the echo of shared stories, and the steady heartbeat of hope.
Each room, once cold and impersonal, now bore the remnants of their presence—Pansy's discarded dresses draped over chairs, books stacked haphazardly on side tables, Lysander's chaotic toddler scribbles adorning the walls (much to Neville's helpless chagrin). It was here, in this strange, imperfect haven, that they found each other again—not as they had been before the war, but as the versions of themselves that had survived it.
Draco sat beside her bed, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, each breath a quiet miracle. In sleep, she looked almost weightless, the tension that often lined her features temporarily smoothed away. Months of healing had left her paler, her body thinner, and her once unruly curls now softer, tamed by time and care. He hesitated, then reached out, barely brushing his fingers against her hand. Even now, after all they had endured, touching her felt like touching something sacred.
She had always been strong—stronger than him, he sometimes thought. Not in the way that most people measured strength, with duels won and enemies bested, but in the way she endured. In the way she had fought, not just to live, but to reclaim herself.
Their love had never been sudden. It had been built, brick by brick, in the quiet moments between survival and surrender. What had started as a marriage of convenience—a calculated move in a world that still bore the scars of war—had become something neither of them had expected. Somewhere along the way, between the shared silences, the reluctant confessions, and the weight of old wounds, love had crept in, patient and undeniable.
Now, it bound them together as tightly as the scars they carried.
Leaning down, he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, his lips barely grazing her skin. "I'm here," he murmured, though whether the words were meant for her or himself, he wasn't sure. He had said them so many times over the past months, as if speaking them into existence could make them more true.
A soft knock broke the quiet, and he turned to find Pansy leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, her smirk just a touch softer than usual.
"You're hovering," she teased, through her eyes, sharp as they were, held nothing but warmth.
He rolled his eyes but didn't argue.
Pansy strode in, settling into the chair opposite him. "She's strong," she said after a pause, her voice quieter now. "Stronger than any of us."
Draco nodded, a muscle in his jaw tightening. "I know," he admitted, but his voice was rough with something else—something raw. "I just want her to be okay."
Pansy sighed, her gaze flicking between them before reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. "She will be," she said, her touch firm, grounding. "And so will you. You two are the most insufferably stubborn people I've ever met. There's no way in hell you don't make it through this."
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
She scoffed. "Don't get used to it."
But when she left, the weight on his chest felt just a little lighter.
Healing became their shared mission, and laughter, their greatest medicine.
Each night, Draco read to her—sometimes her favorite books, sometimes whatever he could get his hands on. Even when she drifted to sleep, he kept reading, his voice a steady presence in the dark.
Pansy filled the silence with her sharp wit, dragging them into impromptu dance parties in the kitchen whenever the weight of everything became too much. "Get up, Granger," she'd say, pulling Hermione into a slow sway when she was too weak for anything else. "If you can survive being married to this brooding idiot, you can survive dancing."
Neville brewed endless concoctions of teas and experimental potions, some of which worked wonders and some of which led to rather dramatic reactions that they all agreed to never speak of again. "It's trial and error," he'd insist, watching Hermione eye her cup with justified suspicion.
And then there was Luna, who arrived like a breeze of quiet reassurance, filling the safehouse with charmed trinkets and whispered reassurances. "This place is alive with love," she'd say with a dreamy smile, hanging crystals in the windows. "That's the best kind of magic."
Even her parents, once strangers to this world, became woven into it, finding their own places within this odd patchwork family. Jane and Narcissa—shockingly—became allies, bonded by their mutual love for her and an apparent fascination with macaroni and cheese.
Draco had walked in once to find them in the kitchen, Jane guiding Narcissa through the intricacies of Muggle cooking.
"Why," Draco had asked, staring at the scene as if it might vanish, "are you willingly touching cheese?"
Narcissa had only sniffed. "My darling Hermione seems to like it."
He had wisely left before his brain could process that particular development.
The months passed, and with each sunrise, the safehouse became less of a place they were trapped in and more of a home.
One evening, as the stars painted silver streaks across the sky, they all sat together at the long wooden table, their voices blending into a harmony of warmth. Pansy was dramatically lamenting a beetroot-stained tablecloth, Lysander was enthusiastically contributing to the chaos with his artistic flourishes, and Luna was explaining, in great detail, why Nargles were responsible for misplaced objects.
Hermione watched it all, her heart swelling with something she couldn't quite name.
Draco must have sensed it, because he reached for her hand beneath the table, threading their fingers together. When she turned to him, he was already watching her, his expression unreadable in the dim candlelight.
"What is it?" he asked softly.
She exhaled, shaking her head, overwhelmed but in the best possible way. "This… it feels like forever."
His lips quirked upward, and he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "It is forever," he murmured. "As long as you'll have me."
Later that night, lying beneath the blanket of stars in the garden, their hands intertwined, she realized the truth—home wasn't a place. It was this.
It was laughter and late-night conversations. It was banter and quiet reassurances. It was the way Pansy ranted about linen quality, the way Neville worried about everyone but himself, the way Luna saw beauty in everything. It was the way her mother had softened to Draco, and the way Draco had become the person she trusted most in the world.
It was love, woven into the very fabric of this imperfect, beautiful life they had built together.
And for the first time in a long time, Hermione knew—without a shadow of a doubt—that she had survived not just to live, but to love.
And love, after everything, had been worth surviving for.
Theo is definetly Philomena cunk