The days bled into one another, a relentless cycle of exhaustion and quiet dread. Each morning arrived the same, spilling pale light over a house that felt more like a waiting room suspended between hope and despair. Time had become shapeless, an endless stretch of repetition, as if the world outside had paused in eerie stillness, unwilling to move forward until Hermione did.
She moved through it all with a quiet, unwavering resolve, her every motion precise, deliberate. There was no room for hesitation, no space for the weight pressing on her chest. She tended to Hermione's medical needs with the practiced hands of someone accustomed to walking the razor-thin line between life and death. On the surface, she was unshaken, a pillar of control. But beneath the calm exterior, the weight of responsibility coiled around her lungs, tightening with each passing day. She couldn't let it show. Not now. Not when everything depended on her keeping it together.
They had all fallen into their unspoken roles, a silent agreement forged in necessity. Blaise, the reluctant caretaker, made sure they ate, though most meals were barely touched or acknowledged. Ginny immersed herself in the endless cycle of housework, a desperate attempt to fill the unbearable stillness with movement—laundry, cleaning, restocking supplies—anything to keep her hands busy and her mind from spiraling. Draco never left Hermione's side, his guilt so thick it seemed to seep into the walls, a shadow that clung to him, making his every breath a labor. And Theo—Theo was the sentinel. Always watching, always waiting, his sharp eyes scanning for a threat that never arrived but always felt just beyond the horizon.
Together, they moved like clockwork, an efficient machine that functioned without pause. One task flowed seamlessly into the next, keeping them anchored in purpose, preventing them from falling into the abyss of helplessness. Yet beneath the surface, it was all just reflex, a performance they repeated day after day. There were no real conversations, no reassurances, no space to grieve or hope aloud. The silence that stretched between them wasn't born of resentment but of the unbearable weight pressing down on them all—a shared, suffocating understanding that none of them dared voice.
But the silence didn't mean they weren't breaking.
For Draco, the torment was unrelenting, a grief so raw it hollowed him out from the inside. He never left her side, barely moving from his chair by the bed, as if stepping away would sever some invisible thread that still tied her to him. His hand remained clasped around hers, his grip firm but desperate, as if through sheer will alone, he could keep her tethered to this world. The weight of his love and regret poured into that grasp, his fingers brushing against her cold skin in silent supplication.
His once-pristine composure was a distant memory, buried beneath sleepless nights and the unbearable ache in his chest. His sharp, refined features had become gaunt, his eyes perpetually rimmed red, haunted by exhaustion and grief. He whispered to her—apologies, pleas, promises, half-spoken confessions meant for her ears alone. He told her he was sorry, over and over again, until the words lost meaning and became nothing more than breath against her unmoving form. He begged her to wake up, to give him absolution, to tell him that she forgave him for all of it—the arrogance, the recklessness, the choices that had led to this moment. He pleaded for just one more chance, for her to open her eyes and look at him the way she used to, with exasperation or affection or even anger—anything but this vacant, terrifying stillness.
The others understood, giving him space, their presence a quiet acknowledgment that no words could mend what was broken inside him. But his suffering was not his alone. It bled into the very air, suffocating, thick with sorrow and guilt. It was in the way he barely responded when they spoke, in the way he flinched whenever someone adjusted Hermione's blankets, as though afraid that even the smallest disturbance might pull her further from him. It was in the way he inhaled sharply whenever she stirred, his entire body poised with fragile, foolish hope, only to sink into despair when she remained lost in the depths of unconsciousness.
Time had become meaningless. Day and night blurred together, marked only by the steady rise and fall of her chest, the fragile proof that she was still with him, even if she felt impossibly far away. The house moved around him, but he did not move with it. He did not eat unless forced, did not sleep unless exhaustion finally dragged him under for brief, fitful hours, only to wake with the same unrelenting grief clawing at his throat.
Draco Malfoy, the proud, untouchable man he had once been, was gone. In his place was someone unrecognizable—a man stripped bare by love and loss, reduced to nothing more than a boy gripping a hand that no longer gripped his back.
Luna entered the dimly lit room with the quiet grace of a ghost, her soft footsteps barely disturbing the heavy silence. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic potions and the faint, lingering traces of Draco's cologne—an odd contrast, much like the man himself. She found him slumped in the chair beside Hermione's bed, his back curled, his head bowed, his fingers still wrapped around hers even as sleep had stolen him away.
She hesitated for a moment, watching him, the sharp edges of his grief evident even in sleep. He looked smaller somehow, weighed down by a sorrow that clung to him like a second skin.
"Hello," she whispered, her voice a gentle nudge against the silence.
Draco stirred, his brows furrowing as he blinked himself back into wakefulness. His grey eyes, dulled with exhaustion, flickered up to meet hers. He looked utterly wrecked, his composure shattered by too many sleepless nights and the unbearable fear of losing the woman he loved.
"Hello, Angel," he murmured, his voice rough, scraping like gravel.
A small smile tugged at the corner of Luna's lips. "Draco," she said softly, "you don't have to call me that."
"But you are an angel," he insisted, pushing himself up in the chair, stretching out the stiffness in his limbs. "Heaven sent you to save her, to save the love of my life. You have no idea what that means to me."
Her expression softened, but she shook her head. "I didn't do it for heaven," she said simply. "I did it for Mimi. She's my friend, and I know—" her voice wavered just slightly, before she steadied it, "I know she'd do the same for me."
Draco swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he fought the emotion tightening his throat. He hadn't let himself cry in front of anyone but Hermione, but in the presence of Luna—who had, quite literally, pulled his wife back from the brink of death—he found he didn't have the strength to mask his gratitude.
"Thank you," he said, his voice raw, unfiltered. "Thank you, darling. Truly."
She stepped closer to the bed, her gaze falling to Hermione's still form. Her chest rose and fell with the gentle rhythm of sleep, but she remained unchanged, unmoving. Pale, far too pale.
"I'd like to bathe her now, if you don't mind," she said quietly.
Draco sat up straighter, shaking his head. "I already did," he said quickly, almost defensively, as if needing to prove that he was still taking care of her. "Changed her nappie, too."
Luna's brow furrowed, and though her voice remained soft, there was a gentle reprimand woven into her words. "Draco, don't infantilize her," she murmured. "They're not nappies. She's not a child."
His shoulders sagged slightly, the fight in him flickering out as his gaze dropped back to Hermione. "How can I not?" His voice was barely above a whisper now. "She's so fragile like this."
"She's not fragile," Luna said firmly, her voice steady and certain. "She's strong. Stronger than you give her credit for. And she'll fight through this. But I need to be with her now. Alone."
Draco hesitated, his reluctance stark in the tightening of his jaw, in the way his fingers curled slightly as if they ached to hold Hermione just a little longer. But he nodded, eventually. He knew Luna was right. As much as it killed him, as much as he wanted to be there every second, Hermione needed this.
He stood slowly, his movements heavy, as though his body was protesting the very idea of leaving her side. He bent down, pressing a soft kiss to Hermione's forehead, lingering there for just a beat longer than necessary, inhaling her scent, grounding himself in the quiet reassurance of her existence.
"I'll be just outside," he murmured, his voice hoarse as he finally, reluctantly, stepped away.
As the door clicked shut behind Draco, sealing them in a pocket of solitude, she exhaled a slow, measured breath and sank into the chair beside Hermione's bed. The faint hum of medical charms filled the space, a rhythmic pulse against the oppressive quiet. Candlelight flickered against the walls, casting golden ripples that wavered with each rise and fall of Hermione's shallow breath.
She reached out, her fingers brushing against her friend's cheek with infinite tenderness, tracing the contours of her face as though memorizing her features all over again. The warmth of Hermione's skin against her palm was a fragile reassurance—proof that she was still here, still fighting.
"Hello, love," she whispered, breaking the silence with the quiet weight of her voice. It was a one-sided conversation, but she spoke as if Hermione could hear her, as if her words could tether her to this world, could reach beyond the veil of unconsciousness and pull her back.
She swallowed, shifting slightly in her chair, her hand slipping down to cradle Hermione's fingers. "I've been thinking," she murmured, thumb tracing idle circles against Hermione's palm. "I know you're religious. My grandmother used to take me to church when I was little, and there's this prayer she taught me. It always made me feel safe. Maybe it'll help now."
Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, steadying herself. The words weren't hers, but they carried weight, carried history. They had been spoken in moments of despair, of hope, of pleading and surrender. And now, she whispered them as though weaving a spell, as though faith itself could be enough to mend what had been broken.
"When you pass through the waters, I will be with you,
and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze.
For I am the Lord your God
Her voice wavered slightly, the weight of the words settling deep into her bones. She opened her eyes, blinking back the sting of unshed tears as she looked down at Hermione's still form. "You've walked through fire before," she whispered, squeezing her friend's hand. "And you made it. You're the strongest person I know, Mimi. You'll make it through this too."
The room remained silent except for the faint crackling of the candles and the quiet beeping of the monitoring charms. But for the first time since Hermione had been brought here, Luna felt something shift—something small, something unspoken. Hope.
The words hung in the air, their weight pressing down like a whispered prayer, unseen yet powerful. Luna slowly opened her eyes, her gaze settling on Hermione's face, searching for any sign—any flicker of awareness, any twitch of movement. But there was only stillness, only the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath the blankets.
"We're all waiting for you, Mimi," she murmured, her voice barely above a breath. "Come back to us when you're ready. We'll be here." There was no urgency in her words, no desperation, just quiet certainty. Because Hermione was strong. She always had been. And if anyone could claw their way back from the brink, it was her.
Luna exhaled, a slow and steady breath, and leaned back in her chair. Her fingers remained wrapped around Hermione's, her grip firm, grounding. It was a silent promise. The room had returned to its eerie quiet, save for the low hum of the magical charms surrounding them, their glow pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. The only other sound was Hermione's breathing—soft, steady, fragile yet unbroken. A rhythm Luna clung to as proof that she was still here.
Beyond the closed door, Draco stood with his back against the wall, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his eyes shut tight as if willing the world to slow, to stop spinning long enough for him to catch his breath. He listened to Luna's voice, the unwavering faith woven into her words, and let them steady him. He couldn't afford to break. Not now. Not when Hermione needed him.
And so, they waited. Together and apart. In silence and in sorrow. In hope and in fear. Holding onto the fragile, delicate thread of belief that Hermione would find her way back to them—that she would open her eyes, speak her first words, reach for Draco's hand, and remind them all that she was still fighting. That she was still here.
~~~~~~
The ache was constant. A deep, hollow pain that stretched through her chest, settling in a space that only Lysander's laughter and Pansy's presence could fill. She missed her son more than words could ever express—the warmth of his tiny arms wrapped around her, the way he giggled when she tickled his belly, the way he looked at her as if she were the entire universe. And she missed Pansy too—missed her sharp tongue, her unwavering loyalty, the way she could make Luna feel less alone with just a glance.
Her baby boy was safe, tucked away with Pansy and Neville, far from the chaos and danger that had consumed their world. It was the only reassurance she had, the only reason she could bring herself to breathe through the agony of being apart from him. She knew Pansy would keep him safe, would guard him with the fierceness of a mother wolf, but that didn't make it easier. Every moment without him felt like an eternity.
And Pansy—Pansy would have been here if she had let her, if Theo hadn't forbidden it. But Pansy was too emotional, too raw, too prone to lashing out when she was afraid. And this situation… it was too much, even for her. So, she was kept away, and Luna understood. Even if it hurt.
She sat by the window, the fabric of her dress pooled around her, ink staining her fingertips as she finally wrote the letter she had been waiting—needing—to send for far too long.
Darling,
Hermione is stable. For now, at least. But she is not out of the woods. I won't lie to you, love. It's bad. Worse than we imagined.
She needs multiple surgeries. The damage is extensive. And she is hemiplegic, which means she has lost movement on her left side. She will need an extreme amount of physical therapy to regain even partial mobility. It will be a long road, and I don't know if she'll ever fully recover. But she's still here, Pans. She's fighting. And that's something.
I miss you. I miss you so much that it feels like a part of me is missing, like my bones don't sit right without you here. I need you like I need air, and I hate that I have to be here without you. I know why Theo kept you away. I know he thought he was protecting you. But I also know that you would have burned the world down to be here with us.
And I need you to know something. If it were you lying in that bed, if it were you who needed me, I wouldn't hesitate. I wouldn't think. I would be there, fighting for you, healing you, holding your hand through every nightmare and every painful moment, and I would never leave your side. If anything ever happened to you, I would do this for you too, in a heartbeat, because that's what love is.
So hold Lysander for me. Tell him his mother loves him. Kiss his little fingers and tell him that I will come home to him soon.
And know that even from here, even through all this darkness, I love you. Always.
Luna.
~~~~~~
Pansy strolled in with Crookshanks in her arms and Lysander toddling behind her, a smirk playing on her lips as Draco waited near the doorway, arms crossed.
"Parkinson, I'm warning you," Draco said, his tone firm but exhausted. "You can't disturb her peace."
Without slowing her pace or glancing his way, Pansy scoffed, "Oh, fuck off, Malfoy."
Ignoring her completely, Draco's demeanor softened the moment he knelt down to Lysander's level. He picked up the boy, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Hello, my little prince," he murmured. "Would you like to see Mimi?"
"Mimi!" Lysander's face lit up, clapping his small hands together in pure excitement.
Draco smiled at the boy's innocence and excitement. "Auntie is resting, just like the princess in your bedtime story. Now, I need you to be brave for me, little prince. Can you watch over her and keep her safe?"
Lysander's expression turned serious as he nodded eagerly. "Yess!" His eyes sparkled with the pride of his new responsibility, ready to take on his "prince duties."
Draco chuckled softly, feeling a warmth spread in his chest. "That's my brave boy," he whispered, knowing that Lysander's innocent love brought a sliver of light to the otherwise heavy atmosphere surrounding Hermione.
Draco and Pansy stepped quietly into the room, Crookshanks padding silently behind them. The orange furball immediately leaped onto Hermione's chest, settling down as though it had done so a thousand times before. His purring filled the quiet room, a soothing sound amidst the tension. But when Hermione remained still, Crookshanks gently tapped her face with his paw, as if trying to rouse her.
When she didn't stir, the cat's purring turned into soft, pitiful cries.
Pansy's chest tightened painfully at the sight. Her breath hitched, and she swallowed hard, forcing back the wave of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She couldn't let Lysander see her break. Not now. Not in front of him.
"There you go, Pumpkin," she said softly, placing Lysander gently on the bed. "Go say hi to Mimi. She's asleep, but I bet she can still hear you."
Lysander stared at Hermione for a long moment, his little face serious as if trying to understand. Needing comfort of his own, he reached out and took Hermione's hand, his tiny fingers curling around hers. Then, with his other hand, he gently stroked Crookshanks, who had nestled on her chest, still purring.
"You see?" Pansy murmured, her voice warm with affection. "You and Crooks are helping Mimi heal, just like the prince in your storybook. You're both taking care of her."
Lysander didn't say a word, but after a beat, he snuggled up against Hermione, resting his head carefully on her chest. "Mimi okay?" he babbled, his voice soft, as though he were speaking directly to her.
The room was quiet, the stillness punctuated only by the rhythmic hum of the medical charms surrounding her. It was a strange, fragile peace, the kind that seemed to hang by a thread.
Pansy knelt beside him, her hands resting lightly on his small shoulders. "She's okay, little love," she said gently, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest. "She's just sleeping right now, like the princess in the story. But she'll wake up. Give her a kiss, and then we'll go find Mummy, alright?"
Lysander's little face scrunched in concentration as he processed her words. "Mummy," he repeated, as though reminding himself of where she was. With careful movements, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Hermione's cheek. His small gesture was filled with a kind of innocent love that made the room feel lighter, if only for a moment.
He turned back to her, his big eyes expectant. "Now Mummy?"
Pansy smiled, though her throat felt tight. "Yes, pumpkin. Let's go see Mummy." She rose slowly, lifting Lysander into her arms. The boy didn't protest; he simply rested his head against her shoulder, his tiny fingers playing with a strand of her hair as she carried him from the room.
As they left, Draco remained seated beside Hermione, his gaze lingering on the door through which Lysander had just exited. The boy's soft inquiry echoed in his mind: Mimi okay? It was such a simple question, yet it carried the weight of all their fears and hopes.
He glanced at Crookshanks, who had positioned himself at Hermione's chest, his purring a steady, soothing sound that filled the silence. The cat nuzzled Hermione's hand, his whiskers brushing against her still fingers as if urging her to wake up.
Draco, who had never been particularly fond of the creature, felt a pang of unexpected sympathy. He reached out, his hand hesitating just above the cat's fur before gently stroking it. "I know, buddy," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "I know."
Crookshanks leaned into the touch, his purring intensifying as if grateful for the shared moment. Draco leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the top of the cat's head before settling back into his chair. He stayed there, his hand resting lightly on hers, his presence a quiet comfort.
The garden was alive with the hum of summer, the golden light of late afternoon spilling through the canopy of trees, dappling the grass with warmth. Bees hovered lazily over blossoms, the air thick with the scent of wildflowers, and the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze carried with it the quiet rhythm of nature. It was peaceful, serene—but nothing in the world was more beautiful than the sound of Lysander's laughter, a pure, ringing melody that wove through the air like a spell, bright and boundless.
Luna's heart clenched the moment she spotted him, the weight of the world momentarily slipping from her shoulders. Her little boy—her sun, her moon, her stars—was darting between the flowerbeds, his curls bouncing wildly, his tiny feet kicking up blades of grass as he chased a butterfly with pure, unfiltered delight. His chubby hands reached for the delicate creature, his expression one of unwavering determination, as if he truly believed he could pluck it from the air and hold its beauty in his grasp.
"Mummy!" Lysander's voice rang out like a bell the moment his wide eyes found her, his excitement overshadowing everything else in an instant. The butterfly was forgotten. His chase ended the second he saw her.
His arms flung open, his small legs working furiously as he ran to her, unsteady but unstoppable. He wobbled slightly, his chubby knees working double-time to carry him forward, but his determination outweighed his balance. Luna barely had time to kneel before he crashed into her with all the force of a tiny comet, his little arms wrapping tightly around her neck.
She caught him effortlessly, scooping him up, her arms curling protectively around his small frame as if to shield him from the world. "Hello, my love," she murmured, pressing her lips to the warm, soft skin of his temple. His scent—a mix of sunshine, lavender, and something purely Lysander—filled her senses, and for a moment, nothing else existed.
His laughter rang through her ears as she peppered his cheeks with kisses, each one met with an infectious giggle, a delighted squeal. He wriggled in her grasp, his little hands tangling in her hair, pulling with just enough force to make her laugh.
"Did you have fun with Pansy, my darling?" Luna asked, adjusting Lysander slightly in her arms so she could see his bright, sparkling eyes. She brushed her fingers lightly over his curls, catching the golden strands in the sunlight as he beamed up at her.
Lysander nodded so vigorously that his entire body wobbled, his curls bouncing with the motion. "Pee-Pee big jump!" he declared, his words tumbling over each other in his excitement.
Luna's brows lifted in amused curiosity. "Oh? Did she now?" she teased, a knowing smile creeping across her lips.
Lysander nodded again, eyes wide with importance. "Pee-Pee say no-no," he recounted dramatically, shaking his head, before throwing his arms wide with uncontained glee. "Then say okay!" His hands flailed in emphasis before he added, with a breathless gasp, "BIG BED!" He stretched his little arms as far as they would go, as if trying to show just how massive it had been.
Luna let out a delighted laugh, easily picturing the scene—Pansy standing there, arms crossed, trying to look stern while Lysander worked his charms on her. And, of course, she had caved. Pansy may have been sharp-tongued and full of dramatics, but when it came to Lysander, she was as soft as a pudding.
"Well, you are a lucky little sausage," Luna mused, pressing a kiss to his nose. "Pee-Pee doesn't let just anyone jump on her bed, you know."
"Pee-Pee soft," Lysander added seriously, fisting a hand into Luna's hair for comfort. "Like kitty."
"Oh, really?" she smirked. "So, Pansy's a cat now?"
Lysander nodded solemnly, clearly believing this to be the absolute truth. "Pee-Pee big kitty," he said with authority, scrunching up his nose and making an attempt at a growl.
Luna giggled, pulling him closer. "I'll be sure to let her know."
Nearby, Theo had been leaning casually against an old oak tree, watching them with an easy smile. His arms were folded across his chest, but his stance was relaxed, his usual tension eased by the sight before him. He could watch them like this forever—his wife, their son, laughing and full of light.
"Looks like someone's had a grand old time," he remarked as he stepped forward, placing a steady hand on Luna's back. Then, with a smirk, he ruffled Lysander's unruly curls.
Lysander scrunched up his face, huffing as he batted Theo's hand away. "No, Daddy! No mushy!"
Theo chuckled, raising an eyebrow. "No mushy? Oh, but Mummy's allowed?"
Lysander gave this some serious thought before nodding. "Mummy always mushy," he confirmed, snuggling further into Luna's hold.
Luna let out a soft laugh. "Oh, I see how it is," she teased.
Before she could say anything else, Lysander suddenly turned to Theo, his excitement shifting once more. "Daddy up!" he squealed, his chubby little hands reaching toward him.
Theo's lips twitched as he took Lysander from Luna, hoisting him effortlessly into the air. The boy shrieked with laughter, his giggles bursting from him in happy, breathless waves. "Look at you!" Theo grinned. "Flying higher than the birds! What are you then, hmm? A dragon? A hippogriff?"
"A DLAGON!" Lysander roared—or at least, he tried to. The sound came out more like a very determined kitten, and Luna had to cover her mouth to stifle her laughter.
Theo grinned, spinning him in gentle circles. "A fearsome one, aren't you? The biggest, scariest dragon in all the land!"
Lysander giggled uncontrollably, squirming in delight. "RAAHH!" he tried again, arms flailing.
"Oh dear," Theo gasped dramatically. "I think this dragon's got me! Help, Mummy! I'm done for!"
She clutched her chest in feigned distress. "Oh, my poor love! The dragon's got him!"
Lysander's face lit up with glee, his little body shaking with joy at the grand performance.
Theo slowed his spinning, finally pulling Lysander close against his chest as the boy's giggles softened into tired, contented sighs. "Quite the adventure today, haven't you?" he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of Lysander's curls.
Lysander, now beginning to feel the weight of the day, rested his head against Theo's shoulder, his tiny fingers playing absently with the collar of his shirt. "Mummy back now," he murmured sleepily, as though reassuring himself.
Luna stepped closer, smoothing back his wild curls. "Yes, my love," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Mummy's back now."
Theo shifted slightly, freeing one arm to wrap around Luna's waist, pulling her into him. She melted into his warmth, resting her head against his shoulder, one hand lightly stroking Lysander's back.
For a long moment, they simply stood there, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun, wrapped up in their own little world. The garden was quiet now, the earlier laughter fading into a soft, peaceful hum.
Luna closed her eyes, pressing a lingering kiss to Theo's shoulder. She knew the world outside this moment would come rushing back soon—there would be challenges, uncertainties, things left unsaid. But for now, in this fleeting pocket of time, they were whole.
And that was enough.
~~~~~~
The prayers had been answered. After what felt like an eternity—a long, agonizing month—Hermione finally woke. It was like the first light of dawn breaking through a stormy sky, tentative yet filled with hope. Her lashes fluttered, her eyes opened, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she looked at the world with recognition.
Weeks before, Draco had made the difficult journey to visit Hermione's parents. He had rehearsed the conversation in his head countless times, but nothing could prepare him for the devastation he saw in their eyes. The Grangers were in shock, their faces pale and drawn as he stood before them, carrying the heavy burden of the truth.
The moment they saw her, Jane collapsed into her arms, her sobs breaking the quiet air. There was no hesitation, no introductions—just raw, visceral grief.
"Thank you," Jane wept, gripping Luna as if she were a lifeline, as if she could feel Hermione's salvation in the very bones of the woman who had saved her. "Thank you a million times over."
David's face was streaked with tears as he stepped forward, his hands trembling as he took Luna's gently in his own. His fingers closed around hers, his grip firm, reverent. And then, to her utter shock, he lifted them to his lips and kissed them.
"These hands saved our baby girl," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.
Luna, overwhelmed, could only nod, tears pricking at her own eyes. "She's still fighting," she whispered. "But she's here."
Jane clung to her, clung, as if she were the only thing keeping her standing. Luna held her just as tightly, whispering quiet reassurances, even though she was dangerously close to breaking too.
Once the sobs had slowed, she led them inside.
The air in the room was thick—heavy with emotion, with the weight of a thousand unsaid words. Hermione lay motionless in the bed, her breathing steady, her face calm. Alive, but so still it made Luna's chest ache.
Jane collapsed at her daughter's bedside, her hands grasping Hermione's lifeless fingers, pressing frantic kisses to them as her tears spilled over.
"My baby," she whispered, her voice shaking. "My sweet, sweet girl."
David, normally a man of quiet strength, was openly weeping. He stood at Hermione's side, his broad shoulders shaking as he stared at her, taking in her fragile state, the slight rise and fall of her chest, the cruel contrast of stillness in someone who had once been so full of life.
A sob broke from him, unrestrained. "Pumpkin," he murmured, using the childhood nickname he hadn't spoken in years. "Daddy's here, sweetheart. Daddy's right here."
Luna swallowed hard, her fingers twisting together as she watched them, an ache forming deep in her chest. It was almost unbearable, the sheer depth of love, of relief, of grief tangled into one.
Draco hovered at the doorway, silent, his face unreadable. He watched Hermione's parents, watched as they took the place he had held for so many weeks, and something in him seemed to collapse. He turned away, unable to witness it any longer.
Luna followed him, stepping outside into the corridor where he leaned against the wall, head bowed, hands clenched.
"She's loved," Luna murmured, watching the way his shoulders trembled.
"I know," he rasped, his voice breaking. "I know."
And so, they waited.
Waited as Hermione's parents poured their love into her unresponsive body. Waited as the house, once filled with silence, now held the quiet murmurs of family—a mother's whispered prayers, a father's soft reassurances, the lingering scent of home wrapping itself around her.
They waited, together, in hope and in sorrow, holding onto the fragile thread of belief that Hermione would return to them—whole, breathing, strong.
And now, finally, after an agonizing month—she had.
~~~~~~
Luna stepped softly into the room, her presence radiating calm and reassurance. "Mimi, you're awake," she said, her voice gentle, like the flutter of wings. She moved closer, her ethereal grace making her seem almost otherworldly.
Hermione blinked groggily, her dry throat making her words come out as a rasp. "Luna?"
Luna's smile was full of warmth. "This is our safe house, Mimi. You're safe now." Her wide, dreamy blue eyes seemed to peer right through Hermione, as if she could see her soul.
Hermione opened her mouth to ask what had happened, but before she could speak, Draco's familiar voice broke the silence. "Everyone's here, darling." His tone was soft, but there was an unmistakable edge of relief. He stepped into the room, looking exhausted but relieved, the worry etched into his usually sharp features.
" No one's leaving your side," he continued, "even if I told them to." His attempt at a dry joke made Hermione's heart flutter. His love and care, so often masked by sarcasm, shone through his tired eyes.
Jane stepped forward, her voice trembling with emotion. "Everyone's been waiting for you, love. We're so happy you're awake."
David nodded in agreement, his smile gentle. "You're surrounded by family, love. We've all been here."
Overwhelmed by the relief, the warmth, and the flood of emotions, hrr eyelids grew heavy. The exhaustion of her ordeal weighed on her, and before she could respond, her eyes closed, and sleep overtook her once again, the soft voices of her loved ones filling the room with a sense of safety and peace.
~~~~~~
The road to recovery was grueling, but Hermione Granger had never been one to shy away from a challenge. She faced her healing journey with the same determination that had carried her through every battle in her life, yet this time, the enemy wasn't external—it was her own body. The hardest truth of all, one everyone around her already knew, was that she was suffering from hemiplegia.
One side of her body was weaker, resistant to her commands. Each step was a war, each motion a victory wrested from the unyielding limits her condition imposed. And yet, Hermione refused to acknowledge the full weight of her reality. Bold as ever, she dismissed the word "limitation" as though it were an insult, defying it even when her body betrayed her.
Her friends rallied around her, creating a shield of love and support that wrapped her in warmth even on the darkest days.
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.
Even Luna, patient as a saint, had her limits. There were days she threatened to hex the music system into oblivion, but the laughter filling the house—and Hermione's rare chuckles from her corner of the room—always softened her resolve.
Six months. Half a year of pain, of perseverance, of pushing against the limits of her own body until she felt like she might break.
Three months had already felt like an eternity, but six? Six months of waking up to the same battlefield, where the enemy was not an external force, but her own muscles, her own limbs—uncooperative, sluggish, defiant. Six months of relearning things she had once done without thought. Walking. Writing. Brushing her own hair. Mundane, thoughtless tasks for most, but for Hermione, they were wars waged against herself.
There were days she wanted to scream. Days when the sheer unfairness of it all overwhelmed her, when her body's refusal to comply brought her to the brink of tears. But she never stopped. Hermione Granger did not surrender. Even when she doubted herself, even when frustration nearly swallowed her whole, she fought. She fought with every inch of her stubborn, unbreakable will.
Her victories were small—but they were monumental.
The first time she managed to stand without assistance, she had expected nothing more than a nod of acknowledgment. Maybe a quiet 'well done' from Luna or a firm, approving look from Draco. What she got instead was a full-blown spectacle.
Theo—Theo of all people—threw his arms into the air as though she had just won the bloody Triwizard Tournament, shouting at the top of his lungs, "Someone grab a trophy! This woman is a legend!"
Blaise, ever the dramatist, clutched his chest as though overcome with emotion, blinking rapidly and dabbing at invisible tears with the sleeve of his absurdly expensive silk robe. "I swear," he declared, shaking his head in mock awe, "this is the single most inspiring moment of my life. I will never recover. Somebody write a book about this woman."
Luna and Draco—the only two people left in the room with an ounce of dignity—simply exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable at first. Then, in perfect sync, they both shook their heads, as if they had expected nothing less from the two idiots beside them. But neither of them could quite hide the proud smiles that tugged at their lips.
Hermione, for her part, had wanted to roll her eyes—wanted to scoff, to say something about how ridiculous they all were—but she couldn't. Not when her heart felt so impossibly full. Not when she could still feel the warmth of their unwavering belief in her.
Instead, she let herself smile. Just for a moment. Just enough to let them know that, despite everything, she was still here. Still fighting.
And that? That was worth celebrating.
~~~~~~
Hermione underwent yet another surgery—this one to fully correct the fractures in her skull that had haunted her recovery. Although it was routine, for Luna, no surgery ever felt routine when it came to Hermione. The sterile room, the quiet hum of magic-infused instruments, and the whispered conversations of friends carried a weight that seemed to press down on her chest every time. She stood inside the operating room, her hands clasped tightly together, her usually serene expression betrayed by the faint tremble of her lips. She had watched Hermione endure so much—too much. This wasn't just about reconstructing bone and healing skin; it was about restoring Hermione in every sense of the word: body, mind, and spirit.
With each incision, each delicate movement of her wand, she couldn't help but feel an ache deep within herself. She imagined every stitch as a thread not just mending Hermione's broken skull but tying together the fragile pieces of her soul that had been so cruelly shattered. The physical wounds might heal, but she knew better than most that there were injuries that no spell could repair, scars left in the hidden corners of the heart. And yet, she hoped—prayed, even—that each magical intervention was a step closer to making Hermione whole again.
~~~~~~
Eventually, one by one, they returned to their own homes, slipping quietly back into the lives they had once known, though those lives felt like distant echoes of who they had been before. The days of crisis and chaos, of whispered fears and hurried plans in the dead of night, began to fade, as though they were a fevered dream dissolving in the light of a new dawn. The safehouse, once so full of life, brimming with tension and the unspoken weight of shared danger, now stood empty. Its walls, which had borne witness to their laughter, their arguments, their tears, and their moments of fragile hope, now held only silence.
For a time, it felt surreal, as if those months spent on the edge of disaster belonged to another world entirely. The memories lingered, like shadows at the edge of their consciousness, but they no longer held the same power. The adrenaline that had once fueled their every decision was gone, replaced by a tentative calm. Life resumed its steady, predictable rhythm, each day folding into the next without the looming threat of catastrophe. Yet, beneath that surface calm lay a quiet understanding that things could never truly go back to the way they had been.
There was a bittersweetness to the return of normalcy. The familiar routines that once brought comfort now seemed foreign, almost hollow, as though the people stepping back into them were not the same ones who had left them behind. The mundane details of daily life—the brewing of morning tea, the hum of work, the soft patter of rain against a window—took on a strange, almost sacred quality. Each small act felt like a testament to survival, a quiet reminder that they had lived to see these ordinary moments again.
And yet, there was a subtle shift, a change in the fabric of their lives that could not be undone. The bonds forged in those months of uncertainty were indelible, etched into their very souls. They had faced the unthinkable together, their lives intertwined in ways that words could never fully capture. The love, the friendships, the unspoken understanding that had grown between them during that time lingered, a steady undercurrent in their interactions. There was no need to speak of it; they carried it with them, each in their own way.
They didn't dwell on the past, but it shaped them nonetheless. It wasn't something they wore like a badge of honor or a scar, but rather something quieter, more intrinsic. It was in the way they looked at each other, in the moments of silence that didn't need to be filled, in the way they held their loved ones just a little tighter, laughed a little louder, lingered a little longer. They had come through the storm, not unscathed but whole, and that was enough.
As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, the intensity of those dark times softened, like the sharp edges of a stone worn smooth by the passage of water. The safehouse, once alive with fear and determination, became a place of memory—a silent witness to their survival. And life, in its infinite resilience, carried on. They carried on. But they carried with them the knowledge that life was fragile, fleeting, and infinitely precious. And so, in the quiet moments of their days, they found gratitude—not for the storm they had endured, but for the fact that they had endured it together.