19th September, 1994
Hogwarts
Sunday morning sunlight streamed through the Ravenclaw common room windows in warm gold ribbons.
Hermione descended the staircase with a small, private smile.
She wasn't one for fuss. She had never been one for fuss. Birthdays had always been pleasant but practical — until recently. Now, thanks to a certain someone, she found herself quietly anticipating the day.
She paused at the foot of the stairs.
The common room was largely empty—unsurprising for a Sunday morning, when most students preferred to sleep in. One person, however, was waiting.
"Good morning, Hermione," Luna said brightly. "And happy birthday."
Hermione smiled. "Thank you, Luna."
Luna tilted her head slightly, as though listening to something only she could hear.
"I've been instructed to escort you to the Great Hall."
Hermione frowned. "Escort me? Why?"
"So that you don't wander into the wrong narrative thread," Luna replied calmly.
Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again.
"…Right. Where's Ben? We usually go down together."
Luna stepped forward, gently linking her arm through Hermione's.
"You'll see him soon."
Before Hermione could press for clarification, Luna was already guiding her toward the door.
---
Great Hall
Hermione stepped into the Great Hall—and stopped.
Her gaze went first to the Ravenclaw table. No Ben.
She scanned the rest of the hall. Still no sign of him.
"Come on," Luna prompted gently.
Hermione approached the Ravenclaw table, where their usual friends were gathered. Harry and Neville stood in front of it—Harry holding a piece of parchment, Neville clutching a bouquet of flowers.
A chorus of "Happy Birthday!" greeted her.
Harry cleared his throat.
"In case you're wondering where your boyfriend is—he's being his usual mysterious self. I've been tasked with reading this letter he wrote for you. So… here goes."
He glanced down at the parchment.
"Dear Hermione. Happy birthday. These are for you."
Neville beamed and stepped forward, offering the neatly tied bouquet.
They were beautiful—crocuses, white roses, and sprigs of lavender. Fresh. Fragrant. Thoughtfully arranged.
Hermione accepted them slowly, blinking.
"I was informed that birthdays are traditionally occasions for cake, candles, and mild embarrassment," Harry continued. "I decided to attempt something better. Today, I have arranged a small scavenger hunt across the castle for you. Each location contains two things—a gift and a clue leading to the next. Solve the riddles. Follow the path. I will be waiting for you at the end. Love, yours, Ben."
The Hall grew very quiet.
Then—
Soft sighs drifted from several tables.
"That is so romantic," someone muttered at the Hufflepuff table.
Hermione's cheeks turned pink.
Neville beamed and handed her a smaller folded parchment.
"And here," he said, "is your first clue."
She unfolded it and read:
Where weight forgets what weight should be,
And light obeys geometry,
No sparks of rage nor forceful shove—
Just whispered law and lifted dove.
Hermione stared at the parchment, working through the riddle.
Where weight forgets what weight should be—
Then it clicked.
"Oh," she breathed.
She didn't move at once. Instead, she glanced down at the bouquet in her hands, her fingers brushing lightly over the petals. The symbolism of those particular flowers was not lost on her.
"Well?" Harry prompted.
Hermione lifted her chin, a slow smile spreading across her face.
"Well," she said primly, "I suppose it would be rude to keep him waiting when he has spent so much thought on how to make this day special for me."
She turned, bouquet and letter in hand, and strode toward the doors.
Behind her, the Hall erupted into whispers.
Several girls sighed dramatically.
Romilda Vane muttered, "If anyone ever does something like that for me, I'm marrying him on the spot."
Neville exhaled slowly.
"How does a guy our age even come up with something like that?" Neville asked in awe.
Harry shook his head.
"No clue, mate. Probably gets to watch a ton of romantic stuff on his multiversal dreamwatch."
Neville hung his head.
"That's just cheating."
---
Hermione walked briskly along the Charms corridor.
The bouquet was tucked carefully under one arm, Ben's letter held in her other hand. Her expression was focused, but there was no disguising the brightness in it.
She reached the Charms classroom door and paused only a moment before pushing it open.
The room was empty.
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating faint motes of dust suspended in the air. The desks were arranged in neat rows. The familiar scent of polished wood and lingering spellwork hung lightly about the room.
Everything appeared exactly as it had for the past three years of lessons.
And yet she was certain this was the place.
Trusting that Ben would not make it obvious, she began to circle the room slowly, examining it with a critical eye. It did not take long to notice the difference.
A trunk sat at the end of the room.
During lessons, it was always open, from which Professor Flitwick would retrieve objects and materials for class. Now, however, it was closed.
Hermione knelt before it and studied it carefully. A simple locking charm appeared to have been cast on it.
She tapped it lightly with her wand.
"Alohomora."
The lock clicked open. The lid rose slowly on its own—
Inside, resting on dark velvet, lay a tiara.
Hermione drew in a sharp breath.
It was fashioned from delicate silver filigree, shaped in a flowing vine-like design, as though slender branches had been frozen mid-growth and dusted with frost. Deep royal-blue sapphires were set along the sweeping arcs, catching the sunlight with quiet brilliance. Smaller diamonds framed them, creating a subtle halo of light.
Beside it rested a small folded card.
Hermione placed the bouquet carefully on a nearby desk and picked up the card first. Four neat lines greeted her:
Not crown nor wand nor spoken phrase,
But patient hands and measured days,
Seek glass that traps the summer's breath—
Where life defies both frost and death.
She read it twice, then a third time.
The answer settled into place.
Glass that traps the summer's breath.
She smiled and turned her attention to the tiara. When she lifted it, she found it far lighter than it appeared. It could not have been ordinary silver; she had never seen silver shine with such quiet brilliance. It almost seemed to carry its own light.
As she examined it more closely, she noticed an inscription etched along the inner band:
For the girl who insists she is no "dainty princess."
Hermione shook her head fondly.
Still holding the tiara, she hesitated only a moment before raising it and settling it carefully into her hair.
It adjusted subtly, nestling into place as though fitted precisely for her. With a small wave of her hand, she conjured a floating mirror.
The reflection that met her gaze did not look foolish.
She looked confident.
Composed.
Entirely herself.
And perhaps just a touch amused.
A faint warmth rose to her cheeks. She removed the tiara carefully and tucked it securely into the crook of her arm beside the bouquet.
Card reclaimed, Hermione Granger swept out of the Charms classroom carrying flowers in one arm, a silver tiara in the other, and a smile she made no effort to hide.
High along the ceiling line, a button-sized camera had quietly recorded every moment.
Elsewhere in the castle, Ben permitted himself a small, satisfied smile.
---
Hermione slowed as she approached the glass-paneled greenhouses. The morning air had warmed, carrying the rich scent of soil and new growth.
Professor Sprout was nowhere to be seen. Yet the door to Greenhouse Three stood slightly ajar.
Hermione pushed it open.
Rows of plants stretched in careful order, broad leaves glossy in the filtered sunlight. Vines curled around wooden supports. Golden beams streamed through the glass ceiling, warming the humid air within.
She moved between the rows of magical flora, scanning for anything out of place.
It did not take long.
At the central worktable sat an unfamiliar potted plant. Its petals were tightly furled, like a bud still asleep. Beside it rested a watering can.
A small card lay on the table.
Hermione picked it up. In Ben's neat handwriting, it read:
Growth demands a patient hand,
Not force, nor haste, nor sharp command.
Give what's needed — nothing more,
And see what waiting has in store.
She reread the lines, then glanced at the potted plant and the watering can beside it. The soil was dry—but only slightly.
She set the bouquet and tiara carefully at the edge of the table. With a small, knowing smile, she lifted the watering can and poured a measured amount into the pot.
As the soil darkened, the plant trembled.
Slowly, the petals unfurled in a gentle spiral.
Hermione leaned closer.
Nestled at the center of the bloom was a small wooden music box, carved from pale wood and etched with delicate winding vines.
For a moment, she simply looked at it. Then she lifted it carefully and opened the lid.
Music filled the greenhouse—soft, intimate, and unexpectedly tender. No lyrics. No voice. Just a calm, unhurried melody.
Hermione stood very still.
The tune was unfamiliar, yet it carried the quiet weight of something meant to be heard more than once. A folded card slipped from the box onto the table, unnoticed.
She closed her eyes and listened.
The melody stirred something deep—nostalgia without memory, longing without reason. And for reasons she could not quite explain, she found herself wishing Ben were there, his arms around her, the world narrowing to just the two of them.
Unaware of its origin, Hermione stood immersed in the instrumental music of a song that had once been among the most popular romantic pieces of Ben's former world—My Heart Will Go On.
After a time, the melody rose into a final, soaring refrain before fading into silence.
Hermione opened her eyes and gently closed the lid of the music box. She glanced around the greenhouse, faintly certain that Ben was watching from somewhere unseen.
"Thank you," she murmured softly.
Her fingers traced the carved vines along the lid before she slipped the box carefully into her pocket. Only then did she pick up the folded card that had fallen free.
She unfolded it and read:
Growth reshapes but keeps its seed,
Yet there exists a sterner creed—
Where essence bends at scholar's will,
And form obeys though heart stands still.
She read it twice.
That was all it took.
A small, amused smirk curved her lips.
Professor McGonagall would either be delighted—
or deeply suspicious.
---
Hermione opened the door to Classroom 1B and stepped inside.
Tall windows flooded the room with clear white light that gleamed across polished desks. The blackboard remained half-covered in Professor McGonagall's precise chalk diagrams from the previous week—arrows mapping teacup to tortoise, annotations on structural stability and core retention.
Hermione paused, scanning the room.
There was no obvious clue.
Which meant the clue was almost certainly here.
She began to catalogue the space methodically, noting every object, every irregularity. Her attention settled on a cat statue positioned at the very back of the room.
The Transfiguration classroom was well known for its pair of golden cat statues, each displayed prominently on separate desks—an unmistakable nod to Professor McGonagall's Animagus form. Additional feline motifs throughout the room reinforced the theme.
But this was not one of them.
This third statue was made of white marble, not gold. As Hermione approached, she noticed the cat wore a grin remarkably similar to the one Ben displayed whenever he was particularly pleased with himself.
A faint residual shimmer along its whiskers told Hermione that it was transfigured. She raised her wand.
"Finite Incantatem."
The statue shimmered, flickered, and dissolved—revealing a small velvet box resting on the desk.
Hermione opened it.
Inside lay a silver bracelet.
It was a fine chain, delicately crafted, with a small interlocking loop at its center. The metal caught the light in quiet flashes—understated, elegant.
She lifted it carefully. It felt cool against her skin.
Turning it over, she noticed a faint inscription along the inner curve.
Today, tomorrow, always.
Her breath caught. Her fingers tightened slightly around the bracelet.
"That's not fair," she murmured softly, though there was no reproach in her voice.
Only affection.
After a brief pause, she fastened it around her wrist. The clasp settled into place as though measured precisely for her.
Hermione tilted her wrist, watching the silver gleam in the light.
It was not ornate. Not extravagant.
It was something she could wear every day.
Which, she suspected, was exactly the point.
The thought warmed her.
She then noticed a folded card at the bottom of the velvet box and picked it up.
Where silence gathers, deep and wide,
And restless minds are dignified,
Seek ordered spines in endless rows—
Where quiet power softly grows.
Hermione smiled.
Ordered spines in endless rows.
Yes. She knew exactly where she was going next.
And, if she were honest, she was very much looking forward to it.
---
Before heading to the library, Hermione made a brief detour to her dormitory to set down the gifts she had collected. Her departure had to be swift; her friends had begun openly swooning at the sight of the tiara and the music box.
The library doors swung open.
Madam Pince looked up sharply.
Hermione, the silver bracelet gleaming at her wrist, attempted to move discreetly toward the shelves.
"Miss Granger?" Madam Pince called.
"Yes, Madam Pince?" Hermione replied, turning at once.
"I have been asked to give this to you," the librarian said, extending a folded card.
Hermione reached for it, but Madam Pince did not release it immediately.
"I do not know what you and Mr Carter are up to," she said in a low, suspicious tone. "But if any of the books are damaged in the midst of your shenanigans, I shall be most displeased."
Hermione swallowed. "Noted, ma'am."
Card secured, she quickly put distance between herself and the vigilant guardian of the stacks. Only then did she pause to examine it.
8–9–19–20–15–18–25
8–15–7–23–1–18–20–19
6–15–21–14–4–5–18–19
Hermione blinked.
Different from the previous clues—but hardly difficult.
As devoted readers of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, she and Ben had often discussed The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. "The Five Orange Pips" and "The Adventure of the Dancing Men" had left particular impressions—cases where clients met grim fates despite seeking Holmes' help.
Compared to the cipher in "The Adventure of the Dancing Men," this was elementary. All she had to do was assume A = 1.
She withdrew a pen from her pocket and worked swiftly.
8–9–19–20–15–18–25
H I S T O R Y
8–15–7–23–1–18–20–19
H O G W A R T S
6–15–21–14–4–5–18–19
F O U N D E R S
Her lips curved into a smile.
Without hesitation, she turned toward the History section—specifically the shelves devoted to Hogwarts and its four founders.
When she reached the shelf, Hermione immediately noticed that a copy of Hogwarts: A History was missing. A quick glance around revealed it resting on a nearby desk.
She looked from the gap in the shelf to the book in her hands, then calmly returned it to its proper place.
A soft click sounded.
Beneath the shelf, a concealed panel slid open, revealing a velvet-lined compartment. Inside lay a single book.
Hermione knew at once it did not belong to the Hogwarts collection. Its binding did not match the surrounding volumes. The cover was deep green leather, bordered with intricate silver filigree in patterns she faintly recognized as—
Elvish.
She inhaled sharply.
With great care, she lifted the book. A folded card rested beneath it, but she ignored it for the moment. Slowly, reverently, she opened the cover.
The first page bore flowing Tengwar script:
Middle-Earth through the Ages
—Elrond Peredhel, son of Eärendil
Lord of the Last Homely House East of the Sea
It was fortunate she did not drop it.
Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a sound of disbelief. She was holding a journal written by Elrond, Lord of Rivendell and father of Arwen. The significance of it made her hands tremble.
Very carefully, she carried the book to a nearby desk and set it down.
The pages were thick, creamy parchment edged faintly in silver leaf. Elegant Tengwar script flowed across each page, precise and luminous. Illuminated illustrations were woven between passages—forests of impossible beauty, silver rivers beneath starlight, vast halls carved from stone and radiance.
She turned a page.
A pressed leaf slipped free and drifted onto the desk.
She caught it instinctively.
It shimmered faintly—not enchanted, simply preserved to perfection. A delicate leaf traced with silver veins, unlike anything that grew in Scotland.
Inside the cover, in smaller script unmistakably Ben's, was a single handwritten line:
You deserve a library that spans across the stars, my love.
Her throat tightened.
She closed the book gently and rested her palm against the cover for a long moment.
Only then did she retrieve the folded card containing the next clue.
When ink gives way to darker lore,
And ceilings vanish evermore,
Trade parchment's breath for open air—
Where mapped-out fires divide the stair.
Ceilings vanish.
Open air.
Mapped-out fires.
She smiled.
As she made for the door, Madam Pince called sharply, "Miss Granger! That book is not from my shelves."
Hermione paused.
"No," she replied softly, a small smile forming. "It isn't."
And she left the library carrying a fragment of another world—and the growing certainty that the end of this hunt would not be lighthearted.
---
The climb to the Astronomy Tower felt different. With each step upward, the sounds of the castle faded, growing distant and muted.
When she pushed open the final door, the wind greeted her first. The sky stretched above in an unbroken blue. Far below, the Black Lake reflected the late-morning sunlight in steady flashes.
For a moment, she simply stood there, taking it in.
Then she noticed a parchment on the floor, held in place by a small brass instrument—a simple star-sighting lens.
She picked up the parchment and read:
No chart nor lens will guide you far,
If you forget what constants are.
When shadow shortens near its peak,
Find west by what the heights still keep.
Hermione frowned slightly—not puzzled, but thoughtful.
Shadow shortens near its peak—midday.
Find west by what the heights still keep.
She stepped toward the parapet and looked out.
The sun was high, though not yet perfectly overhead. The castle's tallest spire cast a clear shadow across the inner courtyard below.
Hermione leaned forward slightly, assessing the angle.
"The sun is just past its ascent," she murmured. "Which means west would be—"
She turned precisely to the right of the sun's position.
There.
Behind a jutting stone crenellation, partially concealed from view—
Lay a folded midnight-blue cloak.
She smiled.
"Honestly," she muttered.
She retrieved the cloak carefully. In the full light of day, it appeared almost black at first glance. But as she turned it in her hands, fine silver threads caught the sun and shimmered subtly. The lining bore faint patterns, visible only when the fabric shifted at certain angles.
She draped it over her shoulders.
It settled into place at once. The early autumn wind brushed past her again—but without its bite.
From within the clasp, she drew a second card and unfolded it.
When westward leans the final ray,
And glass turns fire at close of day,
Seek where the rooted sentinel stands—
The last is held in open hands.
The final ray.
Close of day.
Rooted sentinel.
Hermione looked out across the grounds.
The great oak by the lakeshore stood firm and unmoving, its ancient roots anchored deep in the earth.
So that was the final destination.
But not yet.
She lifted her gaze to the bright sky overhead.
There were still hours before sunset.
For the first time since the hunt had begun, there was nowhere else to hurry. Hermione rested lightly against the cool stone wall of the tower, holding the Rivendell book close.
The day had unfolded exactly as he had planned.
And the evening—
The evening would be theirs.
---
Hermione reached the edge of the Black Lake as the sun began its slow descent.
The sky had shifted from clear blue to shades of amber and rose. The water reflected molten gold, rippling softly in the evening breeze. The oak tree stood tall against the fading light, vast and unmoving as it had for centuries.
She still wore the bracelet and the midnight-blue cloak. Her steps slowed as she approached the tree.
A final card had been fixed to the trunk with a light sticking charm. She removed it carefully and read:
You traced the path through thought and air,
Through glass and page and scholar's stair,
The final gift is neither stone nor flame—
It waits in trust, without a name.
Hermione read it twice.
It waits in trust.
"So," came an amused voice from behind her, "how was your day?"
She turned.
Ben stood a few paces away, arms crossed, a familiar smirk playing on his face.
"Not bad," she replied with a smile. "My over-the-top boyfriend decided to make the day unforgettable by organising a scavenger hunt throughout the castle."
"Really?" he said in mock surprise. "How long have you guys been together now?"
"About four months," she said, playing along.
"That's it? Just four months and he is making such grand romantic gestures?" he said with an amused expression. "You might wanna be careful. Sounds like he is compensating for something."
She couldn't help it.
She laughed.
"No… that's just how he is," she said, slowly closing the distance between them. "A little extravagant sometimes, but that's not really a bad thing. And he is such a romantic. Which is never a bad thing."
"You liked it, then?" he asked, stepping closer.
"No," she said, taking his hands. "I loved it."
He smiled. "Well, I'm glad."
"You could have at least made the riddles a bit harder, though," she added in mild complaint.
He smiled. "It was supposed to be fun, Hermione. Not an intellectual exercise."
She glanced around as the sun dipped lower, amber deepening into orange. Shadows stretched across the grass toward the water.
"What are we doing here?" she asked.
"We're here for your final gift, of course," he replied, looking at her fondly. "How did you like the ones you got before?"
Hermione stared at him in exasperation. "Do you really need to ask? I swear, all the girls nearly fainted at the sight of the tiara. And was that book really written by—?"
"Elrond? Yes," Ben confirmed. "I got it from the library of Rivendell. With Lord Elrond's permission, of course. I thought it would make a suitable gift."
"That's one word for it," she said. "A book from Middle-Earth? Honestly, Ben." She shook her head.
"Well, I missed your last birthday because I was there then, didn't I?" he said with a small smile. "I had to make it up to you."
She smiled despite herself. "So what is this last gift? I feel like you've been building up to it. It must be something big."
He smiled, faint amusement in his eyes. "Quite big, yeah."
He glanced up at the twilight sky, then toward the distant castle windows and quiet grounds. Seemingly satisfied, he returned his gaze to Hermione.
"There is something I want to show you."
Hermione tilted her head slightly. "You've shown me quite a lot today."
He shook his head once. "Not this."
He released her hands and stepped back beneath the wide branches of the oak, giving himself space.
Under her questioning gaze, the ambient magic around him began to stir. Light traced along his skin in molten lines. The air grew warmer.
Hermione's breath caught.
Golden light engulfed him. His form shimmered, expanding outward. Wings unfurled behind him like burnished banners of fire. Scales flowed over muscle and bone, seamless and radiant. His features lengthened; his irises shifted, turning reptilian and bright gold.
Where he had stood, a twenty-meter-long golden dragon now occupied the space beneath the oak—magnificent, immense, and powerful beyond measure.
Hermione said nothing.
Not because she lacked words—she had far too many—but because, for once, they failed her.
They regarded one another in quiet stillness. Though his eyes were no longer human, Hermione saw the same tenderness in them—the same look he always gave her.
"I never told you why I went to Middle-Earth, did I?" he said, his voice deep and resonant, edged with something regal. "While it's true that I wanted to help the Dwarves reclaim their homeland, the primary reason I went there was to collect Smaug's corpse."
"Smaug's corpse?" Hermione echoed.
He inclined his massive head once. "A teenage boy, no matter how knowledgeable in the magical arts, cannot stand against a million-strong army of the undead. Not without losing something important. And you know me," he added with faint humor, "I hate losing."
"So I decided to stack the deck," he continued. "To prepare as much as I could. By the time I go back to Planetos, nothing alive, dead or otherwise will be able to threaten me or my people anymore."
Hermione had several questions, but only one surfaced first.
"Planetos?"
A low, rumbling chuckle escaped him. "Yeah, it needs work, I know. But that's what it's called."
"Anyway, I came to learn of an ancient ritual which requires a dragon's corpse. It rewrites the genetic structure and magical essence of a wizard, transforming him into a dragon-human hybrid."
A pause.
"And that is what I did."
Hermione absorbed that in silence before asking, "And this form?"
"It's an ability called Draconification," he replied. "It allows me to assume a dragon form at will. Kind of like an animagus, really."
After a moment, he added more quietly, "You are the first person I've shown this to. I wanted it to be you."
Hermione met his gaze. "Why me?"
He tilted his head slightly. "Do you really need to ask?"
She held his gaze for a moment, then stepped closer. He lowered his head in response.
Her hand rose of its own accord, settling gently against the warm curve of his snout.
He leaned into her touch.
Then he raised his head and, looking at her in amusement, said, "Come on. I'll take you on a ride."
Hermione stared at him. "Are you crazy?"
Ben chuckled. She barely had time to react before she began to levitate, gently lifted and settled securely between the ridges of his shoulders. The warmth of his scales radiated through the cloak.
A sticking charm activated, fastening her firmly to his broad back. Feeling the added security, she said, "Fine. But don't you dare drop me, mister."
Ben smiled. "Oh, don't worry, darling. This airline has an excellent flight record."
He spread his wings and beat them twice.
They rose smoothly into the twilight sky.
The Black Lake stretched beneath them, reflecting streaks of violet and gold. They skimmed low at first, the wind rushing past Hermione's face.
Then higher.
Over the lake.
Over the darkening canopy of the Forbidden Forest.
Even high above Hogwarts itself — the towers below glowing softly as lights began flickering to life within its windows.
Hermione lifted her hands into the air and surrendered to the sensation. She felt free, unrestrained, alive—more than she ever had on a broomstick. For a fleeting second, she envied him.
How extraordinary it must be to fly like this whenever he wished.
Then she remembered she could simply ask him. The thought made her smile.
For several perfect minutes, they glided in wide, effortless arcs through the evening sky, the world below distant and quiet.
When they descended, twilight had deepened into indigo.
He landed gently beneath the oak, folding his wings with care. Hermione slid down, her boots touching the earth.
Magic withdrew in controlled waves. Light folded inward.
And Ben stood before her once more.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Ben looked at her. "Now you have your final gift. What do you think?"
"I think," Hermione said slowly, her voice softer than it had been all day, "I'm in love with you."
The words lingered between them.
Ben blinked once.
Then the smallest, warmest smile touched his lips.
"That's alright," he said gently. "'Cause I love you too."
Hermione stepped forward.
Without hesitation, she kissed him.
Beneath the oak, as twilight wrapped the world in silver and blue, they held each other like something finally found rather than newly discovered.
The lake mirrored the first stars. The castle kept its silent vigil—
and in that quiet, endless moment, loving each other felt as natural as breathing.