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Chapter Text

“You have to do it, Hermione!” Harry said urgently, thrusting two small vials of glowing purple liquid into her trembling hands.

Hermione stared down at them, shaking her head as tears welled in her eyes. “I can’t, Harry. Not without you.”

“You can,” he insisted, gripping her hand tightly, his own voice cracking. “You’re the brightest witch of our age. If anyone can do this, it’s you.”

Her composure finally shattered. She threw her arms around him, sobbing into his shoulder. “No, Harry! I can’t lose you too! I already lost Ron!”

Harry held her close, eyes brimming but voice steady. “Ssh. You won’t lose me. Not really. You and Draco — you’ll make it. I know you will.”

“You can come with us!” she pleaded, her voice desperate. “Please. Don’t stay behind. They’ll kill you!”

He pulled back slightly and looked into her eyes, his gaze firm and full of sorrow. “You know I can’t. Someone has to hold them off. I won’t let them take you. You’re the only family I have left, Hermione. I love you.”

She recoiled slightly, anger flashing through her grief. “So you’re just going to sacrifice yourself?”

“We’ve been through this,” Harry said gently. “This is the plan. It’s the only way.”

“What if we fail?” she whispered. “What if it’s all for nothing?”

“You won’t.” His voice was resolute now, eyes burning with conviction. “I believe in you.”

A sudden noise behind them made them spin around. Draco Malfoy, pale but composed, stood in the doorway. His robes were dusted with ash.

“They’ve breached the first barrier,” he said grimly. “We’re almost out of time.”

Harry turned back to Hermione and pressed the vials into her hands once more. “Go. Take them. Get to Grimmauld Place.”

He pulled her into one last, fierce hug, then turned to Draco. The two young men stared at each other — once enemies, now something closer than allies. Brothers-in-arms.

“Take care of her,” Harry murmured.

Draco nodded solemnly. “I will.”

A deafening boom rocked the house, the floor trembling beneath their feet. Dust fell from the rafters.

“Potter!” Draco shouted, raising his wand as he grabbed Hermione’s arm.

Harry looked at them one last time, committing their faces to memory.

“I’ll see you soon,” Draco said, just before he and Hermione vanished in a flash of light.

For a moment, silence.

Then Harry stood tall, his jaw set. He turned toward the staircase where heavy footsteps thundered closer, wand raised and heart steady.

He was ready.

Chapter Text

February 14, 1960 — Veneto, Italy

Just past midnight, a newborn’s cry pierced the quiet of the Dagworth-Granger Estate, reverberating through the high-vaulted halls like the ringing of a long-awaited bell. Outside, snow dusted the vineyards of Veneto, blanketing the countryside in soft white silence, while within the warm walls of the estate, life had just begun.

“She’s a beautiful girl, Mrs. Dagworth-Granger,” the healer said gently, her voice tender as she wrapped the freshly cleaned infant in a soft pink blanket. A flicker of magic warmed the fabric, and she handed the baby to her mother with practiced care and reverent hands.

Loreta Dagworth-Granger, still breathless from labor, reached out with trembling arms. Beside her, Hector stood silent, overcome with awe, watching as his wife pulled their daughter close to her chest. The baby squirmed and cried, tiny fists clenched tight, face red from effort. But the moment Loreta spoke, her voice no louder than a whisper, the child quieted.

“Hermione.”

The name lingered in the room like music. The infant stilled completely, eyelids fluttering open as if she recognized the voice that had spoken to her so often in the safety of the womb. Deep brown eyes blinked up at Loreta, wide and unblinking, anchoring her to this moment forever.

“Hermione,” Loreta whispered again, tears streaming down her cheeks. She brushed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead. “Our little miracle.”

And she truly was.

Loreta and Hector had nearly given up hope of ever holding a child of their own. After years of painful attempts and heartbreak, the healers had told them gently—yet definitively—that it was unlikely they would ever conceive. By forty, they had stopped trying. And in time, they had learned to live with that ache, wrapping it quietly between them as they built a life filled with purpose, love, and healing for others.

But nine months ago, everything changed.

Loreta had stood in stunned silence as the pregnancy charm glowed gold, too afraid to celebrate. Too afraid to hope. This wasn’t her first time. And she knew all too well what it felt like to lose what she had already begun to love. But this time… this time felt different.

Wanting to leave the whispers of the past behind, they had packed their lives into enchanted trunks and left Britain, settling in a quiet village nestled in Treviso, a serene province in northern Italy. It was there, under the gentle care of trusted healers and protective enchantments, that Loreta nurtured her pregnancy with fierce devotion. Every day was a quiet act of faith.

By the fifth month, the baby had begun kicking with such restless determination that she wouldn't settle unless Loreta read aloud. Night after night, Loreta would sit by the fire and read tales of ancient queens and forgotten warriors. But it was the story of the Spartan queen Helen and her clever, strong-willed daughter, Hermione, that seemed to calm the baby most. That’s when Loreta knew. Her daughter’s name was already written in the stars: Hermione.

Now, looking down at the small sleeping form nestled against her, Loreta marveled at her daughter's delicate beauty. She had inherited Hector’s rich chocolate-brown eyes and a thick, dark mane of curls. Her tiny fingers curled around Loreta’s thumb with surprising strength. Though full-term, Hermione was small—petite like her mother—but healthy and vibrant, full of promise.

Hector had hardly left the nursery since the birth. When he did, he made certain that two loyal house-elves kept watch over Hermione at all hours. Loreta would often catch him standing over the cradle, rocking her gently, his eyes soft with wonder and something deeper—something sacred. Every time he held their daughter, his love was palpable, an unspoken vow to protect her for as long as he lived.

In their little pocket of the world, tucked away from war, politics, and the noise of wizarding society, the Dagworth-Grangers found peace. They marked every one of Hermione’s milestones with reverence—her first tooth, her first word (“Ma-ma”), her first uncertain step across the nursery floor. Each moment stitched another thread into the tapestry of their new life, one filled with laughter, lullabies, and love.

Loreta and Hector had lived a full life before Hermione. But now, with her, it felt complete.

Their world had narrowed to three hearts beating in harmony — and that was more than enough.

All because of their little miracle.

Chapter Text

August 1959 — Wiltshire, South West England

The drawing room of Malfoy Manor was bathed in golden light, filtered through the tall windows overlooking the rolling green hills of Wiltshire. A summer breeze stirred the lace curtains, and in that quiet moment, Abraxas Malfoy stared at his wife in stunned silence.

“You are… with child?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile hope hanging in the air.

Aurora Malfoy — once Lovegood, ever ethereal — smiled, her silver-blue eyes shimmering. She nodded, her hands resting gently atop her abdomen, barely curved yet already beloved.

“Yes,” she said softly.

A beat of silence. Then Abraxas stepped forward, pulled her into his arms, and pressed a kiss to her lips, his hand coming to rest protectively over hers. Relief, joy, and disbelief warred on his face.

“How far along?” he asked, brushing a strand of pale hair from her cheek.

“Two months.”

His brows drew together, not in anger but in quiet confusion. “And you didn’t tell me sooner?”

Aurora’s smile faltered, and something behind her eyes dimmed — the ghost of sorrow that never quite left her.

“I wanted to be sure,” she said quietly.

It wasn’t the first time. Since Lucius’s birth, there had been three other pregnancies — each one ending in silence, in tears, in sleepless nights filled with empty cradles and broken hearts. Healers' voices echoed in their memory: “The heartbeat is fading... the child is too weak... it’s over.”

Abraxas’s face softened, and he drew her close, holding her tightly against him. “Aurora… you should never carry this pain alone. Whatever happens, I’m with you. Always.”

She nodded into his shoulder, tears held at bay. “I know,” she whispered, then pulled back to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

“I also know,” she added with quiet certainty, “that this child is different.”

March 1960 — Wiltshire, South West England

The cries of a newborn echoed through the birthing chamber, sharp and fleeting, before settling into a gentle coo. Snowflakes fell in lazy spirals outside the window, but inside, the room glowed with warmth and life.

“Congratulations, Master Malfoy!” the healer said, beaming as he approached the proud father. “Another son.”

Two other healers worked with practiced care, cleaning and swaddling the infant in soft green cloth embroidered with silver thread — a subtle nod to the house that claimed their bloodline.

Aurora lay against the mountain of pillows, pale but radiant, her golden hair damp with sweat and her eyes fixed on the small bundle the healer cradled.

“You're both doing well,” the lead healer confirmed with a respectful bow before placing the baby into Abraxas’s waiting arms.

The moment he looked down, time seemed to still. The child had the familiar Malfoy features — fine, pale hair and the unmistakable grey eyes that mirrored his father’s and brother’s. But unlike Lucius, who had screamed with fury at birth, this baby was quiet — alert, calm, as though he had already measured the world and accepted it.

Abraxas smiled, awe softening his usually stern face. “Our son,” he murmured, before gently passing the infant to Aurora.

Aurora gasped softly, running a trembling finger along her son’s cheek. “Oh, Abraxas… he’s beautiful,” she breathed.

“He is.”

With a quiet nod, Abraxas turned to the nearest house-elf. “Fetch Lucius. He’ll want to meet his brother.”

With a sharp pop, the elf vanished. Seconds later, he returned, leading in a blond boy with wide, curious eyes and an eager bounce in his step.

“Where’s Mother?” Lucius asked, then spotted her at once. His eyes lit up. “Is that my brother?”

He scrambled onto the bed, careful not to jostle his mother, and peered down at the baby.

“He’s so small!” he exclaimed, awe in his voice. He adjusted his position to get a better look, nose nearly touching the newborn’s forehead. “How is he gonna play with me?”

Aurora laughed, the sound light and unburdened for the first time in months. “Not for a while, darling,” she said, brushing a kiss across Lucius’s head. “But one day, the two of you will have all the adventures in the world.”

“Yay!” Lucius shouted, clapping his hands in delight.

Abraxas stood back, watching the tableau with a sense of quiet wonder. His wife, glowing despite her exhaustion. His firstborn, brimming with innocence. His second son, peaceful in his mother’s arms.

He had never truly believed he would experience this again — not after the losses, the tears, the long silences. But here he was.

And she had been right. This child was different. A quiet miracle.

“Draco,” he murmured aloud, tasting the name like a promise. “Draco Alistair Malfoy.”

Chapter Text

Three Years Later — Treviso, Veneto, Italy

Time passed gently in the Dagworth-Granger estate, marked not by clocks or calendars, but by the steady blossoming of their daughter.

Hermione Dagworth-Granger had grown into a radiant little girl — curious, gentle, and wise beyond her years. Her chestnut curls bounced with every step she took across the garden paths, and her warm brown eyes, the very image of her father’s, sparkled with a quiet knowingness that sometimes unnerved even the most seasoned family friends.

To Hector and Loreta, she was nothing short of a marvel.

By three, Hermione was already reading. Not reciting — reading. She could recognize letters before she could tie her shoes, and within a year, she was devouring storybooks with startling comprehension. Loreta, with a mixture of pride and wonder, often joked that all the tales she’d read aloud during her pregnancy had seeped into their daughter’s bones. Hector, always the romantic, preferred to say it was simply in her blood.

Regardless of the reason, the couple never forgot how truly blessed they were. After all the years they believed parenthood was beyond their reach, here she was — their miracle child, with a mind like a flame and a heart full of light.

But not all miracles are gentle.

When Hermione was two, the rain began to change her.

Thunder would rumble across the Veneto hills, and as the first drops kissed the tiled roof, Hermione would cry out in her sleep — sharp, broken screams that pierced the walls of the manor. She thrashed in her cradle, hands fisted, tears streaming down her cheeks. And always, the same two words:

“Stop!”
“Please!”

The first time it happened, Hector and Loreta thought it a fluke. By the third, they were frantic.

They spared no expense, traveling across the continent in search of answers. Healers, dream readers, mind specialists — all examined Hermione. And all found nothing wrong.

“She is healthy,” they said. “Just a child with a vivid imagination.”

But Hector and Loreta knew better. No imagination could summon such fear. No child that young should carry such sorrow in her sleep.

Then, one afternoon, an old traveling seer came to their village.

She was ancient, wrapped in layers of velvet shawls and herbs, her cloudy eyes watching the world with a depth that made even skeptics pause. She was drawn to Hermione — uninvited, but not unwelcome — and found her in the garden, weaving wildflowers into a crown.

The seer watched her in silence before speaking.

“She remembers,” she murmured.

Loreta, startled, turned toward her. “Remembers what?”

“Her past life,” the woman replied, her voice rasping like wind through old parchment.

Hector frowned. “Her what?”

“Do you know of reincarnation?” the seer asked.

The couple shook their heads.

“It is an old Muggle belief,” she explained. “That when a soul dies, it is reborn. Sometimes as another person. Sometimes as something else entirely — an animal, a tree. But when a soul returns to the world of the living, it may carry echoes of its former life.”

“You’re suggesting our daughter is haunted by a life she doesn’t even remember?” Hector asked, incredulous.

The seer turned her gaze to him. “On the contrary. She does remember. That’s why she cries. In some rare cases, a soul carries memories so joyful, so full of love, that they refuse to be forgotten.” She paused. “But more often… it’s pain that lingers. Fear. Trauma. Unfinished business.”

Loreta’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes brimming with tears. Hector pulled her close, jaw tight with frustration.

“That’s absurd,” he snapped. “Even if it were true — I won’t allow it. I refuse to let my daughter suffer because of some past life she didn’t choose!”

The seer inclined her head gently. “I understand. I only came to offer guidance.”

He didn’t want to listen. He wanted solutions.

“Then tell me what to do,” he demanded. “Tell me how to stop it.”

The old woman nodded. “Place bundles of dried sage and burdock root near her bed. They draw out the heaviness from dreams — pain, anger, sorrow. Surround her with roses. Their energy soothes the heart, reminds the soul it is loved.”

Hector said nothing more. He simply squeezed Loreta’s hand tighter and led her back inside. That night, he filled their daughter’s room with flowers and herbs, charm-infused with every protective spell he could find.

And just like that, the nightmares stopped.

But the mystery did not.

When Hermione turned four, her world came alive with stories. She spoke of imaginary friends — Harry and Ron — and described their grand adventures in vivid detail: running through castle corridors, dodging trolls, riding dragons. One story featured a three-headed dog named Fluffy, whom she said guarded a trapdoor beneath a school.

At first, Loreta dismissed it all as innocent make-believe — the product of books, tales, and a sharp imagination.

But Hector wasn’t so sure.

Especially the day Hermione described a “special stone” hidden deep within Hogwarts, and a werewolf who taught her how to read ancient runes.

Hector went still.

They had never spoken of Hogwarts to their daughter. Never told her of the school, its teachers, or its secrets. Not even in passing. And yet, here she was — naming its halls, its magic, and events no child her age should know.

When he shared this with Loreta, she merely smiled and offered a soft explanation: "Perhaps she heard it from one of our friends... or saw it in a book."

But Hector couldn’t shake the chill crawling down his spine. Not when he remembered the last words the seer ever spoke to him, just before she left the village for good:

“There is another reason for reincarnation, Mr. Dagworth-Granger.”
“And what’s that?” he had asked.

The seer had looked at him with eyes that saw too much.

“Unfinished business.”

Chapter Text

Abraxas Malfoy stood quietly in the shade of the stone archway that opened into the west gardens of Malfoy Manor. The late afternoon sun cast a warm, golden light over the manicured hedges, the marble fountains, and the delicate white roses in bloom. His gaze, however, remained fixed on the small figure seated beneath a silver-barked elm near the garden’s edge.

Draco.

His youngest son sat cross-legged on a velvet cushion, utterly absorbed in the thick book resting in his lap. Beside him stood his personal house-elf, Tif, who held a parasol over the boy to shield him from the sun. Though silent, the elf wore a faint, contented expression, one that spoke of deep loyalty — not bound by servitude, but by something gentler. Mutual affection.

The scene was familiar. Draco, lost in a book, with no interest in toys or games, no longing to chase butterflies or splash through fountains like other children his age. His pale hair shimmered like platinum in the sunlight, his posture poised but relaxed, as though the world outside the pages of his book barely mattered.

It wasn’t unusual to find a Malfoy child buried in literature. But Draco… Draco read differently.

Lucius had always read out of duty — to impress, to prepare, to obey. But Draco? He read to understand. As if books held secrets not just of magic, but of the world itself. He devoured knowledge with the quiet hunger of someone seeking something he could not yet name.

He preferred solitude, or the silent companionship of Tif. Other children rarely appealed to him. Even the Black boys — Sirius and Regulus — with whom he was occasionally forced to socialize, often tested his patience. Draco found their energy chaotic, their games pointless. To Abraxas’s quiet amusement, the boy had once described Sirius as “louder than a Howler and twice as annoying.”

What puzzled Abraxas most, however, was his son's ease with the house-elves.

It wasn’t merely tolerance. Draco liked them. Spoke to them gently. Listened when they spoke back. As a boy, Lucius had always treated them with cool civility — nothing more, nothing less. But Draco greeted them like friends, and the elves, strangely, responded in kind.

But that wasn’t why Abraxas was watching him today.

Two nights ago, during a brief visit to London, he’d had a chance encounter with Cassandra Trelawney — the famed seer of eccentric repute and rare flashes of true prophecy. They had spoken over tea in a hidden corner of Diagon Alley. At first, he’d dismissed her wandering eyes and cryptic phrases. But then her voice dropped, her eyes turned glassy, and she whispered:

“He is not meant to be with us.”

Abraxas had stiffened. “Who?”

“Your son… the younger. The quiet one.”

His heart had thudded louder.

“He is different. Marked by fate. He does not belong to this time — not fully. And yet he will be known. Known to the entire wizarding world. With the help of his other half… they will rise. Together, they will conquer the world.”

Her voice echoed with something strange — not pride, not warning, but reverence.

Abraxas had felt an unfamiliar thrill in his chest — pride, yes, but laced with fear.

“And if they are separated?” he had asked.

Cassandra had gone still. Her eyes lost their haze, and for a moment, her expression turned grave.

“If the halves are divided,” she said quietly, “all will perish. But if you guide them — if you help the halves become one — all will be saved.”

And then, as if nothing had happened, she blinked, smiled serenely, and asked if he preferred honey or sugar in his tea.

Now, standing in the garden, Abraxas studied Draco more closely — not as a father, but as a man trying to decipher a riddle. The “other half.” What did it mean? Lucius? A sibling bond? Or was it someone yet to come — a girl? A partner? A soul tethered to his son’s across time and fate?

He didn’t know.

And that uncertainty troubled him more than he dared admit.

Still, he would wait. He would watch. And when the time came — when destiny began to unfold — he would ensure Draco was prepared for whatever path the future demanded.

Whatever this “other half” may be… he would protect his son’s fate with everything he had.

Because if what Trelawney said was true, then Draco was not simply another Malfoy heir.

He was the beginning of something far greater.

Chapter Text

Diagon Alley, November 1965

"Mama! Let’s go!" five-year-old Hermione called out, her small legs carrying her ahead as she darted excitedly through the bustling cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley.

Her mother, Loreta, laughed at her daughter’s uncontainable energy.

"Slow down, love, or you’ll trip," she warned gently, though she quickened her pace to keep up.

Hermione had been pestering them to visit Diagon Alley since they arrived in Britain for a few weeks’ vacation. Loreta hadn’t understood why their daughter was so eager—until, of course, Hermione pulled out her secret weapon: the big, round eyes and that adorable pout. Hector never stood a chance.

"Mama, look!" Hermione cried suddenly, stopping in front of a small shop with a crooked sign: Magical Menagerie.

The moment they stepped inside, Loreta was met with a wave of pungent smells—fur, feathers, straw, and something distinctly magical. The shop teemed with creatures: fire crabs skittered in glass tanks, owls blinked from perches, puffskeins rolled around playfully, and rats squeaked and hissed in their cages. But Hermione paid them no mind.

She had already found what she came for.

"Crooks!" she called, her small hand reaching out toward a cage high on a shelf. A large, ginger cat sat inside, watching her with intelligent amber eyes. "Come, Crooks!"

The cat meowed in response but remained inside its cage.

"Mama!" Hermione turned with frustration, pointing urgently. "Crooks!"

"What is it, darling?" Loreta asked, crouching beside her daughter.

"Crooks!" she insisted again, her bottom lip beginning to tremble as she pointed toward the cage.

Loreta followed her gaze. The cat was an odd-looking creature—broad and muscular with an unusually squashed, almost grumpy face. Not the most beautiful feline she’d ever seen.

"You want that one?" she asked, surprised by her daughter’s choice.

Hermione nodded vigorously. "Pwease!"

Loreta sighed, already feeling her resolve crumble. “Alright. But you must promise to take care of her.”

"I pwomise,” Hermione said solemnly.

Loreta smiled, took her daughter’s hand, and approached the counter.

“Excuse me, I’d like to purchase a cat,” she told the woman behind the counter.

“Of course! Which one caught your eye?”

“My daughter wants that ginger one on the shelf.”

The saleswoman blinked, visibly hesitant. “That one? Are you sure? We have plenty of other—less... temperamental cats.”

“Yes! I want Crooks!” Hermione insisted, her little voice firm and unwavering.

The saleswoman studied Hermione for a moment before nodding. “Alright then.” She retrieved the cage and carefully opened it.

The moment the door clicked open, the cat leapt gracefully into Hermione’s arms, purring loudly and rubbing its bottle-brush tail under her chin. Hermione giggled with delight.

They purchased a new carrier, food, toys, and supplies. The saleswoman, still slightly baffled, mentioned, “She’s a half-Kneazle—smart, independent, and a bit selective.”

Loreta smiled knowingly. “Perfect, then. My daughter’s smarter than most her age—I think they’ll understand each other well.”

Later, at their vacation house...

Hector watched from the doorway, arms crossed and brow raised as he eyed the cat curled up beside his daughter.

“She picked that hideous thing?” he whispered to Loreta.

“Hush,” she scolded, though a smile tugged at her lips. “She adores it already.”

They watched as Hermione lay on the carpet, reading aloud to the cat, who seemed to be listening, tail flicking lazily.

“She named him Crookshanks,” Loreta whispered.

Hector turned to her in surprise. “Like the cat she used to draw? When she was three?”

Loreta nodded. When Hermione was a toddler, she used to scribble drawings of a large orange cat named Crookshanks and tell tales of how he caught the bad rat at Hogwarts. They thought it was just the imagination of a bright child.

“Maybe she saw him in her dreams,” Hector mused, half-serious.

“Maybe,” Loreta echoed softly.

As if on cue, the cat padded over and meowed at them, drawing their attention. He turned his head toward Hermione, who had fallen asleep beside her book.

Loreta knelt to scoop her daughter up. “Thank you, Crookshanks,” she whispered. The cat meowed once more and followed them quietly to Hermione’s bedroom.

That night...

Hector peeked into his daughter’s room before heading to bed. Hermione was sound asleep, her small form tucked beneath the blankets. At the foot of her bed, Crookshanks lay curled, eyes half-open.

The cat looked directly at Hector—watching. Studying.

Hector stood frozen for a moment under the cat’s intense gaze. Then, as if satisfied, Crookshanks gave a quiet meow and closed his eyes again.

Hector chuckled under his breath and shook his head.

“Well, looks like she’s got herself a proper guardian,” he whispered, and quietly closed the door.

Chapter Text

"

“What’s this?”

“Giwwyweed!”

“Good! And this one?”

“Hemwock!”

“Excellent! How about this?”

“Kelp!”

Horace Slughorn chuckled in delight. “That’s amazing! Now this?”

“Whompin’ Wiwwow!” Hermione shouted proudly.

“Merlin’s beard!” Horace laughed, looking down at the bright-eyed little girl sitting on his lap. “You are a brilliant young witch!”

Hermione beamed, bouncing excitedly. “More! More!”

Before Horace could quiz her again, Loreta stepped onto the patio. “Hermione, it’s time for your nap.”

“Nooo! No nap!” Hermione whined, shaking her head furiously and clutching Horace’s robes.

“Horace needs to speak with your father, sweetheart,” Loreta said patiently, reaching for her daughter’s hand.

“But I’m not sweepy!”

Horace gave her a reassuring pat. “Go on now, Hermione. I’ll be here when you wake up, and we’ll play again.”

“Pwomise?” she asked with pleading eyes.

“Cross my heart,” Horace smiled.

Reluctantly, Hermione slid off his lap and took her mother’s hand. As they walked inside, she turned to wave. “Bye-bye, Uncle Horace!”

Loreta mouthed a silent thank you before disappearing into the house.

A few minutes later, Hector joined Horace on the patio. Despite the decade between them, their shared love of Potions had long since bridged the gap between student and professor.

“Ah, welcome back to Britain, my friend!” Horace greeted warmly, enveloping Hector in a brief hug.

“If only for a few weeks,” Hector replied, settling into the chair beside him.

Horace poured tea with a practiced hand. “I must say, your daughter is shaping up to be a prodigy. She has the makings of a brilliant witch—just like the legacy of your family.”

Hector smiled faintly. “Loreta and I are grateful every day. She’s our miracle.”

Horace took a sip. “She’ll thrive at Hogwarts, you know.”

Hector raised a brow. “She’s five, Horace. We’ve barely discussed it.”

“I’m only saying—don’t let the opportunity slip. Hermione’s talent is rare. She’ll excel not just in Potions, but in every subject. With professors like McGonagall and Flitwick guiding her—”

“Loreta prefers Beauxbatons,” Hector interrupted softly. “We live closer to it, and she’s always loved the charm of it.”

Horace waved a hand. “Loreta is a wise woman, but even she won’t stand in the way if it’s Hermione’s choice. That girl just needs to see Hogwarts once.”

Horace was right.

At breakfast the next morning, when Horace casually asked if Hermione wanted to see Hogwarts, her eyes lit up like stars. The pout. The puppy eyes. It didn’t take long for both parents to relent.

By mid-morning, Hermione was already in her favorite dress, clutching her copy of Hogwarts: A History.

Before Departure

“Hermione, do you remember the rules?” Loreta asked gently.

“Yes, Mama! Don’t wun in the hawwwways, don’t intewupt adults, and always be polite and wespectful!”

Loreta smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “Be good, little one.”

“Yes, Mama,” Hermione whispered before hugging her tightly.

“Now, now—where’s my hug?” Hector teased, arms open.

Hermione squealed with a giggle and threw herself into his arms, planting a kiss on his cheek.

“See you later, Papa!” she called, skipping to Horace’s side.

Loreta gave Horace a wary look. “Take care of her.”

“As if she were my own,” Horace promised, taking Hermione’s hand.

“See you later, Mama! Papa!” Hermione called just before they vanished in a swirl of emerald-green flame.

At Hogwarts

“Wooooow…” Hermione gasped as they arrived. Her little head tilted up and up as she took in the towering castle, its turrets reaching into the sky, bathed in autumn gold.

She’d seen pictures—read about it countless times—but nothing compared to the real thing. The castle was alive.

Her Uncle Horace smiled beside her. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Hermione could only nod, her mouth slightly open in awe.

“What’s that?” she asked, pointing to a distant tower.

“That’s Gryffindor Tower—home of Godric Gryffindor’s House,” Horace replied proudly.

“Gwyffindor?” she echoed.

He chuckled. “And over there is Ravenclaw Tower—Rowena Ravenclaw’s domain.”

“Wooow!”

She fired off questions as they walked the grounds, Horace patiently answering every one. When they reached a statue of a stone gargoyle, Horace whispered the password. It leapt aside, revealing a spiraling staircase.

They climbed slowly, her tiny hand never letting go of his.

At the top, the door opened, revealing a man with half-moon spectacles and the longest beard Hermione had ever seen.

“Hello, Miss Hermione,” said the kind-eyed man. “Professor Slughorn tells me you’ll be visiting us today.”

Hermione froze, then peeked from behind her uncle.

“I’m Headmaster Albus Dumbledore,” he said gently. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thank you, Headmaster…” she mumbled, eyes downcast.

“You may call me Professor Dumbledore,” he offered with a twinkle.

“Why are you shy now?” Horace teased, nudging her forward. “Dumbledore’s an old friend of mine—and of your grandfather’s.”

Still, Hermione hid her face in Horace’s robes. The men chuckled at her sudden timidity.

“We’ll be off, Albus. I promised her a tour of the dungeons,” Horace said, lifting her into his arms.

“Just the dungeons?” Dumbledore asked playfully. “She might want to see the Gryffindor common room too.”

“I won’t risk losing her to another House, Albus!” Horace laughed as they departed.

In the Dungeon Classroom

Hermione sat cross-legged on the stone floor, stirring a small cauldron. Hours ago, she had helped Horace crush ingredients and add them in carefully, giggling as powders fizzed and liquids bubbled.

Now she stirred slowly, counting aloud as instructed.

“Fifty-one… fifty-two… fifty-three…”

The potion was still red. Her uncle had said it should turn purple.

Footsteps echoed.

“Uncle Horace? It’s still red!” she called, not looking up.

A cold voice answered. “What are you doing here?”

Hermione looked up.

A tall man stood at the doorway, his platinum blond hair slicked back, silver serpent-topped cane in hand. He wore elegant, tailored robes. But it was his eyes—cold, grey, and piercing—that froze Hermione in place.

Then—

A flood of images.

A girl, crumpled on a stone floor. “We didn’t steal anything!”

A woman screamed. “Liar!”

A ginger-haired boy yelled. “Run, Mione! RUN!”

Green light. The boy fell.

Another flash. A man—this man—loomed over the girl.

“You stole my son from me!”

“Avada—”

Hermione screamed.

“MUMMY! DADDY!”

Tears burst from her eyes as overwhelming sorrow and terror gripped her. She didn’t see the man anymore. She didn’t see the potion, now boiling over. Jars shattered. Shelves shook.

“MUMMY! DADDY!” she wailed, curling into a ball, sobbing uncontrollably.

She saw the girl again. The boy. The spell. The grief.

The classroom descended into chaos—bottles exploding, shelves toppling, wind howling from nowhere.

Then—darkness.

Just before everything went black, she heard a familiar voice. Frantic. Urgent.

“Hermione!”

“No—Albus, she’s reacting—”

Then silence.

Chapter Text

Hospital Wing, Hogwarts – Late Afternoon

Abraxas Malfoy stood silently by the side of the hospital bed, his cane resting lightly against the polished floor, his eyes fixed on the small figure tucked beneath the crisp white sheets. The child—no older than five—lay motionless, eyes closed in sleep, as Madam Pomfrey conducted her examination with quiet efficiency, casting diagnostic charms in gentle, sweeping arcs over her.

At the foot of the bed stood Albus Dumbledore and Horace Slughorn, both watching the girl with carefully veiled concern. The air in the Hospital Wing was thick with tension, the aftermath of raw magic still lingering like the trace of lightning in a storm's wake.

Abraxas could hardly believe what he had witnessed.

In all his years, he had never seen such a ferocious surge of accidental magic—certainly not in his son Lucius. What that little girl had done… it wasn’t just uncontrolled magic. It was defensive, instinctive—a magical shield that formed mid-panic, strong enough to repel him, shatter the classroom around her, and disrupt the wards of an enchanted room.

And all because she saw him.

He hadn't come here for any of this. His visit had been routine, political. As a governor of Hogwarts and patriarch of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, he had intended only to speak with Horace Slughorn about Hogwarts matter. A few older students had directed him toward the Potions classroom, and he’d followed, expecting a casual conversation.

Instead, he found a tiny girl—curled on the cold stone floor, stirring a simmering potion with a wooden spoon far too large for her small hands.

Alarmed, his instinct had been immediate—fatherly, even, though he would never admit it aloud.

“What are you doing here?” he'd asked, concern sharpening his voice.

The child had looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes. Then everything exploded.

Tears spilled down her cheeks, and her magic responded with primal ferocity. Shelves collapsed. Bottles shattered. Cauldrons were flung across the room. A golden, humming barrier erupted around her, crackling like lightning, surging in sync with her sobs. The very walls of the dungeons groaned under the pressure.

By the time Horace came sprinting in, the classroom had descended into chaos. Only a carefully cast, gentle Stupefymanaged to pierce the magical shell and subdue the child before she hurt herself—or someone else.

Abraxas had seen many things in his life. But that? That frightened him.

He was drawn from his thoughts by the sharp crack of boots hitting stone.

“Where’s my daughter?!” a voice boomed from the entrance.

Abraxas turned just as Hector Dagworth-Granger burst into the Hospital Wing, panic in his voice. Loreta followed close behind, her face pale, her steps quick and unsteady.

“Hector, calm down,” Dumbledore said, stepping forward with quiet authority. “Hermione is safe. She’s resting.”

“What happened?” Hector demanded, his voice raw.

“Accidental magic,” Dumbledore answered simply. “It appears she was startled—by Mr. Malfoy’s unexpected presence.”

Both parents turned to Abraxas.

He stood tall, composed despite the scrutiny. “Hector Dagworth-Granger,” he said with a respectful nod. “It’s been years.”

Their families were known to one another—though they had never been particularly close. Dagworth-Grangers were known for brilliance in Potions, not politics.

Abraxas cleared his throat and inclined his head. “I apologize for the incident. It was never my intention to frighten your daughter.”

Loreta narrowed her eyes slightly. “What exactly happened?”

“I came to speak with Professor Slughorn,” Abraxas explained, calm and measured. “I was directed to the Potions classroom and found your daughter there, unsupervised, brewing on the floor. Naturally, I was concerned. When I addressed her, she appeared startled. And then… things escalated.”

Loreta and Hector turned sharply to Horace.

“Horace,” Hector said slowly, trying to contain his anger. “Why was Hermione making a potion? Alone?”

“It was just a simple brewing exercise!” Horace stammered, clearly flustered. “Nothing dangerous—just for fun. I asked one of the house-elves to keep an eye on her. I only stepped out for a moment—”

“She’s five years old!” Loreta snapped. “You left her with active ingredients and a cauldron?”

“I’m sorry,” Horace muttered, guilt blooming on his face. “I didn’t expect anything to happen.”

A small voice cut through the argument.

“Mama?”

Everyone turned.

Hermione was awake, blinking up at the canopy above her bed. Loreta rushed to her side.

“Are you all right, love?” she whispered, brushing her daughter’s curls back gently.

Hermione nodded, then looked around, her eyes searching. “Papa?”

“I’m right here,” Hector said, kneeling beside them.

Hermione smiled. “Did you come to visit Hogwarts too?”

“We did,” Loreta replied softly, “we missed you.”

Hermione’s face lit up. “Mama! Hogwarts is so big! It has so many rooms! And potwaits! I saw great-great-great-grandfather in a painting—he said I was pretty!”

Hector chuckled, heart unclenching. “Well, he’s certainly right.”

“And me and Uncle Horace made a potion—but—oh no!” Hermione suddenly sat up, alarmed. “Uncle Horace! It didn’t turn purple!”

Horace stepped forward quickly. “That’s quite all right, my dear. We’ll try again when you’re a bit older.”

“But I wanted it to turn purple!” Hermione pouted, her lower lip wobbling.

“We’ll make one together at home,” Hector offered. “Just you and me.”

“Pwomise?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Promise.”

Satisfied, Hermione settled back slightly. Then her gaze drifted, and she spotted Abraxas again. Her little hand squeezed Loreta’s as she eyed the man who had frightened her.

Abraxas took a careful step forward, voice low and sincere. “Miss Dagworth-Granger, I’m truly sorry I upset you earlier.”

Hermione nodded once, still wary but calmer.

“My name is Abraxas Malfoy,” he added gently. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Hermione replied softly, “Nice to meet you too. I’m Hermione.”

He smiled, giving a slight nod.

The room fell into a comfortable hush, broken only when Dumbledore cleared his throat.

“Well, now that things have settled,” he said warmly, “I believe we’ve all missed lunch. Miss Hermione, are you feeling hungry?”

Hermione nodded shyly.

Great Hall – Slytherin Table

Soon, the six of them were seated at the long, green-draped Slytherin table. Hermione, perched between her parents, chatted excitedly as she picked at her food—telling stories of portraits, moving staircases, and her imaginary tour with Uncle Horace. Her earlier fear had melted away under the comfort of her family and the familiarity of good food.

Abraxas sat quietly beside Horace, half-listening to the men’s conversation while watching the child with a thoughtful expression.

There was something about her—something he couldn’t quite place. A glimmer of brilliance. Magic in its purest, most untamed form. She reminded him of Lucius at that age—but also not at all. She was something entirely different. Untapped potential. A wildfire of a mind.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to invite the Dagworth-Grangers to the Manor someday. Let Lucius meet her. Let her meet Draco.

There was a storm coming in the magical world. And Abraxas Malfoy had always known how to spot the children who would shape it.

Chapter Text

From the moment Draco opened his eyes and saw his grandmother’s face—he knew the spell had worked.

The ritual had succeeded.

He could still remember every detail of that final night from his past life: the battle, the blood, the searing pain of loss. And then, silence. Darkness. And now, this. A second chance.

Draco Malfoy had been reborn.

In the days that followed, as he adjusted to his infant body and relearned how to simply exist, he waited. Quietly, patiently, he observed and listened. He had one mission—find Hermione. She had to be here too. She had to be.

He sifted through every scrap of conversation he overheard, every mention of old families, new births, magical lineages. But it wasn’t until he was three years old that he finally heard her name—or at least a whisper of hope.

It came from Mathilda Greengrass, a close friend of his new mother. Draco had been sitting quietly in the drawing room, a book propped on his knee more for appearance than understanding, when he heard Mathilda’s sharp, excited voice cut through the lull of afternoon tea.

“Did you hear? Hector Dagworth-Granger’s wife has finally given him a child.”

“Did she now?” his mother replied, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arching in mild interest.

“Yes! I saw the little girl while I was in Italy—just darling. A perfect mix of her parents.”

“Well, that’s lovely news.”

“And she must be around the same age as your youngest, I think.”

Draco’s heart stilled. Hermione.

She was alive.

Alive… and in Italy .

The relief he felt was indescribable. For days after, he would sit by the window and whisper her name like a prayer, hope blooming like a second heartbeat. She was here—somewhere.

From that moment on, Draco never gave up. Whenever his family traveled to their estate in Italy , he made sure to accompany his mother on every social outing, no matter how dull or tedious, clinging to the possibility—no matter how slim—that he might see her.

And during the annual Yule Ball at Malfoy Manor, he watched every guest who arrived with quiet intensity. If there was even the slightest chance the Dagworth-Grangers would attend, he’d take it. Even if it meant brushing shoulders with future Death Eaters like Bellatrix Black or Rodolphus Lestrange. They were still children now—innocent, by all technical definitions—but Draco couldn’t forget the monstrous things they would one day become. The madness. The cruelty. The blood.

And then there was his father.

Lucius.

At first, Draco couldn’t bear to be near him. In his previous life, Lucius had stood by as the Dark Lord branded his son. Had watched him suffer under the impossible burden of assassinating Albus Dumbledore. Draco could still feel the weight of that moment pressing on his soul.

So he had distanced himself. When Lucius asked to play, Draco would silently shake his head or leave the room without a word. He couldn’t fake affection for a man who had once watched him wither under Voldemort’s reign.

But then something unexpected happened.

Lucius cried.

One evening, as Draco wordlessly declined another invitation to play, Lucius broke down in front of him—tears slipping silently down his cheeks as he whispered, “Why don’t you like me? What did I do wrong?”

And for the first time, Draco realized: this Lucius wasn’t that Lucius. Not yet. He was just a boy—a vulnerable, confused child who wanted his younger brother’s approval.

So Draco softened.

He started to accept Lucius’ invitations to play. They rode toy broomsticks together in the garden, read from storybooks late into the night, and—when Lucius had nightmares—Draco would crawl into bed beside him and hold his hand until morning.

Oddly, beautifully, they became close. Closer than Draco had ever been with anyone in his past life, even Blaise Zabini. Lucius wasn’t just his brother. He had become Draco’s first real friend.

And with that bond came a quiet determination: maybe, just maybe, he could steer his brother—and one day, his father—away from the darkness they had once embraced.

Then, one evening over dinner, the words that changed everything were spoken.

They were halfway through the second course when Abraxas Malfoy set down his fork and casually said, “I ran into the Dagworth-Grangers at Hogwarts this afternoon. Lovely family.”

Draco’s entire body stilled.

Abraxas continued, sipping his wine. “Their daughter was there—quite the clever little thing. Caught her brewing a potion on the floor of Horace Slughorn’s classroom.”

A smile broke across Draco’s face before he could stop it.

Hermione.

Abraxas chuckled, oblivious to his son’s sudden shift in energy. “The poor girl gave me quite the scare. Bursting with accidental magic—very nearly shattered the dungeon. Horace had to step in. But I’ve invited them to the Manor for dinner later this week.”

Draco’s heart was racing. So many emotions tangled within him—joy, disbelief, relief, hope. He remembered the story Harry once told him, about Hermione and the Polyjuice Potion—how she had accidentally transformed herself into a half-cat for weeks. She’d always been fearless in her pursuit of knowledge, even when it was dangerous.

Of course she’d be brewing potions at five years old.

Now, at last, they would see each other again. They could talk. Share memories. Begin making plans.

The war may have torn them apart once. But not this time.

Not in this life.

Chapter Text

"I’m going to have a baby brother?" Hermione asked, turning to her mother with wide eyes, not quite sure what to feel.

She repeated the question, this time looking at her father.
"I’m going to have a baby brother?"

"Yes, love," her father said with a warm smile, scooping her up and settling her gently on his lap. "Your mama is pregnant—with your little brother."

Hermione's nose wrinkled in a small pout.
"Do I have to share my toys?" she asked suspiciously.

Both parents chuckled at her serious expression.

"Not right away, sweetheart. Not for a few years yet," her father reassured her, brushing a curl from her forehead.

Hermione thought about this for a moment, then asked,
"Do I have to share my room? And my books?"

Her father shook his head with a smile.
"No, darling. Your brother will have his own room. And as for your books… wouldn’t you like to share them? You could even read to him at bedtime—just like Mama and I read to you."

Hermione considered this, her brow furrowed in thought. She did love story time. It was her favorite part of the day.

"I think I like that," she declared finally, nodding with approval.

Her father grinned and gently placed her back on the floor.
"You’re going to be the best big sister," he said proudly, ruffling her curls.

"I will!" Hermione beamed.

"That’s my girl! Now go get changed—we’re going somewhere," he said, calling for the family elf.

"Where?" Hermione asked, just as the elf popped into the foyer with a quiet crack.

"You remember Mr. Malfoy?" Hector asked as he lifted her into his arms.

"Uh-huh! The one with the beautiful hair!" Hermione said dreamily, picturing the man’s long, shiny, platinum-blonde locks.

"You like Mr. Malfoy’s hair, huh?" Hector teased, carrying her toward her room.

"Uh-huh! It's long and pwetty!" she said, stretching out her own hair for emphasis.

"I thought Daddy’s hair was pretty?" he said with mock offense.

Hermione tilted her head, completely serious.
"No, Mr. Malfoy’s hair is more pwetty!"

Hector gasped dramatically, narrowing his eyes.
"Traitor!" he declared before tickling her sides.

Hermione burst into peals of giggles, her laughter echoing through the hallways like music.

Later, Hermione sat on the edge of her parents’ bed, watching her mother at the vanity.

She tilted her head curiously as Loreta applied something red to her lips and added shimmer to her eyes.

"Mama, what’s dat?" she asked, pointing.

Loreta turned and smiled. "This? It’s called eye makeup, love."

"Eye may-up?" Hermione echoed, confused.

"Come here," Loreta said, beckoning her over.

Hermione padded across the room and stood in front of the mirror.

"Eye make-up," her mother repeated gently.

"Eye make-up!" Hermione said, proudly repeating the words.

"That’s right!" Loreta smiled.

"Can I have eye make-up too, Mama?"

Loreta raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Why, sweetheart?"

"I wanna be pwetty too," Hermione answered earnestly.

That made Loreta smile. "Alright—just a little." She dipped her brush lightly into the shadow. "Close your eyes, love."

Hermione closed her eyes, grinning as her mother carefully dabbed a soft shimmer onto her lids.

Loreta paused to look at her daughter, her heart tugging. Time had flown. Her once tiny miracle was now a bright, thoughtful child—everything she and Hector had ever dreamed of.

"There," she said softly, handing Hermione a small mirror. "You look very pretty."

Hermione opened her eyes and gasped.
"Wow! I look pwetty like you, Mama!"

Loreta kissed her daughter’s forehead and pulled her into a hug.
"Oh love, you’ve always been pretty. And one day, you’ll be even more beautiful than me."

"I love you, Mama!" Hermione whispered into her shoulder.

"I love you too, my darling girl."

Moments later, Hector paused as he caught sight of them coming down the stairs.

He blinked, momentarily stunned.

Hermione’s hair was braided neatly, tied with green satin ribbons, her dress immaculate. She looked so unlike her usual wild-haired, tree-climbing self.

"Well, well, who is this young lady?" Hector asked theatrically, scooping her up. "And what have you done with our Hermione?"

Hermione giggled.
"I am Hemione, Papa!"

"You are? But you look so pretty!" he said dramatically, tickling her ribs.

"I wanna be pwetty like Mama!" she declared proudly.

Hector's heart melted. "And you will be, my little sunshine. Just like her."

"Yay!" Hermione squealed, throwing her arms around his neck.

"Now," Hector said, turning toward the fireplace, "are you ready?"

Hermione nodded enthusiastically as the three of them stepped into the Floo.

"Malfoy Manor!"

Chapter Text

They landed in one of the Manor’s forgotten dungeons—the very one where Harry and Ron had been held captive nearly three years ago.

Now, it stood silent and abandoned. The Death Eaters had never used it again after the Order's infiltration, a mission made possible only by Draco’s betrayal of his own blood.

“Come on, let’s move,” Draco said, reaching for Hermione’s hand and guiding her through the shadows of his ancestral home.

It had been years since he last set foot inside the Manor, yet the path through its cold stone halls was etched into his memory. Every twist, every hidden stairwell, every creaking floorboard—the knowledge of them returned with unsettling ease. With practiced caution, he led Hermione deeper into the heart of the Manor.

They came to a halt before a heavy, iron-bound door.

“This used to be my father’s vault,” Draco said quietly. “Where he kept his most... treasured things. Cursed objects, relics of dark magic.”

Hermione’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “Is this the room?”

Draco nodded. “Yes. This is where the earth’s magic is strongest. You’ll feel it.”

He reached for the lock, placing himself protectively in front of her as he opened the door. It groaned on ancient hinges. Draco exhaled in relief—it was empty.

“Come on,” he murmured, leading her inside.

In the center of the stone chamber, the air pulsed with a quiet, powerful energy. Draco moved slowly, reverently, as though the magic beneath his feet could awaken at any moment.

“Here. This is it. Can you feel it?” he asked, stepping into the middle of the room, letting the energy wash over him.

Hermione joined him, her eyes closing for a moment. “Yes. It’s like Hogwarts… but deeper. Wilder.”

She reached into her enchanted bag and began summoning small bottles, each one filled with carefully prepared ingredients. She handed one to Draco, and together they began forming a ritual circle, careful and precise.

When it was complete, they stepped inside.

With one final glance at each other, they began to chant.

Their voices, steady and in sync, echoed off the stone walls. The spell they recited had taken months to research—months of potion brewing, magical alignment, and unspoken sacrifices.

As the final word left their lips, they each lifted a vial—potion brewed over three long months—and drank.

Gray eyes met brown. Determination passed between them like an unspoken vow.

Neither noticed the second pair of eyes watching from the darkness—unblinking, dead, and waiting.

Chapter Text

There she was—walking between her mother and father, smiling so brightly it took his breath away. Just like how Draco remembered.

Her face was rounder, cheeks soft with childhood, giving her an almost cherubic look he had never seen before. She wore the elegant robes of a Pureblood heiress, fabric shimmering with enchantments and tailored to perfection. Draco had never seen her like this—in fine silks and family pride—and for one fleeting moment, he imagined what it would’ve been like if she’d been born into a Pureblood family like his.

He nearly snorted. His father would’ve jumped at the chance to draw up a marriage contract the moment he saw her. Maybe their story would’ve been different—simpler, easier, blessed by name and blood rather than fought for in secret.

Draco’s gaze flicked to Lucius’ younger self—Lucius, now his brother in this twisted new timeline. The boy stood straight and poised, every inch the heir of the House of Malfoy.

But it was Hermione who drew his eyes again. She was only a few steps away now. Her infamous hair was a little darker, still wild with curls, still impossible to tame. Her eyes—those golden-brown eyes—were unchanged. They sparkled when she looked at her parents, and even brighter when they landed on him.

Those eyes had kept him alive during sleepless nights. They’d reminded him of hope when everything around him was breaking. And now, standing before him again, she looked like his Hermione... and yet not. Different, but not lost.

He couldn’t help it—he smiled at her, soft and full of warmth. His heart stuttered when she smiled back, wider and brighter, as if she remembered him too.

Their families stopped before one another, fathers exchanging formal greetings. Draco barely registered their voices. His attention was entirely on her—Hermione, watching the conversation unfold, listening with the curiosity he knew so well.

At one point, her eyes found his again. He gave her a flash of that trademark Malfoy smile, and she blushed, ducking behind her mother’s robes.

Her mother chuckled. “Don’t be shy, love.”

Abraxas, always quick to seize a moment, spoke up. “Ah! Let me introduce you to my sons.” He rested a hand on Lucius’s shoulder. “This is Lucius, my eldest.” Then his hand dropped to Draco’s head. “And this is Draco, my youngest.”

He smiled at Hermione. “He’s the same age as you, Miss Hermione.”

“Hi, I’m Hermione,” she said shyly, glancing between the two boys.

Lucius, ever the perfect Pureblood, bowed slightly and kissed her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Hermione.”

Draco stepped forward as soon as his brother finished. “Nice to meet you, Hermione!” he said, his grin wide, his eyes unable to leave hers.

It was only after dinner that Draco managed to pull her away, using the excuse of showing her the Malfoy library. Their parents allowed it easily, distracted by polite conversation and posturing.

Inside the vast library, once they were alone, Draco couldn't hold it in any longer. He pulled her into his arms.

“I missed you so much, Mione,” he whispered, voice cracking. “It felt like I’ve been living alone for years.”

Hermione stiffened slightly in his embrace. “You... miss me?” she asked, confused. “But I only met you today?”

Draco pulled back, brows furrowing. “That’s not funny, Mione.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” she asked. “My name is Her-my-oh-nee.”

He laughed softly—nervously. “Quit joking, Mione. Please. We need to talk about the plan.”

“What plan?”

“Come on, love, stop—I'm serious.” He reached for her hands, desperation creeping into his voice.

Hermione recoiled slightly. “Only Mummys and Daddys call people love.”

“I said stop it! Mione!” he snapped, grip tightening. “I know it was hard. I know Harry’s sacrifice broke you—it broke metoo! But if we don’t succeed this time, everything will burn!”

Hermione’s eyes welled with tears, her lip trembling. “I... I don’t know what you're saying, Draco. Are you mad at me? I thought you were going to show me your books.”

It hit him like a thunderclap.

She didn’t remember.

His heart plummeted.

“What... happened to you, Mione?” he asked, barely able to breathe. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he stumbled back, reality crashing down around him. All the waiting, the planning, the hope—for nothing.

“I waited for nothing…” he whispered, broken. “All for nothing.”

He didn’t know how he ended up on the cold marble floor, but suddenly he was there—knees drawn to his chest, sobbing. It all came back in waves: the war, the mark on his arm, his father's imprisonment, the constant fear, the guilt, the loneliness. Sixth year had been a personal hell, and only she had pulled him from the edge.

He remembered her finding him in the boys’ lavatory after he’d seen Katie Bell cursed. She stayed. She helped. She believed in him.

Now, she didn’t even know who he was.

How could he defeat Voldemort alone? How could he even move without her?

And then—

Warmth.

Her arms wrapped around him, soft and steady. Just like before.

He remembered this too—how she embraced him even after he’d pushed her away and called her the cruelest word imaginable. She hadn’t given up on him then. And now, even without her memories, she was here again.

Her touch still held magic—not the kind found in wands or books, but the kind that made life feel bearable. Real. Safe.

Draco cried harder, a boy overwhelmed by a life too heavy for his shoulders. He held her tightly, not daring to let go.

Eventually, she pulled back slightly and tilted her head, giving him a gentle, innocent smile.

“Are you still sad, Draco?”

In that moment, something clicked.

She was still Hermione. Maybe not the one who had fought beside him. Not the one who had kissed him in the dark after near-death. But she was still her—the same heart, the same light.

And maybe… that was enough.

Draco sat up straighter. His hands were still shaking, but his eyes burned with renewed purpose.

“No,” he said softly, brushing a tear from her cheek. “I’m not sad now.”

He would protect her in this life. He would win her heart again, even if it took years. Even if she never remembered. He would love her just the same.

Because she was still his Hermione.

Chapter Text

To say that the Malfoy and Dagworth-Granger families did not move in the same social circles would be a gross understatement.

Hector Dagworth-Granger had never imagined he'd one day find himself seated in the opulent drawing room of Malfoy Manor, let alone exchanging civil conversation with Abraxas Malfoy. His father would’ve had a fit at the mere idea.

The Dagworth-Grangers, after all, were not only an old family but one that had long since distanced itself from the British Pureblood elite. Most of their kin had relocated to Italy , preferring the calmer, more open-minded magical society across the Channel. They had little interest in the elitism and blood-purity politics that the Malfoys had once proudly championed.

“There’s more to learn than what’s in grimoires and potions,” Hector’s father used to say. “The Muggle world has its own magic—logic, science, art. Learn it all.”

And so, Hector had. He had grown up with a foot in both worlds, and even as a respected Potioneer, he never let go of his fascination with Muggle literature and philosophy.

If only his father could see him now.

Across the room, his wife, Loretta, and Aurora Malfoy were engaged in lively conversation, chatting about the challenges of raising children with both discipline and affection. To his surprise, they seemed to be getting along quite well.

His own discussion with Abraxas had taken a more academic turn—alchemy, potion theory, ancient families of Potioneers. It turned out that the Malfoy lineage included several renowned alchemists, and, for once, conversation flowed between them with genuine interest.

Their talk was abruptly interrupted by a soft giggle.

Hermione had entered the room.

She walked in confidently, her curls bouncing as she made her way to her mother. Both matriarchs’ expressions shifted from amusement to sudden shock.

Startled by their reaction, Hector immediately broke away from his conversation with Abraxas, and the two men strode over to where their wives stood.

“Oh, my… That’s my mother-in-law’s necklace,” Aurora gasped, eyes wide.

As they drew nearer, Hector saw what had caused the stir: hanging around young Hermione’s neck was a tear-shaped diamond pendant—exquisite, antique, unmistakably familiar.

Abraxas recognized it instantly.

It was his mother’s necklace.

He had gifted it to Draco only the year before, on her deathbed, with specific instructions that it was to be given—someday—to the woman Draco chose to marry.

The silence was broken by Hermione’s cheerful voice.

“Isn’t it pretty?” she beamed, fingering the necklace delicately. Her eyes sparkled with innocent pride.

Loretta crouched down slowly, her tone gentle. “Darling… where did you get that?”

Hermione tilted her head, entirely unbothered by the stunned adults.

“Draco gave it to me!” she announced brightly. “He said I should have it... because I’m his betrothed.”

The room fell deathly silent.

Loretta looked ready to faint. Aurora placed a hand over her heart. Hector stood frozen, mouth half-open, and Abraxas… was speechless.

Hermione looked between them all, confused by their reaction. “Isn’t it pretty, maman? Draco said he’s going to marry me! What does that mean, exactly?”

Before any of the adults could respond, Aurora—sharper than the rest—called out, “Draco. I know you’re there.”

A moment passed, then a sheepish young Draco stepped into the room from behind the archway, looking neither guilty nor apologetic.

Abraxas blinked, regaining composure.

“Young man,” he said, voice firm. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I gave Hermione Grandmother’s necklace,” Draco answered calmly, as if stating the weather.

Abraxas narrowed his eyes. “I know whose necklace it is. What I want to know is what she means by being your betrothed.”

Draco raised his chin slightly. “Grandmother said I should give it to my future wife.”

Abraxas stared. “And what future wife? You are five, Draco.”

“I know,” Draco huffed, folding his arms. “That’s why I asked her to be my betrothed, not my wife yet.”

It took all of Abraxas’s composure not to laugh—or shout. His son was arguing like a teenager, not a quiet, observant boy of five.

Then, unexpectedly, Loretta burst out laughing. She laughed until her eyes watered, shaking her head at the sheer absurdity of the situation. When she finally caught her breath, she looked down at the boy who had so boldly claimed her daughter.

“Look at you,” she said, smiling fondly. “Already staking a claim. Did you know Hermione’s father took an entire year to ask me on a proper date?”

“Darling, that’s hardly a fair comparison,” Hector muttered under his breath. “We were of age.”

“True,” Loretta conceded. “But you have to admire young Draco’s confidence. He knows what he wants.”

“This is Hermione we’re talking about,” Hector reminded her, only half-joking.

Then Draco stepped forward again, serious as ever. “Mr. and Mrs. Dagworth-Granger,” he said solemnly, “I would like to be formally betrothed to your daughter.”

Four adult heads whipped around to stare at him.

Hector stared, stunned. Loretta just smiled—bemused, but not entirely against the idea.

“Oh, Draco,” she said gently, “you and Hermione are far too young to talk about marriage.”

“But Mama!” Hermione pouted. “What about my necklace?”

“Hermione,” Loretta said softly, “you need to give it back—”

“But Draco gave it to me!”

“Yes, I gave it to her!” Draco insisted, stepping protectively beside her.

Loretta sighed. “Draco, sweetheart, this is a family heirloom. It’s not something to give away on a whim.”

Draco opened his mouth to protest—but this time, Abraxas beat him to it.

“No,” Abraxas said. “It’s fine.”

Everyone turned to look at him.

“But it was your mother’s—” Loretta began, shocked.

“And it was passed to my son,” Abraxas replied calmly. “He chose to give it to your daughter.”

Then he softened—just a little. “Even if he meant it as a betrothal gift… let’s instead consider it a gesture. A gift of friendship, between our families, through our children.”

He turned to Hermione and smiled, surprisingly warm. “You may keep the necklace, Hermione.”

Hermione squealed with joy and threw her arms around Abraxas. “Yay! Thank you, Mr. Mafoy!”

Abraxas chuckled softly, gently patting her head. In that moment, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like to have a daughter.

Hector and Loretta exchanged glances, unsure how to process the whirlwind that had just occurred. But neither could bring themselves to ruin their daughter's happiness—not tonight.

Later that evening, long after the Dagworth-Grangers had left and both boys were tucked into bed, Abraxas sat alone in his study, a glass of aged firewhisky in hand.

He chuckled to himself.

His quiet, thoughtful son had nearly secured a betrothal with the only daughter of the Dagworth-Granger family—without a contract, without parental approval, and without hesitation.

Ironically, Abraxas had once considered such an alliance—but for Lucius, not Draco. Lucius was the heir, the one meant to carry the weight of duty.

But now... he wasn’t so sure.

Maybe letting Draco get close to the girl wasn’t such a foolish idea after all.

Chapter Text

Hector had never seen his daughter so radiant.

Not once—not even during their long, sun-drenched months in Italy—had he witnessed Hermione this full of joy, or this connected to another child. Even then, among the lively piazzas and sprawling vineyards, Hermione had struggled to find companionship. The girls her age had been dainty and distant, unwilling to dirty their hands or run too fast, turning up their noses at Hermione’s untamed curls and grass-stained knees. To them, she was a tomboy—too loud, too bold, too much.

And the boys? They dismissed her outright. She was a girl, and that was reason enough.

So Hermione grew up running through fields alone, spinning wild tales in her head, or curled beside her mother with a book in her lap and dirt under her nails.

That was just how things were.

Which is why, after that first dinner with the Malfoys, Hector never imagined that something—someone—would change all of that. And certainly not a boy.

Yet here she was, nine years old, chattering endlessly and glowing with laughter, always racing off to Malfoy Manor to play with young Draco as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

At first, it had felt odd—foreign—to see his daughter so attached to a boy. But over time, the strangeness gave way to quiet astonishment. She wasn’t just comfortable around Draco; she trusted him, adored him.

And he—surprisingly—seemed to know exactly how to handle her.

Draco Malfoy, though no older than Hermione, held a calmness that belied his age. When she threw a tantrum, he didn’t scold or cry back. He simply let her vent. He let her drag him around by the hand, interrogate him with questions about everything under the sun, and demand he play along in her elaborate games. And he always did—without hesitation.

Hector remembered one afternoon in particular. Hermione had grown frustrated over something—he couldn’t recall what—and stormed off in a whirlwind of angry little feet and muttered grumbles. Hector had expected Draco to follow, to plead with her to come back. But the boy merely sat down in the grass, pouted a little, and went on playing quietly by himself.

An hour later, Hermione returned—muddy, flushed, unapologetic—and sat beside him as if nothing had happened.

They picked up right where they’d left off.

From that day, Hector found himself silently admiring Draco’s patience. Not many children tolerated Hermione’s intensity. Even fewer embraced it.

Spurred by this new friendship, Hector began introducing Hermione to other children from their circle—hoping, perhaps foolishly, to replicate the magic she shared with Draco.

The first attempt was with the Potters.

Fleamont and Euphemia were gracious hosts, and their son James was a lively, clever boy the same age as Draco. Hector had been optimistic.

But within the hour, that optimism crumbled.

Hermione and James had clashed immediately. She wanted to play house; James wanted to play Quidditch. When she refused to change the game, he rolled his eyes and declared that house was “boring” and “only for girls.”

Hermione had bristled. “Draco plays house with me,” she snapped.

James snorted. “Maybe Draco’s a girl, then.”

Hermione’s face went red. “Draco is a boy!” she yelled, stomping her foot.

James just stuck out his tongue and darted away with his broomstick, leaving Hermione blinking rapidly, then running to her mother with tears streaking her cheeks.

“Mama! I want to go home!” she sobbed, scrambling into Loreta’s lap and wrapping her arms tightly around her.

Loreta held her, gently rocking her and whispering softly. “Shh, now, love. Tell me what happened?”

“James doesn’t want to play with me,” Hermione cried, her voice muffled against her mother’s shoulder.

The laughter and conversations among the adults faded as all eyes turned toward the child’s sorrow. Young James was quickly ushered aside for a stern word from his parents. But for Hector, the damage had been done.

His hopes of Hermione forming another bond—anything like what she had with Draco—slipped quietly away.

They visited the Longbottoms next. Charles and Augusta’s son, Frank, was three years older, but kind. He and Hermione got along reasonably well, bonding over magical flora and spending hours inspecting the greenhouse. Still, Hector could see the difference. Frank treated Hermione like a younger sibling—indulgent and warm, yes—but distant in his own, quiet way. He liked her company, but also cherished his solitude.

Draco was different. With him, Hermione didn’t just play—she belonged.

One golden afternoon at the Malfoy gardens, Abraxas arrived home and leaned down to kiss his wife’s cheek. Aurora sat beneath the shade of an old yew tree, embroidering initials onto a linen handkerchief.

“Where’s Draco?” Abraxas asked as he settled beside her.

Aurora didn’t look up, but smiled softly. “You know where he is.”

Abraxas chuckled as he adjusted his seat. “He practically lives there now.”

"You know, I think he has his own room there now," Aurora joked, though she had a nagging suspicion it might actually be true.

Abraxas chuckled, remembering the countless playdates Draco and Hermione had shared since that unforgettable dinner. Never in his life had he imagined being on familiar terms with the Dagworth-Grangers—but here they were, bound together by their children.

"I was thinking..." Abraxas began thoughtfully.

"Let me guess," Aurora interjected, already a step ahead. "You want to betroth Draco to Hermione."

Abraxas smiled at his wife, his chuckle low and amused. "Well, Draco started it."

"Well, I think Hermione’s lovely," Aurora said with a soft smile.

For her, that was as close to an official seal of approval as anyone was likely to get.

"But I don’t think Hector’s quite ready to let go of his little girl just yet."

"I know," Abraxas sighed. "He’s still a bit wary of me—even though he's perfectly at ease with Draco."

Aurora laughed, teasing, "Can you really blame him? You are Abraxas Malfoy, after all."

Chapter Text

“Master Draco, the miss is asking if you’re already done,” Draco’s elf, Tif, called softly.

Draco, having just finished combing his hair, smiled at his elf. “Yes, Tif. Tell mother I’ll be down soon.” The elf nodded gratefully before disappearing with a faint pop.

Draco took one last, lingering look at his reflection before stepping out of his room. But then his eyes caught something—an unaligned picture frame crooked on the wall. He carefully straightened it, and in doing so, couldn’t help but glance at the photographs inside: snapshots of himself and Hermione from the past few years.

Hermione and he had become inseparable friends. He was a frequent presence at the Dagworth-Granger household, just as Hermione had become part of the Malfoy estate. Draco felt a quiet happiness knowing that even though Hermione couldn’t remember her previous life, their bond had remained unbroken.

He had watched Hermione grow, slowly becoming the person he once knew—kind, warm, and genuine. It no longer mattered that she was now pure-blood; to Draco, she was still the kindest soul he had ever met. He was grateful for the two years they had shared.

As Draco joined his parents, anticipation bubbled inside him. The Dagworth-Grangers had decided to move back to England, and tonight was their grand welcoming ball—marking their return to society.

“You look beautiful, love,” Loretta said softly as she clasped the necklace behind Hermione’s neck.

Hermione smiled gratefully, her eyes meeting her mother’s in the mirror. She was dressed in a flowing gold gown, her hair styled in soft, cascading curls that framed her young face. Loretta took a moment to truly take her in—her little miracle, now eleven years old and only months away from beginning her journey at Hogwarts.

A lump formed in Loretta’s throat. How had time passed so quickly?

“Loretta, you’re getting emotional again,” came Hector’s teasing voice from the doorway.

“Oh, hush,” she replied, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Look at her—she’s growing up to be so beautiful.”

“That she is,” Hector said warmly, stepping forward to rest his hands on his wife’s shoulders.

“Come on, Hermione,” he added with a smile. “The guests will be arriving in a few minutes.”

After years abroad, Hector and Loretta had made the decision to return to England. Once Hermione had become close friends with young Draco Malfoy, her heart had been set on Hogwarts—even at the age of nine. Perhaps it was Draco’s influence, or perhaps it was the magical circles they had grown close to over the years, but either way, the choice had come from Hermione herself.

In those  years, the family had welcomed another miracle into their lives: a baby boy, whom they named Henry after Hector’s father. Hermione had taken to being an older sister with natural grace—curious, nurturing, and utterly devoted to her little brother.

Loretta looked at her daughter again, heart swelling with pride. Their family had grown in ways she never imagined—and tonight, as they reentered English wizarding society, it felt like the beginning of a new chapter.

Draco stepped into the grand hall of the Dagworth-Granger estate, his eyes widening in quiet awe. The room was breathtaking—an elegant blend of Italian opulence and classic English refinement. Gilded chandeliers hung from a vaulted ceiling, casting a soft golden light over the polished marble floors and rich velvet drapery. For a moment, Draco thought it rivaled even the grand galas his mother used to host in his past life.

He glanced over as his father greeted Hermione’s father near the entrance.

“Hector, thank you for having us,” Abraxas said with his usual composed warmth.

“Like we’d forget you,” Hector replied with a grin. “Your family was first on the list. Just don’t tell Horace.” He laughed, clapping Abraxas on the back.

As soon as everyone was seated, Draco excused himself and went in search of Hermione. He spotted her near one of the side tables, deep in conversation with Frank Longbottom.

“So, how was Hogwarts?” he heard Hermione ask, just before he stepped into view.

“Draco!” Hermione called out with a bright smile, rushing toward him and wrapping him in a quick hug. “I’ve been looking for you!”

Frank was already forgotten as Hermione launched into a whirlwind of stories from the past few weeks. Draco smiled, letting her words wash over him, before gently guiding her toward the estate’s gardens.

By the time her stories had come to an end, they were seated side by side on the stone edge of a fountain, moonlight glinting off the rippling water behind them.

“I brought you something,” Draco said softly, reaching into the pocket of his formal robes. He pulled out a small, elegantly wrapped box and placed it in Hermione’s hands.

“Oh, thank you, Draco,” she said, her eyes lighting up. She unwrapped the gift eagerly and gasped.

Inside was a delicate gold bracelet, its surface adorned with finely engraved flowers—each bloom different, as if captured from a wild garden in full spring.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, turning the bracelet in her hands. “Truly.”

“I saw it when Mother and I visited our vaults,” Draco explained, taking the bracelet and gently clasping it around her wrist. “I knew you’d like it.”

Their eyes met—Hermione’s shining with gratitude, and Draco’s with something deeper and quieter.

They were interrupted by Sirius, who had quietly followed them into the garden and now stood grinning like a troublemaker who’d found treasure.

“Draco’s got a girlfriend,” he sang in a teasing, childish voice.

Hermione and Draco immediately turned on him, eyes narrowing in perfect unison.

“Sirius!” Hermione snapped.

Draco sighed, watching as the two began bickering—Hermione’s voice rising indignantly while Sirius threw back smug remarks. For a moment, Draco was reminded that despite everything—bracelets, dances, complicated feelings—they were still just children.

Before the argument could escalate, Hermione’s mother appeared at the garden entrance, smiling gently but firmly.

“Come on, you three,” Loretta said, motioning them back toward the estate. “The guests are waiting.”

The party resumed in full swing, the golden chandeliers glowing brighter as more guests filled the ballroom. Music floated through the air, elegant and festive. Hector Dagworth-Granger stood near the refreshment table, drink in hand, but his eyes were focused sharply on one thing—and one thing only: Hermione.

His daughter danced gracefully, each step polished and precise. Her lessons had clearly paid off. Yet despite her elegance, Hector’s stomach twisted every time a new boy stepped up to take her hand.

“She’s too young to be dancing with strangers,” he muttered under his breath.

“She’s doing beautifully,” Loretta said, stepping beside him. “Honestly, Hector, if you stared any harder, that poor boy might melt.”

Hector didn’t even smile. “Who is that boy she’s dancing with now?”

Loretta leaned slightly to get a better look. “That’s Rabastan Lestrange—one of Rodolphus Sr.’s sons.”

Hector’s brow furrowed. “And the one before him?”

“Corban Yaxley, I believe,” Loretta replied casually. “Why?”

“Well, isn’t that boy four years older than Hermione?” Hector asked, clearly displeased.

Loretta let out a soft laugh. “It’s harmless, Hector. They’re just dancing.”

He looked unconvinced, his protective instincts flaring.

Loretta nudged him playfully. “How about that boy—do you want to know his name too?”

Hector turned to look at the young wizard now twirling Hermione gently under the light. His expression shifted when he recognized him: Draco Malfoy.

While Draco had become close to both him and Loretta over the past two years, Hector still couldn’t shake his instincts. He was a father first—and fathers didn’t take these things lightly.

Then he spotted it.

A glimmer of gold on Hermione’s wrist—delicate, floral, unfamiliar.

“What is that thing on her wrist?” he asked sharply, already half-rising from his seat.

Loretta placed a steadying hand on his arm. “Relax.”

“Don’t tell me Malfoy gave her that,” he said, already knowing the answer.

Loretta gave him a dreamy smile. “Draco did. Isn’t he sweet?”

“He’s eleven, Loretta,” Hector huffed, sinking back into his chair.

If it hadn’t been for his wife’s intervention, Hector would’ve crumpled every letter spread across his desk and set them ablaze. It had been barely a day since the ball, and already a stack of formal betrothal offers for Hermione had arrived—each more presumptuous than the last.

His jaw tightened as he scanned yet another letter filled with empty flattery and veiled ambitions, cloaked under the guise of noble tradition. The ink was still fresh, the desperation practically seeping through the parchment. Hector’s fingers twitched toward the fireplace.

“I swear, Loretta, I’ll burn every single one of them.”

But Loretta had stepped in gently, placing a calming hand on his shoulder.

“No fires today, Hector,” she said with a soft smile. “Take a walk. Breathe. I’ll help you write polite replies.”

So he’d left the study—still fuming—and returned later to find each letter respectfully declined with graceful wording only Loretta could craft. Her pen had turned away the ambitions of old houses with dignity, all while protecting Hermione’s name and their family's standing.

Chapter Text

Draco couldn’t quite put into words the feeling of riding the Hogwarts Express again—as a first year, no less. Despite the lifetime of memories he carried, the excitement thrumming in his chest felt genuine, raw. Maybe it was because his body was technically eleven again, or maybe the magic of the moment simply refused to grow old.

He gazed out the window, watching the countryside blur past in a rush of green and gold. Everything felt familiar and new all at once.

“Draco? Are you alright?” Hermione’s voice broke through his thoughts.

He blinked, turning his attention to her. She sat across from him, her brow creased with gentle concern.

Draco offered a small smile. “Just thinking, that’s all.”

The two of them were alone in the compartment, the hum of the train and the distant chatter from other students creating a warm, nostalgic backdrop. When they’d boarded, Lucius had helped them find an unoccupied compartment before heading off to reconnect with his usual circle. It didn’t take long before the door slid open again—this time revealing Sirius, now flanked by James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew.

Draco watched the four boys with a mixture of amusement and resignation. Some things never change, he thought dryly.

Soon after, they caught sight of Lily Evans and a younger Severus Snape walking past in the corridor. Predictably, the Marauders couldn’t resist tossing a few jabs Snape’s way. Hermione, true to her nature and bleeding heart, stepped in immediately—rising from her seat, voice firm yet kind as she intervened.

“Leave them be,” she said, standing between the group and the pair. “Come on, let’s not start the school year like this.”

Draco smirked to himself. Always the crusader, he thought.

Hermione then turned to Lily and Severus, offering them seats in their compartment. They declined with polite gratitude—Lily tugging a hesitant Severus along—before disappearing down the corridor.

Draco leaned back in his seat, hands folded behind his head as Hermione returned and sat across from him again.

“Do you ever get tired of saving people?” he asked, half-joking.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Do you ever get tired of pretending you’re not impressed?”

And just like that, the train rumbled on—taking them toward a future he knew too well, yet were experiencing all over again.

Draco had thought he knew exactly what lay ahead—for both himself and Hermione. After all, between the stories Harry and Hermione had shared from their past life, and the memories Draco still carried, he believed he was prepared for everything. But being sent back in time didn’t mean things would follow the same script.

Some things were bound to change.

He realized that the moment the Sorting Hat shouted “Slytherin!” the second it touched Hermione’s head.

And then—when he sat down on the stool himself—it happened again.

“Ravenclaw!” the Hat bellowed.

For a moment, Draco just sat there, stunned. He wasn't sure if he felt disappointed or relieved. Maybe both. This was the first time he and Hermione wouldn’t be together—an unexpected shift in a life he thought he had already lived.

As he walked toward the Ravenclaw table, his eyes drifted back to Hermione. She was now seated beside Lucius, who had given her a warm welcome. Despite the twist of something unfamiliar in his chest, Draco was grateful she wasn’t alone. At least she had someone she knew—someone they both trusted.

Still, as he joined the Ravenclaws, he couldn’t help but wonder just how different this second chance would turn out to be.

Chapter Text

Lucius couldn’t hide the flicker of disappointment when the Sorting Hat called out “Ravenclaw!” for his younger brother. He had been looking forward to showing Draco the Slytherin common room—the shadowed corridors of the dungeons, the hidden nooks, the ancient pride that pulsed through the house. He’d imagined the two of them walking the same stone halls together, sharing late-night talks and secrets like true Slytherin brothers.

Still, he reminded himself, it wasn’t the worst outcome.

Hermione had been sorted into Slytherin, and that gave him some comfort.

Over the past two years, she had become like a little sister to him. Her friendship with Draco had naturally pulled her into his orbit, and Lucius—despite his usual reserve—had grown fond of her. She was quick-witted, kind in a way most pure-blood children weren’t, and had a quiet strength that reminded him of his own mother.

Now, as Hermione approached the Slytherin table, still visibly shaken from the unexpected call of her name and the overwhelming newness of it all, Lucius offered her a reassuring smile. He shifted to make space and subtly patted the bench beside him.

Hermione caught his gesture and gave him a small, grateful smile in return before sliding in next to him.

Lucius straightened slightly, his earlier disappointment easing. Maybe things weren’t unfolding the way he’d imagined—but they were unfolding just the same.

Despite being sorted into different houses, Hermione and Draco quickly settled into a quiet routine. Though the green and silver of Slytherin and the blue and bronze of Ravenclaw set them apart in the Great Hall and common rooms, they still shared several classes—Potions, Charms, and Transfiguration among them—and spent much of their time together in between.

Draco watched with quiet satisfaction as Hermione's brilliance began to reemerge. In their previous life, she had been the brightest witch of her age, and it seemed that reputation was destined to follow her here as well. Her quill moved with purpose, her wandwork was already sharp, and her hunger for knowledge was as insatiable as ever. It was different, though—softer, somehow—without the urgency of war behind her. She was blooming, and Draco had a front-row seat.

As for himself, Draco treaded carefully. He answered just enough questions in class to stay noticed, but not enough to stand out. He cast his spells with a touch of hesitation, feigned furrowed brows when reading textbooks he’d long ago mastered. Still, the professors took note—there was only so much he could hide. They saw the control in his wand movements, the depth in his understanding. Praise followed him despite his best efforts, and with it, a pang of guilt. He wasn’t learning—only pretending to.

But he refused to dwell on it. There was a purpose to this second chance, and he wouldn’t lose focus—not for guilt, not for pride.

Evenings became a quiet ritual. After dinner, he and Hermione would retreat to the library, parchment and books spread out before them as they studied under the warm, flickering candlelight. When the castle grew quiet, Draco would always walk her down to the dungeons—an unspoken gesture of care. Despite the chill of the Slytherin corridors, the place was familiar, grounding. Sometimes, as they parted ways, he found himself missing the old comfort of those cold stone walls.

His relationship with Lucius, thankfully, hadn’t changed. Despite being sorted into Ravenclaw, Draco’s older brother remained a steady presence in his life. They talked often—usually in the quiet hours after dinner. Lucius always sought him out, checking in, offering advice or simply listening. That quiet consistency meant more to Draco than he let on.

He didn’t say it often, but he was grateful—for Hermione, for Lucius, and for this new chance to do things right.

“Lucius, why is she talking to that half-blood?” Dolohov muttered under his breath.

Lucius turned his gaze toward the far end of the Slytherin common room, where a small study table was dimly lit by greenish candlelight. There, seated together over a pile of books and parchment, were Hermione  and Severus Snape, their heads bent close as they worked through an assignment.

It struck Lucius as odd—unsettling, even—that Hermione had grown close to individuals he himself would never have associated with. In recent weeks, she had been seen often with Severus, speaking in hushed tones, exchanging notes, sometimes even laughing softly. It was a strange pairing. She was a Pureblood, outspoken and fiercely intelligent. And Severus—well, Severus carried the weight of his mother’s shame, Aileen Prince. A pure-blood witch who had turned her back on her heritage to marry a muggle. A disgrace, in Lucius’s opinion.

"Pity," Lucius had always thought. "To forsake one’s bloodline for sentiment."

“I don’t know—maybe potions?” Lucius replied dismissively, still watching the pair. “You do know who her father is, don’t you? And Slughorn’s been saying the boy shows promise.”

It was true—both Hermione and Severus had proven exceptional in Potions. Lucius had heard Horace Slughorn sing their praises more than once, clearly impressed by their talent and precision.

Still, Lucius couldn’t quite grasp why Hermione was drawn to Severus. Their connection seemed unlikely, inexplicable. But if there was any reason behind it, he supposed it had to be academic. Potions—perhaps that was the only thing they truly shared.

Severus was quietly grateful for the two friends he could truly count on—Lily and Hermione.

He had known Lily since before Hogwarts; their bond had been forged in childhood. Hermione, on the other hand, had come into his life at Hogwarts, unexpected but welcome.

Though he’d never admit it aloud, Severus deeply valued Hermione’s friendship. Despite being a pure-blood with a distinguished family name, she lacked the arrogance and cruelty that plagued so many of their Slytherin peers. She was kind, unpretentious, and—most importantly—treated him like a person, not a project or a pariah. They shared a love for potions, and in that common ground, a true friendship blossomed.

When he learned who her father was, his respect for her only deepened. Not only was her father a renowned potioneer, but Hermione had even written to him about Severus. A few weeks later, she brought him a book her father had sent—an advanced compendium on theoretical potions. Severus had devoured it, grateful in a way he struggled to put into words.

“I know!” Hermione said one afternoon during a study session in the library, eyes alight with excitement. “You and Lily should come to our house during Yule!”

Severus looked up from his notes, blinking.

“You’d love my dad’s potion lab,” she continued eagerly. “It’s huge—rows and rows of potions, ingredients you’d never find at Hogwarts. It's like a potioneer’s dream!”

Severus practically salivated at the thought.

“Don’t get too excited,” Lily teased, nudging him with a grin. “Yule’s still months away.”

Severus only nudged her back, a rare smile tugging at his lips.

Hermione laughed, and even Draco—quietly pretending not to listen—couldn’t help but grin.

In that quiet corner of the library, surrounded by parchment and books, Severus felt something rare: he felt like he belonged.

Chapter Text

A high-pitched shriek echoed through the corridor as a tub of thick, emerald-green slime came crashing down over Hermione's head, drenching her from curls to cloak. The cold, gooey mess oozed down her face and onto her robes, pooling at her feet.

Her eyes snapped open, wide with fury and disbelief, just in time to catch the gleeful laughter of four very familiar boys: James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew.

“James!” she shouted, slime dripping from her lashes. “I’m going to tell your mother!”

James grinned wickedly, completely unfazed. He threw his arms out and mimicked her in a high-pitched singsong voice, “I’m going to tell your mother!” Then he stuck out his tongue for good measure.

Hermione glared, but despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitched.

Their friendship was an odd one, especially considering the disaster that had been their first meeting. But their families had been close for years—Sunday dinners, summer holidays, and endless hours spent in each other’s company had forged a bond that neither pranks nor shouting matches could break.

Though James Potter was often the very definition of chaos, Hermione had grown surprisingly fond of him. And judging by the frequency of his pranks—and who he chose to target—he rather enjoyed her company too.

Even if it meant she occasionally ended up covered in slime.

Hermione found herself cornered once again. Quentin Avery had approached her in the common room with his usual smirk, clutching a rolled parchment in his  hand.

“Come study with me, Hermione,” he said casually, though there was an edge of insistence in his voice.

She hesitated, her mind racing for a polite way to decline. The last time she’d agreed to study with him in the Slytherin common room had been nothing short of a disaster. Quentin was dismissive, barely listened, and worse—openly rude to Severus. She could only imagine how much worse he'd be now, especially if he decided to sit near Lily.

Just as she was about to make an excuse, salvation arrived.

“Quentin,” came a calm, drawling voice from behind. Lucius Malfoy strolled up, his expression unreadable, but his hand landed lightly—deliberately—on Quentin’s shoulder. To the untrained eye, it might have seemed like a friendly gesture. But to anyone who knew Lucius well, could tell it was a warning.

“Why are you bothering Hermione?” Lucius asked, voice smooth like silk but sharp underneath.

“I—I just needed help with my homework,” Quentin stammered, his earlier confidence faltering under Lucius’s gaze.

Lucius tilted his head slightly, feigning confusion. “But you’re a second-year, aren’t you?”

Quentin nodded slowly.

“And Hermione is a first-year. What exactly do you think she could help you with?”

Silence fell. Quentin shifted uncomfortably under Lucius’s hand.

“I have an idea,” Lucius continued, now plucking the parchment from Quentin’s grasp with effortless charm. “Why don’t I help you with your assignment instead?”

Quentin didn’t protest. He couldn’t.

Lucius turned to Hermione without breaking stride. “Off you go, Hermione. I believe Draco’s looking for you.”

She offered him a grateful smile, her relief palpable. “Thank you,” she murmured, slipping quietly from the room.

As she exited, she could feel Quentin’s lingering glare on her back—but she didn’t care. Lucius had handled it perfectly.

The moment Hermione stepped out of the Slytherin common room, she nearly collided with Draco waiting just outside, arms crossed and brows slightly furrowed.

“What took you so long?” he asked, eyeing her with concern.

She gave a small sigh. “Sorry. Avery cornered me again—wanted to study together.”

Draco’s expression darkened at the name. Before he could say anything, Hermione quickly added, “Don’t worry. Your brother stepped in—he’s helping him now.”

Draco paused, blinking. “Lucius? Helping Avery?” A beat of silence. Then the corners of his mouth twitched. Not likely,he thought. If anything, Lucius had probably given Avery a subtle but unmistakable warning to back off. The image of it was too satisfying to ignore, and despite himself, Draco let out a small, amused smirk.

Hermione caught it instantly. “What are you smirking about?”

“Oh, nothing,” Draco said innocently, slipping his hands into his pockets as they began walking together toward the library.

As they strolled down the dim corridor, the tension melted away, and their conversation turned light again. They traded stories about their day.

Just two friends, walking and talking, the sound of their laughter echoing softly through the quiet halls of Hogwarts

Chapter Text

Hector sat in the quiet solitude of his study, the soft scratch of his quill the only sound as he pored over the estate’s financial ledgers. The warm afternoon light filtered in through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the polished wood of his desk.

The door creaked open, and he looked up as his wife stepped inside, a small bundle of letters held neatly in her hands.

“Hermione’s sent a letter,” Loretta said with a gentle smile.

At once, Hector set his quill down and rose from his chair, the anticipation plain in his eyes. Without a word, he crossed the room and settled beside her on the settee, ready to read whatever their daughter had written.

Dear Mother and Father,

How are you both? I hope everything is well at home. I’ve only been at Hogwarts a little while, but I already miss you both very much—and I couldn’t wait  to write. There’s so much I want to tell you!

I’ve been sorted into Slytherin! I was a bit surprised at first, and honestly, I felt a little sad because Draco was sorted into Ravenclaw. I thought we’d be in the same house for sure. But it’s turning out just fine—we still have some classes together, and we’ve been meeting in the library almost every day. We study together with two of our new friends, Severus and Lily.

Lily is in Gryffindor, and I think you’d really like her. She’s incredibly smart and full of energy, always asking questions and thinking out loud—like me, I suppose! She has the most beautiful red hair, the same shade as the roses that used to bloom outside the kitchen window at our old house. I told her that, and she smiled so brightly.

Severus is in Slytherin with me. He’s quiet and keeps to himself a lot, but I think he’s very kind underneath. He loves Potions, just like you, Father. He reminds me of you when you're focused in the lab—so serious, but you can tell he's enjoying every second of it. I was wondering... could you send me the little green potion book with the gold-trimmed pages? The one with all the old recipes and drawings? I’d like to give it to Severus. I think he’d treasure it, even if he pretends not to care.

I’ve invited Lily and Severus to come visit us during the Yule holidays, if that’s all right. I told them all about the potions lab, Father, and Severus tried to act cool about it, but I could tell he was very excited. Lily said it sounds like something out of a storybook. I can’t wait to show them everything!

How is my little brother, Henry? I hope he’s being good—just like me! Please give him a kiss goodnight from me every evening, and tell him I’ll bring back stories and maybe even a chocolate frog or two if I can manage.

I’ll write again soon—I promise! There’s so much more to tell, but I’m running out of parchment.

All my love, always,
Hermione

Hector and Loretta exchanged gentle smiles as they carefully folded Hermione’s letter. Relief and quiet pride filled the room—knowing their daughter was settling into life at Hogwarts eased their worries more than they expected. They were grateful to hear of the new friendships she was building, especially with Lily and Severus, whose names now felt like familiar threads weaving into Hermione’s new world.

Without hesitation, Hector took down the treasured potion book Hermione had requested from his shelves. Its worn  cover and delicate pages held memories of his own apprenticeship, and he hoped it would inspire Severus as much as it once had him.

Meanwhile, Loretta gathered an assortment of baked goods—the soft honey cakes, spiced shortbreads, and buttery scones she knew Hermione loved. She packed extra treats as well, carefully wrapping a little bundle to share with Hermione’s new friends.

Together, they prepared the parcel with care and affection, sending a piece of home along with their love, hoping it would bring warmth and comfort to their daughter’s days far from their embrace

Abraxas unfolded the letter from his second son, Draco, his eyes scanning the carefully penned words. When he reached the news of Draco’s sorting into Ravenclaw, his brows lifted in surprise. It wasn’t disappointment—far from it—but the unexpected twist caught him off guard.

“Are you truly surprised?” his wife asked softly, stepping closer with a knowing smile.

“With all the books he devoured as a child,” she continued, “I’d have been more surprised if he hadn’t been sorted into Ravenclaw.”

Abraxas smiled quietly, imagining the boy—always lost in thought, always chasing knowledge. Perhaps this was exactly where Draco was meant to be.

Abraxas continued reading Draco’s letter, pausing slightly as he came across the news that Hermione had been sorted into Slytherin. Draco wrote with a quiet pride, carefully mentioning his new friends—Lily and Severus—though he tactfully omitted their last names and made no reference to their blood status. The subtle discretion did not go unnoticed by Abraxas.

He felt a familiar mix of admiration and curiosity. This Draco was not quite like himself or Lucius. Despite being raised amidst the rigid expectations of pure-blood aristocracy, his son had remained remarkably humble and grounded—qualities that set him apart in their world. As Abraxas read on, he found himself quietly proud of the young man Draco was becoming: thoughtful, considerate, and refreshingly down to earth.

Hector sat in his favorite armchair, glasses perched low on his nose, carefully reading the latest letter from Hermione. His expression remained composed, but his eyes sharpened slightly as he mentally noted the names that appeared—Quentin Avery, Alfred Nott, and Rupert Wilkes. Boys. Too many boys. And not the kind offering help with homework. These names had appeared more than once now, always accompanied by Hermione’s subtle frustrations.

His jaw tightened as he read between the lines—these boys weren’t just classmates, they were bothering her. Pestering her. Hovering like foolish little suitors.

Fortunately, as Hermione had written, Lucius had stepped in more than once, calmly but firmly putting them in their place. Hector’s grip on the parchment eased at that thought. A quiet sense of gratitude settled in his chest. Lucius was clearly watching out for her—not as a peer, but as an older brother might. Yes, Hector thought. I ought to send that boy something. 

Just then, a soft laugh broke his train of thought.

 Loretta was reading over his shoulder, eyes twinkling with amusement. “You should see your face,” she said through her laughter.

“It’s not funny, Loretta,” Hector muttered, frowning deeply. “Hermione is at Hogwarts to study, not to attract… suitors.”

That only made her laugh harder. “She’s eleven, Hector. Eleven.”

He huffed, folding the letter with more force than necessary. “That’s exactly the problem.”

Abraxas read his eldest son Lucius’s letter with quiet fondness, the candlelight flickering gently across the parchment as his eyes moved line by line. Lucius had written of his initial disappointment at Draco being sorted into Ravenclaw—a reaction Abraxas had expected—but what touched him most was that the news had done nothing to alter the bond between the brothers. Despite being in separate houses, Lucius and Draco remained close, their connection unshaken by house rivalry.

What surprised him more, however, was how naturally Lucius had stepped into the role of elder brother—not only to Draco but to Hermione as well. His protectiveness of the girl was evident in every subtle phrase, especially when it came to the so-called suitors pestering her. Abraxas took note of the names Lucius had mentioned—Avery, Nott, Wilkes—mentally cataloging each one like pieces on a chessboard. It was clear Lucius wasn’t merely being courteous; he was watching over Hermione with a kind of quiet fierceness that Abraxas hadn’t quite expected.

He leaned back in his chair, tapping a finger thoughtfully against the edge of the letter.

He had long considered a betrothal between Draco and Hermione. Their families aligned well, both in lineage and ambition, and he had always seen the potential for something greater between the children. But out of respect for Hector and Loretta’s more modern views—and their hesitance toward formal arrangements at such a young age—he had held back.

For now, he mused.

Still, Abraxas felt a quiet certainty taking root. He would not move prematurely. But neither would he allow lesser boys with familiar names and old ambitions to stake a claim where Draco’s future had always quietly pointed. No—Hermione belonged in their family, and Abraxas intended to make sure nothing, and no one, interfered.

Chapter Text

As time passed, Hermione continued to flourish—her brilliance becoming impossible to ignore. Her intellect shone like a beacon, earning her the admiration of professors who often praised her as the ideal student. To many pure-blood families, she seemed like a portrait of perfection: sharp-witted, composed, and with a family lineage that only heightened her appeal.

Were it not for the ever-watchful presence of the Malfoy brothers at her side, it was whispered that other pure-blood boys would have eagerly vied for her attention.

Despite her occasional sparring matches with James Potter and Sirius Black, everyone knew there was no true animosity behind it. Their exchanges were light-hearted, the pranks harmless—more a sign of mutual respect than rivalry.

Yet what truly set Hermione apart was the company she kept. She was often seen with students many believed unworthy of her—Severus Snape, Lily Evans, a half-blood and a Muggle-born. Over time, the four of them grew inseparable, their bond stronger than the walls that divided their houses. As they walked the castle halls together, students and teachers alike couldn’t help but take notice—proof that for them, blood status and house ties meant little compared to loyalty and shared brilliance.

Lucius stood at a distance, his eyes narrowing as he watched three older students corner Severus in the courtyard. Their voices were sharp, cutting through the chill air like knives.

"Why are you friends with her?"
"You're nothing but a filthy half-blood."
"You shouldn’t even be talking to us."

The words were cruel, venomous. Lucius could see it plainly—Severus didn’t stand a chance. He stood rigid, saying nothing, unable to fight back. It shouldn’t have mattered to Lucius; he didn’t know the boy, didn’t know his background. But he did know Hermione.

And Hermione was like a sister to him.

Lucius sighed, quietly, almost resentfully. Just this once, he told himself, already moving forward.

With cold precision, Lucius stepped between Severus and his tormentors. A single glare was all it took to send them scattering—years of reputation and Malfoy presence doing the work for him.

He turned to Severus, who looked rumpled, shaken, and small in a way that stung Lucius’s pride by association.

“Stand up,” Lucius said coolly. “You’re a Slytherin. Don’t ever let anyone see you like that.”

It wasn’t kindness. It was instruction—survival advice dressed in pride.

He offered Severus a hand, helping him to his feet with effortless grace. Without another word, Lucius turned and walked away, ignoring the soft, almost stunned “Thank you” that followed behind him.

He hadn’t done it for gratitude.

Lucius!”

He heard his name echo across the Slytherin common room, cutting through the low hum of conversation. Looking up, Lucius saw Hermione weaving her way toward him, a warm smile on her face and something tucked carefully in her hands.

He sat with a few of his housemates, their casual conversation faltering as the  girl approached. She was like a ripple in still water—unwelcome to some, impossible to ignore.

Hermione stopped in front of him and held out a small box wrapped neatly in brown parchment.

“My mum sent these,” she said cheerfully. “She remembered how much you liked them the last time you and Draco visited us.”

Lucius accepted the box with practiced coolness, his expression unreadable. The scent of sugar and cinnamon rose from the wrapping, but he gave no hint of delight. Not here. Not in front of them.

“Tell her I said thank you,” he said quietly.

Hermione gave a small nod and turned, waving as she walked off—no doubt headed for the library, as always. And though Lucius tried not to, he caught himself smiling faintly as she disappeared down the corridor.

“You’re so lucky your family’s close with her,” one of his friends muttered.

Lucius turned slowly, his sharp gaze falling on the boy—a silent warning. Don’t start.

The boy raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright.”

“You can’t blame us, Lucius,” Rupert Wilkes chimed in, barely glancing up from his exploding snap cards. “Hermione Dagworth-Granger—she’s like the perfect daughter-in-law material in our parents’ eyes. Smart, respectful, well-connected…”

“Why are you so protective of her anyway?” Alfred Nott asked, narrowing his eyes with curiosity. “Is she promised to you or something?”

Lucius snorted. “No, idiot. She’s like a sister to me.”

But as he leaned back in his chair, arms folded, Lucius couldn’t help but think of how often their parents brought Hermione and Draco together—holidays, summer trips, formal dinners. His father never said it outright, but Lucius knew the Malfoys rarely did anything without purpose.

If there was a plan... it wouldn’t surprise him one bit.

Lucius read his father’s letter with a growing sense of inevitability. It detailed recent meetings with Cygnus Black, in which his father had subtly referenced Cygnus’s daughters—Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa. As if Lucius didn’t know them already. All three had been sorted into Slytherin, for Merlin’s sake, and their names were as familiar to him as the house crest on his school robes. Yet, enclosed with the letter was a small portrait of the girls, a gentle reminder—no, a suggestion.

The letter continued, mentioning a private audience with the patriarch of the Selwyn family, followed by a quiet dinner with an old acquaintance from France, one Montmorency. His father had written glowingly about the daughters of both gentlemen, describing them as charming, well-bred, and suitable. It wasn’t hard to read between the lines: his father had begun the process of arranging Lucius’s future betrothal.

Lucius sat back, the letter still in hand, unsure of what he felt. He didn’t know these girls—not really—but he understood the weight of his name, the expectations woven into every strand of the Malfoy legacy. There was little room for personal desire. So, with the same elegance and restraint his father had instilled in him, Lucius reluctantly penned a reply, agreeing to meet them.

Duty, after all, did not wait for affection.

Sirius crumpled the letter in his fist, the harsh words from his mother still echoing in his mind. Disgrace. Disappointment.Her scorn for his sorting into Gryffindor was laid out in every carefully inked sentence, as cold and sharp as a blade. He liked to pretend it didn’t affect him—to laugh it off, to sneer at the family name he was slowly beginning to resent—but it did bother him. Deeply.

Why couldn’t he have parents like James, warm and proud? Or like Hermione’s, kind and curious, Even Draco’s parents—pure-bloods through and through—had accepted his sorting into Ravenclaw without contempt. But Sirius? Sirius had committed the ultimate betrayal in the eyes of House Black: he’d chosen courage over tradition.

Still, he tried to swallow his sadness, hiding it behind a mask of sarcasm and rebellion. At least Regulus had written. His younger brother’s letter was a small comfort—a rare softness. Regulus had written about his lessons at home, the new book he’d been reading, and had asked about Sirius’s life at Hogwarts. He ended with a simple line that struck Sirius harder than his mother’s venom ever could: I miss you, Brother.

And somehow, that was enough.

Remus Lupin had always considered Hermione more of an acquaintance than a friend. She’d been close to James, which had never come as a surprise—James had once mentioned that their families were close, and in pure-blood circles, that kind of bond often meant inevitable familiarity. Even with Sirius, Hermione had been a regular presence at social gatherings. Though their families weren't particularly close, the shared pure-blood status was often enough to bridge the gap.

Remus had never really expected to get to know her personally—until they were unexpectedly partnered in Herbology. To his surprise, he discovered that Hermione, much like James, had grown up in the pure-blood world but had been raised with humility and a grounded sense of self. The key difference between her and James, however, was her dedication to academics. She took her studies seriously, and Remus found himself admiring that. She was bright, approachable, and carried herself with a quiet confidence that made conversation effortless.

“Are you alright, Remus?” Hermione's voice reached him gently, full of quiet concern.

He looked up and met her gaze, noticing the worry etched in her eyes.

The full moon was just two days away, and its effects had already begun to take their toll. Remus had been dragging his feet since the day before, the familiar exhaustion creeping in earlier than usual.

“You look pale. Maybe we should finish this later?” Hermione offered, her tone soft but insistent.

Remus managed a grateful smile. “I’m alright—just didn’t get much sleep,” he said quickly. “James and Sirius couldn’t stop talking about this new prank we’re planning.”

Hermione frowned, arms crossing. “They’d better not involve me in it. Or else.”

Remus laughed, the sound light despite his weariness. He could still remember all the times James had targeted Hermione with his harmless—if occasionally outrageous—pranks.

“Don’t worry,” Remus said, chuckling, “If they start plotting anything against you, I’ll make sure you get the intel first.”

Her expression softened, and a small smile tugged at her lips. Reaching into her robes, she pulled out two chocolate frogs and handed one to him.

“Here,” she said, popping one into her own mouth. “I always find chocolate helps when I’m feeling low.”

Remus looked at her, the corners of his mouth lifting again—this time with something more than gratitude. “Thanks, Hermione,” he said, unwrapping the chocolate. “I think I needed that more than I realized.”

Chapter Text

This morning, Hermione wasn’t feeling quite herself. A subtle wave of illness had settled over her, and though she didn’t want to worry her parents, she decided to visit Madame Pomfrey quietly to ask for some medicine.

When the matron handed her a small vial of potion, Hermione smiled politely, grateful for the discreet care. But just as she was about to leave, her eyes caught sight of Remus, lying asleep in one of the hospital beds. Concern immediately tugged at her heart.

Curious and worried, she turned to Madame Pomfrey. “What happened to him?”

The matron’s expression softened. “Remus has been feeling ill for a few days now,” she said quietly.

As Madame Pomfrey busied herself with other tasks, Hermione stepped closer to Remus’s bed. She noticed the scratches and fresh wounds scattered along his arms, the marks telling a silent story she didn’t fully understand. Her brow furrowed—why did he have so many scratches?

Without hesitation, Hermione pulled out her quill and parchment. She resolved to write to her mother, who had always kept a supply of a special healing balm—an old family remedy. Hermione was sure it would help soothe Remus’s wounds and ease his discomfort.

Remus woke slowly, the soft morning light streaming through the high windows of the Hogwarts hospital wing, casting golden patterns across the floor. His entire body ached with the lingering pain of last night's transformation—every muscle sore, every wound a dull throb beneath his skin. As he shifted slightly in bed, wincing, something caught his eye: a small wicker basket placed neatly on the bedside table.

Beside it sat a glass bottle filled with pale green ointment, and tucked underneath was a folded note in familiar, neat handwriting.

"Apply this to your wounds—it will help. It’s an old family recipe. Get well soon. —Hermione."

A tired but genuine smile touched Remus’s lips. Her thoughtfulness warmed him more than the sunlight ever could.

“She also left these,” Madame Pomfrey’s voice came gently from nearby. She approached his bed, noticing he was finally awake.

Remus opened the basket, and a rich aroma wafted up—freshly baked bread, warm cinnamon, and something sweet and spiced. His eyes widened slightly in surprise as he took in the assortment of pastries and small wrapped treats nestled inside.

“Very thoughtful girl.” Madame Pomfrey added, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

Remus was still taking it all in when she began casting her usual diagnostic spells, her wand glowing softly as it passed over him.

“Your three friends came by earlier,” she said, a touch of amusement in her voice. “I had to shoo them away—told them you needed rest, not chaos.”

Remus chuckled quietly, though it made his ribs ache.

“You have good friends, Mr. Lupin,” Madame Pomfrey said, her tone a little gentler this time. “Don’t ever forget that.”

As she moved on to check a nearby cabinet, Remus leaned back against his pillow, looking once more at the basket and the bottle of balm. His body was sore, but his heart felt just a little lighter.

“How are your classes?” Lucius asked casually, glancing at his younger brother as they sat by the edge of the Black Lake. The afternoon sun shimmered over the water’s surface, casting soft ripples of light around them.

Draco let out a sigh, tossing a small pebble into the lake. “Extremely dull,” he muttered.

Lucius chuckled under his breath. He knew better. Draco was bright—brilliant, even. Smarter than most boys his age, and more ambitious too.

“Then why do you practically live in the library?” he asked, a teasing note in his voice.

Draco hesitated, then shrugged. “I like doing homework.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow, amused. A poor lie. If he hadn’t known any better, he’d think his little brother’s obsession with books had more to do with a certain brown-haired Slytherin than a love for homework.

“You know,” Lucius said, leaning back on his hands, “you should really have a life outside of her. Hermione’s making new friends. You ought to do the same.”

“I know,” Draco admitted quietly, but didn’t meet his gaze.

Lucius studied him for a moment before speaking again. “Father’s been talking to Cygnus Black.”

Draco looked up, a flicker of understanding passing between them.

“Yeah,” Lucius nodded, “I think he’s arranging betrothal contracts. He’s not just speaking to Cygnus, either—he’s been in talks with other old family friends too.”

There was a brief silence between them, broken only by the gentle lapping of the lake.

“I envy you, Draco,” Lucius said finally, his voice softening. “At least you have Hermione.”

Draco turned to him, thoughtful. “Then tell Father to postpone it. There are plenty of other pure-blood girls I know you’d like.”

Lucius didn’t respond immediately. He only smiled faintly, as if the idea amused and pained him in equal measure.

Before either of them could say more, a soft, melodic voice drifted across the water.

Don’t tickle a sleeping dragon’s nose,
Or follow a Niffler wherever it goes.
Don’t tease a troll—it’s not a game,
And never call a centaur lame.

The lyrics were odd, whimsical—bordering on nonsense. But her voice was clear, ethereal, like something out of a forgotten fairy tale.

Lucius turned his head and found the source: a girl sitting beneath a willow tree, her long, silvery-blonde hair flowing in the breeze. A cat lay curled in her lap, purring contentedly as she absentmindedly stroked its fur.

“That’s Lavinia Lovegood,” Draco said quietly. “She’s my housemate’s sister. Xenophilius.”

Lucius continued to watch her, entranced not only by her strange little song but by the dreamlike quality that seemed to surround her. There was something otherworldly about her—soft, serene, untouched by the world’s expectations.

And for a moment, he forgot all about contracts and expectations.

Lucius had found himself curious—an unfamiliar, unsettling feeling. The object of that curiosity was Lavinia Lovegood, a distant relative on his mother’s side. He’d never met her at any of the grand social functions, nor at the Malfoy galas, where appearances were everything and bloodlines paraded like prized possessions.

But now, in the quiet spaces between his usual routines, she had begun to occupy his thoughts.

After asking discreet questions, he learned she’d been sorted into Hufflepuff—a surprise in itself—and that she had a reputation for being eccentric, but well-liked. Lavinia had a deep fondness for magical creatures and herbology, often seen wandering the edges of the Forbidden Forest or spending hours in the greenhouses with dirt on her hands and a dreamy smile on her face.

And now, here she was—exactly as described. Lucius spotted her in the Hogwarts greenhouse, bent over a cluster of fluttering fanged geraniums, carefully watering them with the precision of someone who truly cared. Her long, silvery hair was tied in a loose braid down her back, wisps escaping to frame her soft features.

Lucius cleared his throat.

She looked up, eyes curious and open.

“They told me you were quite knowledgeable about herbology,” he said, stepping forward. In his hands, he held a strange, warty-looking plant—its color an odd shade of green-gray. “I brought this. Mimbulus Mimbletonia.”

In truth, Lucius had no real interest in plants. But when he learned about her passion, he’d gone to his mother and requested the rarest herbological specimen she could acquire. It had arrived two days later, with detailed instructions and a lingering smell he was still trying to forget.

Lavinia’s face lit up as she approached. “Oh! It’s Mimbulus Mimbletonia,” she said warmly, her eyes moving from the plant to Lucius. “You should be careful—it can emit Stinksap if it feels threatened.”

She reached out delicately, her fingers brushing his as she helped guide the plant onto the table. Her hands were soft, cool, and dirt-stained. Strangely, Lucius didn’t mind. In fact, something shifted in his chest—a quiet, unfamiliar thrum he couldn’t quite name.

“Can... can you teach me how to take care of it?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Lavinia smiled again, a soft, sunlit thing. “Of course.”

She launched into an explanation, pointing out the plant’s sensitive nodes and detailing how to recognize when it was about to spray. She spoke with ease and warmth, clearly in her element. But Lucius wasn’t listening—not really. Her voice became a gentle hum, her words a background melody.

All he could do was watch her—entranced by the way the light danced in her hair, the way her hands moved with purpose, and how effortlessly she seemed to belong in a world he’d never bothered to understand.

And for once, Lucius didn’t care about bloodlines or politics or the rules that had always defined him. In that quiet, sun-dappled greenhouse, all he could see was her.

Time had flown by in the blink of an eye, and just like that, the Christmas holidays had arrived. Hector and Loretta stood eagerly on the platform, their eyes scanning the crowd as they waited for the arrival of their daughter.

"When will Hermione get here?" asked their son, Henry, his voice filled with anticipation as he bounced on his toes beside them.

“Soon enough, son,” Hector replied with a warm smile.

Moments later, the familiar sound of the Hogwarts Express whistled through the crisp winter air. Steam billowed across the platform as the train pulled in, and soon the place was teeming with students returning home for the holidays.

“Mum! Dad!” came a joyful voice cutting through the bustle.

Hermione burst through the crowd, her trunk forgotten for the moment as she ran toward her family. Her parents opened their arms, and she flung herself into their embrace.

“I missed you both so much!” she said, hugging them tightly.

Then, turning to her younger brother, she grinned. “Have you been a good boy, Henry?”

“Of course!” he said proudly, wrapping his arms around her in a hug.

As they laughed and caught up, Hermione’s eyes lit up when she spotted someone behind them. “Mum, Dad—I’d like you to meet my new friends. This is Lily Evans, and this is Severus Snape.”

Lily and Severus approached with polite smiles and shook hands with Hector and Loretta before heading off to find their own families.

Just then, two more boys appeared, making their way through the crowd.

“Draco, Lucius—how are you?” Hector greeted them warmly.

“We're well, thank you, Mr. Dagworth-Granger,” Lucius replied, shaking Hector’s hand with practiced poise. “We hope to see you at the Malfoy ball.”

“Of course,” Hector nodded with a smile. “And you’re welcome at ours as well.”

As they spoke, Abraxas and Aurora arrived to collect Draco and Lucius, their presence marked by elegant robes and an air of quiet authority.

The platform was alive with laughter, warmth, and reunion. Christmas had truly begun.

Chapter Text

Aurora was taken by surprise the day she received a letter from her eldest son. Lucius never wrote to ask for anything—let alone inquire about plants. Yet here he was, requesting the rarest bloom she could find. Without questioning his motives, Aurora had sent the first exquisite specimen that came to mind, still puzzled by the oddity of the request.

It was unlike Lucius. He had never shown the slightest interest in the greenhouse at Malfoy Manor. He used to pass by it without a glance, barely noticing the vibrant colors and delicate scents that Aurora so carefully nurtured. But lately, something had changed.

Her curiosity deepened when Lucius began spending time with her among the plants—asking thoughtful questions about flowering seasons, soil compositions, and the names of her most cherished blossoms. He listened attentively, his usual aloofness softened by an earnest curiosity.

Aurora had a quiet hunch, though she spoke it to no one.

She had seen this before—years ago, in another young man who had suddenly taken an interest in her garden for reasons that had little to do with flora. Abraxas had once feigned an interest in her roses just to steal a few more minutes of her company. Now, Lucius was doing the same.

Only a girl, Aurora thought with a knowing smile, could inspire her son to care about plants.

Her suspicions only grew as preparations for the annual Malfoy Ball began. Lucius had never concerned himself with the event beyond what was expected, yet this year, he took an unusual interest—especially in the invitations. He oversaw every detail, from the parchment’s embossing to the final count of guests.

It did not escape Aurora’s notice that an extra invitation had been added to the usual list. Just one.

It was a small detail, but enough to make her smile.

“Is that one of your distant relatives?” Abraxas asked, his voice low as he leaned slightly toward his wife.

Aurora followed his gaze across the ballroom, her eyes settling on the young girl twirling gracefully in Lucius’ arms.

“Yes,” she replied softly, a faint smile touching her lips. “She was.”

Her gaze lingered, watching the pair with quiet wonder.

Lucius was dancing—truly dancing—not just going through the practiced motions expected of a pureblood heir at such events. He wasn’t stiff or guarded, as he usually was when paired with carefully selected daughters of old families. Tonight, he moved with ease, his posture relaxed, his expression open. He was smiling—genuinely, freely.

Aurora couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him like this.

The girl laughed at something he said, and Lucius leaned in slightly, eyes bright with boyish delight. It was a side of her son rarely seen beneath the layers of composure and formality he’d been taught to wear like armor.

Aurora’s heart swelled, touched by the scene.

For a moment, it was as if she were looking into a memory—one from long ago, when she and Abraxas had shared stolen glances and hesitant touches in candlelit ballrooms. She had once danced like that too, carefree and wide-eyed, in the arms of the man she now stood beside.

And now, her son was doing the same.

Lucius walked slowly beside Lavinia, his hand gently guiding her forward while his other carefully shielded her eyes.

“Almost there,” he murmured softly, a hint of excitement in his voice. “Just a few more steps…”

She laughed quietly, trusting him, her hand curled around his arm.

Then, he stopped.

“Here we are,” Lucius said, his voice warm and full of anticipation. He slowly lifted his hands from her eyes.

Lavinia blinked, her eyes adjusting to the soft golden glow before her. Her breath caught.

The Malfoy greenhouse had been transformed. Twinkling fairy lights and delicate lanterns hung between the iron arches, casting gentle pools of light over the lush greenery. Exotic flowers, many in full bloom, lined the walkways in vivid splashes of color—orchids, moonflowers, night-blooming jasmine. Their delicate fragrances mingled in the air, creating a heady perfume.

In the background, soft instrumental music played, weaving through the warm stillness of the evening.

“All of your favorite plants are here,” Lucius said, almost shyly, rubbing the back of his neck. “My mother tends to them. I thought… I thought you might like to see them.”

He spoke quickly, as if unsure of himself—something so rare in the usually composed young man. Lavinia didn’t respond immediately, just looked up at him, her eyes filled with quiet affection.

Then, without a word, she rose on her toes and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

It was brief—just a heartbeat—but it said everything she couldn’t yet put into words. Gratitude for the surprise. For his friendship. For his constant, quiet presence.

“Thank you ,” she whispered.

Lucius blinked, then smiled—truly smiled—with a tenderness he didn’t show to the world beyond her.

“For eveything,” Lavinia said, her voice warm.

He reached for her hand, and together, they stepped deeper into the glowing garden. There, surrounded by blossoms and moonlight, they talked—about nothing and everything—for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

His absence did not go unnoticed. Abraxas Malfoy’s sharp eyes caught the empty place where Lucius should have been, and the disappointment in his voice was unmistakable when he finally confronted his son.

“You are the Malfoy heir,” Abraxas said coldly, his tone laced with reprimand. “You cannot simply vanish on the night of the Malfoy Ball.”

Lucius lowered his gaze, feeling the weight of his father’s expectations pressing down on him. Yet, beneath the sting of the scolding, a small, secret smile lingered. The truth was, he didn’t regret a single moment of the evening he had just spent — the night he had shared with Lavinia. They had spoken for hours, delving into everything from their dreams to their fears, and Lucius had almost wished time would stop, so the night would never end.

His father’s voice cut through his thoughts. “What is her name?”

The question pulled Lucius back to reality. “Lavinia,” he said quietly, “Lavinia Lovegood.” There was no point pretending — Abraxas already knew.

“Invite her here next Saturday,” Abraxas commanded before dismissing his son with a curt nod.

As soon as he stepped out of his father’s study, his mother was waiting for him, her presence a soft balm to the sting of his father’s reprimand. She reached out gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“Your father is only doing what he believes is right,” she said quietly, her voice warm and steady. “He wants to protect your reputation, even if it doesn’t always feel that way.”

After a few moments of silence, they moved to the sunroom, where the afternoon light spilled in through tall windows. Over delicate china cups filled with steaming tea, Aurora finally broke the quiet.

“So,” she said, a playful smile tugging at her lips as she took a sip, “is she the reason you’ve suddenly taken an interest in my gardening?”

Lucius smiled faintly, his eyes meeting hers. He didn’t need to say a word — his mother already knew.

“And what is her favorite flower?” Aurora pressed, her curiosity gentle but persistent.

Lucius’s face softened as he spoke, the usual reserve giving way to something more tender. “The Fairy Rose,” he said, the name slipping off his tongue like a secret treasure.

Aurora watched him closely, her heart warming at the way he lit up over such a small detail, proof of the affection blooming quietly inside him.

Hermione’s lips curved into a gentle smile as one of her father’s old friends arrived at their  home—Democles Belby, a fellow potioneer known for his meticulous craft. The air was tinged with the faint scent of herbs and alchemical ingredients as Democles came seeking her father’s expert opinion on a complex potion he had been tirelessly working on.

Later that evening, as the family gathered around the dinner table, her father shared the intriguing purpose behind Democles’s latest creation: the Wolfsbane Potion. He explained it was no cure for lycanthropy, but a carefully brewed elixir designed to help afflicted wizards maintain some control during the harrowing nights of the full moon.

Hermione had never truly considered the plight of werewolves before, but as her father spoke, she learned of the immense challenges they endured—not only the agonizing transformations but also the harsh judgment and fear they faced from society.

A pang of sympathy stirred within her. “Does their condition affect their everyday lives? Can they still work and live normally?” she asked quietly.

Her father nodded reassuringly. “For the most part, they are just like anyone else. Their affliction only takes hold during the full moon, when the potion can ease their suffering.”

Hermione’s mind raced with thoughts. If this was true, then perhaps the fear and mistrust surrounding werewolves were misplaced, and people had little reason to worry.

Hermione and Draco strolled through the lush gardens of the Dagworth-Granger estate when they spotted Hermione’s father, Hector, walking alongside Democles and an unfamiliar man.

Without hesitation, Hermione hurried toward them to greet her father and his guests. She couldn’t help but notice the stranger’s pale complexion and the network of scars etched across his face and hands. His clothes, though decent, looked worn and threadbare, hinting at a hard life.

“This is a friend,” Democles introduced softly. “Thomas Clark.” Hermione offered a warm smile to Thomas, who returned it with quiet gratitude.

Curiosity getting the better of them, Hermione and Draco decided to follow the group discreetly as they made their way to her father’s potion lab. Peering through a partially open door, they caught snippets of the conversation inside.

“How did the potion work?” Democles asked.

Thomas’s voice was steady but tinged with relief. “It helped with my transformation. It didn’t hurt as much, and there was a brief moment when I felt like myself again.”

“That’s wonderful to hear,” Hermione’s father said. “Now, we just need to adjust the ingredients to make sure the effect lasts longer.”

Hector’s eyes softened as they fell on Thomas’s wounds “Did you manage to treat those wounds?” Without waiting for a reply, he pulled a small jar of ointment from a cabinet and handed it over. “Here—this is a special remedy from our family. It helps wounds heal faster.”

They heard Thomas murmur his thanks, gratitude evident in his tone.

Hermione and Draco leaned in a little closer, eager to catch more, when suddenly a sharp “Hmm” interrupted them.

“Hermione,” her mother’s voice chided from behind, “what did I tell you about eavesdropping on adult conversations?”

It was a quiet Saturday evening when Draco received an unexpected surprise: his housemate, Xenophilius Lovegood and his older sister, Lavinia, were standing in the grand foyer of the Malfoy Manor.

At first, he assumed it must have been his mother who had extended the invitation—after all, the Lovegoods were distant relations, and Aurora had always been gracious about such ties. But when he learned it was actually Lucius who had invited them, Draco’s surprise deepened into something closer to disbelief.

From the shadows of the drawing room, Draco observed the scene unfolding before him. Lucius—elegant, composed, and so often cold—was speaking to Lavinia with a gentleness Draco couldn’t ever recall seeing in his previous life. There was a softness in his eyes, a carefulness in his tone, as though she were something fragile he didn’t want to shatter.

Draco narrowed his gaze slightly, a flicker of unease creeping through him. What happened between them in his previous life? he wondered. What changed Lucius so completely?

The question lingered in the air, unanswered

Abraxas Malfoy sat alone in his study, quietly sipping firewhisky as the flickering flames of the fireplace cast long shadows across the room. His thoughts drifted, not to politics or power, but to dinner—and more specifically, to the young woman that joined them that evening.

Lucius, his only son, had invited a girl—Lavinia Lovegood—the first, Abraxas noted, to ever truly capture his interest. She was a pure-blood, certainly, and even a distant relative of his late wife’s lineage. Yet, despite the technical pedigree, Abraxas remained unconvinced.

Lavinia came from the lesser branch of the Lovegood family, a line marked more by eccentricity than influence. He’d heard troubling whispers: that her father had squandered their fortune on reckless wagers, leaving the family barely scraping by. Hardly the kind of legacy he wished to align the Malfoy name with.

His intentions for Lucius had always been clear—Narcissa Black, one of Cygnus Black’s daughters. A union with the House of Black would elevate their prestige and secure the Malfoy legacy for generations to come. It was a match of power, tradition, and mutual ambition.

But Lucius had shown genuine interest in Lavinia. And that complicated things.

Abraxas could not, in good conscience, ignore his son’s heart—not entirely. Yet the weight of legacy pressed heavily on his shoulders. Lavinia might offer affection, but Narcissa offered alliance.

And as the fire crackled and his glass grew empty, Abraxas Malfoy remained undecided. He only wanted what was best for his son.

Chapter Text

Hermione beamed with excitement as she waited eagerly for her friends to arrive at her house. True to her promise, she had invited Lily and Severus over for the afternoon. The warm glow of anticipation sparkled in her eyes.

“You’re practically bursting with excitement,” Draco teased from his seat in the foyer, a knowing grin playing on his lips.

Suddenly, the flicker of green flames signaled their arrival. Hermione couldn’t contain herself and threw her arms around Lily and Severus in a warm, welcoming hug.

Draco smiled with quiet amusement as he stood to greet the newcomers himself. Lily and Hermione exchanged cheerful laughs in greeting, while Severus, ever reserved, offered a small but sincere smile. Hermione quickly ushered them to meet her parents.

“My Hermione tells me you’re quite gifted with potions,” Hector remarked over lunch, his tone friendly and genuine.

Severus felt a faint blush creep up his cheeks but composed himself to thank Hector for the potions book he had sent. Hector chuckled warmly, putting him at ease.

Lily and Severus exchanged surprised glances when they realized how well-versed Hector and Loretta were in some Muggle customs. Hector explained that his family had partnered with Muggles in business ventures, so they were familiar with the non-magical world. This revelation eased the tension—after all, not all pureblood families were comfortable discussing Muggle life.

The conversation flowed effortlessly, shifting to favorite subjects and holiday tales.

Later that afternoon, Hector proudly led the children on a tour of his potions lab. Lily and Hermione laughed as Severus’ eyes practically popped out of his head, marveling at the endless rows of bubbling cauldrons, shelves packed with mysterious ingredients, and countless ancient tomes.

When they moved into the library, it was Severus’s turn to chuckle as Lily gaped at the sheer size of the collection.

“You should see Draco’s library,” Hermione said with a grin. “It’s twice as big as this one.” Lily’s eyes widened even further.

The children spent the day catching up, swapping stories about their families and adventures. At one point, Hector invited Severus to join him in the potions lab again. Severus eagerly watched as Hector brewed intricate concoctions, even leaving with a few well-worn potion books from Hector’s personal collection.

Just like that, it was time to return to Hogwarts. Draco found himself seated not only beside Hermione but also with Lily and Severus. The four of them chatted animatedly as the train began to move, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels setting the pace for their lively conversation.

In another compartment, a different kind of magic was blossoming. Lucius and Lavinia sat close together, the usual group of friends Lucius spent time with replaced by Lavinia’s warm presence.

“I miss you,” Lucius whispered, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Lavinia’s lips.

She smiled softly in return. “We’ve been exchanging letters,” she replied, her eyes shining.

“Yeah, but that’s not the same,” Lucius murmured, reaching into his robes and pulling out a small, carefully wrapped box. He handed it to her.

Lavinia’s breath caught as she opened it, revealing a delicate bracelet shaped like intertwining flowers, each petal adorned with gleaming emeralds.

“Lucius, it’s beautiful,” she breathed, her eyes lifting to meet his with gratitude.

He smiled warmly before taking the bracelet and gently clasping it around her wrist.

“It reminded me of your eyes,” he said softly, his gaze locking with her shimmering emerald eyes.

Unable to resist, Lavinia kissed him again, a silent thank you passing between them.

The rest of the journey slipped away as they talked and laughed, wrapped up in the newness of their growing bond.

Draco hesitated for a moment before opening the door, hearing his Head of House’s calm voice say, “Come in.”

Inside, Filius Flitwick was buried in a mountain of papers, his tiny hands moving quickly to grade them. But the moment Draco stepped inside, Flitwick looked up, pausing his work with a welcoming smile.

“Come, Mr. Malfoy, have a seat,” Flitwick said, motioning toward the chair opposite his desk.

Draco moved forward, settling into the chair with a mix of curiosity and unease.

“You called for me, sir?” Draco asked, his voice steady but cautious.

“Yes, about that,” Flitwick began, folding his hands on the desk. “I wanted to tell you that I’ve been quite impressed with your performance so far. Your other teachers have spoken very highly of you.”

Draco’s lips twitched in a small, polite smile. “Thank you, sir.”

Flitwick’s eyes softened, studying Draco thoughtfully. “However, I’ve noticed something... it’s as if you’re holding back. Is there something troubling you? I sense a great potential in you, one that isn’t fully realized.”

Draco blinked, caught off guard. He searched for the right words but found none. “I guess... I didn’t really have a reason to push myself,” he admitted quietly.

Flitwick raised an eyebrow, a hint of gentle surprise in his expression. “That’s an unusual thing to say, Mr. Malfoy.”

“What’s so unusual about that, sir?” Draco asked, genuine curiosity flickering in his eyes.

Flitwick leaned forward slightly, his voice gentle but earnest. “Well, students come to Hogwarts to learn, yes, but also to prove something—whether it’s to honor their family, to challenge themselves, or to secure a better future.” He paused, searching Draco’s face. “Tell me, Mr. Malfoy, why do you think you’re here?”

Draco furrowed his brow, considering the question deeply. He thought about the reason he and Hermione had returned—their shared hope to change the future. After a moment, he answered sincerely, “I suppose... for a better future, sir.”

Flitwick’s eyes softened as he met Draco’s gaze, sensing that the answer carried more weight beneath the surface—something profound yet unspoken. For now, he chose to leave it there.

“I understand, Mr. Malfoy,” Flitwick said kindly. “I truly hope this time you will give your very best for the future you genuinely desire.”

Narcissa watched silently as Lucius Malfoy strode out of their common room, his movements smooth and assured, like a man accustomed to command. She had been told by her parents that she was to be betrothed to him—a future carefully planned and expected. But the recent gossip she had overheard unsettled her deeply.

They said someone else had caught Lucius Malfoy’s attention: Lavinia Lovegood. Narcissa frowned, questioning what Lucius could possibly see in that girl. Yes, Lavinia was the same age and a pureblood like herself, but beyond that, their worlds couldn’t be more different.

Narcissa wasn’t sure how to feel. She had never believed she truly had a choice when it came to betrothal or love. She dreaded becoming like her sister Andromeda, who had defied the family by marrying Ted Tonks, a Muggle-born. Now Andromeda’s portrait was burned from the family tree at Grimmauld Place, and she was all but erased from her parents’ lives.

Narcissa would wait and bide her time. She trusted her parents to arrange what was best for her, and if they said Lucius Malfoy was her future, then she would not allow one Lavinia Lovegood—or anyone else—to stand in her way.

Chapter Text

Sirius nervously tugged at the his shirt, trying to hide the dark bruise his mother had left on his skin. But it was no use—Remus had already seen it. The boy didn’t say a word; he simply approached, his expression calm and steady. Without a word, Remus reached into his bag and pulled out a small bottle of ointment. Gently, he tugged at Sirius’s shirt to expose the bruise, then carefully began to apply the soothing balm.

Neither of them spoke. Their silence held everything that needed to be said—the quiet understanding, the unspoken comfort. In that stillness, Sirius felt a small flicker of relief.

James Potter had begun to notice a pattern—at oddly specific times, Remus Lupin would fall ill or mysteriously disappear to the hospital wing. What struck James as even stranger were the subtle symptoms that seemed to appear just before it happened: fatigue, restlessness, and a distant look in Remus’s eyes. It didn’t seem like ordinary sickness. James had a hunch, but he wasn’t ready to jump to conclusions—not without being sure.

He remembered a book he had once read as a child, out of sheer boredom during a quiet afternoon in the Potter family library. The book had been titled The Dark Creatures of the Magical World, and nestled within its pages was a section on werewolves. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time—but now, the details came rushing back with eerie clarity.

And the more he thought about it, the more the pieces began to fit.

Peter watched from across the common room as his three friends burst into laughter, a game of Exploding Snap erupting in sparks and playful taunts between them. He’d just returned from a quiet conversation with Professor McGonagall, who had asked him to stay behind after class.

She was kind, but firm—concerned about his slipping grades. Peter knew she was right. He wasn’t brilliant like Sirius or James, who barely had to try. He wasn’t focused and book-smart like Remus, either. He was just... Peter. Peter Pettigrew. A half-blood boy who still couldn't quite believe he was lucky enough to be counted among them.

He’d nodded and promised McGonagall he’d try harder, try to take things seriously. But deep down, he knew it was unlikely to change. So instead, he pushed the thoughts aside and crossed the room, forcing a smile as he dropped down beside his friends—eager to laugh, to belong, and just for a while, to forget.

Remus looked up from his notes and smiled warmly as Hermione approached their table in the library. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, dust motes dancing in the air as she slid into the seat across from him. They had arranged to meet and work on their joint Herbology project, but Remus found himself genuinely glad for the company.

“How was your Christmas, Hermione?” he asked, his tone bright and welcoming.

“It was great! Lily and Severus visited our house!” she said enthusiastically, her eyes lighting up as she launched into a detailed account of her holiday.

Remus listened with quiet interest, occasionally smiling at her stories. But then she mentioned a man named Damocles Belby, and how he had been experimenting with a potion to help those afflicted with lycanthropy.

Remus stiffened.

His breath caught, and for a brief, terrifying moment, he wondered if she knew. Had she figured it out? Was this her way of bringing it up?

But Hermione simply continued her story, entirely unaware of the panic flickering in his chest. She was focused on the ethics of potion-making and the magical theory behind Belby’s work, not on him.

Relief washed over Remus, and he exhaled slowly, careful not to let it show.

He never wanted anyone to know—not out of shame, but because he hated the idea of being a burden. He’d seen the toll it had taken on his parents: the worry, the late nights, the constant vigilance. He didn’t want anyone else—especially his friends—to feel that weight. And more than anything, he feared what they might think if they knew the truth.

So, he stayed quiet, offered a thoughtful nod, and let Hermione talk—grateful, for now, that the secret was still his to keep.

Chapter Text

February 14, 1972

Hermione was enjoying a quiet morning in the Great Hall, happily tucking into her breakfast while the warm hum of chatter echoed around her. The enchanted ceiling above shimmered with a soft, wintery light, casting a gentle glow over the long house tables.

Suddenly, the flutter of wings drew her gaze upward. A large tawny owl swooped down gracefully, clutching a massive parcel in its talons. With a dramatic thud, it dropped the package right in front of her, scattering a few toast crumbs.

Startled but curious, Hermione leaned forward and tore open the brown wrapping. Inside, she found a stack of neatly folded parchment—letters from her parents. Her heart swelled as she read their words wishing her a happy birthday. A smile crept across her face, though it trembled slightly. This was her first birthday away from home—from her mum, her dad, and her brother. She missed them deeply.

Beneath the letters lay a small, velvet box. Carefully, she opened it to reveal a brooch—gleaming and intricate, bearing the Dagworth-Granger family crest.

She studied it closely. The crest was divided into four quarters. Two displayed golden pavilions—elegant, tent-like structures—set against a rich blue background, symbols of home, unity, and protection. The other two quarters bore lush green laurel wreaths on a field of white, representing honor, achievement, and the legacy of triumph.

It was more than a gift. It was a piece of her family—a reminder of who she was and where she came from. The Dagworth-Grangers, known for their deep-rooted traditions in potion-making and academia, had passed on a legacy of strength tempered with grace. And now, in the heart of Hogwarts, Hermione held it close.

Lavinia couldn’t help but laugh, warm and breathless, as she pulled away from Lucius once again. Somehow, they had ended up snogging in the middle of the Hogwarts greenhouse—for the third time that afternoon—when he was supposed to be helping her care for the plants.

“I thought you were going to help me with my essay,” she said, her voice soft with affection as she looked up at him. Her fingers drifted gently across his cheek, lingering for a moment as she admired the way the soft greenhouse light kissed the angles of his face.

Lucius gave her that rare, boyish smile—the one he reserved only for her. Without thinking, he caught her hand in his and brought it to his lips, brushing a slow kiss over her knuckles. “I am helping,” he said smoothly, though mischief danced in his pale eyes.

Lavinia laughed and pulled her hand away with playful resistance. “We haven’t finished it!”

He sighed in mock defeat, chuckling. “Okay, okay. Let’s do it—”

But then he paused, reaching into the inside pocket of his robes. “—before I forget.”

With a faint rustle of fabric, he pulled out a small, velvet-wrapped box and handed it to her.

Lavinia blinked in surprise, her smile softening as she opened it. Nestled inside were a pair of stunning emerald earrings—delicate, gleaming, and unmistakably elegant. They matched the bracelet he’d given her weeks ago, a quiet symbol of something deeper between them.

She looked up at him, brows lifted in question.

Lucius shifted, almost sheepishly. “Happy Valentine’s Day… I guess.” His voice was low, a little rough around the edges. He never cared for these kinds of celebrations. But ever since Lavinia had stepped into his life, he found himself looking for reasons to give her things—to see that look in her eyes.

She didn’t say a word. Instead, she leaned in and kissed him again—grateful, tender, full of the kind of affection words couldn’t quite carry.

It deepened quickly, their surroundings melting away—the earthy scent of herbs, the faint hum of magical flora—forgotten, just like the half-written essay waiting on the nearby table.

"Guys, I think she’s coming—get ready!" Lily whispered urgently to her friends, Severus and Draco, as they scrambled to finish the final touches. The room was filled with a quiet buzz of excitement, flickering candlelight, and the faint scent of sweet potions lingering in the air. They were in the potions lab—normally cold and clinical, but now transformed into something warm and magical for Hermione’s surprise birthday celebration.

Thankfully, Lucius had managed to charm Professor Slughorn into lending them the space. It hadn’t taken much persuasion—Slughorn was always fond of a good gathering, especially when it involved his favorite students. With his approval secured, Lily had enlisted Draco and Severus to help pull everything together.

And since Hermione had recently been growing closer to Remus, Lily had made sure to invite him too. Sirius, James, and Peter, of course, had insisted on tagging along—uninvited, but somehow still welcome.

The entire plan hinged on Horace Slughorn’s subtle distraction. He had called Hermione in under the pretense of discussing an academic matter—nothing out of the ordinary, just enough to lure her to the lab without suspicion.

And then, the door creaked open.

The moment Hermione stepped inside, the lights flared softly and a chorus of voices rang out in unison:
"Happy Birthday!"

Her eyes widened in surprise, mouth parting in shock before the warmest of smiles spread across her face. For a moment, she just stood there, overwhelmed—and utterly delighted.

Hermione watched her friends chatting and laughing, their faces glowing with joy as they celebrated her birthday. The surprise had caught her completely off guard, but a warm sense of gratitude bloomed inside her. She hadn’t expected this—had never imagined anyone would go to such lengths—but she cherished every moment.

Professor Slughorn, ever the proud Head of House and longtime family friend, lingered nearby, his eyes twinkling as he wished her a heartfelt happy birthday. Even Lucius made a brief appearance, arriving with Lavinia. Though their visit was fleeting, Lucius’s rare, almost reluctant smile as he handed her a neatly wrapped gift made Hermione’s chest tighten in quiet appreciation.

The gifts piled around her were as diverse as the people who gave them. Lily had gifted her a well-worn Muggle fantasy novel, its pages brimming with adventure and magic of a different kind. Severus had presented her with a delicate scarf, hand-knitted by his mother—simple but filled with quiet thoughtfulness. Remus handed over a box of Chocolate Frogs, his shy smile tugging at her heart.

Even Sirius and James, ever the pranksters, managed to bring gifts—though their offerings were more mischievous than sweet: dungbombs and decoy detonators that had Hermione laughing aloud despite herself.

When Hermione carefully unwrapped Draco’s gift, she gasped. Inside lay a golden locket, shining softly in the dim light. Her fingers trembled as she opened it, revealing a  photograph of her parents.

“Draco, are you trying to win best gift or something?” Sirius teased, eyeing the locket.

Draco only smiled, his expression unreadable but undeniably pleased.

Hermione traced the delicate pictures of her mother and father, she misses them more than she realize. She glanced up at Draco, gratitude shining in her eyes. Somehow, he always gave the most meaningful gifts—gifts that spoke louder than words ever could.

Chapter Text

Narcissa glanced at Lucius, noting the distant look in his eyes. His attention, though technically fixed on her, clearly wandered elsewhere — not that she was entirely surprised. She had a suspicion as to what preoccupied him.

They had met that afternoon at Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop, a place Narcissa would never have chosen under normal circumstances. Its frilly decor and saccharine atmosphere were hardly to her taste. But given the limited options — either Madam Puddifoot’s or The Three Broomsticks — she had reluctantly opted for the more "respectable" venue. At least at Puddifoot’s, the likelihood of being seen by the right sort of people was marginally better.

Her father had written to her just days before, informing her in his typically formal tone that Lucius Malfoy would be extending an invitation for Hogsmeade weekend. The date would, of course, be chaperoned — Eleanor Rosier, a close friend and a trusted presence, had agreed to accompany them.

They had spent the afternoon discussing the usual topics — family values, personal aspirations, and the expectations placed upon them as members of old, noble bloodlines. Lucius responded to her questions with perfect politeness, his answers polished and precise. But Narcissa could sense the lifelessness beneath the surface. It felt more like an interview than a conversation.

She was under no illusions — Lucius was here out of duty, and truth be told, so was she. But at least she made the effort to appear engaged, to feign interest in his measured replies and cool manner. As the outing drew to a close, Narcissa sipped the last of her over-sweet tea and stood with practiced grace.

Despite everything, she couldn't help but feel a flicker of disappointment. Whether it was in him, the afternoon, or herself — she wasn’t entirely sure.

Bellatrix Lestrange, née Black, stood before the mirror, her dark eyes studying her reflection with quiet intensity. Her robes, finely tailored and rich with intricate embroidery, clung to her like a second skin, accentuating every elegant curve. The candlelight danced across the fabric, casting flickering shadows that made her look even more otherworldly—dangerous and divine.

Behind her, Rodolphus Lestrange stepped forward silently, his presence marked only by the subtle shift of the air and the warmth of his hand as it settled possessively on her hip.

"You look exquisite," he murmured, pressing a reverent kiss to her bare shoulder. "He will be pleased."

She met his gaze in the mirror, a slow smile curling her lips.

Rodolphus had spoken often of the man they were about to meet—the man. A leader, a visionary. The future of their kind. He had told her this man would bring about a new era—one where the old bloodlines would reign again, untainted by Mudbloods and traitors. A world cleansed of weakness, ruled by those born to wield true power.

And tonight, she would meet him.

The moment Bellatrix laid eyes on him, she knew—he was the one her husband had spoken of in breathless, almost sacred tones. But words had not done him justice.

He stood like a shadow made flesh—tall, pale, and terrible, with eyes that cut through flesh and soul alike. Power clung to him, not like a cloak, but like a storm waiting to be unleashed. This was no mere man. This was the harbinger of the new world.

Their world.

The one who would burn the rot from within—the Mudbloods, the traitors, the filth. He would purify their sacred bloodlines and return magic to those who deserved it.

Bellatrix felt his magic before he even spoke, like dark silk brushing against her skin, then sinking deeper—seeping into her veins, her bones, her breath. It coiled around her heart like a serpent and squeezed until she could barely stand.

She felt drunk on him. Addicted before the first word fell from his lips.

And then he said her name.

"Bella."

So soft, so intimate, it was as if he had peeled back her soul and branded it.

In that moment, Bellatrix knew with terrifying clarity: she would never serve another.

Not her husband. Not her family.

Only him.

Lord Voldemort was not just her master.

He was her purpose.

Her obsession.

Her god.

Bellatrix felt his hands—cold and commanding—as he adjusted her stance, correcting every inch of her posture with deliberate precision.

“You have to feel it,” her Lord whispered, his voice a venomous hiss close to her ear. “The fire... the heat... let it consume you.”

His words slithered beneath her skin, igniting something far beyond the dull embers of the nights she’d spent with her husband. Rodolphus’s touch had never stirred this dark inferno. This was different—primal, intoxicating, absolute.

She closed her eyes, breath hitching, and let the whispered incantation spill from trembling lips: “Fiendfyre.”

When she opened them, a monstrous blaze roared from her wand—a serpent of living flame coiling and twisting with lethal grace. The inferno cast flickering shadows that danced wickedly in her eyes, illuminating depths of power she had never dared to explore.

And then she felt it—his hand, colder than ice yet burning with unyielding strength, clasping hers.

“Control it,” he commanded, his voice low and iron-hard. “Bend it to your will, so nothing survives your wrath.”

Their eyes locked—hers wide with raw hunger, his dark and infinite—an unspoken pact forged in the fire’s hellish glow.

In that moment, Bellatrix knew she was no longer merely a follower. She was a weapon.

And he was the hand that would wield her.

Andromeda sat quietly in the stillness of her humble home, her hands gently resting on the soft curve of the life growing within her. A tender calm surrounded her as she traced slow circles over her swelling belly, feeling the faint, hopeful flutter of new beginnings.

Earlier, Ted had kissed her softly goodbye before leaving for work, leaving her alone in the quiet house. She had written letters to her parents, though she knew they would never answer—not even her closest sister, Narcissa.

A heavy ache settled deep in her chest, a grief born from the fracture of family ties. Must I lose everything to finally have something with Ted Tonks? she wondered, the weight of loneliness mingling with fragile hope.

Chapter Text

It was their third meeting, yet Narcissa saw no sign of change in her fractured relationship with Lucius. He remained polite, measured, but distant—an icy barrier she couldn’t seem to breach. The coldness between them gnawed at her, frustration coiling tighter with each encounter, more than she dared to admit.

Adding salt to the wound, Eleanor had whispered cruel news: Lucius was still seeing Lavinia Lovegood.

As their trip neared its end, Narcissa and Eleanor sought a small reprieve at Honeydukes, hoping that sweet treats might offer some distraction from her troubled thoughts.

But the moment she spotted Lavinia in the shop, carefree and smiling as she chose sugar quills, Narcissa’s heart clenched. She was about to slip away unnoticed when a sharp, bitter impulse stopped her in her tracks.

“That’s a beautiful bracelet you have there,” Narcissa said, her smile tight and hollow, masking the venom beneath.

“Thank you,” Lavinia replied, unaware of the undercurrent in Narcissa’s words.

“It must be comforting for you and your family,” Narcissa continued, the poison seeping through every syllable. “Did your father finally manage to win a bet?”

Lavinia blinked, confusion clouding her face.

“I’m sorry?” she asked, uncertain of the sudden hostility.

“Or did you find a new source of income for your father?” Narcissa said coldly, her fingers curling around Lavinia’s wrist, drawing attention to the gleaming bracelet—Lucius’s gift—encircling it like a branded mark.

Now Lavinia understood. The implication hung heavy in the air: she was being accused of using Lucius for his wealth.

A lump swelled in her throat. Without a word, she excused herself, pulling her jumper tighter around her as if to shield herself from the harsh sting of Narcissa’s words.

Her steps quickened, driven by a desperate need to escape. In her rush, she didn’t hear Lucius calling her name, the concern in his voice lost to the pounding of her own heart as she fled back toward Hogwarts.

Sirius stood just outside the shop, his arms crossed and a smirk playing on his lips as he stared through the fogged window of Madam Puddifoot’s. The place looked like a sugar-coated nightmare—lace curtains, heart-shaped confetti still clinging to the glass, and enough pink to make him gag. Inside, sipping tea like they owned the place, sat Lucius Malfoy and his cousin Narcissa. They looked perfectly composed, perfectly pureblood.

His nose wrinkled in distaste. Of course they'd choose this place.

“Oi, isn’t that your cousins?” James said, elbowing him as he squinted into the reflection in the window.

“Which cousins?” asked Remus, arriving just behind them with Peter in tow.

“Sirius’s,” James replied, nodding toward the couple inside. “Do you think they’re courting?”

“Maybe,” Sirius said lazily, as though the idea bored him. “Heard my mother rambling about it last week.”

“But I saw Lucius with another girl not long ago,” Peter piped up, his brow furrowed.

“Yeah,” Remus added thoughtfully, “Lavinia Lovegood, right? They were in Hogsmeade together last Hogsmeade weekend. Holding hands, if I remember right.”

Sirius shrugged, keeping his expression indifferent. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

But that wasn’t entirely true.

Inwardly, Sirius remembered what Remus said. He had seen Lucius with Lavinia—not just together, but watching her. The kind of look that spoke more than polite interest. Narcissa, for all her composure and beauty, didn’t stand a chance against that. Not if the Malfoy heir had already made up his mind.

Still, Sirius knew better than to expect things to be that simple. Toujours pur. His family’s motto echoed in his mind like a curse. The Blacks wouldn’t let someone like Lucius Malfoy drift out of reach. If it came down to it, someone would make sure Narcissa ended up with him—whether Lucius liked it or not.

Sirius let out a breath, watching it cloud the glass. He wasn’t sure if he should feel sorry for Narcissa… or for Lavinia.

Lucius hovered in midair on his broomstick, suspended between sky and earth, the wind tousling his pale hair as he tried to quiet his mind. Flying was one of the few things that brought him solace—a fleeting sense of peace in the chaos of his thoughts.

Lately, both his heart and mind had been in turmoil.

He had agreed—grudgingly—to his father’s request to meet Narcissa Black, the first step in what was clearly intended to be a formal courtship. Though the idea irritated him, he went along with it. It was expected. And Lucius Malfoy had always done what was expected.

Narcissa Black… There was no denying her grace. She carried herself with elegance, all refined beauty and cold ambition. A quintessential Slytherin. Once, he might have found that appealing. In fact, a few years ago, he might have considered her his perfect match.

But that was before Lavinia.

Their meetings had been polite, even promising. Narcissa’s ambitions mirrored his own. He could already envision how well she would wear the title of Lady Malfoy—graceful, composed, and calculating. She was everything a pure-blood heir could want in a wife.

And yet… Lucius no longer wanted perfection. Not when he had tasted something real.

Lavinia was everything Narcissa wasn’t—fierce where she was restrained, untamed where she was poised.

They clashed, and yet, when they were together, it felt like they belonged. She grounded him. Challenged him. Made him imagine a different kind of life—one not ruled by duty, but by desire, by something raw and true.

But lately, something had shifted.

She had grown distant. The gifts he’d given her had disappeared, and a shadow lingered in her eyes—a sadness he couldn’t name, let alone fix. It gnawed at him, this helplessness. He wished he knew what was wrong. Wished he could reach her.

But all he had now was the sky, the wind, and a heart full of questions.

Chapter Text

Lucius stood in the warm, earthy air of the Hogwarts greenhouse, helping Lavinia tend to the plants Professor Sprout had entrusted to her care. The late afternoon light filtered through the glass panes, casting golden patterns over the soil and leaves. They worked quietly for a while, the rustling of leaves and soft hum of magical flora the only sounds between them.

Eventually, they settled onto a nearby bench, brushing dirt from their hands. Lucius glanced at Lavinia, who sat stiffly beside him, eyes distant.

He broke the silence.

“Did I do something, Lavinia?” he asked gently, watching her face for a clue—anything. She had been growing increasingly distant, not just from him but from everyone.

She turned to him, eyes wide with unspoken conflict. And then the tears came.

“If I said something inappropriate, or if I crossed a line—just tell me,” Lucius said, a lump rising in his throat.

“No, Lucius,” Lavinia said quickly, shaking her head. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Then what is it?” he pressed, voice low. “Please, talk to me.”

Lavinia hesitated. Her voice was small when she finally spoke.
“Lucius… do you think people believe I’m taking advantage of you?”

Lucius blinked. “What? Taking advantage of me?”

She looked down, her hands trembling in her lap.
“The gifts. The ones you've given me. I don’t want people thinking I’m using you—or your family—for things.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. Lucius reached out and gently wiped them away, jaw clenched.

“Whoever’s saying that is a liar,” he said, anger creeping into his voice. “And they’re jealous. I give you gifts because I want to. Because you matter to me.”

“You don’t understand,” Lavinia whispered, her voice trembling. “My father… he’s not like your parents. He’s reckless. Irresponsible. He would use you through me if he had the chance.”

Lucius met her eyes with unwavering calm.
“Lavinia, I know everything about your father.”

She stared at him, stunned.
“What…?”

“I know about his gambling debts. The investments that failed. The money he’s lost.” Lucius said quietly. “But I’m not here because of your father. I care about you. And nothing he does changes that.”

Lavinia looked at him—not with the wariness Lucius’s words might have warranted—but with something softer, something grateful. He knew. He knew about her family's troubles, about the weight of her father's gambling debts. And still, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t care in the way others did. He didn’t judge her for the shadows cast by someone else’s mistakes.

Overwhelmed, Lavinia’s eyes welled with tears. Gratitude surged through her, raw and unexpected. In a rush of emotion, she threw her arms around Lucius, clinging to him as if he were a lifeline.

Lucius didn’t hesitate. He embraced her just as firmly, holding her like he meant it.

Just as Draco had promised Professor Flitwick, his Head of House, he committed himself fully to his studies—and, for once, truly meant it.

Gone were the days of hiding at the back of the classroom or coasting on natural talent. He began raising his hand, engaging in discussions, handing in assignments not just on time but with care, and treating exams like challenges he wanted to conquer rather than avoid.

His efforts didn’t go unnoticed. By the end of term, he had risen to the top of Ravenclaw House and ranked second overall in his year—just behind Hermione Granger.

Draco couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony. Even in this life, she still managed to edge him out. But now, instead of resentment, he found himself laughing. Somehow, it didn’t bother him anymore.

Abraxas sat alone in his study, the amber glow of candlelight flickering against the polished mahogany walls. A glass of firewhisky rested in his hand, untouched, as he stared at the letter his son had sent.

Lucius had written to inform him—formally, and with unmistakable resolve—of his intention to pursue courtship with Lavinia Lovegood. He wished to end his arrangement with Narcissa Black.

The letter was meticulous, almost strategic in its presentation. Lucius had listed Lavinia’s qualifications with the precision of a man who knew the weight of legacy. Abraxas read them carefully, line by line, and found no fault.

Lavinia was a pure-blood witch of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, born into the ancient House of Lovegood. Though her family’s current standing was marred by scandal and dwindling fortune, she had been raised with all the poise and etiquette befitting a young woman of noble blood. And she was, Abraxas noted with a sigh, distantly related to his  wife—yet another mark in her favor.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his jaw, the letter still clutched in his other hand. His wife—bless her sentimental heart—had always hoped Lucius might follow love rather than duty. And now, it seemed, he would.

But that left Abraxas with a far less romantic task: informing the Blacks that the alliance they had long counted on would not come to pass.

He exhaled slowly, the firewhisky finally finding his lips.

Politics would never be as simple as love.

Chapter Text

The first year at Hogwarts had come and gone, and now Hermione, Draco, and their friends were aboard the Hogwarts Express, heading home for the summer.

Her parents were overjoyed when they learned she had finished at the top of her class. In their letters, they wrote how proud they were of her hard work and accomplishments.

Just a few days after returning home, her family traveled to the south of France for a two-week vacation to celebrate her younger brother’s birthday. Their holiday home was nestled right on the beach, with the ocean just steps away.

Draco had joined them for the trip, and he and Hermione spent long afternoons walking along the shore, deep in conversation about everything and anything. The sea breeze and sound of waves became the quiet backdrop to their growing bond.

She also loved exploring the nearby towns and coastal markets with her mother, brother, and Draco—wandering through cobblestone streets, tasting local treats, and collecting little trinkets as memories of their time together.

Her father, though often occupied, was immersed in helping Democles Belby complete a particularly challenging potion project. Still, he made time to join them when he could, and his presence always brought a sense of warmth and steadiness.

Severus stood nervously in the grand foyer of the Dagworth-Granger estate, his fingers tugging at the hem of his jacket for the third time. The space was quiet, save for the ticking of an antique clock and the distant rustle of wind beyond the tall windows. He still couldn’t quite believe the letter he had received—a personal invitation from Hector Dagworth-Granger himself, asking Severus to assist on a potion project he was developing.

At first, he’d thought it a mistake. Hector Dagworth-Granger, one of the most respected names in modern potioneering, seeking help from him? But his mother had been quick to quiet his doubts, telling him firmly it was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. She always believed in his talent, had encouraged his fascination with potions since he first showed an interest. Unlike his father, who dismissed such pursuits as useless, she saw the potential in him—and that unwavering support meant everything to Severus.

Still, standing in such a grand house, the weight of the moment made his nerves prickle.

Just then, the sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence. He straightened, his hands falling stiffly to his sides.

“Sev?” a familiar voice called down from the staircase.

Hermione  descended the steps, her expression a mixture of surprise and curiosity. “What are you doing here?”

Severus opened his mouth to reply, but the voice of her father cut in before he could speak.

“I asked him to help me with my project,” Hector said, appearing at the top of the staircase. He descended with calm authority, his tone warm but measured.

“The one you’re working on with Belby?” Hermione asked, her eyes flicking between the two.

Severus stood taller at the mention of Democles Belby—another legendary name in the world of potions. The idea that he’d be working on something connected to him made his pulse quicken.

“Yes,” Hector nodded. “He’s waiting in my lab.” He turned to Severus and gestured for him to follow.

As they moved toward the corridor, Hector glanced back at his daughter. “Hermione, I believe your tutor is waiting in the library.”

Hermione let out a dramatic groan, which made Hector chuckle softly. He gave her a knowing smile before leading Severus deeper into the estate.

After her tutoring sessions had wrapped for the day and Severus had completed his work assisting Hector, the two often found themselves in the gardens, enjoying a moment of calm. 

They sat beneath the dappled shade of an ancient willow tree, the late afternoon sun casting golden light across the manicured hedges and blooming lavender. A delicate tray of biscuits and a pot of Earl Grey sat between them, the scent of bergamot mixing pleasantly with the summer air.

Severus stirred his tea with an absent hand, his voice low but engaged. “We’re refining the Wolfsbane Potion—trying to make it more potent, longer-lasting. Belby believes stabilizing the binding agents could allow for less frequent doses during the lunar cycle.”

Hermione sipped her tea thoughtfully. “What about adding monkshood extract earlier in the brewing process? Maybe during the cooling phase?”

“We tried,” Severus said, almost with a trace of a smirk. “It causes instability in the potion’s base. Turns the entire batch useless.”

Hermione made a small hum of disappointment. “Right.”

As the conversation drifted deeper into potion theory, Severus shifted topics slightly. “Part of the work involves closely tracking lycanthropy symptoms—days before the full moon, there are always signs. Heightened sensitivity to sound and smell, increased irritability, muscle soreness, fatigue… a sort of instinctual withdrawal from others.”

Hermione had been leaning in, captivated by the topic—but suddenly, she froze. Her fingers tightened around her teacup, and her gaze unfocused.

One by one, the symptoms began lining up in her mind like puzzle pieces. The pale face. The distant look. That one week in spring when Remus had been absent from class—followed by a quiet visit she’d made to the Hospital Wing, where she’d caught a glimpse of him looking utterly drained. The faint scent of healing salves. The way he sometimes flinched at loud noises.

The cup in her hand rattled slightly on its saucer.

She masked her reaction quickly, nodding along as Severus continued. But her mind had already left the garden.

That evening, once tea had ended and she was back inside, Hermione quietly slipped into the study and opened the lunar calendar. Her eyes moved from date to date, dread creeping into her chest like ice. The full moons aligned—perfectly—with the days Remus had vanished, had grown pale, withdrawn.

Her breath caught.

Remus Lupin—gentle, bookish, kind Remus—was a werewolf.

Chapter Text

Hermione had spent days turning the dilemma over in her mind, crafting and discarding conversation after imagined conversation with Remus. Each attempt played out the same way—her gently revealing that she knew, that she understood, that it didn’t change how she saw him. But the ending was always the same: Remus withdrawing, eyes shuttered, the fragile trust between them breaking under the weight of unspoken fear.

She couldn’t let that happen. She didn’t want to lose him.

Telling her father was out of the question. Hector would be concerned, perhaps even alarmed. Remus had been attending Hogwarts , and now with his daughter attending with him, any mention of lycanthropy would set off more questions than answers. And questions, Hermione feared, could lead to exposure—something Remus had gone to great lengths to avoid.

No. She wouldn’t betray him like that.

So instead, she turned to the one person whose advice was always grounded in compassion and calm understanding—her mother.

It was a quiet afternoon, the kind Hermione cherished. She and her mother sat by the window in the sun-dappled sitting room, knitting in companionable silence. Loretta’s needles clicked with practiced grace while Hermione, somewhat distracted, worked on a handkerchief she planned to gift Draco.

After a moment, Hermione broke the silence.

“Mum, can I ask you something?”

Loretta glanced up, her expression warm. “Of course, my love.”

Hermione hesitated, her fingers slowing on the yarn. “How… how do you tell someone you know their secret—but that it’s all right? That you don’t mean them any harm, and that… you still care for them just the same?”

Her mother tilted her head slightly, setting her knitting aside. “Is it a secret that could hurt them if they knew you knew?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes. I think… I think it could.”

Loretta considered this, her voice soft but firm. “Then I don’t think you can tell them. At least not yet. If they haven't shared it with you themselves, they may not be ready. And forcing that moment—even gently—might not be the kindness you intend it to be.”

Hermione opened her mouth to object, but Loretta continued before she could.

Sometimes, Hermione, being silent is a deeper kind of loyalty. Respecting someone’s privacy, especially when they’re carrying something heavy, is a way of showing love. If you truly don’t mean them harm, then be patient. Let them come to you.”

Hermione nodded slowly, the weight of her mother’s words settling over her like a warm, heavy blanket. She looked out the window, watching the wind stir the branches of the trees.

She hadn’t said Remus’s name. She hadn’t needed to. But somehow, her mother had still known exactly what to say.

And now Hermione understood—sometimes the most powerful thing you can say is nothing at all.

Though Hermione had resolved to keep Remus’s secret to herself—and not confront him until he was ready—she couldn’t silence the persistent desire to do something. If she couldn’t tell him she knew, then perhaps she could still find a way to ease his burden, quietly, from the sidelines.

And so, she sought out the only other person she knew who lived with the same affliction: Tomas Clark.

Mr. Clark, a gentle older man with kind eyes and silvering hair, greeted her warmly when she asked if she could speak with him. He had always been open about his condition, though never one to volunteer more than was polite. Still, when Hermione explained that she was doing a bit of personal research—careful not to mention Remus by name—he had simply nodded and invited her to sit.

She asked him, carefully, what it felt like to live through the days before and after the full moon—not just physically, but emotionally and mentally.

Tomas gave her a small, knowing smile, his eyes distant with memory. “It’s... heavy,” he said quietly. “Before the transformation, it’s like something inside me starts fraying. I become restless. Short-tempered. There’s a fog of dread that creeps in—and no matter how many times I’ve been through it, that fear never quite fades. You know it’s coming, and you can’t stop it.”

Hermione nodded solemnly, her hands folded in her lap.

“After,” Tomas continued, his voice softer now, “comes the shame. The guilt. Even if you didn’t hurt anyone, there’s still this... self-loathing. This emptiness. You feel broken in ways others don’t see.”

Hermione’s chest tightened. She thought of Remus—his quiet demeanor, the way he sometimes seemed older than his years, as though he were carrying something no one else could.

She bit her lip. “And... what helps?” she asked gently. “What makes it even a little bit easier?”

Tomas chuckled, the sound low and almost wistful. “Simple things, mostly. Warm food. A bit of chocolate, especially right after. Helps with the tremors and clears the mind. Rest, too—lots of it. And being in a safe place beforehand, somewhere quiet and secluded... it eases the fear. Makes the change feel less like a punishment.”

Hermione absorbed every word, committing it all to memory like lines in a textbook—no, more sacred than that. These were truths Remus would never say aloud. But now she understood a little better. And understanding, to Hermione, had always been the first step toward compassion.

She left Tomas that afternoon with gratitude in her heart and a quiet determination forming behind her eyes.

She couldn’t take the burden from Remus—but perhaps she could soften it, bit by bit, with small kindnesses he wouldn’t question.

Draco stood by the window of his room, watching in silence as his brother Lucius wandered the Malfoy gardens alongside Lavinia Lovegood. The two moved leisurely beneath the golden light of late afternoon, their voices soft and unburdened. They laughed now and then—quiet, effortless laughter that stirred something strange in Draco. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Lucius like this: relaxed, almost happy.

It was during dinner one evening that their father, Abraxas, made the announcement. Lucius was to be betrothed to Lavinia, though the engagement would be delayed for two years—until she completed her final year at Hogwarts, and Lucius had proven himself capable of overseeing the Malfoy estate and its vast holdings.

Draco had been caught off guard. He hadn't expected Lucius's future to shift so suddenly, so decisively. In his past life, he had known Lucius only as his father—distant, composed, and bound to Narcissa. Their marriage had never seemed tender, but it had always carried a quiet dignity, a mutual respect that held firm even in the darkest years of the war. That image now clashed with the one unfolding before him—Lucius, smiling at someone who was not Narcissa.

Draco didn’t know how to feel.

More than anything, he wished he could speak to Hermione—the Hermione who remembered, as he did, the life they had once lived. The past version of her, who carried the same memories, the same weight. Maybe then he could make sense of this new world that was slowly rewriting itself around him.

Chapter Text

With Hermione about to begin her second year at Hogwarts, Hector had made a resolute decision—he would begin training her in the art of Potioneering. Not the kind taught in classrooms or scribbled into standard school textbooks, but the Dagworth-Granger way: a tradition steeped in precision, innovation, and legacy.

The Dagworth-Granger family wasn’t known as one of the great potioneering lineages for nothing. Since Hector was a boy, his father had instilled in him every rule, every subtle technique, every unwritten truth of the craft. That same inheritance—rich in both tradition and experimentation—was now Hermione’s to receive.

So, at nine o'clock sharp on a cool morning, they stood in the family’s private potion lab. Hermione was already dressed, prepared, and brimming with anticipation. Hector couldn’t help but feel a deep swell of pride. She wasn’t here out of obligation—she genuinely wanted to learn. And that made all the difference.

He began the lesson with the foundation of their family's philosophy.

“While we honor the ancient ways of Potioneering,” Hector said, his tone calm but firm, “we are not bound by them. Tradition provides foundation, not limitation.”

Hermione listened closely, her expression focused.

“That’s why our family embraces Muggle innovation,” he continued. “If we limit ourselves only to what’s written in dusty old books, we stop growing. Knowledge comes from every corner, not just the magical ones.”

Hermione nodded thoughtfully, committing his words to both mind and heart.

“And remember,” Hector added, reaching for a small glass jar of crushed herbs, “a potion’s power lies in its parts—and every part deserves respect. Just as we value rare dragon liver, we must also respect the humble dandelion or a pinch of kitchen salt.”

“Yes, Papa,” Hermione said with quiet conviction.

From there, their lesson unfolded. Hector began teaching her the subtle, often overlooked art of ingredient handling—how the same root or resin might be treated differently depending on the potion's purpose. Whether for healing, transformation, or clarity of mind, each preparation method carried its own meaning, and Hermione absorbed it all with keen curiosity.

Sunday evening found the Dagworth-Granger family warmly welcomed into the Potter household. Fleamont and Euphemia greeted them with the easy familiarity of long-time friends. The Potters had always shared a deep bond with the Dagworth-Grangers—more than just friendship, it was a kinship forged through generations of aligned values, both in life and in the delicate craft of potioneering.

As the evening unfolded, the adults gathered in the sitting room, conversation flowing as effortlessly as the aged elf-made wine in their glasses. They spoke of family updates, recent events in the potioning community, and, most notably, the upcoming launch of a new potion developed by Damocles Belby.

At the mention of the Wolfsbane Potion, both Hermione and James reacted instinctively. Their eyes flickered toward the adults, then briefly toward each other—neither realizing the other knew Remus Lupin’s secret. James’s mind immediately turned to how he might secure the potion for his friend, while Hermione’s thoughts raced ahead, already analyzing the potion’s likely components, considering how she might one day brew it herself.

Later, after dinner had been cleared and Euphemia had taken the children to the drawing room, Hector and Fleamont remained in the study, their conversation shifting to more private, deliberate tones—the kind reserved for the heads of old wizarding families.

Fleamont swirled the amber liquid in his glass thoughtfully before speaking.
“Hector, my friend,” he began, with the ease of someone who had waited for just the right moment, “James and Hermione seem to be getting along quite well.”

Hector caught the subtle undertone in his friend's voice and arched a brow over his own glass of firewhisky. “Unlike when they were little,” he said with a slight smirk, “and couldn’t stand to be in the same room for more than five minutes.”

Fleamont chuckled, then leaned in slightly, his tone now more purposeful. “Our families have been intertwined for generations. We move in the same circles, share the same philosophies, even the same responsibilities. Don’t you think it might be time to formalize the connection between our houses?”

The unspoken proposal hung in the air.

The suggestion, while not unexpected, gave Hector pause. He had known Fleamont might one day raise the idea, and it wasn’t without merit. The Potters were a respected, honorable family. And James—while still young and prone to mischief—had a good heart. Hector had no doubt the boy would grow into a capable man.

And yet…

Draco.

The boy had been a constant in Hermione’s life since childhood. At five, he had boldly declared Hermione his future bride, and while the moment had been innocent, the bond between them had grown genuine over the years. Despite his Malfoy name—a name often viewed with suspicion—Draco had proven himself again and again. Hector had come to regard him almost like a second son. He couldn’t simply dismiss that connection, no matter how promising a match with the Potters might be.

He took a slow sip of his drink, considering his words. “It’s a compelling thought,” he said carefully. “And one worth reflecting on. But as you know, these matters are best approached with time—and with respect for the wishes of those involved.”

Fleamont nodded, not pressing further. No agreement had been reached, but no door had been closed either. For now, that was enough.

It took every ounce of Abraxas Malfoy’s restraint to keep his brows from arching as he caught sight of Fleamont Potter and Hector Dagworth-Granger standing together—each with their child by their side. James and Hermione stood close, too close for his liking, and a flicker of suspicion stirred in Abraxas’s mind. He had long learned to read the unspoken cues of old families, and something about this tableau suggested an informal conversation of betrothal had already taken place—or, worse, begun to take root.

The Malfoys had been invited to the exclusive launch of Damocles Belby’s latest potion, held on the manicured grounds of the Dagworth-Granger estate. Normally, such gatherings did not interest Abraxas—he preferred more political stages—but over the years, the unanticipated closeness between the Malfoy and Dagworth-Granger children had drawn their families into a slow but steady familiarity. And curiosity, he would admit, was a powerful motivator—especially when his son’s future might be quietly negotiated without his knowledge.

As they approached the hosts, Abraxas offered a civil nod to Damocles Belby and Fleamont Potter, the pleasantries formal but polite. But when he turned to Hector, his manner shifted—just slightly—offering a warmer greeting, enough to signal to Fleamont that the Malfoys were not just acquaintances, but well acquainted with the Dagworth-Grangers as well.

He nearly allowed himself a smirk when Hermione, without hesitation, turned to her father and asked, “May I go walk with Draco in the gardens?”

The adults, of course, were helpless in the face of her request. There was no graceful way to decline it without causing a stir. Abraxas caught the brief flicker of discomfort in Fleamont’s eyes as he watched Hermione slip away with Draco, the two walking with the ease of old friends—or perhaps something more.

Abraxas allowed himself a quiet, inward satisfaction. Fleamont, it seemed, had just witnessed for himself the closeness between Hermione and Draco—one that James Potter, despite running in the same circles, did not share.

As the children disappeared among the hedgerows, the four men turned their attention to the evening’s purpose. Discussion soon shifted toward the details of Belby’s new potion and its potential impact. When the topic of funding arose, Abraxas was quick to offer his support.

“Should you require further investment,” he said smoothly to Belby, “the Malfoy family would be willing to provide substantial backing. Innovation deserves the right kind of patronage.”

It was a calculated move—one that reminded the room that while the Malfoys might not share every ideology present, their influence and wealth were still very much in play.

Chapter Text

Abraxas watched his second son, Draco, seated beneath the silver-barked elm at the edge of the garden — a quiet, dappled corner that had long been the boy’s favoured retreat. Since childhood, this spot had been his sanctuary, a place for reading and solitary thought. Today, however, Abraxas chose to disturb the stillness and join him.

As he settled beside him on the bench, Draco looked up briefly, eyes flickering with recognition before returning to the pages in his lap.

“What are you reading, son?” Abraxas asked, his tone casual but not without interest.

“Fire, Flesh, and Gold: The Lost Arts of Merlin’s Alchemy,” Draco murmured, scarcely lifting his gaze.

Abraxas raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were planning to visit Hermione this week?” he ventured, careful not to sound too inquisitive. Since forming a friendship with Miss Dagworth-Granger, Draco had become something of a fixture at her family’s estate. This summer, however, the pattern had shifted — subtly, but enough to warrant concern.

Draco’s eyes stayed fixed on the page. “Her father’s begun training her in advanced Potions. She’s rather preoccupied.”

Abraxas studied him for a moment. The boy was doing his best to appear unaffected, but there was a familiar tightness around the eyes — a quiet, restrained disappointment.

“Perhaps you might join them,” he suggested gently.

“I don’t want to impose,” Draco replied, his voice subdued.

“Nonsense. It wouldn’t be an imposition — you might even learn a thing or two,” Abraxas said lightly, though he watched his son’s reaction with care.

Draco didn’t look up, but his lips curled faintly. “You just want me to stake my claim,” he said, voice laced with dry amusement. “I saw James with her at the Belby party — seemed rather orchestrated.”

Abraxas blinked at the frankness. “Well,” he said slowly, “are you not interested in a betrothal with Hermione?”

There was a pause. “The Blacks are still keen on securing an alliance with us. Despite the Lucius arrangement falling through, they’ve made it known Narcissa remains an option.”

Draco finally turned to face him, his expression unreadable but resolute. “I’m not interested in being betrothed to anyone but Hermione.”

Abraxas studied him in silence, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes were warm with a flicker of pride.

“Very well,” he said simply.

As it turned out, Abraxas’s earlier concerns were perhaps misplaced, for only a few days later, it was Hermione who paid a visit to Malfoy Manor.

“Master, Miss Hermione is in the foyer,” announced Wobble, one of the elder house-elves, bowing low as he appeared at the threshold of the sunroom, where all four Malfoys were enjoying their afternoon tea.

“Bring her in, Wobble,” Abraxas said calmly, setting down his teacup with a faint clink. With a soft pop, the elf vanished, returning moments later with Hermione in tow.

The girl entered with a warm smile, her presence instantly brightening the high-ceilinged room.

“It’s lovely to see you, Hermione,” Aurora said, rising to greet her with a kiss on the cheek.

“And you, Lady Malfoy,” Hermione replied warmly, settling beside her on the divan. She offered polite greetings to Lucius and Abraxas, and her eyes lingered on Draco just a moment longer.

“Draco mentioned you’ve been training in Potions,” Abraxas said, his tone measured but genuinely curious.

“Oh yes, it’s been brilliant,” Hermione said with infectious enthusiasm. “I had no idea how much there was still to learn in potioneering — my father’s taught me more in a few weeks than I managed all year at school.”

Both Abraxas and Aurora exchanged a smile — subtle, but fond. Over the years, they had grown not only accustomed to Hermione’s vibrant energy, but quietly fond of it. Perhaps it was because they had raised sons; Hermione brought with her a kind of light and animation that softened the corners of the grand old manor whenever she visited.

“That’s wonderful to hear,” Aurora said kindly. “And how is your brother, Henry?”

“Oh, he’s well — quite the handful, to be honest. He and James have been thick as thieves lately. Between Quidditch and pranks, I don’t think a moment passes without some sort of commotion.”

That last remark piqued Abraxas’s interest. He set down his saucer more slowly than before.

“James?” he asked, casually enough, though a hint of calculation edged into his tone. “James Potter’s been visiting your estate?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied breezily. “His father mentioned he’d shown a sudden interest in Potions — which, of course, raised some eyebrows — so he thought it best to send James along to train with me and my father. It’s been… eventful.”

She didn’t seem to notice the fleeting exchange of glances between Abraxas and Aurora.

“How lovely,” Aurora said, her smile gracious but perhaps a touch more composed than before.

The conversation drifted onwards, light and pleasant, until Draco stood and offered, “Would you like to visit the library, Hermione? I found a few new texts on alchemical transference I think you’ll enjoy.”

Hermione’s face lit up. “I’d love to.”

With that, the two departed the sunroom together, their footsteps fading down the corridor.

Abraxas watched them go, then lifted his teacup once more, though his thoughts remained elsewhere.

“You knew!” Hermione’s voice rang sharply through the still air, her eyes narrowed as she faced James Potter.

They were alone in the quiet, low-lit space of her father’s private potions lab. The scent of dried wolfsbane and dragonroot lingered in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of copper cauldrons and simmering brews. Bottles lined the stone walls, each labelled in meticulous script, but all Hermione could focus on was the boy standing in front of her — fidgeting like he'd been caught red-handed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” James said, a little too quickly.

His expression, however, betrayed him entirely.

Hermione gave him a look that could have curdled milk. “You’re a terrible liar.”

James opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly weighing his options — not that he had many left.

Hermione crossed her arms. “You’ve been asking oddly specific questions for days — not just about Belby’s new Wolfsbane formula, but about dosages, compatibility, behavioural reactions. At first, I thought you were just being your usual nosy self. But then I saw the book you left in the library — ‘Werewolves: A Modern Magical Perspective’. Bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

James looked away, guilt written plain across his face.

She took a step forward, her voice softening now. “This is about Remus, isn’t it?”

James’s eyes widened, and his entire posture shifted — shoulders tensing, breath catching. He hadn’t expected her to say the name aloud.

“I’m not going to do anything, James,” Hermione said gently. “I’m not here to threaten you. Or him. He’s my friend too.”

James let out a slow breath, the fight draining from him. He studied her carefully, as if still uncertain.

She raised an eyebrow. “Honestly, relax. I’m not going to run off and tell the Daily Prophet.”

“Just… don’t tell anyone, alright?” he said, voice low and urgent.

Hermione rolled her eyes with a huff. “Please. You’re far more likely to spill his secret than I am.”

James managed a crooked smile. “Fair point.”

For a moment, silence settled between them — not heavy, but not entirely easy either.

“Look,” Hermione said finally, “if Remus needs help — real help — you know you can come to me, right?”

James nodded. “I do now.”

Chapter Text

Loretta joined Hector by the doorway, the two of them quietly observing James and Hermione across the hall. The children were tucked away in the library — Hermione hunched over a sheet of parchment, scribbling furiously, while James hovered just behind her, peering over her shoulder with genuine interest.

It had been several days since James had started training alongside Hermione, and Hector had begun to notice a change — a closeness forming between them that hadn’t been there before.

“Strange to see them like this, isn’t it?” Loretta murmured, slipping an arm around Hector’s waist.

Without thinking, Hector laid his hand over hers. “I know. They haven’t argued for days now — it’s bizarre.”

Loretta let out a soft chuckle, memories of their childhood playdates flitting through her mind — most of which ended in disaster, with Hermione’s dolls in tatters or James missing a handful of hair. And yet, now, somehow, the pair seemed to have found common ground.

"That's brilliant!" Hermione exclaimed, her eyes wide with awe as she watched James demonstrate the invisibility cloak his father had gifted him on his eleventh birthday.

James grinned proudly. "Well? What do you think?"

Only James’s head was visible, seemingly floating in mid-air, the rest of him completely hidden beneath the shimmering cloak.

As much as Hermione and James hated to admit it, recreating the Wolfsbane Potion was proving impossible. With only scraps of information passed down from Hermione’s father, they couldn’t manage it alone. To help their friend Remus, they needed the full recipe—every step, every measurement.

So they came up with a plan. They would steal it—or rather, borrow and copy it—from Hector Dagworth-Granger’s private potion archives. Hermione was confident enough in her brewing skills and if all else failed, she could always ask Severus for a quiet nudge in the right direction. The plan was simple: James would create a distraction, and Hermione would sneak into the lab and get what they needed.

The only real obstacle? Getting into the lab unnoticed. Thankfully, James had just the thing.

He handed her the invisibility cloak with a mischievous grin.

“Only if you swear not to breathe a word of this to anyone. Ever.”

The day of her brother’s birthday arrived. The sun bathed the manicured gardens of the estate in golden light. Friends and relatives mingled over tea and cake while children ran about under the watchful eyes of the house-elves.

Hermione glanced at her watch: 4:00 p.m. She excused herself from a conversation with Draco Malfoy, who merely raised an eyebrow as she walked off.

Back in her room, she threw the invisibility cloak over herself and slipped silently down the corridor. She navigated through the winding halls of the estate until she reached her father’s potion laboratory. Peeking through the door, she spotted her father and her Professor Slughorn deep in conversation.

Another glance at her watch: 4:15 p.m.

Right on cue, an almighty bang echoed from the gardens—followed by shouts and frantic movement. A brilliant flash of red and gold lit up the sky.

Both Hector and Horace rushed out of the lab, curiosity and concern written all over their faces. The moment they step out of the room, Hermione darted inside.

She headed straight for the tall oak cabinet. Drawing James’s wand from her sleeve, she pointed it at the lock.

“Alohomora,” she whispered. A satisfying click followed.

She rifled quickly through the parchments and bound notebooks until she found what she was looking for. A smile tugged at her lips as she located the Wolfsbane instructions, and with a flick of the wand, she copied the pages onto fresh parchment.

Done. She glanced at the watch again. Not a moment to waste.

Hermione slipped out, dashed silently back to her room, removed the cloak, and stowed both it and the copied potion recipe safely out of sight.

But as she shut her bedroom door behind her, she froze.

Draco was standing there, arms crossed.

"Draco! What are you doing here?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," he replied, eyes narrowing.

"I just popped back to grab something I forgot," she said smoothly, grabbing him by the arm before he could question her further.

Together, they returned to the gardens just in time to see James being scolded by his parents.

"James Potter!" Euphemia snapped, glaring at her son. "What on earth were you thinking? You’ve destroyed the rose bushes!"

Fireworks still fizzled in the grass nearby, and singed petals floated through the air.

James caught Hermione’s eye. She gave him the faintest smile—a silent confirmation that the mission had been a success—before quickly schooling her expression and looking away.

Hermione lay in bed, restless beneath the covers, her body twitching faintly as she tossed in her sleep. A nightmare gripped her tightly.

In her dream, she found herself standing in the grim, echoing girls’ bathroom on the first floor at Hogwarts. The air was damp and cold, the cracked mirrors reflecting her wide, frightened eyes. But something was off—she looked like herself, yet different. Younger, smaller, almost like a shadow of who she was now.

She was hiding beneath one of the sinks, her knees pulled to her chest, trembling. The thudding of heavy footsteps grew louder with each passing second, shaking the tiles beneath her. The troll was close. Too close.

“Help! Help!” she cried out, her voice high and desperate.

Then, suddenly, two boys burst through the door—one with messy black hair and round glasses, the other a tall redhead with a face full of freckles. James Potter and a boy who looked an awful lot like a Weasley.

The two moved quickly, shouting and flailing to distract the towering beast. James darted forward with reckless bravery, leaping onto the troll’s back. In the chaos, his wand accidentally jabbed straight up the troll’s enormous, warty nostril.

Hermione could only stare, frozen with fear, her voice cracking as she cried out the name—

“Harry!”

The redhead pointed his wand and shouted, “Wingardium Leviosa!”

The troll’s club lifted into the air, then swung down with a sickening crack, landing squarely on the creature’s skull. The troll let out a guttural groan before collapsing to the floor with a thunderous thud.

And then—

“Hermione! Hermione!”

She jolted awake, gasping for breath, her heart hammering against her ribcage. Her father was leaning over her, gently shaking her by the shoulders. Her mother knelt at her side, concern etched across her face.

“You were dreaming, darling,” her father said softly.

Her eyes flicked between their worried faces, and without a word, Hermione burst into tears. She reached for them, her arms wrapping tightly around their necks, clinging to them as if to anchor herself back to reality.

She had never felt so terrified in all her life.

Chapter Text

Hector and Loretta stood anxiously at the foot of the bed, watching as the family healer bent over Hermione with a furrowed brow. Ever since the nightmare, the poor girl had been running a high fever—two days now—and neither parent could recall a time she’d ever been so unwell. Loretta clutched her husband’s arm for support, and Hector, though trying to remain composed, was clearly rattled. Hermione lay motionless beneath the covers, her cheeks flushed an alarming shade of crimson.

Their eyes snapped to the healer as he approached them, his expression grave.

“Well?” Hector asked, voice taut with worry.

The healer gave a small sigh. “Her magic is becoming unstable. Her body’s struggling to contain it.”

Loretta’s hand flew to her mouth. “What must we do?”

“For now, keep a close eye on her temperature,” he replied calmly. “I’ve administered potions to reduce the fever. What she needs now is rest—plenty of it.”

The parents nodded solemnly. Whatever it took, they would do it. For Hermione, they would do anything

By the third day, Hermione’s fever had finally begun to subside. On the fourth, she woke—much to the immense relief of her parents. Though conscious at last, she remained quiet, and Hector and Loretta simply assumed she was still exhausted.

Later that afternoon, Draco came to visit. He pulled a chair up beside her bed and stayed there for hours, keeping a watchful eye on her pale, drawn face.

“Here, try this,” he said gently, offering her a spoonful of warm porridge.

Hermione parted her lips slightly, only to flinch as the porridge burned a little on the way in. Draco quickly drew the spoon back and blew on the next mouthful before offering it again.

She chewed slowly, then swallowed, managing a small nod. He gave her a sip of water, then patiently continued feeding her, one careful spoonful at a time.

At last, Hermione looked up at him, eyes glassy with unshed tears—until they spilled over in a sudden outburst.

“This is awful!” she cried, voice cracking. “I feel horrible , my head hurts and I can’t even eat properly!”

Draco didn’t flinch. “It’s alright, Hermione,” he said calmly, offering her another cooled spoonful. “That’s why I’m here. Don’t worry—you’ll get better.”

Hermione sniffled, then nodded, opening her mouth again.

What neither of them noticed was the figure standing quietly in the doorway. Hector watched them, arms folded, heart full. Relief washed over him as he saw his daughter sitting up and eating—even if only a little. But what struck him most was Draco: patient, gentle, and quietly reassuring, as if he’d done this a hundred times before.

By the time Hermione had finished her small meal, she lay back against the pillows, drowsy but comforted. She clutched Draco’s free hand tightly as he turned a page in the book on his lap and began reading to her, his voice soft and steady.

Hector smiled faintly and stepped away, leaving them in peace.

“I had the oddest dream,” Hermione murmured drowsily, her eyes half-closed. “I was at Hogwarts… and there was a troll. It was going to attack me.”

Draco nearly dropped the book he was holding, staring at her in disbelief.

“Then James came and rescued me. He looked strange… he was wearing glasses,” she continued, her voice slurred with sleep. “And there was another boy too. He helped as well.” She pulled the blanket tighter around herself. “It’s so peculiar. Why did James look like that? And who was the other boy?” Her voice trailed off as she drifted back into sleep.

Draco gazed at her, eyes wide. Could she be remembering?

He leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you starting to remember now, Mione?”

Gently, he reached for her hand and gave it a soft, reassuring squeeze.

A few days later, Hermione had made a full recovery. She was now strolling arm in arm with Draco through the gardens of Dagworth-Granger estate, their pace unhurried as they admired the freshly planted rose bushes, their petals just beginning to bloom.

They walked hand in hand, the late afternoon sun casting a golden hue over the gravel path.

“So,” Draco said, glancing sideways at her, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, “are you going to tell me what exactly you were up to that day?”

Hermione looked at him a touch sheepishly. She knew better than to lie to him. “I… did a thing,” she admitted, eyes dropping to the ground.

Draco arched a brow. “You did a thing?”

“Best not to talk about the thing,” she replied quickly, tugging him gently towards the ivy-covered pavilion ahead.

Draco let it go—for now.

The two of them settled into the peaceful rhythm of the afternoon, lounging together as they spoke of the latest goings-on within their families, the soft murmur of conversation blending with the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of bees in the rose beds

Chapter Text

And just like that, it was time to return to Hogwarts.

Hermione turned back for one last look at her family. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her mother, holding on tightly.

“Don’t forget to write, okay?” her mother whispered, hugging her fiercely.

“I will, Mama,” Hermione said softly, before moving to hug her father.

Then she looked at her little brother. His lips were trembling as he tried not to cry. Hermione smiled through the lump in her throat and pulled him into a warm hug.

“Be good for Mum and Dad, alright?” she murmured.

He nodded, sniffling, and Hermione gave them all one last wave before turning and boarding the train.

Walking down the corridor, she spotted Draco sitting alone in a compartment, staring out the window. She slid the door open with a smile.

“Mind if I join you?”

He glanced up, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “Not at all.”

Hermione took a seat beside him, and a short while later, Severus and Lily entered and joined them.

“How was your summer?” Lily asked eagerly, her eyes bright.

The four of them launched into stories of their holidays, laughter and conversation filling the compartment as the train pulled out of the station, carrying them back to Hogwarts.

GREYBACK STRIKES AGAIN! ANOTHER INNOCENT CHILD CURSED BY THE MOON
Feared Werewolf Fenrir Greyback Claims New Victim in Midnight Attack

Draco felt a chill settle in his chest as his eyes scanned the headline in The Daily Prophet. A hollow dread bloomed in his stomach.

"It’s beginning… war is coming," he thought grimly, placing the paper down with deliberate care. His gaze drifted instinctively across the Great Hall until it found Hermione. She was pale, brows drawn in worry, clearly having read the same grim news.

Across the table, Remus Lupin’s hands clenched into fists as he stared down at the article, fury flickering behind his tired eyes. Another child. Another life shattered by Fenrir Greyback’s savagery. How many more? he wondered bitterly. Without a word, he rose from the bench, leaving his untouched breakfast behind, the clatter of his chair barely noticed as he strode out of the hall.

Albus Dumbledore, having read the same grim article, adjusted his half-moon spectacles with a slow, deliberate hand. A shadow passed over his usually twinkling eyes.

“So… it begins, Tom,” he murmured under his breath, voice scarcely above a whisper.

He sat back in his chair, mind already spinning through connections. The troubling reports from the Muggle world—disappearances, unexplained deaths—had been steadily mounting, each one whispering the same chilling name beneath the surface. And now Greyback. Another attack. Another child.

No, this was no coincidence. Dumbledore’s instincts rarely failed him. Greyback wasn’t acting alone. Tom—Voldemort—was pulling the strings. If he was making a move to recruit the werewolves, then the stakes were rising far faster than anticipated.

Albus reached for his quill without hesitation, parchment already unrolled before him. There was no time to waste. Messages needed sending, allies needed rousing. If Voldemort succeeded in bringing the werewolf packs under his banner, the consequences would be catastrophic—for both wizard and Muggle kind alike.

The Dark Mark Rises Again
To the Noble and Ancient Houses of Wizarding Britain

My Esteemed Pure-Blood Brethren,

The time of half-measures and whispered fears is over.

For too long, your proud lineage has been diluted, your traditions mocked, and your birthright threatened by those who were never meant to wield magic. The Ministry grows fat and blind, appeasing Mudbloods and Muggles alike, while true witches and wizards are silenced in their own halls. Hogwarts—once the cradle of magical purity—now throws open its gates to the undeserving.

But no longer.

A new age dawns—one forged in strength, in legacy, in blood. I, Lord Voldemort, offer you a return to what was once ours, a world ruled by those worthy of it. No longer shall the sacred bloodlines be sullied by reckless intermingling. No longer shall magical might be hidden beneath cloaks of shame and secrecy.

I do not ask. I expect. Loyalty will be rewarded. Defiance will be remembered.

Already, many of your peers have pledged their allegiance. The tide turns swiftly, and those who stand aside will be swept away. The old ways shall rise anew—and the names of those who stood with me shall be etched into the very foundation of the new world.

Do not delay.

The Mark awaits.

Lord Voldemort

Chapter Text

Severus raised an eyebrow as yet another parcel landed atop Hermione’s table in the Great Hall. For the past three days, packages had been arriving for her with almost clockwork regularity, and she’d been unusually tight-lipped about their contents. Not that Severus considered himself nosy—far from it—but he couldn't help noting that Hermione was rarely this secretive.

"Another package?" he remarked casually, taking a bite of his breakfast.

“Mm-hmm. It’s for my project,” Hermione replied vaguely. She stood, gathering her things, and offered him a quick smile. “I’ll see you in class,” she added before sweeping off towards the Slytherin dungeons, leaving Severus to puzzle over her curious behaviour

With a soft click, the lock yielded. Hermione slipped inside, quietly closing the door behind her, and flicked her wand once more to secure it. The faint glow of candlelight danced over her determined expression as she set her satchel down and withdrew a small brown package. Unwrapping it carefully, she allowed herself a satisfied smile at the sight of its contents: fresh Dittany and Valerian Root, procured through rather secretive means.

She laid them beside the other contraband ingredients she had painstakingly collected: Aconite, aconite root, Belladonna, and Essence of Belladonna.

“Just a few more,” she murmured to herself, carefully arranging the vials and jars in neat rows upon the desk.

A sharp knock-knock-knock interrupted her thoughts, making her start. Hermione strode swiftly to the door, wand raised, and cautiously unfastened it. James Potter stood there, a mischievous grin curling his lips. She ushered him inside, locking the door shut once more.

“Did you get the remaining ingredients?” she whispered.

James nodded, his grin widening as he produced two stoppered vials. “Moonstone, and powdered unicorn horn,” he said with satisfaction, adding them to Hermione’s growing collection.

“Perfect,” Hermione murmured, pulling the copy of Democles Belby's potion.

“Have you studied how to brew it?” James asked, lowering his voice as he glanced at the assortment of dangerous ingredients.

“I have,” Hermione said firmly, her eyes gleaming with resolve.

Together they set to work, moving with practised precision. Hermione measured 500 mL of moon-infused water, pouring it into the waiting pewter cauldron. She kindled a low flame beneath it, watching closely until tendrils of steam curled upwards without reaching a boil. With deliberate care, she began adding ground moonstone, stirring clockwise three times with a gleaming silver stirrer. The water shimmered faintly, glowing in the dim light.

Slipping on dragon-hide gloves, Hermione took up the aconite root, crushing it to a fine paste with steady hands. Pinch by pinch, she added it to the potion, stirring counter-clockwise after each addition. The liquid deepened to a rich indigo hue, glistening ominously.

James passed her the jar of powdered valerian root. Hermione gave a curt nod before dusting it across the surface in a thin, even layer. The potion let out a soft hiss as they worked, their whispers and the crackle of the fire the only sounds in the secluded room.

Hours slipped by unnoticed. Candle wax dripped low, casting flickering shadows across their determined faces as they toiled well past midnight. At last, Hermione sealed the cauldron, allowing the potion to rest for its three-day cooling period.

James stretched, exhaustion written across his features, yet his eyes were alight with triumph. “Come on,” he murmured. “It’s late. I’ll walk you back to the dungeons.”

Hermione gathered her robes and followed him, the corridor hushed and still. She allowed herself a small smile at his gesture—it was a simple courtesy, but a rare kindness, and she was grateful for it.

Hermione and James had returned to the abandoned classroom the day after starting the brew, and at first, everything seemed to be progressing smoothly. The potion shimmered a perfect sapphire blue, just as the guide described. But on the second evening, as Hermione slipped inside, a strange unease prickled at the back of her neck.

“I think there’s something wrong,” James said immediately, his voice low and wary.

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. She hurried across the dimly lit room, her eyes widening in dismay. The potion, once a serene blue, was now bleeding into a deep violet, its surface rippling in a way that seemed unnatural.

“This isn’t right,” she muttered, a frown creasing her brow. She drew the copy in her robes and scanned the instructions line by line, her lips moving silently.

James hovered over the cauldron, leaning closer with a furrowed brow. “Do you think we ought to do something?” he asked, reaching for his wand as if tempted to prod the brew.

Hermione’s head snapped up. “No, don’t touch it!” she hissed, her voice sharper than she intended. “We’ll let it settle for now and come back tomorrow night. We followed the recipe exactly, step by step—it shouldn’t be changing colour.”

James lowered his hand, looking chastened, and nodded silently. The two of them stood there for a long moment, staring at the potion as it swirled sluggishly, its violet glow casting eerie shadows across the room.

Severus glanced up from his plate as Hermione slumped down across from him at the Slytherin table, her shoulders sagging and her eyes ringed with dark shadows. She picked half-heartedly at her toast, looking every bit as though she hadn’t slept in days.

“Merlin, Hermione, you look awful,” Severus remarked dryly, arching a brow as he reached for his pumpkin juice.

Hermione shot him a tired glare. “Charming as always, Severus. You’re one to talk,” she muttered, gesturing vaguely at his perpetually sallow complexion.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I happen to pull it off rather well,” he said smoothly, leaning back against the bench with an air of mock dignity. “You, on the other hand, look like you’ve been duelling Boggarts in your sleep.”

She let out a soft huff of laughter despite herself. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you still choose to sit with me,” he drawled, spearing a piece of bacon.

Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. She pushed her plate away and rested her chin in her hand, the fatigue etched across her features softening her usual sharpness. “I’ve just been having… these nightmares,” she admitted after a pause, her voice low. It wasn’t entirely a lie; alongside her secret attempts at brewing Wolfsbane Potion, the dreams had been plaguing her, adding to her exhaustion.

Severus studied her closely, his expression thoughtful. “Have you tried telling your parents?”

“They’d only worry,” Hermione said with a small shrug. “I’ll be fine. Probably just need to… rest.” She stifled a yawn.

“Or stop skulking about the castle after hours,” Severus remarked pointedly, though his tone was more teasing than scolding.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, but there was no real heat behind it. “You’re remarkably observant this morning,” she said, her voice dry.

“Comes with being cleverer than everyone else,” Severus said with mock arrogance, earning himself another eye-roll.

Hermione shook her head, grateful for the lightness in his tone, and quickly steered the conversation away. “Have you finished Professor Slughorn’s essay yet? I swear he assigns extra parchment just to torment us.”

Severus snorted. “I finished it last night, naturally. I’ll let you copy the bibliography if you promise to get some actual sleep.”

“I'm already done as well and I'll get some sleep no matter what,” Hermione said, a tired smile tugging at her lips as she reached for a piece of toast.

The two fell into easy chatter about assignments and upcoming lessons, the clatter of the Great Hall carrying around them. For a few moments, Hermione almost forgot the weight of sleepless nights and failed experiments.

Chapter Text

Sirius lay sprawled lazily across his four-poster bed, curtains half-drawn, his breathing slow and steady—a perfect imitation of sleep. In reality, every nerve was alert, his sharp grey eyes flickering beneath half-lowered lashes as the dormitory door creaked open. James slipped in, soft-footed and cautious, as if hoping not to wake a soul.

For days now, Sirius had noticed James’s increasingly suspicious behaviour: disappearing after curfew, slipping back into the dorm long after lights-out, and dodging their usual prank-planning sessions. That alone was enough to raise Sirius’s suspicions—James Potter skipping a chance to plot chaos was like Remus skipping chocolate. Twice Sirius had tried to follow him, only to be thwarted by that blasted Invisibility Cloak. James could vanish like smoke, and Sirius hated it.

Tonight was no different. Sirius cracked one eye just enough to catch a glimpse of James folding the cloak with unusual care, slipping it back into his trunk before climbing into bed without a sound. Sirius kept perfectly still, his curiosity simmering. Something was going on, and Sirius Black loathed being left out of the fun.

By some miracle—or sheer dumb luck—Sirius’s chance came a few nights later. He had been loitering in a corridor, debating whether to go raid the kitchens, when he spotted James sneaking towards the dungeons… with Hermione Granger of all people.

Sirius froze, brows shooting up. That was unexpected.

James and Hermione were usually all eye-rolls and quick-fire sarcasm, a battle of sharp wit and sharper glares. But tonight they walked in silence, side by side, faces unusually serious. Sirius’s intrigue only deepened as Hermione paused at a dungeon door, cast a cautious look over her shoulder, and then—Merlin help him—smiled. A soft, almost shy smile.

Sirius’s grin spread like wildfire. Oh, this was brilliant. Absolutely priceless. He’d cracked the case. James Potter, hopeless romantic, sneaking off at night with Hermione Dagworth Granger? The Marauders would dine out on this for months.

He turned on his heel and sauntered back towards Gryffindor Tower, a smug smirk curling his lips. Better to get a head start. By morning, he’d be ready.

At breakfast, Sirius lounged at the Gryffindor table, buttering his toast with the satisfaction of a man sitting on a goldmine of gossip. James was beside him, tucking into his eggs, blissfully unaware. Across the Hall, Hermione had just sat down at the Slytherin table.

Perfect timing.

The enchanted ceiling above flickered, then shifted. Gone was the usual autumnal grey sky; instead, a swirl of sugary pink clouds rolled in, dotted with fluttering hearts. Glittering golden letters unfurled in mid-air for the entire school to see:

“Today’s Couple: James & Hermione”

The reaction was instantaneous.

James froze, fork halfway to his mouth. Hermione’s head snapped up, her ears turning scarlet. The Great Hall erupted into laughter and whispers, students pointing gleefully between the two.

But Sirius wasn’t done.

Every few minutes, new lines scrolled lazily across the ceiling like a gossip column sprung to life:

“Spotted: Dungeon dates after curfew?”
“Wedding invites or detention slips?”

Gasps rippled through the hall. Someone at the Ravenclaw table clapped. First-years squealed. A couple of third-years started taking bets.

Hermione stood up so abruptly her bench. She bolted for the doors, hair flying behind her.

Sirius popped a grape into his mouth, leaning back with a grin so smug it practically glowed.

“MR. BLACK!”

Professor McGonagall’s voice cracked like a whip, silencing the Hall in an instant. Even the enchanted sky froze mid-scroll. Sirius blinked up at her, looking far too innocent.

There it is, he thought smugly.

James, however, was already lunging across the table, nearly sending a bowl of kippers flying as he tried to grab Sirius by the collar.

“You absolute menace!” James barked, his face nearly as red as Hermione’s had been.

Sirius scrambled to his feet, laughing, as James clambered after him.

“Whoa, easy, Prongs!” Sirius called over his shoulder, ducking a flying sausage. “No need to get violent! I merely thought the school deserved to witness true love.”

James vaulted the bench. “We are not together, you great pillock!”

“Oh, come on, I saw you two last night,” Sirius shot back, darting between tables with the ease of a seasoned escape artist. “Very romantic!”

“It wasn’t like that!”

McGonagall’s robes flared dramatically as she stormed down the aisle, her lips pressed into a thin line so severe it could have cut glass.

“BLACK! IF YOU DO NOT PUT AN END TO THIS NONSENSE IMMEDIATELY—”

Sirius skidded to a halt at the doors, spinning to face her with a wicked grin. “Sorry, Professor! I’d love to stay for a scolding, but true love waits for no man!”

And with that, he bolted out of the Great Hall, James’s furious shouts echoing after him, followed by McGonagall muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “One of these days, I’ll hex him myself.”

Chapter Text

Right after Hermione ran from the Great Hall and James lunging at Sirius ans Sirius running away,  different reaction were made by different people close to them.

In the gryffindor table :

Peter looked dumbfounded, he didn’t even know James and Hermione were together nor Sirius had a plan to prank them. 

remus frown he didn’t know what to say or what to think, even though both Hermione and James are friends they’re like oil and water 

Lily was shocked , she thought if it’s real true , she hopes it’s not true because James is nothing but a no good prankster 

on the slytherin table:

Just after Hermione stormed out of the Great Hall, with James hurling himself at Sirius and Sirius legging it out of reach, the tables were left in a flurry of murmurs and bewildered glances. Everyone who knew them reacted in their own way.

At the Gryffindor table:

Peter looked utterly gobsmacked. He hadn’t the faintest idea James and Hermione were even a thing, let alone that Sirius had cooked up some harebrained scheme to prank them.

Remus frowned, his brow creased in quiet contemplation. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. Both James and Hermione were his friends, yes—but truth be told, the two were like oil and water. This was bound to go sideways.

Lily sat frozen, her expression unreadable. If what she had just seen was truly what it seemed... she desperately hoped it wasn’t. James was nothing more than a no-good troublemaker in her eyes. Hermione could do better. Far better.

At the Slytherin table:

Severus narrowed his eyes at the sight of James now sprinting after Sirius. This couldn’t be happening. Why on earth would Hermione, of all people, even consider someone as arrogant and insufferable as Potter? They were chalk and cheese.

Lucius frowned his gaze shifted swiftly to the Ravenclaw table—more precisely, to his younger brother. Draco sat stiffly, eyes fixed on the doors Hermione had just disappeared through. Lucius knew they'd been close since childhood. Their father had made no secret of his hopes: that the two might one day be betrothed.

Draco sat frozen, eyes fixed on the space where Hermione had disappeared, his mind struggling to make sense of what he'd just witnessed. He didn’t know what to think. The very idea of Hermione and James Potter being together was laughable—completely out of step with everything Hermione valued. She was driven, focused, and had goals that didn’t leave room for petty drama or schoolboy crushes, least of all on someone like Potter.

And yet… a seed of doubt had already taken root.

Something was going on. He'd sensed it the moment they returned to Hogwarts. She’d been distant in ways she hadn’t been before—dodging questions, leaving the library early with vague excuses, constantly working on some mysterious “assignment” she never quite explained. And then there were the parcels—secretive little deliveries she’d tried to brush off with a quick smile and a change of subject. He hadn’t pushed her. He hadn’t wanted to. He respected her too much for that.

But it didn’t stop the unease.

Since the start of second year, Draco’s own schedule had been packed. Professor Flitwick, sharp-eyed and ever watchful, had tasked him with tutoring the first-years alongside Amelia Bones, a fellow Ravenclaw. It was meant to be a lesson in responsibility—one he had grudgingly accepted. He’d promised Flitwick he wouldn’t slack off again, and thus far, he’d kept his word.

But right now, none of that mattered.

With quiet determination, Draco rose from the bench, ignoring the confused murmurs still rippling through the Great Hall. His eyes followed the path Hermione had taken. He knew her—knew the way she bottled things up until it was too much, the way she’d retreat somewhere quiet when she didn’t want to be seen.

She was upset. That much was certain.

And whatever she was hiding… he wasn’t going to let her carry it alone anymore.

Draco spotted her near the edge of the Black Lake, curled up on the damp grass. Hermione’s knees were drawn tightly to her chest, her head buried against them, shoulders trembling faintly. The soft lapping of the water and the rustling of autumn leaves framed her stillness.

He approached slowly, careful not to startle her, his footsteps muffled against the soft earth.

“I know it’s not true,” Draco said quietly, his voice barely louder than the breeze.

Hermione’s head jerked up at the sound of his voice. Her tear-streaked face was pale, her lips trembling as if she were holding back another sob. He felt a pang in his chest at the sight and immediately sat down beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, repeating himself softly. “I know it’s not true.” He reached out, his fingers gently curling around her forearm in reassurance.

That was all it took for her composure to break. Hermione threw her arms around him, burying her face into the crook of his neck. Her sobs came fast, raw with exhaustion and frustration.

“I’m so tired, Draco,” she whispered brokenly, her voice muffled against him.

“I know,” he soothed, one hand stroking her back in slow, steady motions. “I know.” He didn’t try to fill the silence with empty words; he simply let her cry, holding her until the trembling of her shoulders eased.

When she finally leaned back, sniffling, her cheeks were blotchy, and her breath came in shaky little gasps.

“Tell me what happened,” Draco said gently, his tone calm but firm.

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone,” Hermione murmured, clutching her robes tightly in her fists.

“I promise,” Draco replied without hesitation.

She stared at him, searching his face. “I’m serious, Draco. No one can know. It’s important.”

“I promise,” he repeated, his voice steady as stone.

Hermione exhaled shakily and finally began to speak, haltingly at first, then in a rush—confessing why she’d been so distant, why she’d been sneaking away, why she’d been drowning herself in research. She and James had been attempting to brew Wolfsbane potion in secret, and their repeated failures had left her drained, angry at herself.

“I thought I could do it,” she whispered bitterly. “I really thought I was clever enough. But I was arrogant. Too arrogant.”

Draco was silent, his mind whirling. He debated his next words carefully before finally speaking.

“Is this about Remus?” he asked, locking his grey eyes on hers.

Hermione’s head snapped up, her eyes wide. “You—” She stammered. “You knew? How?”

Draco glanced toward the still waters of the lake, hiding the flicker of truth in his eyes. “I noticed his absences… around the full moon,” he said smoothly. “It wasn’t hard to piece together. Not if you grew up in a wizarding household.”

The explanation sounded casual, but Hermione still looked shaken.

She sighed, looking down at her hands. “I figured it out when my dad and Democles were working on Wolfsbane. Severus mentioned the symptoms in passing… and once I started paying attention, it all added up.”

Draco turned back to her, hurt flashing across his face. “You should’ve told me.” His voice was sharper now, the calm edge replaced with accusation.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said quickly, reaching for his hand. Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly as they laced with his. “It wasn’t my secret to share. I didn’t think I had the right to tell anyone.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “But we’re best friends! I thought… I thought you’d trust me. You could have come to me before you started playing with dangerous potions and reckless plans.”

Shame colored her cheeks, and she ducked her head. “You’re right. I should’ve told you.”

“Promise me,” Draco said firmly, his voice low and unwavering. “Promise me you’ll never keep something like this from me again.”

“I promise,” Hermione whispered.

He studied her for a moment longer, then nodded, letting the tension ease slightly.

The two of them sat there by the water, the late afternoon light dimming into twilight. Slowly, their conversation shifted, Hermione explaining the painstaking failures of her and James’s attempts with the Wolfsbane potion—how close they’d come, only to fail at the final steps. Draco listened intently, his sharp mind already dissecting their mistakes.

Finally, he tilted his head, a determined glint in his eyes. “Let me help you,” he said. “Both of you. You’re not doing this alone anymore.”

Hermione blinked at him, startled by the conviction in his tone. But in that moment, something inside her loosened—relief mingling with exhaustion. For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel like she was carrying the weight of this secret all by herself.

“You told him?” James’s voice was sharp, accusatory, as he glared at Hermione.

The three of them—James, Draco, and Hermione—stood in the shadowy confines of an abandoned classroom. Dust motes floated lazily in the slanting sunlight, and the faint smell of old parchment lingered in the air. Hermione had just confessed that she’d allowed Draco to join their secret mission.

Draco leaned casually against a desk, hands shoved deep into his pockets, a faintly amused smirk playing on his lips.
“Dimwit, I’ve known since first year.”

James turned on him, suspicion etched into every line of his face. “How?”

“I’m a Malfoy, remember?” Draco drawled, his grey eyes glinting. “We have a proper library at home. All it took was a bit of observation to put two and two together about Lupin’s… condition.”

James’s arms folded across his chest in a defensive gesture. “Well, you’d better not breathe a word to anyone. And what exactly do you think you can bring to the table that Hermione hasn’t already done?” His tone was curt, almost dismissive. Draco was, after all, little more than an acquaintance.

Draco’s smirk deepened. “For starters, how about the updated version of the Wolfsbane Potion?”

Hermione and James both froze, their shock evident. Hermione blinked. “Updated version? There’s an updated version?”

“Of course there is.” Draco’s tone was smooth, almost smug. “My father offered to finance Democles Belby’s launch. When Belby accepted, part of the contract stipulated that any developments—including new instructions for brewing—would be shared with him.”

Hermione’s face lit up with sudden hope, her shock melting into gratitude. She practically launched herself at Draco, throwing her arms around him. “Thank you! Thank you!” she exclaimed breathlessly.

Draco chuckled softly, returning her embrace with a hint of awkward fondness. “Alright, alright, steady on, Hermione. You’re going to suffocate me.”

James rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, enough of the lovey-dovey stuff,” he muttered, though his lips twitched in reluctant amusement.

Hermione released Draco, her eyes shining with excitement, and the three of them quickly moved to a dusty desk in the corner. James spread out a bit of parchment, and they began whispering urgently, planning their next moves: how to secure the updated Wolfsbane formula from Abraxas Malfoy, and how to track down the rarer ingredients they’d now need.

For the first time in weeks, Hermione felt a spark of genuine hope.

Chapter Text

“It’s not true, is it? Please tell me it’s not true.”

That was the very first thing out of Lily’s mouth the moment Hermione and Draco sat down at their usual table in the library. Her green eyes were wide with barely contained curiosity, the words tumbling out before she could help herself.

Severus gave a long-suffering roll of his eyes at her nosiness, though if he was honest with himself, he was just as curious.

“What’s not true?” Hermione asked, genuinely baffled. For a moment, she had already forgotten Sirius’s ridiculous prank from the day before.

“You and Potter,” Lily pressed, lowering her voice as if the bookshelves themselves might be listening.

Hermione let out a sharp huff. “Of course it’s not true!” she said briskly, tugging a roll of parchment from her satchel and spreading it across the table as though to prove she had far more important things to worry about.

Lily exhaled, the tension leaving her shoulders, while Severus released a quieter, far subtler sigh of relief beside her.

Across the table, Draco smirked, his grey eyes dancing with amusement. “You’re both far too nosy,” he teased smoothly.

Lily flushed crimson at once, while the faintest pink crept up Severus’s pale cheeks. In perfect unison, the two snapped, “We are not!”

Hermione chuckled at the pair of them, shaking her head. “Yes, you are.”

For a heartbeat, the four of them just stared at one another—then laughter broke out, soft at first, then spilling freely until Madam Pince shushed them from the far end of the library.

After that, the evening settled into its familiar rhythm: parchment and quills spread across the table, assignments tackled between easy conversation, little jokes traded in whispers, and the comforting sense that—despite the chaos of the day—some things between them never changed.

Loretta was positively content, enjoying her afternoon tea amongst the esteemed ladies of the old pure-blood families, when Marietta Rowle suddenly leaned forward, her tone blunt and brimming with anticipation for scandal.

“Loretta, my daughter’s just written to me with the most intriguing piece of news,” she announced, pausing delicately to sip her tea, eyes glittering with mischief. “Apparently, Sirius Black staged the most outrageous prank—publicly declaring that James Potter and your Hermione are in a relationship.”

The effect was immediate. Fans of lace and porcelain cups stilled mid-air as every woman at the table pricked up her ears. Several exchanged glances, their minds already turning over the implications. Some were no doubt calculating the advantage of tying Hermione to their own sons, while others cast sly looks at Aurora Malfoy, silently weighing the match between Hermione and Draco, Abraxas’s second son. Aurora, however, remained composed, sipping her tea with impeccable grace, as though such gossip were beneath her notice.

Loretta gave a light laugh, waving her hand as if the matter were nothing more than a childish jest. “My, my, I hadn’t realised James and Sirius’s pranks had grown quite so elaborate. Children will be children.” She smiled easily, though inwardly her mind turned over the words. Hermione hadn’t breathed a word of it to her. She and Hector had certainly observed the girl’s friendship with James Potter over the summer, but never anything that suggested such intimacy.

Aurora’s voice cut through the murmurs, calm and unruffled. “Oh, indeed. One mustn’t place too much weight on what schoolchildren get up to. Why, do you recall when Draco gave Hermione my mother-in-law’s necklace?”

Loretta’s lips curved in fond memory. “And promptly declared they were betrothed? He couldn’t have been more than five at the time.”

A ripple of polite laughter passed around the table, though the pointedness of Aurora’s reminder was clear.

“Yes, quite,” Aurora continued smoothly, her tone pleasant but edged. “These little displays are hardly worth taking to heart. It is unbecoming for grown women to make too much of pranks at Hogwarts.” Her eyes flicked briefly, pointedly, to Marietta Rowle, a subtle admonishment delivered with all the weight of a Malfoy matriarch.

The message was clear: gossip might be amusing, but the future of Hermione  was a matter Aurora Malfoy intended to keep firmly within her own sphere of influence.

Loretta set down her teacup with a soft clink, her eyes bright with a mixture of relief and admiration. She inclined her head slightly toward Aurora, a delicate smile playing on her lips.

“Really, Aurora,” she murmured, her voice low enough that only Aurora could hear, “I must thank you. I hardly know how I would have handled Marietta’s barrage of gossip without your… intervention.”

Aurora gave the faintest shrug, as if such minor politics were second nature. “It is nothing, Loretta. One simply must manage these situations with subtlety and grace,” she said, her tone cool, yet reassuring.

Loretta leaned in a little, her posture intimate in the way one lady might confide in another across a tea tray. “You have a remarkable way of… putting people in their place without making them feel utterly humiliated. I should like to learn that skill from you one day.”

Aurora’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “Patience and discretion, Loretta. And never let anyone see that you are ruffled.”

Loretta chuckled softly, her gaze following Aurora’s serene composure. “Truly, I am grateful. Marietta would have driven me nearly to distraction if you had not intervened. You have saved me much embarrassment today.”

Aurora inclined her head politely, her eyes flicking briefly to the rest of the ladies, still chattering in muted tones. “It is as it should be. One protects one’s own, even in these… trivial matters. Consider it done, Loretta.”

Loretta sighed in contentment, lifting her teacup once more. “Then let us drink to subtle victories and the saving of one’s dignity,” she said, her tone light but sincere.

Aurora’s silver eyes met hers, serene and unyielding. “To subtle victories,” she echoed.

And for a moment, in the midst of hushed gossip and clinking porcelain, the two women shared a quiet understanding—the unspoken alliance of those who knew how to wield power with quiet precision.

Sirius, as ever, continued his relentless pranks, delighting in the notion of James and Hermione’s so-called “alleged” relationship. James and Hermione, however, had bigger concerns than the endless mischief of Sirius. Between late-night potion experiments and meticulous attempts to brew Wolfsbane for Remus, they scarcely had the time—or the inclination—to respond to Sirius’s antics. It was far easier, they decided, to let him have his fun, knowing full well it caused little harm beyond some raised eyebrows and muffled laughter.

Severus, on the other hand, found it impossible to simply look away. Hermione was his friend, and he had little patience for her being the subject of Sirius Black’s chaotic amusement. His dark eyes followed the boy’s every antic with a mixture of irritation and concern. He could not abide the idea of her being embarrassed—or worse, unsettled—by pranks that, in his opinion, were far too crude for someone of her intelligence and poise.

Where James and Hermione chose to ignore, Severus seethed quietly, calculating how best to intervene, his mind already considering spells, warnings, or the perfect moment to put Sirius in his place—without revealing too much about how much he actually cared.

Dear Sirius,

I am most decidedly displeased to learn of your recent behaviour and, more importantly, your choice of companions. Your blatant disregard for the traditions and reputation of our family is nothing short of shocking. One would think that the Black name, which has been held in the highest regard for generations, would inspire some sense of propriety and discernment in a son of ours.

To be quite frank, the notion that you have taken to associating with those of decidedly inferior blood status is utterly unacceptable. That you would willingly fraternise with Mudbloods, half-bloods, and the rabble of Gryffindor—of all houses—is a profound disappointment. Your brother, Regulus, has displayed the intelligence and loyalty befitting a true Black, and was rightly sorted into Slytherin. In contrast, you… well, it is difficult to find words strong enough to convey the extent of my dissatisfaction.

You must understand, Sirius, that your choices reflect not only upon yourself but upon the entirety of our family. Your antics, your frivolity, and your defiance of tradition do nothing but tarnish the illustrious name that has been entrusted to you. I trust you will take immediate measures to rectify this behaviour before it escalates further, lest you bring irreparable shame upon us all.

I expect a prompt and thoughtful reply, with assurances that you will reconsider your alliances and, more importantly, your actions. The Black name must be preserved, Sirius. I will tolerate no less.

With the utmost expectation of your compliance,
Walburga Black

Sirius crumpled the letter from his mother into a tight ball, the thin parchment creasing under his fingers. He tried—vainly—not to let her words sting, not to let her sharp condemnation of him as a “disappointment” get under his skin. And yet, it did. She was, after all, his mother, and her disapproval carried weight, whether he wanted it to or not.

He slumped onto his bed, letting the cool sheets offer a small measure of comfort, and rested his hands behind his head, eyes staring at the ceiling. His thoughts drifted back to that fateful night when his brother, Regulus, had been sorted into Slytherin. Sirius had been thrilled at first—the prospect of sharing Hogwarts with his younger brother, of adventures and mischief together, had filled him with excitement. But that exhilaration had been cruelly cut short the moment the Sorting Hat had proclaimed Regulus’s house.

Since that night, he had avoided him whenever he could, fearful of the quiet disillusionment that might linger in Regulus’s gaze. Sirius had learned, painfully, that he could not bear to see the same disappointment mirrored there. Not from his mother, not from anyone, and certainly not from his little brother.

Sirius forced his mind to wander elsewhere, deliberately pushing thoughts of his family to the periphery. He had no desire to dwell on their judgment or their expectations—not tonight. Instead, his mind turned with a familiar, mischievous gleam to more entertaining pursuits: schemes, clever tricks, and ever more ingenious ways to torment James and, inevitably, Hermione.

Chapter Text

The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the Transfiguration classroom, casting long, golden slats across the polished desks. Professor McGonagall’s sharp gaze swept over the room, assessing each student with the same piercing scrutiny that had earned her a reputation for discipline and excellence.

Hermione sat at her desk, quill poised and parchment unrolled, as neat and proper as ever, though she sensed a familiar, mischievous tension in the air. James leaned back in his chair a row behind her, elbow propped on the desk, his grin already promising trouble. Sirius Black slouched nonchalantly beside him, wand flicking idly beneath the table, eyes darting toward Hermione with unmistakable mischief.

Severus had been watching, crouched slightly forward, his ink-black eyes narrowing. He knew what was coming before Sirius even whispered the first syllable of the charm. He had seen Black’s designs unfold before—too clever by half, too reckless by far. And this time, he would not allow Hermione to be the target.

The moment came swiftly. Sirius muttered under his breath, a barely audible incantation, and the tip of Hermione’s quill twitched violently.

“Now, Severus,” he thought, moving his wand under the desk, “a simple counter-charm will—”

But Sirius’s wand flicked with uncanny speed. The charm ricocheted, leaving Hermione’s quill untouched, and instead flew straight toward Severus’s ink bottle. With a loud squish and a wet pop, the bottle exploded, sending thick black ink splattering across Severus’s robes, his hair, and even streaking across his glasses.

The classroom erupted. Laughter echoed off the high ceilings, some students clutching their sides, others nearly falling from their chairs.

Hermione gasped and jumped to her feet. “Severus!” she cried, rushing forward with a handkerchief. “Are you all right?”

Lily, already crimson with outrage, leaned over from her desk. “Honestly, Sirius Black! This is—” Her voice cracked with indignation. “—utterly disgraceful!”

Sirius, however, was in full flight. He doubled over in his chair, laughter tearing from him in wild, unrestrained bursts. “Oh, Severus! Look at you!” he wheezed between fits of mirth. “Ink in the hair, ink on the robes! Honestly, mate, you look ridiculous! Like some—some blasted ink monster!”

Severus’s jaw tightened, the heat of humiliation burning hotter than any cauldron flame. His hands shook slightly around his wand, but he didn’t speak. There was no room for argument in the sea of laughter rolling through the classroom.

Hermione quickly moved to his side, brushing strands of blackened hair away from his forehead. “It’s not funny, Sirius! You tried to—he was trying to stop you!” Her voice rose, filled with frustration and protective fury.

Lily leaned in, crossing her arms firmly. “Exactly! And Professor McGonagall will hear about this. I dare you, Black.”

But Sirius only smirked, wagging a finger at Severus with theatrical exaggeration. “Oh, calm down, Snivellus—uh, I mean, Severus! You’re taking this far too seriously. Honestly, if you’d just learned to duck, none of this would have happened!”

McGonagall’s sharp voice suddenly cut through the chaos like a whip. “MR. BLACK!” Her eyes blazed behind her spectacles, every inch the embodiment of discipline. “Immediately cease this childish behaviour and sit down! And you,” she said, turning to Severus, “control yourself as well. This is Transfiguration, not a playground!”

The classroom fell almost silent, though muffled snickers still rippled through the back rows. Sirius, grinning wolfishly, flopped into his seat, barely suppressing a laugh. Severus stood rigid, chest heaving slightly, his robes darkened with ink and his temper flaring, eyes fixed on Sirius with a look that could have frozen fire.

Hermione patted his arm gently, her expression apologetic yet sympathetic. “Don’t let him get to you, Severus. He’s… well, he is Sirius Black.”

Severus’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Clearly,” he said quietly, and for a brief moment, even the laughter of others seemed distant compared to the storm brewing in his mind.

Sirius, of course, took no notice of the warning in Severus’s gaze. Instead, he leaned over to James, whispering loudly enough for half the class to hear, “Oh, mate, you should’ve seen it! Snape looks like a drowned rat—drenched in his own failure!”

From that moment on, a tension, unspoken but undeniable, settled between them. The seed of rivalry had been sown, watered by humiliation and sharpened by pride. And for Sirius and Severus, Hogwarts would never quite be the same.

After Transfiguration, Sirius Black had a new sparkle in his eye — the glint of a hunter who’d stumbled upon far more entertaining prey than he had first expected. James and Hermione’s “alleged romance” — his previous running joke — had grown stale. They ignored him, after all, and what good was a prank if the victims refused to rise to the bait?

But Severus Snape? Oh, Snivellus had reacted.

The sight of him splattered in ink, stiff with indignation while Hermione fussed over him like some sort of Florence Nightingale, had been far too satisfying. Sirius replayed it in his mind as he and James trudged up the staircase later that evening, his laughter echoing off the stone walls.

“I swear, Prongs,” Sirius chortled, “he looked like some ghastly sea creature rising out of the Black Lake. All he needed were gills and a tailfin!”

James smirked, though with a touch more reservation than usual. “Careful, Pads. McGonagall nearly had your hide for that one. She’ll string you up if you keep pushing your luck.”

“Worth it,” Sirius replied without hesitation, his grin wolfish. “Merlin’s beard, James, I think I’ve found my life’s calling: making Snivellus’s days as miserable as possible.”

James raised a brow, though the glint of mischief in his own eyes betrayed his agreement.

 “What about Hermione, though? Weren’t you having all that fun with your little ‘Me and Granger sitting in a tree’ act?”

Sirius waved it off with a careless flick of his hand. “Boring now. You guys won’t play along. But Snivellus…” He gave a low chuckle. “Snivellus bites. That makes him worth it. And besides—” His grin widened. “—he’s a Slytherin. They’re practically begging for it.”

That was enough to seal his resolve.

By the next day, Sirius’s attention had shifted entirely. No longer did Hermione have to endure suggestive winks or loudly whispered jokes about James buying her flowers in Hogsmeade. Instead, the brunt of Sirius’s creative energy was turned towards Severus Snape.

It began with small torments. A simple jelly-legs jinx as Severus left Potions, sending him sprawling on the flagstones. A whispered charm that caused his quill to write insults about himself instead of potion notes. Even a hex slipped under the table in the Great Hall that dyed his pumpkin juice a revolting shade of green sludge.

Sirius thrived on Severus’s reactions. Every glare, every clench of his jaw, every growled retort only fuelled Sirius further. To him, it was sport — cat and mouse, with him the clever predator and Severus the eternally sour prey.

But there was something more underneath Sirius’s antics, something he never admitted aloud: Severus’s House badge gleamed green and silver. It marked him, in Sirius’s mind, as just another extension of everything Sirius despised — the Black family’s world, the Pureblood dogma, the suffocating expectations he had fled. Tormenting Snape wasn’t just fun; it felt like striking back at the Slytherin-tinged world his mother had tried to force upon him.

From that week onwards, James and Hermione found themselves mostly spared from Sirius’s mischief. Instead, Sirius could often be found leaning casually against the common room fireplace, smirking as he recounted his latest “Snivellus escapade” to a small crowd of Gryffindors.

For Severus Snape, however, it marked the beginning of years of relentless torment.

And the grudge that had sparked in a classroom thick with laughter would smoulder, burn, and grow into something neither boy would ever quite escape

By the end of the week, Sirius Black had grown restless.
Small jinxes were all well and good, but he wanted something grander—something the entire castle would talk about. He wasn’t content with a few chuckles from the Gryffindor table; he wanted a proper spectacle.

And so, in the dead of night, armed with James Potter’s Invisibility Cloak, a pot of Ever-Sticking Solution, and what Remus Lupin had despairingly called “an appalling lack of judgment”, Sirius began to plan.

The stage? The Great Hall at breakfast.
The target? Severus Snape, naturally.

The next morning dawned crisp and golden. Students filtered into the Great Hall, yawning and chattering, owls swooping above their heads as post fluttered down. Sirius sat at the Gryffindor table, feigning innocence, his expression the picture of calm mischief. James lounged beside him, half suspicious, half amused.

Across the hall, the Slytherins were settling in. Severus, bleary-eyed and clutching a thick Potions text, dropped onto the bench beside a few housemates.

He didn’t notice the faint, pearly shimmer floating just above his head.

Sirius grinned. “Watch closely,” he murmured to James, voice low and gleeful.

“Pads,” James whispered back warily, “what have you—”

Before he could finish, a loud pop! cracked through the hall—then another, and another.

A stream of enormous, glittering bubbles erupted into the air above Severus, shimmering with every colour imaginable. They rained down over his head like enchanted fireworks, bursting in soft explosions of violet foam that clung to his hair, his robes, even his face.

The Great Hall froze for a heartbeat.

Then came the laughter.

It started at the Gryffindor table, spreading like wildfire through Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Even a few Slytherins stifled snickers behind their goblets. Severus blinked furiously through the lilac haze, his hair plastered to his face in limp black strings. Every time he wiped one bubble away, three more popped against him, coating him anew in shimmery froth.

Sirius doubled over, clutching his sides. “Oh, Merlin’s beard—look at him! Snivellus’s finally had a wash!”

James tried valiantly to keep a straight face but failed miserably, wheezing through his laughter.

Across the hall, Lily Evans shot up from the Gryffindor table, her expression thunderous. “That’s enough, Black!” she snapped, marching forward and drawing her wand. “Finite Incantatem!”

The bubbles fizzled out at once, leaving Severus drenched and glowering, his face a mixture of rage and humiliation.

He turned slowly to face Sirius, his wand twitching in his grip. “You think this is funny?” he spat, voice low and trembling. “Pathetic.”

Sirius leaned back on the bench, perfectly at ease. “I think it’s hilarious, actually. You should try smiling, Snivellus—it might improve your face.”

That was all it took.

Severus lunged, wand raised—but before a spell could leave his lips, a sharp voice cracked through the air.

“MR. BLACK!”

Professor McGonagall swept down the aisle like a storm in tartan, her eyes blazing behind her spectacles. “I should have known,” she said, her voice icy enough to freeze fire. “Twenty points from Gryffindor—and a week’s detention for you, Black. I will not tolerate this childish nonsense in my House!”

Sirius opened his mouth—perhaps to argue, perhaps to charm his way out—but one look from her silenced him instantly.

“And you, Mr Snape,” McGonagall added, her tone softening only slightly, “to the Hospital Wing. I trust Madam Pomfrey can rid you of whatever ridiculous concoction Mr Black has inflicted upon you.”

The Great Hall buzzed again as McGonagall strode off, robes billowing. Severus gathered his things with shaking hands and stalked from the room, leaving a faint trail of lilac foam behind him.

James leaned over as Sirius sank back into his seat, smirking despite himself. “You’re absolutely mad,” he whispered.

Sirius just grinned, eyes glinting with mischief. “Mad? Maybe. But worth it.”

Lily shot him a withering glare as she passed. “You’re insufferable, Black,” she muttered.

Sirius only chuckled, stretching out lazily. “So I’ve been told.”

But as Severus disappeared through the doors, dripping and humiliated, the laughter that had once filled the hall seemed to hang in the air—louder than ever, sharper than before.

And so began one of the most infamous grudges Hogwarts would ever know:
born not from rivalry, but from pride, spite, and one very ill-timed shower of bubbles.

The dungeon was quiet that night, save for the faint crackle of the cauldron fire and the steady drip of potion from Hermione’s pipette. The air was thick with the bitter scent of aconite and powdered silver—heady and sharp, like cold metal on the tongue.

Hermione moved briskly between her notes and the cauldron, muttering measurements under her breath. James, seated opposite her, was lazily stirring counter-clockwise, wand flicking every so often to keep the temperature even.

Neither had spoken for a while. The silence wasn’t comfortable—it never was when Hermione was simmering with anger.

Finally, she set her quill down with a sharp snap. “Tell Sirius to leave Severus alone!”

James flinched, nearly dropping his wand into the cauldron. “Merlin’s sake, Hermione, not this again—”

“Yes, this again!” she shot back, her voice echoing off the stone walls. “Do you have any idea what he did? The entire school’s talking about it, James. He humiliated Severus in front of everyone!”

James straightened, trying to look nonchalant but failing. “It was Sirius’s plan! I wasn’t even aware until it happened!”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Hermione snapped, hands on her hips. “You two are thick as thieves. You expect me to believe you knew nothing?”

James sighed, dragging a hand through his messy hair. “I swear, Hermione, I didn’t. He said he was bored, but I didn’t think he’d go that far.”

“He’s your friend, James!” she retorted, voice rising. “You could’ve stopped him—you should’ve stopped him!”

“What was I supposed to do?” James shot back, his own temper flaring. “Lock him in the dormitory? Sirius doesn’t exactly listen to reason when he’s set on something!”

Hermione glared at him, her brown eyes blazing with frustration. “Then make him listen. You’re the only one he actually respects enough to rein him in. And if you won’t, then you’re no better than him.”

That stung. James looked away, jaw tightening. The faint pop and hiss of their potion filled the silence that followed.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The light from the cauldron flickered across Hermione’s face, softening her anger but not her disappointment.

“You know what this does, James?” she said quietly at last. “It makes people think you’re all the same—reckless, cruel, and thoughtless. And you’re not. I know you’re not.”

James swallowed, guilt creeping through the cracks of his defiance. “He’s my best mate,” he muttered. “I can’t just—turn on him.”

Hermione’s expression softened, though her tone remained firm. “You don’t have to turn on him. Just—stop him before he ruins someone else’s life. Before he ruins his own.”

James didn’t reply. He simply stared into the cauldron, watching the potion shift from pale blue to silver-green, its surface rippling like moonlight on water.

For the rest of the night, they worked in silence—Hermione jotting notes with tight, angry strokes; James stirring with mechanical precision, his mind far away.

But Hermione’s words lingered, heavier than any spell or scolding McGonagall could give.

And somewhere deep down, James knew she was right.

Chapter Text

The letter lay unfolded upon Abraxas Malfoy’s desk, the wax seal broken but the weight of its message heavy enough to chill the room. He did not need to read it twice. The words of Lord Voldemort—grandiose, commanding, and steeped in the arrogance of certainty—had already burned themselves into his mind.

“Loyalty will be rewarded. Defiance will be remembered.”

He’d read such rhetoric before, in other times and from other men who fancied themselves the architects of destiny. Yet none had dared write to him so brazenly, demanding allegiance as though the old blood of House Malfoy were his to command.

Abraxas leaned back in his chair, the firelight catching the silver in his hair. The manor was quiet—too quiet. Aurora was asleep upstairs, and the only sound was the faint ticking of the old clock beside the mantel. In the silence, his thoughts turned inevitably to his son.

Draco’s most recent letter still sat upon the desk beside the Dark Lord’s missive. Polite, as ever. Carefully worded. But beneath the civility, there had been something else—something urgent, almost pleading.

“Father, there are paths better left unwalked. Please consider the future… mine, Lucius, and Mother’s. You have always said the Malfoy name stands for more than mere obedience.”

Subtle words, but unmistakable in meaning. Draco was warning him. Begging him, even.

Abraxas wasn’t blind. He saw the change in his son’s tone—the quiet defiance wrapped in filial respect. And though he would never admit it aloud, it filled him with a strange, conflicting pride.

He saw, too, the name that often threaded itself between Draco’s lines. Hermione Dagworth-Granger.

The Dagworth-Grangers had long been friends of the family—old blood, fine minds, and a sense of propriety that even the Malfoys could respect. Their acquaintance had begun formally enough, but over the years it had deepened into something warmer, thanks largely to the unlikely bond between their children.

Abraxas had known Hermione since she was small—a bright, solemn child with ink-stained fingers and an inconveniently sharp tongue. Even as a girl, she possessed an unyielding sense of right and wrong that made most adults vaguely uneasy. Yet for all her precocious boldness, she had always been gentle with Draco—patient with him in a way few others managed to be.

He remembered the two of them, years ago, playing in the gardens of Malfoy Manor: Draco trailing after her with that determined little frown, desperate to match her wit, her curiosity, her endless questions. It had been almost comical, the way his son—normally aloof with other children—would hang on her every word. When Hermione said something clever, Draco’s eyes would light up as though she’d just performed magic itself. Abraxas had watched that devotion grow in quiet amusement at first, then with the faint, knowing sigh of a man who could see where such loyalty might one day lead.

He had, at the beginning, dismissed her as a passing childhood companion—a girl his son would soon outgrow. But as the years passed, Draco’s letters told a different story. The tone softened; the words, though careful, carried warmth. Affection. A certain reverence that even Draco, with all his inherited restraint, could not quite conceal.

At first, Abraxas had merely entertained the notion that Hermione Dagworth-Granger would make a suitable match for his son—she was of respectable lineage, bright, well-bred, and possessed of a mind that could sharpen his son’s own. But in time, that pragmatic approval had shifted into something far more personal.

He had learned to love her himself—not as one might love a daughter, nor even as one might love a symbol of alliance, but as something rarer: a young woman he could truly admire. There was steel beneath her gentleness, grace beneath her intellect, and a kind of moral courage he had not seen since his own youth.

She had, in her quiet way, reminded Abraxas what it meant to believe in something finer than blood.

He traced a finger over the Dark Mark embossed at the top of Voldemort’s letter. A symbol of allegiance—and of doom. Draco’s warning echoed in his mind, but so too did another voice, one from many years ago.

He remembered that night in Diagon Alley—his chance meeting with Cassandra Trelawney. The famed Seer had been half-mad, half-marvellous, but when she spoke that prophecy, her voice had turned clear as glass:

“He is not meant to be with us.”

“Who?” Abraxas had demanded.

“Your son… the younger. The quiet one.”

He’d felt his heart thud in his chest.

“He is different. Marked by fate. He does not belong to this time—not fully. And yet he will be known. Known to the entire wizarding world. With the help of his other half… they will rise. Together, they will conquer the world.”

He’d asked what would happen if they were separated.

“If the halves are divided,” she had said, her voice softening, “all will perish. But if you guide them—if you help the halves become one—all will be saved.”

At the time, he had dismissed it as the ramblings of a madwoman. But now, reading his son’s words and thinking of her, Abraxas could not quite shake the chill that crept down his spine.

He rose, pacing slowly to the window. Beyond the glass, the Wiltshire fields were shrouded in fog, moonlight glinting on the frost. Somewhere out there, the world was shifting—darkness stirring in the corners of power, ready to swallow everything that did not kneel.

Abraxas Malfoy was no fool. He had survived the politics of three Ministers and two wars by knowing when to move—and when to wait.

And now, as he folded both letters—the Dark Lord’s demand and his son’s plea—he found himself at the crossroads once more.

The Dark Mark promised power. But his son’s words promised legacy.

Abraxas exhaled slowly, the faintest ghost of a smile touching his lips.

“Perhaps,” he murmured to the empty room, “the boy is wiser than his father.”

Then he burned the Dark Lord’s letter.

The parchment curled and blackened, the Mark fading into ash.

Hector Dagworth-Granger read the letter twice, his eyes scanning the heavy parchment with slow, deliberate care. It trembled faintly between his fingers, though his grip was steady—an involuntary reaction, perhaps, to the unmistakable presence it carried. The seal, wax-black and imprinted with the serpent-wrapped skull of the Dark Mark, was unmistakable. Even now, with the letter unrolled and its contents revealed, a faint, acrid scent clung to it—something like burnt spice and scorched earth, the reek of dark magic old and deep. It coiled in the air like smoke from an invisible fire.

He did not need to read it again to recall the words—he knew them by heart already. A summons veiled in civility, sharpened by threat. A call to pledge allegiance to the Dark Lord. Promises of reward for loyalty, laced with the cold steel of consequence for refusal.

With a breath that came slower than it should have, Hector laid the letter down upon the gleaming surface of the oak table. The wood, dark with age and waxed to a mirror sheen, reflected the curled parchment like a solemn witness. He drew a hand across his forehead, the lines there etched not by hesitation, but by the quiet weight of decision already made.

The Dagworth-Grangers had never bowed to the old bloodlines, nor to the brittle crowns of pure-blood pride. Their legacy was not written in courtly alliances or names carved into the foundations of wizarding high society. No, their power—such as it was—came from something more enduring: knowledge. Invention. The marriage of ancient magic with modern reason.

To kneel to the Dark Lord—to align with a vision forged in fear, fueled by the illusion of blood purity—was not only unthinkable. It was heresy. A betrayal of everything his family had stood for across generations.

His fingers tapped gently on the edge of the table, a rhythmic echo of thought. There would be those who called this refusal cowardice—foolishness, even. To deny the Dark Lord was to invite danger, to paint a target upon one’s door. And yet, Hector knew better.

This was not cowardice. This was clarity.

The Dagworth-Grangers did not yield to threats. They followed principle, not fear. Where others measured power in dominance, they measured it in understanding—in choice.

He turned his head toward the window. Frost glazed the glass in delicate filigree, and beyond it, the garden slumbered beneath moonlight, silvered and still. Somewhere out there, other families were weighing their choices, debating which allegiance would offer safety—or advantage.

Hector pitied them. Power gained by coercion, sustained by terror, was hollow. A false crown balanced on a trembling head.

“Not for us,” he said aloud, the words soft but resolute, carried to no one but the silent room around him.

With slow, precise movements, he folded the letter again, creasing it neatly along the original lines. He would not burn it—not yet. It would be kept, read once more perhaps in years to come, not as a memory of fear, but as a marker of resistance. A reminder of what the Dagworth-Grangers had chosen not to become.

Their path had always been one of balance—between the arcane and the evolving, between the legacies of magic and the revelations of the non-magical world. They owed no allegiance to tyrants, and even less to ideology wrapped in hate.

Hector’s eyes lingered on the folded letter. In this house, loyalty was owed only to two things: to family, and to truth. Everything else was noise.

He leaned back in his chair and exhaled, long and deep, the tension leaving his shoulders like a tide retreating from the shore. For the first time in days, his expression softened into something near a smile—a quiet, private acknowledgment of peace found in conviction.

The storm outside would rage, he knew. But the Dagworth-Grangers would endure it—not through brute force, nor alliances of fear, but through the unyielding strength of knowledge, and the courage to walk their own path.

The letter lay undisturbed on the desk, a relic of menace and demand, untouched now by fear. It bore the Dark Lord’s mark—but it would not mark them.

The chamber was lit only by torches, their flames hissing against the cold, damp air. The scent of iron and incense hung thick, mingling with the electric pulse of dark magic that thrummed like a heartbeat.

Bellatrix Lestrange knelt among a circle of shadows. Around her, cloaked figures bowed their heads in reverence, but none with the fever that blazed in her. Her chest rose and fell with quiet, trembling anticipation.

She did not fear the darkness. She longed for it.

At the center of the chamber, he stood—her Lord.

Lord Voldemort’s gaze swept over them, and when his eyes passed over her, she felt it like a brand—a searing, intimate acknowledgment. Her breath caught. Her lips parted, but no sound escaped. His power pressed against her like a tide, suffocating and sweet.

Rodolphus knelt beside her, his posture rigid with respect. His eyes flicked briefly toward her—pride and possessiveness in his gaze—but she barely noticed. Her attention was wholly consumed by the man before them.

“Rise, my faithful,” Voldemort said, his voice low and silken, each syllable laced with dark allure.

The air itself seemed to tremble as she obeyed. Her body moved before her mind could form the thought.

He stepped closer. The faintest smile ghosted across his pale lips.

“Bellatrix,” he said softly.

Her name.

No one had ever spoken it like that—stripped bare of propriety, reshaped into something sacred.

She felt herself sink again to her knees, not from command, but devotion.

Voldemort raised his wand, tracing it lightly against her forearm. The touch was gentle, almost tender, and yet it burned. A flash of green and black fire seared into her skin, sinking deep, embedding itself in her veins.

Pain lanced through her, exquisite and endless. She gasped—but did not scream. Her nails dug into the stone floor, the scent of her own blood filling the air. And through it all, she smiled.

When the mark was complete, the Dark Lord’s fingers brushed her wrist. His touch was cool, steady—final.

“You belong to me now,” he murmured.

Bellatrix bowed her head, tears pricking at her eyes—not from pain, but from exultation.

“Yes, my Lord,” she breathed. “Always.”

The mark on her skin still smoked faintly, dark and perfect, the serpent and skull alive with faint pulses of magic. It throbbed in time with her heartbeat.

Rodolphus reached for her hand when it was over, pride softening his expression. But when his fingers brushed hers, she barely felt him. Her gaze was fixed on Voldemort—on the man who had become her world, her reason, her holy cause.

Later, when they returned to their manor, Rodolphus spoke to her in low tones about honor, glory, legacy. Bellatrix listened, but her mind was elsewhere—still in that cold chamber, still kneeling at his feet, still hearing that voice that had redefined devotion itself.

He had marked her not only in flesh, but in soul.

And that night, as she traced the still-burning mark with her fingers, Bellatrix whispered into the darkness, a vow meant for no one but him:

“Let the world burn, my Lord. I will be your flame.”