Ginny's fists crashed down again and again, each blow jarring through her bones, each impact sending a shock up her arms that should have stopped her long before this moment. Her knuckles were split open, blood trickling down her fingers in thin, trembling lines. She barely felt the pain. It was distant, swallowed beneath the roaring in her ears, drowned out by the frantic thud of her own heartbeat.
The world around her had vanished. There were no walls. No ceiling. No sounds beyond the guttural, messy rhythm of flesh meeting flesh. Everything had collapsed into a red haze, raw and furious and blinding. She climbed out of her own nightmare one swing at a time, as if striking Jelena's face could rewind the moments she had spent helpless while Hermione suffered alone.
Jelena's head lolled beneath her, nothing more than a broken ruin. Bone split beneath the force of Ginny's fists, blood pooled thick and dark around them, and still she didn't stop. She didn't want to stop. She wanted to claw through time itself and drag every second of terror out of the air.
Her breath tore through her lungs in sharp, choking bursts. Tears blurred her vision, mixing with the blood on her cheeks. Her body shook violently, the tremors rolling through her like aftershocks.
A pair of arms closed around her from behind. Strong. Familiar. Steady in a way she no longer felt.
"Baby, enough," Blaise murmured, his voice deep and hushed against her ear. The sound cut through the chaos like a soft blade, pulling her back inch by inch. His grip was firm, but there was a gentleness beneath it. A careful understanding of how close she was to shattering.
She didn't hear him clearly. Not at first. Her fists still twitched, her fingers curling as if reaching for another strike. Her breath came fast and uneven, her vision swimming.
His arms tightened, anchoring her to his chest. The warmth of him seeped into her chilled skin, grounding her before she even realized she was swaying.
"Ginny," he whispered, voice low with something deeper than fear. "It's over."
Her eyes dropped to her hands, dripping red. Jelena's blood slicked her palms, soaked the front of her shirt, dotted her neck and cheek in sticky specks. Her throat constricted. Her stomach lurched.
The knife lay forgotten beside her. She had no memory of dropping it. Only of how heavy her arms suddenly felt.
Blaise reached for her hands. "Give it to me," he said softly, coaxing, not commanding.
She released the knife without protest. It clattered to the floor, a small, chilling sound in the suffocating silence of the room. Blaise tossed it aside, then cupped her face gently between his hands. His thumbs brushed her cheeks, smearing a streak of blood that didn't belong to her.
"Look at me," he whispered.
She tried. Her gaze flicked upward, landing on his. Dark eyes. Wide. Terrified. But not for himself.
For her.
"Breathe."
She couldn't. Her chest clenched. The room tilted. The air thickened with the iron scent of blood, the heavy presence of death, the knowledge of what she had just done. Her knees buckled beneath her, the world tipping sideways.
"I've got you," he said, catching her instantly.
He lowered them both to the ground, pulling her into his lap, folding her into the safety of his arms. Her body trembled violently as she pressed her face into his chest, soaking his shirt with a mess of blood and tears. He held her tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other wrapped firmly around her waist as if he could shield her from the wreckage she had helped create.
Behind them, Draco and Theo moved with a cold precision that no longer surprised her. They had slipped into a silent rhythm, clearing broken glass, dragging bodies, repairing damage with a ruthless efficiency that came from experience. Their faces were blank. Their movements practiced.
Evidence disappeared. Blood dissolved beneath charmed cloths. Shattered furniture repaired itself under their spells. The room transformed back into something clean. Something controlled.
Something that looked nothing like the place where Hermione had almost died.
Something that looked nothing like the place where they had killed.
By the time they were finished, the room felt wrong in a way that had nothing to do with the magic used to repair it. The furniture stood neatly in place. The shattered glass was gone. The walls were spotless. Every trace of violence had been erased with the kind of precision that came from far too much practice.
But the air still tasted of iron.
The smell of blood clung to the floorboards, stubborn and heavy, a reminder of what had happened even if no eyes could see it.
Theo checked his watch. His face was pale, drawn tight at the edges. The adrenaline had faded, leaving something raw beneath the surface. "I need to get back to my son." His voice cracked slightly, though he tried to mask it with a cough.
Blaise met his gaze with a slow nod. A simple exchange that carried everything they could not say aloud. "I'll see you at the safehouse."
Theo's eyes flicked to Ginny. She was still clinging to Blaise, curled against him like a small, trembling shadow. Her cheek rested on his shoulder, her breathing uneven. Theo gave her a look filled with sympathy, with understanding, before he vanished in a sharp crack that echoed through the room.
Silence settled around them again. Thick. Uncomfortable. Too still for a place that had just held so much horror.
Blaise shifted, adjusting his grip on her. His hand cupped the back of her neck, his thumb sweeping gently along her skin. A quiet gesture meant only for her, grounding her, pulling her back into her body inch by inch. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, the warmth of it sinking through her shattered nerves.
"Tesorina," he murmured against her hair, his voice low and warm. "It's done."
Her breath caught. A tiny, broken sound escaped her, something between a sob and a gasp. Her nails curled into his sleeve, desperate and shaking.
"I… I…" The words tangled in her throat. Nothing coherent came out.
His fingers coaxed her face upward, guiding her chin until their eyes met. He was not the man who had moved through the blood with cold precision a moment ago. Not the man who had commanded the room with violence simmering beneath the surface. His expression now was nothing but soft devotion, the kind that held her together when she felt she might fall apart.
"I'm going to lift you now," he said quietly, his voice steady in a way she desperately needed. "We're leaving. Together. Lean on me."
She tried to nod. It barely happened, her head dipping the smallest fraction, but it was enough for him.
He rose slowly, pulling her with him, lifting her off the ground as though she weighed nothing. Her legs dangled for a moment before she tucked them gently against him, her arms sliding around his neck. She clung to him with a fragile strength, fingers bunching the fabric of his shirt. It was still warm from the heat of the fight, still stained with blood, but she held on like it was the only thing that kept her tethered to the world.
Her head dropped against his shoulder. His scent wrapped around her, familiar and steady, a mix of cedarwood and expensive cologne and something darker she could never quite place. It filled her lungs, pushed back the cold that had seeped into her bones.
Blaise tightened his arms around her. Not painfully, not restrictively. Just sure. Certain. Protective in a way that left no room for doubt.
He held her as though he intended to carry her out of this nightmare piece by piece. As though he would sooner die than set her down before she was safe.
~~~~~~
Luna had done the impossible. She had reached into the darkest corner of whatever lay between life and death and dragged Hermione back with a steadiness that belonged to someone who refused to let the universe decide the ending. Her hands had been sure, her voice had been calm, her magic had been something fierce and ancient. It had worked. Against every odd, against every law of the world, it had worked.
And in the quiet after that miracle, Ginny found herself doing something she never imagined she would. She lit candles. She whispered into the dark. She begged the stars she used to laugh at. She folded her hands like she had seen Muggles do in films and hoped the gesture mattered to someone beyond the walls of the sickroom.
She had never believed in God, never trusted the idea of mercy coming from anywhere but the people who fought for it with their bare hands. But when everything else fell away and all she had was the rise and fall of Hermione's fragile breath, even disbelief cracked. Desperation made her soft in ways she didn't know how to handle.
The days bled into nights. The nights folded back into days. Time was a slow ache, measured only by the flicker of candle wicks and the quiet hum of Luna's healing charms. Hermione slept through all of it. She looked peaceful, almost untouched by the violence that had torn her apart, but Ginny knew the truth. She had held her friend in her arms as she bled. She had heard the last breaths before Luna forced her lungs to keep moving.
So Ginny stayed. She sat beside the bed and counted every breath like it was a prayer in itself.
"Please," she whispered one night. Her voice felt scraped raw. "If there is anything out there listening. If there is anything at all. Let her stay. Let her come back."
She reached for Hermione's hand and wrapped both of hers around it. Cold. Too still. Ginny pressed her forehead against the back of it and closed her eyes. Her hands shook, but she held on as if she could will her friend back into the world through touch alone.
She stayed like that for hours, whispering fragments of everything she had ever been taught and everything she had never believed. Words from old wizarding myths. Phrases she remembered from Hogwarts classes. Snippets of Muggle prayers she had read in hospital leaflets years ago. She strung them together like charms, hoping one would catch and pull Hermione toward the surface.
Weeks blurred past. Each one stretched thin with fear and exhaustion. Ginny barely slept, barely left the room. She found herself walking in circles around the bed when she was too anxious to sit still, her fingers tracing the rim of every candle she lit until wax coated her thumb. She folded blankets, refolded them, straightened pillows, smoothed Hermione's hair. Everything felt like a ritual, a small act of devotion meant to keep her tethered to this world.
Sometimes she spoke aloud. Sometimes she only mouthed the words. She pleaded with the universe until her voice faded to nothing. She promised things she knew she would give. She offered whatever she had left if it meant Hermione would wake, even for a moment.
Every night was a quiet war between hope and despair. And still she waited, because the alternative was too unbearable to name.
Draco rarely left Hermione's side. In the deepest hours of the night, when the house was still and the weight of reality pressed the hardest, he would sit there, fingers barely skimming over her hand, as if the gentlest touch might keep her tethered to him. Sometimes, in a voice so low it barely broke the silence, he would speak to her—murmuring stories of a future he refused to let go of. A life waiting for them, just beyond the darkness.
Blaise, Theo, and Luna stepped into the quiet with her and stayed there in a way Ginny could not. They moved around the room with a steadiness that kept the walls from collapsing, each of them carrying something Hermione needed, something Ginny could no longer bring herself to think about. Potions lined the bedside table. Healing salves. Restorative draughts. Blankets warmed by magic. Little things, but each one meant someone had not given up.
Luna was the calmest of them all. She came in with soft hair tied back, sleeves rolled up, eyes wide and clear as moonlight. She studied Hermione with a kind of peace that made Ginny ache. Luna had a way of seeing the world that never bent under fear. She would touch Hermione's hand, tilt her head, and smile as though she could already sense the moment Hermione would open her eyes again. That quiet certainty held Ginny together more than any magic could.
Theo stayed close to the door or the foot of the bed, moving only when Luna asked him to hand her something. He did not speak much. He barely slept. He watched over Hermione with an expression that never gave anything away, yet there was something powerful beneath it. The set of his jaw. The stillness in his shoulders. A fierce determination that settled in the room like another heartbeat.
Sometimes Ginny caught him studying Hermione with a look so raw it almost made her look away. Not pity. Not fear. Something closer to faith. Something steady and unbreakable.
Blaise moved like a shadow beside her, always aware of every shift in the room. He brought things before anyone asked, smoothing the tension wherever he could. Ginny felt him watching her too, checking for signs that she was slipping again, ready to catch her if she did. Her grief was a storm, wild and unpredictable, but Blaise, Theo, and Luna were the anchors that kept the room from drowning in it.
They were all different, all carrying their own fears and their own brand of devotion. Yet every hour, every breath, every silent vigil felt like a shared promise.
They would stay.
They would not let Hermione slip away.
~~~~~~
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 stab Jelena," 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.
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."
~~~~~~
Hermione's parents were always there, orbiting her like devoted satellites, their love an unshakable force in a world that had turned mercilessly cruel. They hovered beside her, adjusting her blankets with careful hands, smoothing invisible wrinkles that only they seemed to see, whispering soft reassurances that barely touched the sterile quiet of the safe house. Their movements carried a kind of reverence, the kind usually reserved for the sacred. It was the tenderness of parents who had once cradled their newborn daughter and now found themselves doing it again, not out of joy or the promise of new life, but because they could not bear the thought of losing her.
Ginny often watched them from the doorway, or from a shadowed corner of the room. She stayed out of their way, unwilling to intrude on their grief, unsure of how to hold her own in the presence of something so pure. Their devotion was almost painful to witness. Every careful touch, every whispered plea for Hermione to stay with them, every tear wiped away before it could fall, cut straight through her. It was hope in its rawest form, relentless and maddening, refusing to surrender even when reality felt too heavy to bear.
And watching them broke something inside her every single time.
It was not supposed to be like this. Life was not meant to fold in on itself in such cruel patterns. Children were meant to grow up and take on the years while their parents slowly loosened their grip on the world. Children were meant to shoulder the weight someday, to guide trembling hands, to offer comfort when time finally caught up to those who had raised them. This reversal felt wrong in a way she could not articulate. Parents should not have to sit at their grown daughter's bedside, smoothing blankets and whispering love into skin that had seen too much violence.
The first time Ginny saw them like that, she had stopped dead in the doorway. David's hand trembled as he wiped Hermione's brow, the same gesture he must have done hundreds of times when she was small. Jane sat on the other side of the bed, her fingers circling the spot where Hermione's curls used to fall, repeating the motion as if that simple act could bring back all the years she had lost. Their faces were drawn, exhausted, and filled with a despair that seemed too vast to belong to one family.
It hit Ginny like a blow.
She stood there for only a moment, but it felt eternal. Her throat tightened, and her eyes burned. There was something unbearably cruel about the sight. Something that twisted in her chest until she could not breathe. Love and suffering had woven themselves together in their touch, in every silent prayer they offered.
She had fled before anyone saw her, her vision swimming as she retreated down the corridor. She pressed her back against the nearest wall, her chest heaving, tears slipping down her cheeks without permission.
Jane and David were losing themselves to hope. Hope was keeping them upright. Hope was tearing them apart. Hope was the only thing they had left.
The image never left her. It clung to her like a shadow, slipping into the quiet spaces of her mind when the house fell silent. Even when she tried to outrun it, it waited for her in the corners, heavy and unyielding. The sight of Hermione's parents had carved its way into her chest, a reminder of a kind of love that did not bend or break. A love that stripped itself bare. A love that knelt beside suffering and refused to walk away.
It hurt in ways she had not expected. The tenderness in their trembling hands, the way Jane whispered to Hermione as if speaking to her daughter would guide her back from the dark, the careful way David adjusted the blankets as though each inch carried meaning… it was too much. Too intimate. Too sacred.
And Ginny, standing off to the side, felt like an intruder. A witness to something she had no right to see. Their grief was a language she could not speak. Their hope was a fire she could not touch without burning herself. Nothing she could say would lessen their pain. Nothing she could do would soften the blow of each passing hour.
She felt helpless. Helpless in a way that stripped the color from her world and left only the stark truth. She could not save them from this. She could not even save herself from the ache of watching them try.
But she refused to drown in that helplessness. She refused to let it hollow her out the way it wanted to.
Something fierce had taken root inside her. It was raw. It was restless. It pushed her forward when grief tried to keep her still. Hermione had been taken from them once, torn out of her life without warning, and Ginny had vowed then that she would never stand still in the face of that kind of fear again.
So she moved.
Before the sun had even touched the horizon, she was already awake. Her wand glided over dusty corners, her hands smoothing blankets, tucking them in with a precision that came from desperation as much as care. She set water to boil, the soft bubble of the kettle filling the kitchen in place of the silence she feared. These small rituals became her shield. Her rebellion. Her way of restoring order when everything inside her was frayed and unraveling.
She worked until her muscles ached. Until her eyes blurred. Until her breath steadied.
Exhaustion became an ally. It kept her from spiraling, kept her too busy to fall apart. She needed the repetition. The constancy. It kept her mind from slipping into the dark places where memory lived.
Meals were made with quiet diligence, prepared as if each one held the possibility of healing. Soups simmered with herbs meant to nourish. Bread rose beneath a warm towel, her hands kneading it with a determination that bordered on prayer. She plated everything with care, making sure the table always felt inviting, always felt like a place where someone could sit and remember what it was like to feel safe.
She cleaned with purpose. She organized. She laundered. Not because the house demanded it, but because her heart did. Because if she could keep things in order, maybe she could keep everyone else from unraveling. Maybe she could hold the world steady long enough for Hermione to come back to them.
At night, when the house quieted and the only sound was the soft hum of the wards, she allowed herself a fragile moment. She would stand beside Hermione's bed, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, willing each breath to be stronger than the last. Her fingers would brush the edge of the blanket, smoothing it out in a gesture she had repeated countless times, her heart beating a quiet plea.
She hoped it mattered. She hoped these small acts were more than busywork. That somehow, through clean sheets, warm meals, and steady hands, she was keeping the world stitched together just enough for Hermione to find her way back.
It was not the kind of heroism written in books. It was quieter, less visible, but she clung to it anyway.
When Lysander came back from his "holiday doggy extravaganza" from Pansy's, she found herself stepping into the role of caretaker before she even realized she was doing it. There had been no moment where she decided. No silent vow made with herself. It was instinct, pure and simple, something that rose up from somewhere deep and unspoken the instant Luna placed him in her arms.
He was so small. So defenseless. So unaware of the cruelty that had seeped into all of their lives. His tiny weight settled against her chest and something inside her softened in a way that startled her.
She held him close, rocking gently, feeling the rise and fall of his breath through her own ribs. His warmth tethered her, pulled her away from the jagged edges of her mind and grounded her in a way nothing else had managed to since everything had fallen apart.
It did not matter what time it was or how exhausted she felt. If Luna needed a moment, she moved without hesitation. She took him from tired arms with the same quiet certainty she used to reserve for a wand.
She cradled him against her chest, humming soft lullabies that floated through the safe house like threads of something fragile and healing. Her voice wavered sometimes, cracking under the strain of grief or fear or a sorrow she could not name. When that happened, she would bow her head and place a soft kiss on his forehead, hoping his innocence might steady her. And somehow, it always did.
She changed his diapers with careful hands. Fed him patiently. Brushed her thumb along the soft curve of his cheek as if memorizing every detail. She marveled at the way his tiny lashes fluttered against his skin, at the way his entire fist could wrap around only one of her fingers.
These moments became her breathing space, her sanctuary. Proof that not everything had been swallowed by darkness. Proof that something new and unbroken still existed. When she held him, the grief that loomed at the edges of her mind felt quieter, as though it knew better than to approach while she held something so pure.
He did not know about the fire or the blood or the silence that had settled over the house like a second skin. He did not know about fear or loss or the way they all took turns breaking behind closed doors. To him, the world was still gentle. Still bright. Still safe.
And while that innocence lasted, she would guard it with everything she had left.
Caring for him felt like more than comfort. It felt like a promise. A quiet vow to protect him from anything that might stain his early days. Each time she held him, she poured her strength into him, hoping that some part of him would carry it forward, even if she could not. She had so little left in herself, but the love she gave him was the one thing she trusted. The one thing she believed she could still offer without breaking.
But it came at a cost. Lysander gave her purpose, but he also exposed every crack in her armor. When he slept, her world became quieter again, and in the quiet, her mind wandered to places she didn't want to go. She scrubbed floors until her hands throbbed, sorting laundry with a mechanical precision that bordered on frantic. She prepared meals she barely tasted. She washed dishes that were already clean. She tidied rooms that were already neat.
Movement was her refuge. Stillness was her enemy.
Stillness meant remembering. Stillness meant imagining Hermione's laugh and realizing how long it had been since she had heard it. Stillness meant recalling the sharpness of Hermione's mind, the strength in her voice, the way she used to walk into any room with certainty and fire. Stillness meant seeing how far she had fallen from that, how much of her seemed to be slipping further away each day, retreating into some place none of them could reach.
And Ginny had no idea how to bring her back.
But Lysander was here. Lysander was breathing. Lysander needed her. And so she let that be enough. She let his tiny hands anchor her. She let the weight of him on her chest slow her heartbeat. She let the soft sounds he made in sleep fill the hollow places inside her.
He became her reminder that life still existed, fragile and real. He became her refuge in a storm so vast she could barely see the edges of it. And for now, she held him close and prayed that it was enough to keep all of them going.
She could not afford stillness. Stillness meant letting the memories surface, the ones that clawed at her when her guard slipped. Hermione's parents hovering beside their daughter like shadows, their grief so heavy it settled into the walls. Hermione herself lying so still that it felt wrong, her eyes vacant when they should have been sharp and curious. The fear that this might become permanent, that the world she knew had cracked in a way that could never be mended.
So Ginny kept moving.
She scrubbed the kitchen until her hands ached. She folded laundry with a precision that bordered on obsessive. She organized cupboards, rearranged pantries, cleaned rooms that were already spotless. Anything to drown out the echo of fear, anything to push away the stillness that threatened to swallow her whole.
But exhaustion crept closer each day. It hovered behind her like a gathering storm, the kind you could smell before you saw it. She felt it in the heaviness of her steps, in the dull ache that settled at the base of her skull, in the tight coil beneath her ribs that never seemed to ease. She ignored it. She pushed through it. What choice did she have.
Every night, when the house finally quieted and Lysander's soft breaths drifted through the hall, she sat on the edge of her bed with her hands trembling in her lap. Darkness pressed in. Her thoughts pressed harder. She felt everything she had been holding back climb up her throat, burning like swallowed glass. Then she closed her eyes, breathed through it, forced herself to swallow it again. Breaking down would mean stopping. And she did not know how to start again if she allowed herself to fall apart.
So Ginny kept going.
She kept going for Lysander, who curled his tiny fingers around hers and blinked up at her with a trust that sliced her heart clean open. He did not know what loss was. He did not know why the adults around him whispered and cried and clung to each other in hallways. He only knew warmth and food and the gentle sway of being held. His innocence made the world feel less cruel, even if only for a moment.
She kept going for Luna, who bore her own grief with a quiet grace that somehow made everything feel even heavier. For Theo, who tried to pretend he was not unraveling at the edges. For Hermione's parents, who clung to hope like it was the last thread holding their world together.
And most of all, for Hermione.
Even in her silence, even in her stillness, she remained the tether that kept Ginny from drifting too far into the dark. Each time Ginny looked at her, each time she adjusted her blankets or brushed her hair or whispered soft encouragements she was not sure Hermione could hear, she felt that tether steady her.
And Lysander. Sweet, small, perfect Lysander. His laughter made everything else fall away. His tiny hand clutching hers reminded her that there was still something in this world untouched by violence, untouched by fear. Something worth fighting for.
In the middle of all this pain, he became her anchor. A fragile reminder that life could still grow in the cracks left behind by grief. A reminder that she could keep going, even when she felt like she was held together by nothing more than frayed threads and stubborn hope.
~~~~~~
The Malfoys' penthouse had become more than a stop along her routine. It was a small sanctuary, a place where her footsteps softened and her voice lowered without her even noticing. It gave her something to tend to, something she could touch and shape with her hands, something that felt like a tether to Hermione in a world that had become far too unpredictable.
Crookshanks had been left behind when Hermione disappeared into the fog of her coma, and it was Ginny who stepped into the gap without ever being asked. She found herself Apparating into the penthouse every few days, her arms full of groceries and flowers and an assortment of treats that always felt like small offerings left at a shrine. Not a duty. Not a chore. A quiet act of devotion.
The ginger cat met her with that same stubborn aloofness each time. His amber eyes narrowed as if evaluating her worth, then shifted past her, searching the doorway for the person she could not bring. That look always struck something deep inside her, carving out a tender ache she carried home with her.
"Hi, trouble," she murmured one morning as she crouched to greet him. Her fingers brushed the soft fur behind his ear. "I know. I miss her too."
He leaned, then pretended he hadn't, settling his weight against her chest when she lifted him. She walked through the flat with him tucked under her chin, murmuring nonsense and comfort in equal measure. "She'll be back, Crooks. She's just resting. She loves you. You know that. You're her favourite grumpy boy."
He rumbled a deep purr against her collarbone, a warm vibration that soothed something raw inside her. Sometimes she wondered if he understood far more than he let on. Animals had a way of holding wisdom in their silence, and Crookshanks was no exception.
When he padded toward the large window and stared out at the skyline, she stood beside him, her hand resting lightly on his back. "Keeping watch again," she whispered, eyes tracing the same horizon. "You're loyal, aren't you. Just like her."
The ritual grew into something steady. She washed his bowls. Replaced the bedding in his favourite corner. Brushed his fur until it gleamed. Left small toys and treats she knew he would ignore, only for him to surprise her by chasing a ribbon across the rug one afternoon. She laughed, a soft sound that felt strange in her throat after so many weeks of holding herself tight. For a moment, she remembered what her own joy felt like.
The penthouse changed under her hands. The sharp lines and immaculate surfaces softened with blankets and warm lighting. Fresh flowers brightened the cold marble counters. Candles burned low in the evenings, their glow filling the space with something that almost resembled home.
She told no one how often she stayed long after her chores were done. Sometimes she curled up on the couch with Crookshanks curled in her lap, his tail draped across her thigh. The silence there was different. It wasn't suffocating. It was gentle, almost peaceful.
"You know," she murmured one evening as the sunset poured gold through the windows, "taking care of you feels like taking care of a piece of her. And I think I need that. More than I want to admit."
Crookshanks blinked at her, slow and knowing. He shifted closer, pressing his weight into her stomach. She let her hand settle over his warm fur.
"We'll keep her world together," she whispered, her voice steadying as the words took root. "You and me. Until she comes back."
He answered with a quiet purr, the kind that vibrated through her ribs and eased the tightness in her chest.
In that moment she realized caring for him wasn't just for Hermione. It was the one place where she could still believe that not everything was lost. A small defiance against the darkness. A reason to keep going.
So she stayed a little longer. Let the glow of the room soften her edges. Let Crookshanks' steady purring settle deep into her bones, matching the quiet persistence of her own heart as it kept beating toward a future she refused to give up on.
~~~~~~
In her own mind, Ginny felt brittle. She felt like a cup that had been cracked too many times, glued back together by sheer will, holding water only because no one looked too closely. But to everyone else, she had become something solid. A steady point in the chaos. The person they turned to when the walls of the safehouse felt too tight or when the silence pressed down with unbearable weight.
When Hermione's parents stumbled beneath their grief, Ginny stepped in so naturally that even she didn't notice it at first. She straightened blankets, coaxed them toward food they didn't want, put warm tea in their hands when their fingers trembled too much to reach for it. She took over the things they couldn't bear to do, the small tasks that felt meaningless and somehow impossible in the same breath.
When Luna's exhaustion finally seeped through her calm façade, Ginny lifted Lysander without a second thought. She rocked him gently, humming lullabies she half remembered from her mother, letting the soft rhythm of his breath steady the riot inside her. She let him drool on her shirt, tug at her hair, curl tiny fingers around her thumb. He was warm and alive and needed her. That alone helped her breathe.
Draco hid his panic behind cold precision. Blaise pushed his fury into silence. Theo dissolved into a quiet that scared them all. And every time one of them began to crack, Ginny appeared like something summoned. A quiet word. A cup of tea pressed into a shaking hand. A steady gaze that reminded them they were not alone. Somehow, without trying, she had become the mother of the house. The one who remembered clean towels and stocked bandages. The one who kept meals hot and tempers steady. The one who checked locks twice and floors three times.
The quiet corners of the safehouse gleamed because she cleaned them. The kettle never ran empty because she made sure it didn't. Hermione's favourite tea stayed on the shelf because Ginny put it there even when Hermione could not lift her own head. She turned the cold, sterile rooms into something close to home. A bit of warmth. A bit of comfort. A breath of normalcy.
But it came at a cost.
At night, when she finally closed the door to her own room, the weight of it all dropped on her like a stone. She sat on the edge of her bed, shoulders slumped, hands shaking from the effort of keeping herself stitched together. The tears came then, hot and silent, the kind she did not let anyone see. They came without permission, driven by fear and guilt and a longing she did not know how to name. She pressed her face into the pillow and whispered the same thing she had whispered for weeks.
Just one more day. You can do one more day.
Her dreams never left her in peace. Hermione appeared in every one of them. Hermione laughing. Hermione bleeding. Hermione lying still while her parents hovered over her with broken expressions. Sometimes Ginny woke gasping, the guilt clawing at her chest. She should have noticed sooner. She should have done more. She should have been there.
Yet every morning, she rose again.
She tied her hair back and stepped into the hallway before anyone else had stirred. She made breakfast even though her own stomach twisted at the thought of eating. She folded laundry with the same care she once put into her Quidditch training. She straightened pillows, checked on Hermione, tucked blankets around her parents. She found flowers to set on the table. She brewed Luna's favourite herbal tea. She coaxed a rare smile from Theo with a joke that barely qualified as funny.
Tiny, deliberate acts. One after another. A soft defiance against the darkness.
She knew she could not carry all of them forever. Her strength had limits, and she felt the edges fraying each day. But for as long as she had breath, she would try. That was what love meant to her. Not grand speeches or easy promises. It lived in the day-to-day choices. The small, invisible tasks that stitched a family together. The quiet presence in the room when someone needed a moment to crack without judgment.
She held her grief close and shaped it into something beautiful. Care. Devotion. Persistence. A fierce, tender determination to keep her people standing until they could stand on their own.
And sometimes, late at night, when the house was finally quiet, she let herself believe in something fragile. A small hope, tucked deep inside her tired chest. A hope that the world would not remain this dark. A hope that Hermione would open her eyes again. A hope that the love she poured into this house might be enough to keep them all together until morning came.
~~~~~~
The weight of his silence settled between them, thick and suffocating, as if the air itself had turned to stone. He could feel her slipping, retreating into a place he couldn't reach, and the realization hit him like a curse to the chest—he was losing her. Not in a loud, catastrophic explosion, but in the slow, agonizing way that things fall apart when left untended.
Blaise stepped forward, closing the space between them with quiet desperation, but she flinched, her body rigid, her arms locking around herself like armor. His stomach twisted. She had never pulled away from him before.
"Cuore mio," he tried again, softer this time, his voice raw with something dangerously close to pleading. "Don't do this. Don't push me away."
She laughed, a hollow, bitter sound that barely reached her eyes. "I'm not pushing you away, Blaise," she said, voice trembling. "You did that all by yourself."
His pulse thundered in his ears. He had been in wars, had faced death in the coldest, bloodiest ways imaginable, but this? This was the kind of fear he didn't know how to fight.
"You think I wanted this?" His voice was sharper now, but it wasn't anger—it was anguish, laced with exhaustion. "You think I enjoy keeping things from you? That it doesn't kill me every damn day, knowing you look at me like I'm someone you don't recognize?"
Her breath hitched, just slightly, and he knew he had struck something deep, but she was too stubborn to let him see it. "Then stop," she whispered, her eyes burning into his. "Stop treating me like I'm something fragile. Like I'll break if you tell me the truth."
He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. "You're not fragile," he admitted, almost to himself. "But what I know? What I've done? It will change the way you see me, Gin. And I can't—" He cut himself off, swallowing hard. "I can't risk that."
She stared at him, unblinking, and in that moment, he saw it—the exact moment something inside her cracked. Not in anger, but in the kind of devastation that left permanent scars.
Her voice, when it came, was quiet. Dangerous. "Then you've already lost me."
The room shrank. He felt the words in his bones, in the marrow of his very being, like a blade sinking deep.
He reached for her, but this time, she stepped back. The distance between them had never felt wider.
"I can't keep loving a ghost," she whispered, her voice barely holding together. "So either you let me see you, all of you, or I walk away from this."
His heart stopped.
She turned then, as if she had already made up her mind, and for the first time since he met her, Blaise Zabini felt something he never thought he'd feel.
Panic.
The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with unspoken truths and the weight of all the things they could no longer ignore. He could feel it pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe, making it impossible to look away from her even as she turned from him, her shoulders curling inward as if trying to shield herself from the hurt that lingered between them.
His hands clenched at his sides, his usual confidence stripped away, leaving nothing but raw honesty. "I'm just scared," he admitted, his voice quiet, almost desperate, as if saying it aloud would make her understand.
She froze, her back still to him, but he saw the way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath hitched just slightly. For a fleeting moment, he thought she might turn back, that she might let him see something other than anger in her eyes. But then she spoke, her voice steadier than he expected, yet carrying an edge that cut straight through him.
"You're scared?" she repeated, the bitterness laced in her words barely masking the hurt beneath. She let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking her head. "Imagine how I feel, Blaise. Imagine waking up every day next to someone you love, someone you've built a life with—only to wonder if you ever really knew them at all."
Her words struck deep, carving wounds that he wasn't sure he could ever mend. He wanted to tell her that she did know him, that she was the only one who had ever truly seen him. But how could he say that when she was standing there, barely able to look at him, drowning in the very doubts he had created?
He took a step forward, reaching out instinctively, but she was already walking away. The sound of her footsteps echoed down the hallway, each one widening the distance between them, each one carrying her further and further from him.
And for the first time in his life, Blaise Zabini felt true fear—not of death, not of war, not of the enemies that lurked in the shadows—but of losing the only person who had ever made him feel like he belonged.
~~~~~~
The safehouse had shifted slowly over time, changing from a place defined by fear and recovery into something gentler, something that breathed with them. It had become a kind of refuge, a home stitched together by people who never should have fit so well, yet somehow did. Four families, bound not by blood but by love for Hermione, drifting around each other with growing ease. Their shared purpose held them together, a quiet promise to see her through the darkest hours.
What once felt sterile and heavy now carried the easy warmth of a lived-in space. The corridors echoed with laughter, soft footsteps, and the quiet clutter of daily life. The heavy silence that had once hung over every doorway had thinned, replaced by the hum of kettle whistles, the babble of overlapping conversations, and the small, tender rituals they built together.
Pansy, to everyone's shock and eventual delight, became the house comedian. Her sharp tongue softened by affection, she had a way of slicing the tension with a single comment. She would lounge across the sofa like a queen, recounting scandalous stories from her childhood or poking fun at the men, who were always too easy to tease. Sometimes she would mimic Draco's fussing or Neville's gentle humming, and the room would dissolve into laughter until someone had to wipe away tears.
Neville leaned into his role as caretaker, surprising even himself with the way he stepped into the rhythm of the house. He brewed calming teas that tasted far better than his Hogwarts experiments and crafted salves that worked more often than they failed. His warm presence pulled people into the kitchen, where he worked steadily with a quiet smile, the kettle singing beside him.
Draco became the steady voice in the quiet hours. Late at night, when the world outside felt too uncertain, he would sit beside Hermione's bed with a book, reading in low tones until her breathing evened out. Sometimes he read from her favourite texts, other times from whatever he grabbed first, as if the words themselves mattered less than the sound of his voice.
Her parents softened too. The bone-deep fear that had clung to them loosened its grip with each day she survived. They joined the chaos more often now, dancing clumsily with Pansy after a successful therapy session, or sitting with Neville as he explained the difference between his salves and the ones that could possibly set a person's eyebrows on fire. Even Jane cracked jokes sometimes, dry little comments that made the others stare in awe before breaking into laughter.
Meals became small celebrations. Everyone crowded into the kitchen, arguing over spices and recipes, sneaking bites from pots when they thought no one was looking. They passed plates between them, shared stories, gossiped shamelessly, and teased Blaise for being too protective of Ginny's cooking.
The evenings settled around them like a warm blanket. They gathered by the fireplace, Hermione carefully propped up with cushions, her parents flanking her like gentle guardians. They argued in circles about which dessert reigned supreme or debated the best way to roll Neville's medicinal herbs. The weed turned Hermione into a giggling mess more often than not, her attempts at physiotherapy dissolving into helpless laughter when her legs refused to cooperate. Even Draco cracked a smile then, kneeling beside her with steady hands and a soft tut that betrayed nothing but love.
In the middle of fear and uncertainty, life still found a way to bloom.
She endured three brain surgeries, each one more terrifying than the last. She had a portion of her skull removed, then rebuilt, the metal and bone knit together by hands that trembled each time she was wheeled away. Every return from surgery left her weaker, the spark in her dulled by the crushing weight of pain and healing. The machines surrounding her hummed like watchful guardians, their beeps and static filling the room with reminders of how fragile she had become.
It was unbearable to witness. Her parents hovered like shadows, their faces carved by worry. Draco's hands shook when he straightened her blankets. Luna whispered soft prayers to the moon. Blaise stood by the doorway, jaw clenched, as if daring the universe to try again. Ginny held her hand through every sleepless night, her thumb brushing slow circles against pale skin, refusing to let go even when exhaustion pulled her under.
They all loved her. Fiercely. Quietly. Completely.
And the safehouse, once a place defined by fear, became the cradle for that love. A reminder that even in the darkest stretches of life, they still had each other.
~~~~~~
She was at her breaking point. Every nerve in her body felt like a live wire, stretched taut and ready to snap. The exhaustion weighed down on her—bone-deep, suffocating, relentless. She had nothing left to give. No more anger, no more tears. She was depleted, an empty vessel of frustration, grief, and resentment.
And yet, despite the ache of betrayal sitting heavy in her chest, despite the secrets and distance that had carved deep fault lines between them, she needed Blaise. Just him, no one else. The man who had always known how to put her back together, even when he was the one responsible for breaking her apart.
Without a word, she climbed into bed beside him.
The room was dark, the weight of unspoken emotions pressing in like a phantom, thick and suffocating. She didn't hesitate, she just took what she needed. Pressing herself against him, she buried her face in his chest, her arms tightening around him as if he was the only thing keeping her from shattering completely.
For a moment, he didn't move.
He went utterly still, as if unsure whether to embrace her or brace himself. It had been months since she'd let herself be this close, since she had allowed him to touch her without pushing him away. But when she clung harder, gripping him like a lifeline, he exhaled, shaky and slow, and pulled her in.
His hands slid up her back, cradling her against him.
She melted.
She shouldn't have.
But the sound of his heartbeat beneath her ear, steady and strong, reminded her that she wasn't completely alone.
Gently, he shifted her, guiding her until she was straddling his lap. He kept his grip loose, giving her the choice—to leave, to stay, to take whatever it was she was searching for.
His voice was low, quiet, but full of something deep, something real. "Tell me what you need."
She swallowed hard, her throat tightening as she met his gaze. It wasn't fair.
That he could still look at her like this.
That he could still be the only thing that made sense when everything else was falling apart.
Her voice broke when she spoke. "You."
His breath hitched, and for a moment, something flickered in his expression—something vulnerable, something aching. "I'm here, tesoro," he murmured, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from her face.
"Shut up," she whispered, cutting him off.
A slow smirk played at the corner of his lips, bemused and knowing. "Yes, ma'am."
And then she kissed him.
Hard. Desperate.
Like she was trying to drown in him, to lose herself in his touch, his taste, his everything.
Blaise let her take control, let her use him, consume him. His hands remained at his sides, resisting the primal urge to grip her, to take back what was already his. But when she moaned into his mouth, when she tangled her fingers in his hair and pressed herself against him like she wanted to crawl inside his skin, he nearly broke.
Nearly.
Her hands slid lower, her touch urgent, commanding. He groaned as she stroked him through his trousers, his jaw clenching, his body betraying every ounce of control he was trying to hold on to. "You don't have to—"
"I said shut up."
Her tone was sharp, final. A challenge.
His cock twitched in response.
Fuck.
She owned him at that moment.
When she freed him from his trousers and sank down onto him without hesitation, without preamble, without a single damn warning, he sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers curling into the sheets.
Holy. Fucking. Hell.
His head fell back against the pillows, a deep growl rumbling from his chest. But he didn't touch her. He let her have it, let her take what she wanted, let her claim him with every desperate movement.
Her pace was punishing. Raw. Unrestrained.
She was using him.
And he let her.
Because he would rather let her take out all her anger, her grief, her frustration on him than let it eat her alive.
When she slammed down onto him, over and over, faster, harder, her nails dragging down his chest, her moans turning ragged and feral, he nearly lost himself.
But then she slapped his hands away.
And something shifted.
It wasn't just anger.
It was power.
She was reclaiming herself. Her body. Her control. And fuck if he wasn't going to let her.
Her orgasm hit her like a freight train, her entire body shaking violently as she cried out, shuddering around him.
His magic surged instinctively, wrapping around the room, soundproofing it, shielding her.
Protecting her.
But she wasn't done.
Even as her muscles quivered from release, she moved again, chasing another high.
This time, he couldn't fucking take it.
His hands snapped to her hips, digging in, holding her in place as he thrust up into her.
Deep. Hard. Unrelenting.
She gasped, her nails biting into his shoulders as she rode him through it, matching his pace, pushing them both over the edge.
The second orgasm hit her even harder than the first.
She screamed.
And he fucking lost it.
With a guttural groan, he snapped, his release ripping through him as he spilled into her, his body locking up beneath hers.
For a long moment, they didn't move.
Just… existed.
And then she straightened.
Her expression was sharp. Her breath still heavy, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen.
"No one said you could cum."
Blaise blinked, still dazed, his chest still heaving. "Tesoro—"
"Shut up."
She climbed off him, pulled the blanket over her shoulder, and turned her back to him.
Just like that.
Blaise lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to process what the fuck just happened.
He had no words.
He let out a slow, deep exhale, running a hand over his face before turning on his side to watch her.
She was curled away from him, silent, still, distant.
And yet, despite everything…
She had come to him.
Despite her anger. Despite her mistrust. Despite the war raging between them…
She had come to him.
~~~~~~
Half a year later, the safehouse felt strangely bright. Hermione's parents had just left after a long visit filled with quiet joy and softer heartbreak, and the air still held the echo of their warmth. Hermione watched them leave with a tug behind her ribs, something tender and aching all at once. They had become part of the rhythm of this place, steady and loving, and their departure left the room humming with a familiar, gentle quiet.
She leaned into Ferret's shoulder, his arm slipping easily around her. Even after everything, even with the occasional weakness still pulling at her limbs, she felt settled in a way that made her chest loosen. This room had changed. These people had changed it. What once felt like a bunker now felt like a home, stitched together by comfort and the soft glow of shared recovery.
The table before them looked like a feast. Luna had outdone herself, moving between pots and bowls with a ladle in one hand and herbs clutched in the other. She hummed the tune of a song Hermione didn't quite recognize, her voice soft and sweet as she sprinkled stardust-like seasonings across a dish. Her presence alone felt like a blessing, a gentle warmth that floated through the air.
Neville, ever attentive, circled Pansy with a worried expression that only made her raise a brow in theatrical displeasure. He fluttered about with a damp cloth, dabbing at specks of beetroot juice Lysander had flung earlier, while Pansy held the stained tablecloth up as though it were a cursed artifact.
"This is a tragedy," she declared with a heavy sigh, the cloth draped dramatically over her arms. "A crime against interior design."
Neville tried again, placing the cloth back on the table and muttering something about beetroot having medicinal properties if one could master the right charm. There was a moment of silence before Pansy plucked it right back up with a look of betrayal.
Luna drifted over, eyes sparkling with mischief. "I rather like it," she said gently. "It looks expressive. Like a painting that got excited halfway through."
Hermione's laugh slipped out before she could stop it, bright and breathy. The others followed, the sound spreading through the room like a small burst of sunlight.
Lysander, blissfully unaware of the uproar he had inspired, held up his hands covered in magenta and purple smudges. "Look!" he announced proudly.
Pansy sighed again, her lips twitching. "Darling, that is not art. That is an assault on fabric."
Neville scooped the boy into his arms, pressing a kiss to his stained cheek. Lysander squealed, delighted with himself. Hermione watched them, her heart tugging with tenderness. Neville's calm steadiness had become something she relied on more than she could admit. His soft words and gentle humour had held her together during the moments when everything in her felt too fragile.
Luna drifted back to the stove, humming again. She moved like a breeze, all soft steps and warm smiles, stirring the pot with an air of contentment. Her optimism had been a quiet light in the darkest months, guiding Hermione back to herself in small, delicate ways. Sometimes it was a story. Sometimes a gentle touch. Sometimes just sitting beside her in silence, breathing the same air.
Her gaze shifted across the room and landed on Ferret. His eyes were already on her. He smiled in that quiet, knowing way that made her breath hitch. A private smile. A promise. A reminder that he had held her hand through the nights when she thought she would never heal, never breathe freely again. She squeezed his fingers gently, his thumb brushing along the back of her hand in a soft, steady rhythm.
The room glowed with the soft golden hue of lantern light, laughter weaving through the warm air like a familiar melody. These people had held her together when she had been at her most broken. They had stitched hope back into her days, one shared meal at a time, one gentle touch, one softly spoken reassurance.
She had found a family here. Not through blood or obligation, but through choice. Through loyalty. Through love that had been tested, bruised, and still endured.
Neville launched into a story about his most recent herbology mishap, involving a plant that had nearly eaten one of Draco's shoes, and Pansy nearly spat out her drink from laughing too hard. Luna insisted that Nargles were absolutely involved, which sparked an entire debate about whether invisible creatures could be blamed for household inconveniences.
Hermione leaned into Ferret again, her heart fuller than it had felt in years.
Draco's laugh slipped easily into the night, low and warm, his shoulder brushing hers as he tossed a teasing remark in Pansy's direction. She shot back with an exaggerated scoff, her hand flinging up in mock outrage as she reminded him of the time she had absolutely annihilated him in Transfiguration, and how he was still salty about it. Neville chimed in with gentle corrections, which only made Pansy double down with even more flair, and soon everyone was laughing so hard their sides ached. It felt good. It felt real. The kind of laughter that didn't erase pain, but smoothed its sharp edges for a little while.
Dinner ended with that same soft glow lingering in the air, the kind that made it hard to stand up because nobody wanted the moment to end. The sky outside had already shifted into a deep, velvety blue, sprinkled with the first shy stars. Luna broke the quiet with a sudden bright gasp, her eyes wide with wonder as she insisted they all go outside. She said the stars were aligning in a way that made the universe feel warmer, like it was listening.
So they went.
They spread blankets across the cool grass, the night air brushing gently against their cheeks. A soft hush settled over the garden, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the small, sleepy hum of insects. She lay back, feeling the earth steady beneath her, feeling the comforting weight of him beside her. His fingers slid into hers without a word, his thumb tracing slow, easy circles that made her chest soften. It was grounding, that touch. It was everything.
Pansy stretched out on her stomach beside Neville, eventually giving up and resting her head on his chest with a soft grumble. He kissed the top of her head and she pretended not to melt, though everyone knew she did. Luna lay on her back with Lysander curled into her side, humming a lullaby that drifted through the night like the faint glow of a candle.
Silence wrapped around them, comfortable and deep.
Then Luna spoke, her voice clear in the darkness. "Every star up there is a story. A life. They burn and fade, but their light stays. It always stays."
Pansy groaned softly, though her tone was touched with affection. "Trust you to turn stargazing into a philosophy lesson, darling."
Luna just smiled, her eyes still fixed on the sky. "Maybe we all have a bit of poetry in us. Maybe that's why we're here. To shine through the dark with whatever light we have."
Hermione felt the words settle inside her, quiet and true. She looked at the people around her. Pansy, dramatic and fierce. Neville, steady and kind. Luna, luminous and strange in the best way. Lysander, pure wonder wrapped in tiny fingers. Draco, warm beside her, the pulse of his hand steady against her palm. These people had carried her through the unthinkable. They had held her together when she thought she might never be whole again.
She felt her breath ease.
A soft breeze moved through the garden, brushing through the grass and lifting wisps of hair from her forehead. Above them, the stars seemed brighter, as if they knew they were being watched.
She turned her head toward him, squeezing his hand gently. "This," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. "It feels like forever."
He shifted, brushing a kiss against her forehead, lingering there for a moment as if imprinting the moment into his bones. "It is forever," he murmured, his voice warm and certain. "As long as we're together."
The night wrapped itself around them, drawing them closer, pulling them into a stillness that felt sacred.
Under the wide stretch of sky, with the people who had lived through the worst and found each other anyway, she felt something new settle into her chest. Not the old version of peace she once knew, but something richer. Hard-earned. Precious.
Home had changed shape. It wasn't a place anymore.
It was here. In the laughter and the quiet. In the hands that held hers. In the found family that had rebuilt her, piece by delicate piece.
It was all here in the dark, beneath the watchful stars, glowing quietly in the warmth of the people she loved.
And she held onto it with her whole heart.